,l(p-H^- 


oil 


I) 


;? 


/-  vy/?^/A 


■f  }J  1. 


WD'Bl&o  ay  XDli2}  MTJiOn 


urm  iiivrinmiDno. 


<^i--^ 


A 


THE 


'POETICAL   WORKS 


OF 


LORD   BYRON. 


WITH  COPIOUS   ILLUSTKATIYE  NOTES, 


AND 


A  MEMOIR   OF   HIS    LIFE. 


COMPLETE  IN  OXE  VOLUME. 


Illustrated  toiti]  fiElegnut  ^Ud  €\\^xM\\p. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PORTER   &    COATES, 

822  CHESTNUT  STREET. 


\s. 


f\:^^J 


CAXTOTf     PRB8S     OF 
BHBRKAir     k     CO.,     FHILADBLrHI. 


■/•■' 


Vr~ 


CONTENTS. 


\J  J  I 


PAGE       I 


/'-^ 


{EMOIH  OF  liORI)  BVHOX    5      I      CUITIQUE  EXTRACTER  FROM  THE  EdINBURQU  ReVIE  V 


Hours  uf  Id-^exkss: 

On  i.ofivi:!--  .\-\vslk'ad  Abbvy 

i;piliii)ii  on  a  Frii'iid 

A  Frauiiuiit 

Tlu"  T.-ar    

An  0(M  asioi':'.!   I'mlo^uc 

.On  tlic  D.-aUi  of  Mr.  Fox 

•  Siaii/.as  to  a  Ladv    • 

To M  *  *  *....: 

To  Woman 


'Jo  *  *  * 

To  Marv 

To  Uania'tas 

To  Marion 

Oscar  of  Alva    

To  the  Duke  of  D. 


TR  V.Nt^I.ATIONS  ANTi  IMITATIONS: 

Adrian's  Addn-ss  to  his  S>oul  when  Dying 21 

Traiisiatmn  from  Catullus-  •  •  • 21 

Translaticn  of  the  Kiitajih  on  Virgil  and  Tibullus-  21 

.Tran-iati.  n  fnitn  Catullus '^ 21 

ImitalHii  inmi  Catnlius 21 

Tran.-latioii  tVoiii  Auiicreon 21 

Ode  111. 22 

Fragiii;  Jii  fi(.ui  the  Prometheus  of  ^Eschjdus 22 

The  Kpi,-<Kii'  of  >  i;  us  and  Kuryalus 22 

Transl-ition  from  the  Medea  of  Euripides 25 


]■  English  Bauds  and  Scotch  Reviewers 


•-  47 


•^^ 


The  Curse  of  Minerva- 
Notes 


Th':  PiiOPHEcy  OF  Dantb- 
-Notes 


-  6^ 
•   69 


!    The  Age  OF  Bkoxzb 

UJnE  Vision  of  Judgment  -  ■ 


Waltk-- 

Notes 


71 


I    The  Lament  of  Tasso- 


FtHMTiVE  P!:-;rj.s: 

Thoiiirhls  sur-este.l  by  a  Colleixe  Examination 26 

To  the  Far!  of  *  *=  * 26 

Grar.ta.  a  M-dley 27 

Lacljin  V  Oair 2S 

Tm  JtMnanc: 2y 

F!ei:v  <.n  Newstead  Abbey 29 

Tn  E.  N    L..  Esq. 31 

1^, 32 

Stanzas   32 

Lines  writti-n  beneath  an  JElm  in  the  Churchyard 

of  (larrovv  on  the  Hill     33 

The  J^.ath  of  Calmar  and  Orla 33 

On  a  di.-tai;t  vi.'w  of  the  Village  and  School  of  Har- 
row on  the  Hill     3-1 

To  D. 35 

To  ivldleston 35 

Reply  to  sume  verses  of  J.  M.  P.  Pigot,  E.sq.,  on  the 

crue'tv  of  ills.  Misire.^s   35 

T',  the  >i..h;ng.Strephon 35 

To  >F.s  I'iiiot 36 

Lines  urittea  in  •'  Letters  of  an  Italian  Nun  and  an 

En_';;s!i  (i.  nt;<-mau" 36 

The  Cornelian 36 

•    On  til.-  1).  ath  (<f  a  Young  Lady 36 

To  I'.unna 37 

To  M.  ,<.  U.   37 

To  Carol  ne 37 

To  Car. .line 3S 

T'.  Caroline .38 

-  The  First  Kiss  (jf  hove 38 

To  a  I5-aut:fu!  Quaker 39 

To  Le-bia 39 

Lines  addr.-ssed  to  a  Young  Lady 39 

Love's  Last  Adieu 40 

Iniilativ.n  of 'fibulhis 40 

Traii.-lation  from  Horace 40^ 

Answer  to  .some  elegant  vers-s   sent  by  a  Friend  to        W 
the  Author.  C()mplaiijing  that  one  of  his  descrip- 
tions was  ratlier  too  warmly  drawn 41 

On  a  change  <>f  M^isters  at  a  great  public  school  -  •  -   41 

Childish  Kecol  lections    11 

Answer  to  Montsiomery's  I'oem.  "Thi!  Common  Lot"  45 

To  the  Key.  J.  T.  Reecher ' 45 

To  Miss  Chaworth t»5 

R^membrauce 46 


Hebrew  Melodies: 
'XShe  walks  in  Heaut}' 90 

'   The  Harp  the  Monarch  Minstrel  Swept 90 

If  that  Hiuh  World    90 

The  Wild  Oaz-elie 90 

Oh!   weep  f.r  those ' 91 

On  dordan-^^  Hanks 91 

Jephtha's  Daughter 91- 

Oil.'  snatched  awav  in  Beauty's  Rloom 91 

Mv  Soul  is  Dark  ■"- •   91 

I  .saw  the-  weep 91 

Thv  (lavs  are  dune 91 


uii  b<!fore  his  Last  Battle 


All  is  vanity,  saith  the  JVeacher 92 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suflVring  clay 92 

Vision  of  iielshazzar 92 

Sun  of  the  Sleepless 93 

Were  my  lioson\  as  false  as  thou  deeta'st  it  to  b«  •  -  93 

Herod's  l/ament  tor  ."^lariamne 93 

On   the  Day  of  the  Destruction   of  Jerusalem   by 

Titus ---■. 93 

By  the  rivers  of  Babylon  we  sat  down  and  wept   •  •  93 

TrThe  Destruction  of  Sennacherib 94 

From  Job 94 


Miscellaneous  Poems  : 

Ode  ti^  Napoleon  Bonaparte 

Monody  on  the  Death  of  Sheridan- 

f   The  Irish  Avatar 

T- The  Dream 

Odt' ■ 

\\  ritten  in  an  Album 


I       ! 


Romance  muy  Dokirosa  del  sitio  y  toma  de  AlhanialOO 
A  very  mournful  Ballad  on  the  Siege  and  Con([uest 

01  .Alhama • 100 

Stmetto  de  Vitovelli.  with  Translation 102 

Stanzas,  written  in  passing  the  Ambracian  Gulf  ••103 

Stanzas  composed  in  a  Thunderstorm 103 

To*** 103 

"Written  at  Athens 104 

■Written  beneath  a  Picture    104 

Written  after  Swimming  from  Sestos  to  Abvios    •  -104 

-Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part   lOt 

Translation  r.f  a  Famous  Greek  War  Song 105 

Translation  of  a  iiomaic  Song 105 

On  Parting 105  • 

ToThvrza 106 

Stanzas 106 

To  Thvrza 106 

Lufhana.sia -..•107 

Stanzas 107 

Stanzas 108 

On  a  Cornelian  Heart  which  was  brolcen 108 

To  a  Youthful  Friend 108 

To  *  *  *  *  * 109 

From  the  Portugu.se  ■  -  - 109 

Impromptu,  in  reply  to  a  Friend 109 

Adilre.s.s,   spoken    at    tlie    opeiuug  of  Drury   Laue 

Theatre • 109 

o 


<^ort-i  :i 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

To  Time 110 

Transliition  of  a  Romaic  Love  Song 110 

A  Song Ill 

9n  being  asked  what  was  the  "  Ori-rin  of  Love"  •  •  -111 

R*raember  him,  whom  passion's  power Ill 

Lines  inscribed  upon  a  cup  formed  of  a  Scull Ill 

On  the  Death  of  Sir  I'eter  Parker.  Bart. 112 

., -'  ""To  a  Lady  Weeping 112 

From  the  Turkish     112 

•  --^^^      Sonnet  to  Genevra 112 

""      Sounet  to  Genevra 112 

ylnseription  on  the  Monument  of  a  Newfoundland 

Bog iisr 

arewell 1  IS" 

■^   4  Stanzas  for  Music 113 

for  Music 113 

e  well -^^kr- 


\, 


-L 


^^l  ^ta«  zas 
--^^^■(llf'are  ihi 

TftH»  *  * VtU 

Ode. From  the  French 115 

Must  thou  go.  my  glorious  chief 115 

On  the  Star  of  the  Legion  of  Honor 116 

NapoUiou's  Farewell 116 

Sonnet    116 

rWritten  on  the  Blank  Leaf  of  "The  Pleasures  of 

Memory." 117 

Stauzjis  to  *  *  * 117 

a«i*Darkiiess 1 17 

Churchiirs  Grave 118 

Prometheus   118 

Oh.  shame  to  thee,  land  of  the  Gaul 118 

Windsor  Poetics   ■  •  • 119 

A  Sketc-li  from  Private  Life 1 

Carmina  Byronis  in  C.  Elgin 120 

y/  Lines  to  .Mr.  Moore    '"■■ 120 

^t-»-—  '"'  On  this  dav  I  complete  my  thirtj'-sixth  year 120 

\  The  iriiird' Act  of  .Manfred  in  its  original  shape 121 

"  '       To  my  dear  Mury  Anne 123 

To  M;ss  Ciiaworth 123 

Pra.iii  'lit 124 

Tile  Player  of  Nature 124 

On  revisiting  Harrow 124 

L".\mi;ie  est  I'amour  sans  ailes 124 

To  my  Sou 

Kpitaph  on  John  Adams,  of  Southwell 1 

ii'i'rag'.nent 
To  Mrs.  *  *  * 126 
.v   l>ov(;  Song 126 
Stan/'ts  to  *  *  *  *  * 12i 
To*  *  *  *  *   127 

Song 127 

Stanzas  to  *  *  *  on  leaving  England 127 

Lines  to  .Mr.  Ilixlgsou 128 

Liues  written  in  the  Travellers'  Book  at  Orchome- 

nus 128 

On  Moore's  Operatic  Farce 129 

Epistle  to  Mr.  Hodgson 129 

On  Lord  T'lurlovv's  Po<!ms 129 

To  Lord  Thurlow 129 

To  Thomas  Moore 130 

Fragment  of  an  I'^pistie  to  Thomas  Moore 130 

The  Devil's  Drive 130 

Adiiitional  Stan/.as  to  the  Ode  on  Napoleon  Buon 

parte    

'"""■""'■    To  Lady  Caroline  Lamb  ^..^     i^, 

f^Stanzas  for  Music 132, J 

Address  intended  to  be  recited  at  the  Caledonian 

Me<tint; , 132 

On   the   Prince  K(«;eiit's   returning  the    Picture  of 

Sarah.  <>.unte.ss  of  Jersey,  to  Mrs.  Mee 132 

To  |{elsh;./,zar 133 

Hebrew  M.-lodies 133 

Lines  intended  for  the  opening  of  "The  Siege  of  Co- 

\      ri'iih."     1.33 

1^        ,   I  EitrrrtHEci^m  an  unpublished  Poem 134 

"f~~-    'MTo  .\u)_ru.<»ta 134 

i  To-  T-JMwnas  Moore 135 

'  Stanzas  to  River  I'o • 136 

Sonnet  to  George  the  Fourth   •  •  - 136 

Francesca  of  Itimiui 

St!iaza« 

To  tbe  Countess  of  [lle8sini;ton 137 

StMnza.s  written  b<!tween  Florence  and  Pisa 138 

Iniprf'tnptu 138 

To  a  Viiin  Lady    138 

Farewell  to  the  Muse 138 

.^ — '-    To  Anne i;;9 

To  tbe  -same 139 

To  the  author  of  n  Sonnet  beginning '"Sad  is  my 

verse,'  you  say,  '  and  yet  no  tear,'  " 1.'59 

On  Findinii  a  Fan i;59 

To  an  ( >ak  at  Newst.-ad   139 

Dedication  >  o  Dou  J  uau 140 


i.t,-    "rXJIlII.OE  H.\J10LD'S  PiLGRIMAGi,.— 


I  The  Bride  of  Abtbos 
^      Notes 


I                                                                                                                 PASB 
i    .    Fragment 141 

[         Parenthetical  Address 141 

Stanzas,  as  originally  written  m  Canto  I.  Childe 

Harold 142 

Farewell  to  Malta 142 

Endor.sement  to  the  Deed  of  Separation 1 13 

—To  Peneloite 143 

Song  for  the  Luddites 143 

The  Chain  I  gave 143 

Substitute  for  an  Epitaph 144 

Epitaph  for  Joseph  Blackett 144 

■"CSo  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 144 

■•"Lines  on  hearing  Lady  Byron  was  ill 144 

•^To  *  *  * ". • 144 

Martial,  Lib.  I.     Epig.  I. 145 

Epigram 145 

To  Dives 1-15 

Verses  written  at  Hales-Owen 115 

F'rom  the  French 145 

New  Duet 145 

Epigrams 145 

The  Conquest 145 

Yersicles 145 

Epifzram 145 

To  Mr.  Murray 145 

Epistle  from  Mr.  Murray  to  Dr.  Polidori 148 

Epistle  to  Mr.  .Murray 146 

To  .Mr.  Murray    147 

To  Thomas  Moore 147 

Stanzas 147 

Epitaph  for  Wm.  Pitt 147 

'  n  m  V  Wedding  L\iy 147 

Epiir^am 147 

The  Charity  Ball 14' 

Epigram 1 47 

To  .Sir.  Murray 147 

On  the  Birth  of  John  Wm.  Ptizzio  Hoppuer 148 

Stanzas  to  a  Hindoo  Air 148 

Stanzas 148 

The  Blues 149 

-...^ 153 


I^XIS  1,R0M_  HOR.^CE  ■ 


•  165 
.211 


The  Giaour 255 

/  Notes 265 


268 

277 

The  Corsair ■ 280 

Notes 295 

Lara 297 

Notes 307 

MORGANTE  MaGGIORE 307 

The  Siege  of  Cori.mh • .   814 

Notes 322 


130        Parisina 

>na-  /   xotes 

...131 

-••WfS^^ffHE  Pris 


'he  Prisonei 
Notes 


OF  Chillo.x 323  ' 

331 


Beppo  •  ■ 

Notes- 


..S33 
•340 

•340' 


•347 
•358 


1,37    '^  Sakha 


The  Island 

Appendix 

The  Two  Foscari 362 

Appendi.x 387 

Werner 384 

The  Deformed  TRANSFOHniEO 433 

450 

471 

-505 


NAPA LOS 

Notes 


F 


Marino  Fauero 

Not(!S 

Appendix 

Heaven  and  Kauth^ •  • 

ON  Juan-  ••.^..^\Y. 


I.. 


•606 
•  519 

519 
6f.5 
656 

•064 

•575 


c*  > 


^  -^    -    LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


-,   <^-- 


Geohge  Gordon,  the  only  son  of  Captain 
jnhn  Byron,  by  his  second  wife,  Miss  Gordon, 
of  Gight,  and  grtmdson  of  the  celebrated  Admiral 
Byron,  was  born  in  Holies  Street,  London,  on 
the  22d  of  January,  1788.  His  ancestry,  of" 
which  he  is  said  to  have  been  more  proud  than 
of  having  been  the  author  of  Childe  Harold  and 
Manfred,  was  composed  of  persons  of  distinction ; 
but  possessing  much  of  that  daring  recklessness 
of  charactf^r,  which  so  early  displayed  itself  in 
the  subject  of  our  memoir.  His  great  uncle, 
Lord  Wiiliam,  to  whom  he  succeeded,  was  tried 
for  killing  his  relation,  Mr.  Chaworth,  in  a  duel; 
and  his  father,  who  had  caused  his  lirst  wife  to 
die  of  a  broken  heart,  after  having  seduced  her, 
when  .Marciiioness  of  Carmarthen,  became  the 
husband  of  our  poet's  mother,  as  he  openly 
avowed,  for  her  fortune  alone;  aftei-  the  dissipa- 
tion of  which,  he  separated  from  her,  and  died 
at  Valenciennes,  in  1791.  At  this  time,  young 
Byron  resided,  with  his  mother,  at  Aberdeen, 
where,  in  November,  1792,  be  was  sent  to  a 
day  school ;  but,  according  to  his  own  account, 
"  learned  little  there,  except  to  repeat  by  rote 
the  hrst  lesson  of  monosyllables."  After  re- 
maining a  year  in  this  school,  he  was  placed 
with  a  clergyman,  named  Ross,  under  whom,  he 
says,  he  made  astonishing  progress ;  and  observes, 
that  the  moment  he  could  read,  his  grand  passion 
was  history.  His  next  tutor  was  named  Pater- 
son  ;  with  him,  he  adds,  "  I  began  Latin  in  Rud- 
diman's  grammar,  and  continued  till  I  went  to 
the  grammar-school,  where  I  threaded  all  the 
classes  to  the  fourth,  when  I  was  recalled  to 
England  by  the  demise  of  my  uncle." 

In  1798,  he  prepared  to  quit  Scotland  for 
Newstead,  in  consequence  of  his  accession  to 
his  family  title,  of  which,  perhaps,  he  was  not  a 
little  proud;  for  his  mother  having  said  to  him, 
some  time  in  the  previous  year,  whilst  perusing 
a  newspaper,  that  she  hoped  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  some  time  or  other  reading  his  speeches  in 
the  house  of  commons;  he  replied,  "I  hope  not; 
if  you  read  any  speeches  of  mine,  it  will  be  in 
the  house  of  lords."  On  his  arrival  at  Psewstead, 
he  continued  his  studies  und-er  Mr.  Rogers,  a 
schoolmaster  in  the  neighbourhood.  In  1799, 
he  was  removed  to  London;  and,  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  his  guardiaji,  the  Earl  of  Carlisle, 
placed  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Baillie,  who  also 
attended  him  on  his  subsequerit  removal  to  the 


school  of  Dr.  Glennie,  at  Dulwich,  \vherc  he  ap. 
pears  to  have  gained  the  esteem  both  of  his 
master  and  schoolfellows.  His  reading  in  his- 
tory and  poetry,  says  Dr.  Glennie,  was  far 
beyond  the  usual  standard  of  his  age;  and  "he 
showed  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  his- 
torical parts  of  the  Holy  Scriptures;"  an  assertion 
which  serves  to  confirm  the  subsequent  declara- 
tion of  Byron  himself,  "  that  he  was  a  great 
reader  and  admirer  of  the  Old  Testament,  and 
had  read  it  through  and  through  before  he  was 
eight  years  old."  The  progress  he  was  rapidly 
making  under  Dr.  Glennie  was,  unfortunately, 
interrupted  by  the  foolish  indulgence  of  his 
mother,  who  took  him  home  so  frequently,  and 
behaved  with  so  much  violence  when  remon- 
strated with  on  the  subject,  that  Lord  Carlisle 
determined  upon  removing  his  v^'ard  to  Harrow, 
whither  he  was  sent  in  his  fourteenth  year. 

In  1800,  he  had,  as  he  expre-ses  himselr, 
made  "his  first  dash  into  poetry;  the  ebullition," 
he  adds,  "  of  a  passion  for  my  first  cousin,  Mar- 
garet Parker,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  eva- 
nescent beings."  This  was  succeeded  by  his 
attachment  for  Miss  Mary  Chaworth,  whom  he 
used  to  meet  during  the  Harrow  vacations;  she 
was  two  years  older  than  himself,  and  does  not 
appear  to  have  given  sufficient  encouragement 
to  his  addresses,  to  warrant  his  declaration  "  that 
she  jilted  him;"  especially  as  she  was,  at  the 
time  of  their  first  acquaintance,  engaged  to 
Mr.  Musters,  whom  she  subsequently  married. 
There  is  no  doubt,  however,  that  his  atfection 
for  the  lady  (who  is  now  dead)  was  sincere,  and 
that  the  loss  of  her  had  an  embittering  inlluence 
upon  his  future  life.  A  person  who  was  present 
when  Miss  Chaworth's  marriage  was  first  an- 
nounced to  him,  has  thus  described  the  scene  that 
occurred : — "  Byron,  I  have  some  news  for  you," 
said  his  mother,  "Well,  what  is  it?"  "Take 
out  your  handerchief  first,  you  will  vrant  it." 
"Nonsense!"  "Take  out  your  handkerchief, 
I  say."  He  did  so,  to  humour,  her.  <'  Miss 
Chaworth  is  married."  An  expression  very 
peculiar,  impossible  to  describe,  passed  over  his 
paie  face,  and  he  hurried  his  handkerchief  into 
his  pocket;  saying,  with  an  aflected  air  of  cold 
ness  and  nonchalance,  "  Is  that  alH"  "Why 
I  expected,"  said  his  mother,  "you  would  hav« 
been  plunged  in  grief"  He  made  no  leply 
and  soon  began  to  talk  about  something  else. 

5 


'fclFE    OF   BYRON. 


This  took  place  in  180S,'tfieyear*on*is  leaviiiij 
Hairow  which  he  quitted  with  the  character  of 
a  plaiu-spokeri,  clever  aud  und^auuted,  but  idle, 
boy.  His  master,  Dr.  Drury,  for  whom  he 
alwaj's  entertained  respect  and  afiection,  spoke 
of  him  as  one  who  "mi'jht  be  led  by  a  silker> 
string  to  a  point,  rather  than  by  a  cable;"  and 
be'ng  asked  his  opinion  of  his  pupil,  after  some 
continuance  at  Harrow,  by  Lord  Carlisle,  he 
replied,  th;it  "he  had  talents  which  would  add 
lustre  to  Ivis  rank."  Though  genernlly,  how- 
ever. rej)ufed  to  be  too  indolent  to  excel  in 
Bchool,  it  seems  that  he  collected  a  vast  fund  of 
intbrmation,  which  was  little  suspected  "by  those 
who  saw  him  only  when  idle,  in  mischief,  or  at 
play.  "The  truth  is,"  he  says,  "that  I  read 
eating,  read  in  bed,  read  when  no  one  else  read 
and  lia<l  read  all  sorts  of  reading  since  I  was  five 
years  old,  though  I  never  met  with  a  review  till 
I  was  in  my  nineteenth  year."  He  was  not,  at 
first,  liked  by  his  schoolfellows;  but  with  some 
of  them  he  ultimately  formed  friendships,  to 
which  he  always  reverted  with  a  melancholy 
del'glit.  broken,  as  most  of  them  were,  by  his 
own  waywardness,  or  the  peculiar  circumstances 
v^hicii  attended  his  subsequent  career.  His  in- 
trepidity was  shown  i)i  several  pugilistic  combats, 
m:uiy  of  wliich  he  undertook  in  the  defence  and 
[*nUection  of  other  boys.  One  of  his  schoolfellows 
gays,  that  1  e  has  seen  him  tight  by  the  hour  like 
a  TrDJan.  and  stand  up,  against  the  disadvantages 
of  his  I  imrness,  with  all  the  spirit  of  an  ancient 
co!n!)ataiit.  On  tlie  same  person's  reminding 
li'-M  iif  his  battle  with  Pitt,  he  replied,  "You  are 
mistaken.  I  think;  it  must  have  been  with  Kice- 
ouddinsr  Morgan,  or  Lord  .Jocelyn,  or  one  of  the 
Douglasses,  or  George  Raynsford,  or  Pryce  (with 
whom  I  had  two  contlicts),  or  with  Moses  Moore 
(the  c!>^d).  or  with  somebody  else,  and  not  with 
I'ltt ;  tor  with  all  the  above-named,  and  other 
vvorihies  of  the  list,  had  I  an  interchange  of 
black  eyes  and  l;loody  noses,  at  various  and 
saniliy  periods.  However,  il.inay  have  hapjjened, 
for  aii  that."  He  also  told  Captain  Medwin,  in 
allusion  to  two  of  hif^  actions  at  Harrow,  that  he 
touii-hl  L;)r>!  (yai(iiori)e  for  writing"  D— d  atheist" 
under  Ins  naiiic;  a. id  prevented  tlie  school-room 
from  iitMig  !>Uiiil,  during  a  rebellion,  by  pointing 
ju!  to  tlif  boys  ihc  names  of  their  fathers  and 
grandfallu-rs  on  th(>  uails. 

In  1S().'>.  he  was  entered  of  Trinity  College, 
(yanibridge,  which  he  describes  as  "  a  new  and 
Leavy-hearted  scene  to  him;"  adding,  it  was  one 
of  the  deadliest  and  heaviest  feelings  of  his  lifcy 
to  te!  I  that  he  was  no  longer  a  boy. 

'i"h»-  time  not  pas.sed  by  him  at  the  university, 
he  at  first  spent  with  his  mother,  at  Southwell, 
luit  her  violent  temper,  which  his  own  was  not 
calculated  to  appease,  soon  led  to  their  separa- 
ti.Jii;  and  he  aitervvards  resided  in  London, 
Little  H'AinjHon,  Harrovvgate,  and  other  places 
of  fashionable  resort.  .\[  this  period,  he  is  said 
(o  ha\e  been  remarkably  bashful,  though  In- 
Hul>se(|uently  so  far  overcame  Ids  shyness,  as  lo 
••ike  a  prominent  [)art  in  some  private  theatricals 
>M  Sonthwell.      In  .\ovember,  1H()7,  his  Hours  of 


Idleness  was  printed  at  Newark;  and,  in  the 
following  year,  appeared  the  memorable  critici.sm 
upon  them  in  The  Edinburgh  Review.  The 
impression  which  this  criticism  made  upon  our 
poet,  is  described,  by  one  who  witnessed  his 
tierce  looks  of  defiance,  during  a  first  perusal  of 
it,  as  fearful  aud  su!)lime.  Among  the  less  sen- 
timental etiects  of  this  review  upon  his  mind, 
savs  Mr.  Mor>re,  he  used  to  mcitioii  tliat,  on 
the  day  he  read  it.  he  drank  three  bottles  of 
claret  to  his  own  share  after  dinner;  that  no- 
thing, however,  relieved  him  till  lie  had  given 
vent  to  his  indignation  in  rlivme;  and  that 
"after  the  first  twenty  lines,  he  felt  himself  con- 
siderably better."  During  the  progress  of  the 
satire,  he  passed  his  time  alternately  at  New- 
stead,  London,  and  Brighton. 

On  coming  of  age,  in  1809,  he  apprised  Lord 
Carlisle  of  his  wish  to  take  his  seat  in  the  house 
of  peers;  and  to  the  formal  reply  of  the  earl,  and 
his  refusal  to  aflbrd  any  information  respecting 
the  marriage  of  our  poet's  grandfather,  is  owing 
the  bitterness  with  which  he  attacked  the  lormer 
in  his  English  Bards.  He  at  length  took  his 
seat  on  the  13th  of  March,  and  went  down  to 
the  house  for  that  purpose,  accompanied  only 
by  Mr.  Dallas,  whom  he  accidentally  met*  "  Ke 
was  received,"  says  that  gentleman,  "in  one  of 
the  ante-chambers,  by  some  of  the  oHicers  in 
attendance,  with  whom  he  settled  resy^ecting  tlie 
fees  he  had  to  pay  :  one  of  them  went  to  apprise 
the  lord-chancellor  of  his  being  there,  and  soon 
returned  for  him.  There  were  very  few  persons 
in  the  house.  JiOril  Eldon  was  going  througil 
some  ordinary  business.  When  Lord  Bvron 
entered.  I  thought  he  looked  still  paler  than 
l)efore;  and  he  certainly  wore  a  countenance 
in  which  mortilJcation  was  mingled  with,  but 
sub.dued  by,  indignation.  Ke  pa.ssed  the  wool- 
sack wil'iout  l(io!:ing  round,  and  advanceti  tc 
the  table,  where  the  proper  oificer  was  attenihng 
to  administer  the  oaths.  When  he  had  gone 
through  them,  the  chancellor  quitted  bis  seat, 
and  went  towards  him  with  a  smile,  puttii.g  out 
his  hand  warmly  to  welcome  him;  and,  though 
1  did  not  catch  his  words,  I  s;>w  !!n:t  p.e  ])ai(l 
him  some  compliment.  'Jdiis  was  all  thrown 
a'.vay  upon  Lord  Byron,  who  made  a  stid'  'now, 
and  put  the  ti})s  of  his  fingers  into  iiOrd  Eldo,i's< 
hand-.  'Llic  chancellor  did  not  i)ress  a  welcom? 
so  received,  but  resuiiKul  his  seat;  while  Lord 
Bvron  carelc:  sly  s(  .tted  himself,  for  a  iiwv  min- 
utes, on  one  of  the  einj)ty  benches  to  the  left  of 
the  throne,  usnaliy  occupied  t)y  the  lords  in  op- 
j)osition.  \A  hen,  on  his  joining  me,  1  exjiresscv.l 
what  1  had  felt,  he  said,  'If  I  had  shaken  hands 
heartily,  he  would  have  set  me  down  for  one  of 
his  ))arty;  but  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  wilh 
any  (»f  tl>em,  on  either  side:  I  liav  taken  my 
sea.t.  and  now  1  will  i;o  abroad.'" 

Sho/tly  alter  he  had  taken  his  seat,  his  satne 
was  published  anonymously,  of  which,  though 
the  success,  at  the  time,  highly  gratified  him,  he, 
soiiu'  vears  afterwards,  wrote,  "iNothing  but  the 
t  on.^Mleration  of  its  being  the  property  of  anothei 
prevtMits  me  from  consigning  thi^  miserable  re(  ord 


LIFE    OF   BYRON. 


of  misplacefl  and  indiscriminate  anger  to  the 
flames."  Before  a  second  edition  was  published, 
he  left  England,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Hobhouse, 
under  the  iiiHuence  of  those  mebmcholy  feelings, 
which  he  has.  described  in  the  early  part  of  the 
first  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  in  which  poem  a 
pretty  accurate  account  of  his  travels  is  given, 
d  iring  his  two  yeurs'  residence  abroad.  Almost 
every  event  he  met  with,  he  has  made  subser- 
vient to  his  muse,  paiticnlarly  the  incident  on 
which  is  founded  his  Giaour,  and  it  was  during 
this  tour  that  he  swam  frum  Sestos  to  Abydos. 

In  July,  1811,  he  returned  to  England,  and 
being  visited  by  Mr.  Dallas,  put  into  his  hands  a 
Parajdnase  of  Horace's  Art  of  Poetry,  expressing 
a  wish  that  it  should  be  printed  under  the  hitter's 
superintendence;  but  he  mentioned  nothing  of 
Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  until  .Mr.  Dallas  ex- 
pressed his  surprise  that  he  should  have  written 
so   little  during  his  absence.     He  then  told  his 
friend  that  "he  had   occasionally  written  short 
poems,  besides  a  great  many  stanzas  in  Spenser's 
measure,  relative  to  the  countries  he  had  visited;" 
and,  at  the  same  time,  handed  them  to  Mr.  Dallas, 
observing,  that  they  were  not  worth    troubling 
him  with.     This  gentleman  had  no  sooner  pe- 
rused  the   poem,   than   he   endeavoured  to   per- 
suade the  author  of  its  superiority,  in   every  re- 
spect, to  the  Paraphrase  of  Horace;  but  it  was 
not  until  after  much  real  or  atfected   reluctance,  "! 
that  he  consented  to  the  publication  of  Childe    '. 
Harold,  in  preference  to  that  of  the  former.     He    i 
had  scarcely  made  up  his  mind  on  the  subject,    ] 
before  he  was  called  to  Newstead,  by  the  illness    ! 
of  his  mother,  who,  however,  died  a  short  time    i 
hefore  his  arrival,  on  the  1st  of  August.     He  is    i 
said  to  have  been  sincerely  atlected  at  her  loss;    i 
and,  on  being  found  sitting  near  the  corpse  of    , 
his  mother,  by  Mrs.  Byron's  waiting-woman,  he, 
in  answer  to  her  remonstrance  with   him  for  so 
giving   way   to   grief,   exclaimed,   bursting    into 
tpars.  "I  had   but   one   friend  in  the  world,  and 
she  is  gone  !" 

A  few  months  after  the  death  of  his  mother, 
a  coriespoadonce  took  place  between  himself 
and  Mr.  Moore,  the  poet,  of  whose  duel  witii  Mr. 
Jelirey,  Byron  had  given  a  ludicrous,  but  untrue 
account  in  his  English  Bards.  After  several 
letters  of  an  explanatory,  rather  than  hostile, 
natureniad  passed  on  both  sides,  and  in  which 
each  exhibited  a  manly  and  forbearing  spirit, 
they  itecaine  mutual  friends,  ami  remained  so 
e\  er  afterwards.  On  the  27th  of  February,  1812, 
Lord  Byron  made  his  first  speech  in  the  house 
of  lords,  on  the  subject  of  the  Nottingham  Frair.e- 
breaking  Bill,  and  appears  to  have  pleased  both 
himself  and  his  hearers.  Mr.  Dallas,  who  met 
him  coming  out  of  the  house,  says,  that  he  was 
greatly  elated;  and,  at'ter  repeating  some  of  the 
compliments  which  had  been  })aid  him,  concluded 
oy  saying,  "that  he  had,  by  his  speech,  given  the 
best  advertisement  to  Childe  Harold's  Pilgri- 
mage," which  was  two  days  afterwards  pub- 
lished. The  efFect  upon  the  public,  as  his  bio- 
grapher observes,  was  electric;  as  he  has  him- 
scll   said,   in   his   memoranda,  "he   awoke   one 


morning,  and  found  himself  famous."  Thefiifct 
edition  of  his  work  was  disposed  of  instantly; 
"Childe  Harold"  and  "Lord  Byron,"  were  the 
theme  of  every  tongue;  the  most  eminent  literati 
of  the  day,  including  many  whom  he  had  attacked 
in  his  satire,  left  their  names  at  his  door;  up  in 
his  table  lay  the  epistolary  tribute  of  the  states- 
man and  philosopher,  the  billet  of  some  incognita, 
or  the  pressing  note  of  some  fair  leader  of  fashion, 
and,  in  fine,  "he  found  himself  among  the  iliiis 
trious  crowds  of  high  life,  the  most  distinguished^ 
object."  The  sum  of  <£600  which  he  received 
for  the  copyright  of  the  poem,  he  presented  to 
Mr.  Dallas;  observing,  "he  would  never  receive 
money  for  his  writings;"  a  resolution  which  he 
subsequently  abandoned.  Among  other  results 
of  the  fame  he  had  acquired  by  his  Childe  Harold, 
was  his  introduction  to  the  prince  regent,  which 
took  place  at  a  ball,  at  the  request  of  his  royal 
highness,  whose  conversation  so  fascinated  the 
poet,  that  had  it  not  been,  says  Mr.  Dallas,  tor 
an  accidental  deferring  of  the  next  levee,  he  bade 
fair  to  become  a  visitor  at  Carlton  House,  if  not 
a  complete  courtier. 

In  the  spring  of  1813,  he  published  anony- 
mously, his  poem  on  waltzing;  and  as  it  was 
not  received  with  the  applause  he  anticipated, 
did  not  avow  himself  to  be  its  author.  In  the 
same  year,  appeared  The  Giaour,  and  The  Bride 
of  Abydos ;  the  Ibrmer  of  which  reached  a  tifth 
edition  in  four  months.  Mr.  Murray  ollered  iiim 
a  thousand  guineas  for  the  copyright  of  the  two 
poems,  but  he  still  refused  to  derive  any  pecu- 
niary benefit  from  his  writings.  In  1814,  hi& 
Corsair  was  published;  the  copyright  of  which 
he  presented  to  Mr.  Dallas.  Fourteen  thousand 
copies  of  the  poem  were  sold  in  one  day ;  but 
the  popularity  which  this  and  his  other  uorks 
had  procured  for  him.  began  to  be  lessened  by 
his  verses  to  the  Princess  Charlotte,  and  by  a 
certain  peculiarity  of  conduct  which  was  looked 
upon  as  more  indecorous  than  eccentric.  Lndcr 
these  circumstances,  he  was  persuaded  to  marry, 
and,  in  consequence,  proposed  to  Miss  Milbanke, 
the  daughter  of  Sir  Ralph  Milbanke;  but  was  at 
first  met  with  a  polite  refusal.  He  was,  how- 
ever, not  so  much  mortified  as  not  to  make  her 
a  second  offer,  tliough  he  says,  in  his  memoranda, 
that  a  friend  strongly  advised  him  against  doing 
so:  observing,  that  '•  Miss  Milbanke  had  at  pre- 
sent no  fortune,  and  tliat  his  embarrassed  aiiaira 
would  not  allow  him  to  marry  without  one;  that 
she  was,  moreover,  a  learned  lady,  which  would 
not  at  all  suit  him."  He  then  agreed  that  iiis 
friend  should  write  a  proposal  tor  him  to  another 
lady,  and  a  refusal  being  the  consequence,  he 
said,  "You  see,  after  all.  Miss  Milbanke  is  to  he 
the  person  :  I  will  write  to  her :"  wliich  he  ac- 
cordingly did,  and  was  accepted.  His  marriage 
took  place  at  Seaham,  on  the  2d  of  January. 
1815;  a  day  to  which  he  seems  to  nave  always 
reverted  with  a  shudder,  and  ou  which,  he,  in 
reality,  perhaf)s,  experienced  those  emotions  so 
touchingly  described  in  his  beautiful  poem  oi 
The  Dream.  Supeistition  had,  no  doubt,  somt 
iniluence  over  his  mind  on  the  occasion;  for.  in 


LIFE   OF  BYRON. 


addition  to  the  circumstances  hereafter  related 
in  his  own  words,  he  fancied,  a  short  time  pre- 
vious to  his  marriage,  that  he  had  seen,  at  New- 
stead,  the  ghost  of  the  monk  which  was  sup- 
posed to  haunt  the  abbey,  and  to  appear  when 
misfortune  impended  over  the  master  of  the 
mansion, — a  legend  which  he  has  versified  in 
the  sixteenth  canto  of  Don  Juan.  His  own 
memoranda  relative  to  his  union  form  an  in- 
teresting prelude  to  its  unhappy  consequences. 
"It  had  been  predicted  by  Mrs.  \^'illiams,"  says 
he,  "  that  twenty-seven  was  to  be  the  dangerous 
age  for  me.  The  fortune-telling  witch  was  right: 
it  was  destined  to  prove  so.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  2d  of  January-.  Lady  Byron  was  the  only 
unconcerned  person  present :  Lady  Noel,  her 
mother,  cried :  I  trembled  like  a  leaf,  made  the 
wrong  responses,  and  after  the  ceremony  called 
her  Miss  Milbanke.  There  is  a  singular  history 
attached  to  the  ring: — the  very  day  the  match 
was  concluded,  a  ring  of  my  mother's  that  had 
been  lost,  was  dug  up  by  the  gardener  at  New- 
stead.  I  thought  it  was  sent  on  purpose  for  the 
wedding;  but  my  mother's  marriage  had  not 
been  a  fortunate  one,  and  this  ring  was  doomed 
to  bo  the  seal  of  an  unhappier  union  still.  After 
the  ordeal  was  over,  we  set  olT  for  a  country 
seat  of  Sir  Ralph's ;  and  I  was  surprised  at  the 
arrangements  for  the  journey,  and  somewhat  out 
of  humour  to  find  a  lady's  maid  stuck  between 
me  and  my  bride.  It  was  rather  too  early  to 
assume  the  husband,  so  I  was  forced  to  submit; 
)ut  it  was  not  with  a  very  good  grace.  I  have 
Deen  accused  of  saying,  on  getting  into  the 
can-iage,  that  I  had  married  Lady  Byron  out  of 
Bpite,  and  because  she  had  refused  me  twice. 
'I'hough  I  was,  for  a  moment,  vexed  at  the  pro- 
phecy, or  whatever  you  may  choose  to  call  it,  if  I 
had  made  so  uncavalier,  not  to  say  brutal,  a  speech, 
I  am  convinced  Lady  Byron  would  instantly 
have  left  the  carriage  to  me  and  the  maid.  She 
had  spirit  enough  to  have  done  so,  and  would 
proj)erly  have  resented  the  insult.  Our  honey- 
moon was  not  all  sunshine;  it  had  its  clouds; 
and  Hobhouse  has  some  letters  which  would 
serve  tc>  explain  the  rise  and  fall  in  the  barome- 
ter ;  but  it  was  never  down  at  zero." 

About  ten  months  alter  bis  marriage,  the  birth 
of  his  daughter  took  place;  an  event  that  was, 
in  a  few  weeks,  tbllowed  by  a  totiii  separntion 
of  the  parents.  Sc  many  various  reasons  have 
been  assigned  for  this  step,  by  the  friends  of 
either  party,  and  so  much  more  .than  has  yet 
cojne  to  light,  .las  been  insiiiuated  by  Lady 
B^ron  herself,  thai  the  real  cause  of  their  con- 
tL'.ued  disunion  stil!  reniains  a  mystery.  Our 
poet  has  avowed,  l>oth  in  his  conveisation  and 
corrfspondence.  that,  dnrinir  his  rt'sidcnce  with 
his.wili-,  he  had  nothintr  to  complain  i)\';  and 
it  was  only  when  he  loiiiid  Iht  unwillipg  to  re- 
sume her  conni'-'tioii  witli  hiiii  t!i;i!  he  gave  vent 
to  that  bitterness  of  spirit  with  whiih  he  alludes 
to  her  in  some  ol"  his  juhmiis.  Mr.  Moore  sijcaks 
with  an  evident  bias  ni  favour  of  the  subject  of 
his  biography;  but,  whatever  inferences  iimy  be 
'Irawn  lr(jm   the  sacrifice  of  the   papers  relating 


to  this  affair,  at  the  request  of  Lady  Bjron* 
family, — and  the  previous  request  of  the  lady 
herself  to  her  husband,  that  he  would  not  publish 
them,  on  his  sending  them  to  her  for  perusal, 
which  she  declined, — it  is  clear,  from  the  facta 
that  have  as  yet  been  made  public,  that  the  con- 
duct of  Lord  Byron  was  at  least  as  culpable,  aa 
that  of  his  wife  appears,  in  the  absence  of  further 
explanation,  to  have  been  extraordinary.  Manj 
excuses,  however,  are  to  be  made  for  the  subject 
of  our  memoir,  who  was  most  unwarrantabl 
calumniated  on  the  occasion,  and  publicly  taxe* 
with  crimes,  of  which  conjugal  infidelity  was  not 
the  least,  though,  perhaps,  at  the  time  of  its  im- 
putation, the  most  unjustifiable.  The  ostensible 
cause  of  their  separation  was  the  involvement  of 
his  lordship's  afiairs,  and  his  coimection  with  the 
managing  committee  of  Drury  Lane,  which  led 
him  into  a  course  of  life  unsuitable  to  the  do- 
mestic habits  of  Lady  Byron.  "My  income,  at 
this  period,"  says  his  own  account  of  the  affair 
"was  small,  and  somewhat  bespoken.  We  had 
a  house  in  town,  gave  dinner  parties,  had  sepa- 
rate carriages,  and  launched  into  every  sort  of 
extravagance.  This  could  not  last  long.  My 
wife's  £10,000  soon  melted  away.  I  was  beset 
by  duns,  and,  at  length,  an  execution  was  levied 
and  the  bailitTs  put  in  possession  of  the  very  beds 
we  had  to  sleep  on.  This  was  no  very  agrceablo 
state  of  affiirs,  no  very  pleasant  scene  for  Lady 
Byron  to  witness;  and  it  was  agreed  she  should 
pay  her  father  a  visit  till  the  storm  had  blown 
over,  and  some  arrangements  had  been  made 
with  my  creditors." 

The  lady,  however,  expressed  her  determina- 
tion never  to  return  to  him,  in  a  letter  which 
had  been  preceded  by  one,  beginning,  as  he  lu- 
dicrously says,  ''Dear  duck!"  "You  ask  me,"  he 
says  in  a  communication  to  Captain  Medwin, 
"if  no  cause  was  assigned  for  this  sudden  reso- 
lution ? — if  I  formed  no  conjecture  about  the 
cause?  I  will  tell  you:  I  have  })rejudices  about 
women ;  I  do  not  like  to  see  them  eat.  Rousseau 
makes  Julie  un  pen  gourmande ;  but  that  is  not 
at  all  according  to  my  taste.  I  do  not  like  to 
be  interrupted  when  I  am  writing.  Lady  Byron 
did  not  attend  to  these  whims  of  mine.  The 
only  harsh  thing  I  ever  rememl;er  saying  to  her 
was,  one  evening,  shortly  before  our  partnig.  I 
was  standing  before  the  fire,  rut:)  iiating  ujjon 
the  embarrassment  of  my  atliiirs.  and  other  :;n- 
noyances,  when  Lady  Byron  came  up  to  mo, 
and  said,  'Byron,  am  I  in  your  way  !'  to  wliich 

I  replied,  'D bly!'      I  was   afterwards  sorry, 

und  reproached  myself  for  the  ex))ression;  init 
it  cscaj>ed  me  unconsciously, — involuntarih  :  I 
hardly  knew  what  I  said." 

His  lordship's  next  poems  were,  Lara,  'i'he 
Siege  of  (Jorinth,  and  Parisina;  the  two  last  ot 
which  appeared  in  February,  1816;  and,  in  »lie 
following  Aj)ril,  he  again  left  England,  having 
pri>\iously  published  The  Sketch,  and  his  vcU'- 
brated  Fare-thee-well.  He  set  out  upon  his 
travels  in  no  very  dejected  state  of  mind,  wh:''h 
may  be  accounted  for  by  an  observation  in  o:i« 
of  his   letters,  that  "agitation  or  contest  of  an> 


LIFE   OF   BYRON. 


kind  gave  a  rebound  to  his  spirits,  and  set  him 
up  for  the  time."  After  reaching  France,  he 
nrossed  the  field  of  Waterh^o,  and  proceeded  by 
the  Rhine  lo  Switzerland,  where  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  Shelley  ;  and,  whilst  at  Geneva, 
began  tlie  composition  oTirTTOemToumted  on  his 
NrrcntTiJparation  ;  but,  hearing  that  his  wife  was 
ill.  be  threw  the  manuscript  into  the_fire.  From 
^uit/fiiHiiTt'1i'e  procee'JedlorTtaly,  where  he  re- 
sided pnncipally  at  Venice,  and  transmitted 
thence  to  London  his  third  and  fourth  cantos  of 
Cbilde  Harold,  the  Prisoner  of  Chillon.  and  other 
poems,  Munti-cd,  and  The  Ijament  of  Tasso.  He 
also  wrote,  in  that  city,  his  Ode  to  Venice,  and 
Beppo,  which  he  is  said  to  have  finished  at  a 
sitting.  In  the  year  1819,  he  was  visited  at 
Venice,  by  M^Moorc,  to  w  bom  he  made  a  pre- 
sent of  Ij^^M^fiioirs,  which  have  been  before 
alluded  jH^'^He  brought  them  in,  says  Mr. 
Mooro^lWne  day,  in  a  white  leather  bag,  and 
boldil^  it  up,  said,  '*Look  here;  this  would  be 
if-.worth  something  to  Murray,  though  you,  I  dare 
!  r«ay,  would  not  give  sixpence  for  it."' — 'What 
:  .^  it?" — ''My  life  and  adventures: — 'it  is  not  a 
.thing  that  can  be  published  during  my  life-time, 
but  you  may  have  it,  if  you  like, — there,  do 
whatever  you  please  with  it."  In  giving  the 
bag,  continues  Mr.  Moore,  he  added,  ''You  may 
show  it  to  any  of  our  friends  you  think  worthy 
of  it." 

His  poetical  productions,  within  the  three  last 
years,  ending  in  1821,  were  Mazeppa,  his  trage- 
dies of  Marino  Faliero,  the  Two  Foscari,  and 
Sardanapalus,  The  Prophecy  of  Dante,  Cain, 
and  several  cantos  of  Don  Juan,  the  sixteenth 
canto  of  which  he  completed  at  Pisa.  At  this 
place  he  also  WTOte  Werner,  The  Deformed 
Transformed,  Heaven  and  Earth,  and  the  cele- 
brated Vision  of  Judgment;  the  two  last  of 
which  appeared  in  The  Liberal,  the  jomt  pro- 
duction of  himself,  Mr.  Shelley,  and  Mr.  Leigh 
Hunt,  who  had  joined  his  lordship  at  Pisa.  O, 
this  periodical  it  is  unnecessary  to  say  more,  i 
this  place,  than  that  it  failed  after  the  fourt 
number,  and  gave  rise  to  a  prosecution  against  iWft 
publisher,  on  account  of  The  Vision  of  Judgment. 
An  aflray  with  some  soldiers  of  Pisa,  who,  for 
some  reason  or  other,  had  attempted  to  arrest 
our  poet  and  some  other  Englishmen,  induced 
him  to  remove  to  Leghorn,  and,  subsequentlv, 
tj  Geneva,  where  he  took  up  his  residence,  in 
Septeml)er,  1822.  Anxious  for  more  stirring 
scenes  than  those  in  which  he  had  hitherto 
mixed,  he  engaged  in  a  correspondence  with  the 
itudcrs  of  the  insurrection  in  Greece,  which 
ended  in  his  departure  for  that  country,  in  the 
summer  of  1823. 

In  the  beginning  cf  January,  1824,  he  entered 
Miss'^lnnghi,  where  the  inhabitants,  w^ho  hailed 
his  coming  as  that  of  a  Messiah,  received  him 
with  enthusiastic  demonstrations  of  respect  and 
applause.  He  began  by  attempting  to  induce 
the  Greeks  to  a  more  civilized  system  of  warfare 
than  had  been  lately  carried  on;  and,  with  this 
view,  he ,  not  only  personally  rescued  a  Turk 
from  some  Greek  s-jilors,  on  the  very  day  of  his 


I 

tir 


binding,  but  released  eeveral  prisoners  in  the 
town,  and  sent  them  back  to  Prevesa,  in  tho 
hope  that  it  would  beget  a  similar  mode  of  treat- 
ment towards  the  captives  in  the  hands  of  tho 
Turks.  He  then  formed  a  brigade  of  Suliotes 
five  hundred  of  whom  he  took  into  his  pay  ;  anc 
"burning,"  says  Colonel  Stanho})e,  "with  mili- 
tary ardour  and  chivalry,  prepared  to  lead  them 
to  Lepanto."  The  insu!)ordination,  however, 
among  the  troops,  and  the  diflerencct^  that  hourly 
arose  amid  the  half-famished  and  ili-accoutred 
garrison,  rendered  this  step  impracticu!)le,  and 
threw  him  into  a  state  of  lisverish  irritiUion,  that 
destroyed  his  self-possession  at  a  time  v.hen  it 
was  most  necessary  to  the  cause  he  was  strug 
gling  to  serve.  An  attack  of  epilepsy  was  the 
consequence  of  this  state  of  mind,  and,  on  his 
recovery,  he  was  strongly  urged  to  remove  for 
a  while,  from  the  marshy  and  deleterious  air  of 
Missolonghi.  'i'his  he  indignantly  refused  to 
do;  "I  will  remain  here,"  he  said,  to  Captain 
Parry,  "  until  Greece  is  secure  against  the  Turks, 
or  till  she  has  lallen  under  their  power.  All  my 
income  shall  be  spent  in  her  service;  but,  unless 
driven  by  some  great  necessity,  I  will  not  touch 
a  larthing  of  the  sum  intended  for  my  sister's 
children.  When  Greece  is  secure  against  ex 
ternal  enemies,  I  will  leave  the  Greeks  to  settle 
their  government  as  they  like.  One  service 
more,  and  an  eminent  service  it  will  be,  I  tliink 
I  may  perform  for  them.  You,  Parry,  shall  have 
a  schooner  built  for  me,  or  I  will  buy  a  vessel . 
the  Greeks  shall  invest  me  with  the  character 
of  their  ambassador  or  agent:  I  will  go  to  the 
United  States,  and  procure  that  free  and  en- 
lightened government  to  set  the  example  of 
recognizing  the  federation  of  Greece  as  an  inde- 
pendent state.  This  done,  England  must  follow 
the  example,  and  Greece  will  then  enter  into 
all  her  rights  as  a  member  ol'  Jie  great  common- 
wealth of  Christian  Europe."    . 

This  was  the  last  ebullition  of  a  mind  which 
was  now  tottering  to  its  final  decadence,  though 
At  occasionally  broke  out  in  those  meteor-like 
*nashes,  which  had  belonged  to  its  early  vigour. 
On  the  12th  of  April,  a  fever,  of  whose  pre- 
monitory symptoms  he  had  not  been  sutficiently 
heedful,  co])fined  him  to  his  bed,  and  his  phy- 
sician. Dr.  Bruno,  proposed  bleeding  him,  as  the 
only  means  of  saving  his  life.  This,  however, 
he  repeatedly  refused ;  declaring,  that  he  had  only 
a  common  cold,  and  that  he  would  -not  permil 
the  doctor  to  bleed  him  for  the  mere  purpose  of 
getting  the  reputation  of  curing  his  disease.  At 
length,  on  the  14th,  after  some  controversy 
among  the  physicians,  who  now  all  saw  the  ne- 
cessity of  bleeding,  he  consented  to  the  opera- 
tion ;  and  also  on  the  16th,  saying,  as  he  stretched 
out  his  arm,  "  I  fear  they  know  nothing  about 
my  disorder;  but,  here,  take  my  arm,  and  do 
whatever  you  like."  On  the  17th,  his  counte- 
nance'changed,  and  he  became  slightly  delirious  ; 
he  complained  that  the  want  of  sleep  would 
drive  him  mad;  "and,"  he  exclaimed  to  liia 
valet,  Fletcher,  '- 1  would  ten  times  sooner  shool 
myself  than    be  n)ad  •    for   I    am   no.   afraid  of 


10 


LIFE   OF   BYTION. 


dyins-— I  ain  more  fit  to  die  than  people  imagine." 
It  was  not,  houfvcr.  till  the  18th,  that  he  beg^an 
_  to  thi)ik  himself  hi  danger,  when  he  called 
rirtfher  to  hi.s  bed-side,  and  bid  him  receive  his 
last  instructions.  '-Shan  I  fetch  pen,  ink,  and 
paper?"  said  the  valet,  as  he  a[}proached :  "Oh, 
tny  God!  no;"  wa?  his  repiv ;  "you  will  lose 
too  much  time,  and  I  have  it  not  to  spare."  He 
then  exclaimed,  "Oh!  my  poor  dear  Child! — 
my  dear  Ada — coukl  I  have  l)ut  seen  her — give 
her  my  Itlessing." — And,  after  muttering  some- 
tliiiig  uniiileliigil)le,  he  suddenly  raised  his  voice, 
ar.il  said,  •'  Fletcher,  now,  if  you  do  not  execute 
e»ery  order  whicli  I  have  given  you,  I  will  tor- 
ment you  JUMTaitcr,  if  jjossible."  The  valet  re- 
plying that  he  had  not  understood  one  word  of 
what  his  lordship  had  l)een  saying,  "Oh,  my 
God!"  he  exclaimed,  "then  all  is  lost,  for  it  is 
now  too  late,  and  ail  is  oxer:  yet,  as  you  say, 
God's  will,  not  mine,  be  done — hut  I  will  try  to 
• — ^my  wile!  my  child!  my  sister! — you  know 
a!l — yon  must  say  all — you  know  my  wishes." 
Here  ids  words  became  unintelligible.  Stimu- 
lants were  now,  in  direct  opposition  to  the  opinion 
of  i'r.  Bruno,  administered  to  him,  after  taking 
which  lie  said,  "I  must  sleep  now,"  and  never 
Bpoke  again.  For  twenty-four  hours  he  lay  in 
a  stale  of  lethargy,  with  the  rattles  occasionally 
in  his  tlrro;it;  and  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening 
of  t!ie  i9th,  an  exclamation  of  Fletcher,  who  saw 
h-iai  of)en  and  then  shut  his  eyes,  without  moving 
hand  or  foot,  announced  that  his  master  was  no 
Qiore. 

'i'he  death  of  Lord  Byron  created  a  mournful 
sensation  in  all  parts  of  the  civilized  world:  his 
failings  were  forgotten  in  his  recent  struggles 
(or  tiic  delivery  of  Greece,  and  one  universal 
sound  of  admiration  and  regret  was  echoed 
throughout  Europe.  The  autiiorities  of  Misso- 
lon-i-hi  paid  every  token  of  respect  to  his  memory 
that  reverence  could  suggest,  and  before  his  re- 
mains were  deposited  in  their  liiial  resting-place, 
some  of  the  most  celebrated  men  of  the  present 
century  had,  in  glowing  terms,  expressed  the^ 
sense  of  his  merits.  Jjjs  body,  after  having  bee 
brought  to  England,  and  refused  interment  in 
Westminster  Al)l>ey  and  St.  Paul's,  was  con- 
vey'cd  to  Ilucknell  Church,  near  i^ewstead,  in 
conformity  to  a  wish  of  the  poet,  that  his  dust 
might  be  mingled  with  his  mother's.  As  the 
processif)n  passed  t'.irough  the  streets  of  London, 
a  sailor  was  observed  walking,  uncovered,  near 
the  bearst!,  and.  on  being  asked  what  he  was 
doiii'^  thoT.  rejilied,  that  he  had  served  I^ord 
Byi(Hi  in  the  lii  vaiit,  <uul  had  come  to  pay  his 
last  respects  U)  h's  remains;  ";i  sii!ij)lc  but  em- 
[ '••ttic  tc^^ti^,l(J  ly,"  observes  Mr.  Gait,  "to  the 
Hi.i-erityof  that  re-ard  v.  Inch  his  lordship  often 
inspired,  and  winch,  wiih  more  stead  Hess'  he 
n;ighl  always  ha\c  commanded." 

The  cnaracter  of  Lord  Byron  lias,  of  late 
years,  been  so  fre()nenlly  ami  elaboratelv  dis- 
cussed, that  a  lengthened  di^scrlatioii  upon  it 
ill  this  place  would  bo  e(|uallv  tedious  and 
'superfluous.  iL'  was  l)ravc.  generous,  and  be- 
nevoh'H*. ;    but    he    was    also    [Kissionate     disni- 


i4' 


genuous,  and  resentful ;  and  more  ready  to  in- 
flict a  wound,  than  to  submit  to  one  himself 
He  was  sensitive  to  a  painful  degree,  both  in  his 
sentiments  and  his  feelings ;  but,  though  he 
writhed  under  an  attack  uj)on  either,  his  pride 
hindered  him  from  showing  what  he  sulleredj 
even  when  such  emotions  proceeded  from  im- 
pulses the  most  honourable  to  human  nature 
He  certainly  took  pleasure  in  showing  the  darl» 
side  of  his  character  to  the  world ;  for  those  whc 
were  admitted  to  an  unreserved  intimacy  with 
him,  give  indubitable  testimony  of  his  possessing, 
in  a  very  eminent  degree,  all  the  social  and  ccm- 
panionable  qualities,  a  heart  exquisitely  alive  to 
the  kindijess  of  others  towards  himself,  and  a 
hand  unhesitatingly  prompt  in  complying  with 
the  supplications  of  distress.  ^^|e  is,  indeed, 
no  reason  to  doubt  his  own  alle^^^fc^oi  false- 
hood was  not  one  of  his  characte^^^k,  when 
he  says,  "  If  salvation  is  to  be  bought  o^^^rity, 
I  have  given  more  to  my  fellow-creatures^  this 
life,  than  I  now  possess."  Captain  Medwifc.d 
scriiies  him  as  the  best  of  masters,  and  as 
])erfectly  adored  by  his  servants,  to  whose  fainiliei 
and  children  he  also  extended  an  ailectionat 
kindness.  His  habits,  in  the  latter  part  of  hi 
life,  were  regular  and  temperate,  even  to  ascetic 
abstinence;  he  seldom  eat  meat  or  drank  wine, 
living  chiefly  ujwn  biscuits,  collee,  eggs,  fish, 
vegetables,  and  soda  water,  of  which  he  has  been 
known  to  drink  fifteen  bottles  in  a  night.  Riding, 
swimming,  and  pistol-shooting,  were  his  favourite 
amusements ;  and  one  of  three  things  which  he 
used  to  pride  himself  ujion,  was  his  aliility  to 
snufi'  out  a  candle  with  a  bullet,  at  twenty  yards 
distance  ; — the  other  two  were,  his  feat  of  swim- 
ming across  the  Hellespont,  and  being  the  author 
of  a  poem  (The"T}or?arr),  of  which  fourteen  thou 
sand  copies  were  sold  in  one  day.  He  had  a 
great  partiality  for  children.  Prejudice,  allecta- 
tion,  and  vanity,  displayed  themselves  in  many 
rts  of  his  conduct;  he  would  talk  of  avoiding 
lakspeare,  lest  he  should  be  thought  to  owe 
any  thing;  and  delighted  in  the  addition  oi" 
^1  to  his  name,  because,  as  he  said,  Buonaparte 
and  he  were  the  only  public  persons  whose  ini- 
tials were  the  same:  peculiarities  which  induced 
Mr.  Hazlitt  to  call  him  '•  a  sublime  coxcomb." 
'riiough  he  proii'ssc'.i  to  despise  the  opinion  of 
the  world,  no  man  was  a  greiiter  slave  to  it,  in 
some  res])e(ts,  than  Isim-^clf.  Speaking  of  duel- 
ing, he  would  say,  "  W'v  must,  act  according  to 
usages  ;  any  man  will,  and  must,  iigiit,  when  ne- 
cessary— cv(Mi  without  a  motive."  He  was  him- 
self concerned  in  manv  duels  as  second,  but  only 
in  two  as  principal :  one  was  with  ilVIr.  Hobhouse 
before  he  became  intimate  with  him.  (3f  his  per- 
son he  was  particularly  vain,  and  it  was  certainly 
of  a  suj)erior  order;  he  was  about  five  feet  eigh, 
and  a  half  inches  in  height,  with  a  higii  forehead, 
adorned  with  line,  curling,  chestnut  hair;  teetli, 
says  an  Italian  author(\'^:s,  wdiich  resembled  pearls; 
hands  as  beautiful  as  it"  they  iiad  been  the  works 
of  arl  ;  eyes  of  the  a/.ure  colour  of  the  heavens; 
cheeks  dehcateh-  tinged  with  the  hue  of  the  pale 
ro^c  ;  aiii!    uillial,  a  countenance,  in   which   ihn 


LIFE   OF   BYRON. 


n 


expression  of  an  extraonlinary  mind  was  .fasci-    | 
natingly  conspicuous.  | 

The  religious  sentiments  of  T.ord  Byron  appear 
to  have  bi  en  much  misrepresented :  "  I  am  no 
bigot  to  in  idelity,"  he  says,  in  one  of  his  letters, 
»«and  did  not  expect,  tliat  l)ccause  I  doubted  the 
immortaUty  of  man,  I  should  he  charged  with 
denying  the  existence  of  a  God."  Mr.  Moore 
havuig  suspected  that  Mr.  Shelley  swayed  his 
loriiship's  opinions,  the  latter  writes,  "Pray, 
assure  Mr.  Moore  that  I  have  not  the  smallest 
influence  over  Lord  Byron  in  this  particular;  if 
I  had,  I  certaiidy  should  einplov  it  to  eradicate 
from  h.is  great  mind  the  delusions  of  Christianity, 
which  in  spite  of  his  reason,  seem  perpetually  to 
recur,  and  to  lay  in  ambush  for  the  hours  of  sick- 
ness and  disUMH 

The  foU^^B^mecdotcs  arc  interesting,  and, 
upon  ti^P^lc,  favourable  illustrations  of  the 
paradapcaT  character  of  Lord  Byron: — 'A  young 
jadv  dPtalent  being  reduced  to  great  hardships 
Hint  of  her  family,  came  to  the  resolution 
ing  on  Lord  Byron  at  his  apartments  in 
^e  Albany,  for  the  purpose  of  soliciting  his  sub- 
:r:ption  for  a  volume  of  poems.  Having  no 
Inowledgc  of  him,  except  trom  his  works,  she 
entered  his  room  with  diilideuce,  Imt  soon  found 
courage  to  .-rate  her  request,  which  she  did  with 
simplicity  and  delicacy.  lie  listened  with  at- 
tention, and,  wlien  she  had  done  speaking,  began 
to  con  verse  with  her  in  so  gentle  and  fascinating 
8  manner,  that  she  hardly  perceived  he  had  been 
writii'.g,  until  he  put  a  sli{)  of  paper  into  her  hand, 
saying  it  was  his  su!<scripti(j)) ;  "but,"  added 
he,  "we  are  both  yoinig,  ami  the  world  is  very 
censorious;  and  so,  if  I  were  to  take  any  active 
part  in  procuring  subscribers  to  your  poems.  I 
fear  it  would  do  you  harm  instead  of  good." 
'i'he  young  lady  on  looking  at  the  pajier,  found 
it  a  check  for  £50. — ^During  his  residence  at 
\'enic-e,  the  house  of  a  shoemaker  wlio  had  a 
large  family,  being  destroyed  b.y  lire,  Lord  Byrojj 
oidered  a  new  haliitation  to  be  built  at  his  ow 
'expense,  and  presented  tlie  tradesman  with 
sum  e(jual  in  value  to  t.he  whole  of  his  loss.' 
Whilst  at  .Mctaxata,  in  the  island  of  Cephalonia, 
hearing  of  several  persons  luiving  been  buried 
under  an  embankmeiit  whiv-h  had  fallen  in,  he 
inunediatoiy  hastened  to  the  spot,  accompanied 
ihysician.  After  some  of  their  com- 
b.'.v.l  I'cen  extr  cated,  the  labourers  be- 
d;i)ined  for  themselves,  refused  to  dig 
.hen  I5yron  hin\self  seized  a  s{)ade,  and, 
onions,  assisted  by  tlv-'  peasantry,  suc- 
aving  two  n.ore  persons  from   cert;iin 


b> 

paiiions  ! 
voining  a 
fuMlicr.  u 
f\  his  t.  XI 
r.erdod  ni 
J-iath, 
i\i?n  t( 


m 


-One  of  liis  householl   having  subjected 
much  perplexity  by  ti  s  amorous   propen- 
sitii  3.' he  hit  upon  the  followii  g  means  for  curing 


them :  A  young  Sullote  of  the  guard  being 
dressed  up  like  a  woman,  was  instructed  to 
attract  the  notice  of  the  gay  Lothario,  wlio, 
taking  the  bait,  was  conducted  by  th(!  supposed 
female  to  one  of  Lord  Byron's  a})artments,  w'lere 
he  was  almost  terrified  out  of  his  senses  by  the 
sudden 'appearance  of  an  enraged  husband,  pro- 
vided for  the  occasion. — The  following  anecdote 
shows  how  jealous  he  was  of  his  title  :  an  Italian 
apothecary  having  sent  him  one  day,  a  packet 
of  ujedicines  addressed  to  Monsieur  Byron,  he 
indignantly  sent  the  physic  back  to  learn  better 
nuumers. — 'His  coat  of  arms  was,  according  to 
Leigh  Hunt,  suspended  over  the  foot  of  his  l^cd  ; 
and  even  when  a  sclioolboy  at  Dulwicli,  so  little 
di;-guiscd  were  his  high  notions  of  rank,  that  his 
companions  used  to  call  him  the  Old  English 
Baron. — When  residing  at  Mitylene,  he  por- 
tioned eight  young  girls  very  liberally,  and  even 
danced  with  them  at  their  marriage  feast ;  he 
gave  a  cow  to  one  man,  horses  to  another,  ar.d 
silk  to  several  girls  who  lived  by  weaving.  He 
also  bought  a  new  boat  for  a  fisherman  who  had 
lost  his  own  in  a  gale ;  and  he  often  gave  Greek 
Testaments  to  the  poor  children.' — At  Ravenna, 
he  was  so  beloved  by  the  poor  people,  that  his 
influence  over  them  was  dreaded  by  the  govern- 
ment ;  and,  indeed,  wherever  he  resided,  his 
generosity  and  benevolence  appear  to  have  been 
eminently  conspicuous. 

Of  tiie  merits  so  universally  acknowledged  of 
Lord  Byron,  as  a  poet,  little  need  be  said ;  in 
originality  of  conception,  depth  and  vigour  of 
thought,  boldness  of  imagination  and  power  of 
expression,  he  is  unrivalled.  His  most  sublime 
performances  are  Manfred,  Childe  Harold,  Hea- 
ven and  Earth,  and  Cain  ;  the  first  of  these  pieces 
has  been  highly  •  commended  by  Goethe,  who 
pronounces  some  parts  of  it  superior  to  some  of 
the  p-rod actions  of  Shakspeare.  His  great  and 
favourite  art  lies  in  his  portraiture  of  the  human 
character,  thrown  back  upon  itself  by  satiety, 
.conscious  of  its  own  vrcck,  yet  disdaining  peni- 
.u-.e  for  the  vi(jes  it  acknowledges,  unable  to 
id  relief  in  itself,  and  scorning  to  derive  con- 
solation from  others.  In  this  respect,  he  sur- 
passes Milton,  who  has  only  depicted  the  horrors 
of  removse ;  a  far  less  ditiicult  task.  Satan  has 
an  end  in  viev/,  in  which  he  is  driven  by  despair 
and  hr.te:  Manfred  has  none,  yet,  hj  the  stern 
apathy  of  his  soul,  he  appears  to  as  more  terrii)ly 
sublime  even  than  Lucifer  himself  Don  Juan 
is  TiOrd  Byron's  most  remarkable  production;  i 
contains  some  of  his  finest  and  most  common 
place  passages,  and  shows  a  conmiand  of  ian 
guage  and  versatility  of  style  that  have  never 
been  equalled. 


y''.^ 


BYRON'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


fMouv^  of  Ktrictttss. 


M>7t'  Up  ue  udX'  aivee,  ufiTt  ri  vt'iKti. 

HOMKR.     mad.  10. 

He  whistled  as  he  went  for  want  of  thoucht. 
Drydex. 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE  FREDERICK 

Earl  of  Carlisle,  Knight  of  the  Garter,  etc. 

THESE  POEMS  ARE  IXSCRIBED, 
B3'  his  obliged  Ward,  and  affectionate  Kinsman, 
THE  AUTHOR. 

ON  LEAVING  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

Why  dost  thou  build  the  hall  .'  Son  of  the  winjed  days  !  Thou  lookest 
roni  thy  tower  to-dav  :  yet  a  few  years,  and  the  blast  of  the  desert  comes : 
It  howls  iu  thy  empty  court.— OSS'lAN. 

Thkough  thy  battlements,  Newstead,  the  hollow  winds 
whistle; 
Thou,  the  hall  of  my  fixthers,  art  gone  to  decay; 
In  thy  once  smiling  garden,  the  henilocli  and  thistle 
Have  choked  up  the  rose  which  late  bloom'd  in  the 
way. 

Of  the  niail-cover'd  b.arons  who,  proudly,  to  battle 
I.e.'i  fheir  vassals  from  Europe  to  Palestine's  plain, 

Tbf  escutcheon  and  shield,  which  with  every  blast  rattle, 
Are  the  only  sad  vestiges  now  that  remain. 

No  more  doth  old  Robert,  with  harp-stringing  numbers. 
Raise  a  flame  in  the  bri>ast,  for  the  war-laurelVl  wreath ; 

Near  Askalou's  Towers  John  of  Iloristam  slumbers, 
Unnerved  is  the  hand  of  his  minstrel  by  death. 

Paul  and  Hubert  too  sleep,  in  the  vallej'  of  Cressy ; 

For  the  safety  of  Edward  and  England  they  fell; 
My  fathers !  the  tears  of  your  country  redress  ye ; 

How  you  fought!  how  you  died!  still  her  annals  can 
tell. 
On  Mnrston,^  with  Rupert^  'gainst  traitors  contending, 

Four  brothers  enrich'd  with  their  blood  the  bleak  field  ; 
For  the  rights  of  a  monarch,  their  country  defending, 

Till  d^'ath  their  attachment  to  royalty  seal'd. 

Shades  of  heroes,  far(!'well !  your  descendant  departing 
From  the  seat  of  Ids  ancestors  l)idsyou  adieu! 

Abroad  or  at  honn'.  your  remembrance  imparting 
New  courage,  hell  think  upon  glory  and  you. 

Though  a  tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separation, 

"Tis  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret; 
Jar  distant  he  goes,  with  the  same  emulation, 

The  fame  of  his  fathers  he  ne'er  can  forget. 
That  fame,  and  that  memory,  still  will  he  cherish. 

He  vows  that  he  ne'er  will  disgrace  your  renown ; 
Like  you  will  he  live, or  like  you  will  he  perish; 

When  decay'd,  may  he  mingle  his  du.st  with  your  own. 

1803. 

1  Horistan  Castle,  in  Derbyshire,  an  ancient  seat  of  the 
Byron  family. 

2  The  battle  of  Marston-moor,  where  the  adherents  of 
Charles  I  were  defeated. 

3  Son  of  the  Elector  Palatine,  and  related  toCharles  I.  He 
aftsrwai  ds  commando  J  the  fleet,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  FRIEND. 

'AffTrjp  npiv  nEv  eXa/xTres  evi  ^oioiaiv  ccuasr. 

LaertiXiS 
On,  Friend  !  for  ever  loved,  for  ever  dearl 
What  fruitless  tears  have  bathed  thy  honour'd  bisll 
Whfft  sighs  re-echod  to  thy  parting  breath. 
While  thou  wast  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death. 
Could  tears  retard  the  tyrant  in  his  course; 
Could  sighs  avert  his  dart's  relentless  force; 
Could  youth  and  virtue  claim  ashore  delay, 
Or  beauty  charm  the  spectre  from  his  prey; 
Thou  still  had'st  lived,  to  bless  my  aching  sight, 
Thy  comrade's  lionour,  and  thy  friend's  delight. 
If,  yet,  thy  gentle  spirit  hover  nigh 
The  spot,  where  now  thy  mouldering  ashes  lie, 
Here  wilt  thou  tread,  recorded  on  my  heart, 
A  grief  too  deep  to  trust  the  sculptor's  art. 
No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 
But  living  statues  there  are  seen  to  weep; 
Affliction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb, 
Affliction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom. 
What  though  thy  sire  lament  his  failing  line, 
A  father's  sorrows  cannot  equal  mine! 
Though  none,  like  thee,  his  dying  hotir  will  cheer, 
Yet.  other  offspring  .sooth  his  anguish  here  : 
But  who  with  me  shall  hold  thy  former  place! 
Thine  image  what  new  friendship  can  efface? 
Ah,  none  !  a  father's  tears  will  cease  to  flow, 
Time  will  assuage  an  infant  brothers  woe; 
To  all,  save  one,  is  consolation  known, 
While  solitary  Friendship  sighs  alone.  1805i 


A  FRAGMENT. 
When  to  their  airy  hall  my  fath(;rs'  voice 
Shall  call  my  spirit,  joyful  in  their  choice; 
When,  poised  upon  the  gale,  my  form  shall  ride, 
Or,  dark  in  mi.'^t,  descend  the  mountain's  side ; 
Oh !  may  my  shade  behold  no  sculptured  urns, 
To  mark  the  spot  where  earth  to  earth  returns  : 
No  lengthen'd  .scroll,  no  praisc-encumber'd  stone  : 
My  epitaph  shall  be  my  name  alone  : 
If  that  with  honour  fail  to  crown  my  clay. 
Oh !  may  no  other  fame  my  deeds  repay ; 
TJui*,  only  that,  shall  single  out  the  spot, 
By  that  remember' d,  or  with  that  forgot. 

THE  TEAR. 

0  lacrymaruni  fons,  tenero  sacros 
Diiceii'tium  ortus  ex  aninio  ;  quater 
Felix  !  in  iino  qui  scatentem 
Pectore  te,  pia  Nympha,  sensit. — GRA7. 

When  Friendship  or  Love 

Our  .sympathies  move ; 
When  Truth  in  a  glance  should  appesjr  J 

The  lips  may  beguile. 

With  a  dimple  or  smile. 
But  the  test  of  affection's  a  Tear, 

Too  oft  is  a  smile 

But  the  hypocrite's  wile, 

To  mask  detestation  or  fear; 
Give  me  the  soft  Sigh, 
Whilst  the  soul-telling  eye 

Is  dimm'd,  for  a  time,  with  a  Tear. 


i8oa 


13 


u 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORK 


Mild  chanty's  glow, 

To  us  mortals  below, 
Shows  lli<^  soul  from  barbarity  clear ; 

Compassion  will  melt. 

Where  this  virtue  is  felt, 
And  its  dew  is  didlised  m  a  Tear. 

The  man  dix.m'd  to  sail 
With  the  blast  of  the  jrale. 
Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer  ; 
As  he  beiuls  o'er  the  wave, 
Which  mav  soon  be  his  <:rave, 
The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a  Tear. 

The  soldier  braves  death. 

For  a  fan(;iful  wreath. 
In  Glory's  romantic  career ; 

But  he  raises  the  foe, 

When  in  buttle  laid  low. 
And  batiies  every  wound  with  a  Tear. 

!f,  with  hiijh-bounding  pride, 

He  return  to  his  bride, 
Renouncing  the  gore-crimson'd  spear  ; 

All  his  toils  are  repaid. 

When,  embracinsr  the  maid, 
From  her  eyelid  he  kisses  the  Tear. 

Sweet  scene  of  my  youth, 

Seat  of  Friendship  and  Truth, 
Where  love  chased  each  fast-tleeting  year  ; 

Loth  to  leave  thee,  I  mourn'd, 

For  a  last  look  I  turn'd, 
But  thy  spire  was  scarce  seen  tlirough  a  Tear 

Though  my  vows  I  can  pour, 

To  my  INIary  no  more. 
My  iNIarj',  to  Love  once  so  dear ; 

In  the  shade  of  her  bovVer, 

I  remember  the  hour, 
She  rewarded  those  vows  with  a  Tear. 

By  another  |)Ossest, 

INIay  she  ever  live  blest. 
Her  name  still  my  heart  must  revere ; 

With  a  sigh  I  resign. 

What  I  onc;e  thought  was  mine, 
And  forgive  her  deceit  with  a  Tear. 

Ye  friends  of  my  heart, 

Ere  from  you  I  depart, 
lliis  hope  to  my  breast  is  most  near ; 

If  again  we  shall  meet, 

In  this  rural  retreat. 
May  we  meet,  as  we  part,  with  a  Tear. 

When  mv  soul  wings  her  flight 

To  the  regions  of  night, 
And  my  corse  shall  recline  on  its  bier ; 

As  ye  pass  by  the  tomb. 

Where  my  ashes  consume, 
Oh!   moisten  the-ir  dust  with  a  Tear. 

May  no  marble  bestow 

The  splendour  of  woe, 
Whi'.h  the  children  of  vanity  rear;_ 

No  fiction  of  fame 

Shall  blazon  tny  name, 
All  I  ask,  aJi  I  wish,  is  a  Tear. 

1806. 


AN  OCCASIONAL  PUOLOGUfc:, 

Delivered  prevwus  to  the  pcrJijr,ti(Oice  of  "■The  WJ<eel 
of  Fortune"  at  a  private  theatre. 

Since  the  refinement  of  this  pohsh'd  age 

Has  swept  immoral  raillery  from  tlie  stage; 

Siu-;:e  taste  has  now  expunged  licentious  wit. 

Which  stamp'd  disgrace  on  all  an  author  wni : 

Since,  now,  to  please  with  purer  scenes  we  seek, 

Nor  dare  to  call  the  blush  froui  lii^auty's  cheek; 

Oh!   let  the  modest  Muse  some  pity  claim, 

Airl  meet  indulgence  though  she  find  not  fame. 

Still,  not  for  her  alone  we  wish  respect, 

Others  appear  more  conscious  uf  defect ; 

To-night,  no  Yeteran  lioscii  you  beiiuUl, 

In  all  the  arts  of  scenic  action  old  ; 

No  CooKK,  no  Kemble,  can  salute  you  here, 

No  Sin  DONS  draw  the  syrni)athetie  tear  ; 

To-night,  you  throng  to  witness  the  debut 

Of  embryo  Actors,  to  the  drama  new. 

Here,  then,  our  almost  undedircd  win<is  we  try; 

Clip  not  our  [)ii)ions,  ere  the  birvi.-;  can  lly  ; 

Failing  in  this  our  first  attenij)!  to  soar, 

Droojiing,  alas !   we  fall  to  rise  no  more. 

Not  one  poor  trembler,  only,  fe;ir  betrays, 

Who  ho'pes,  yet  almost  dre«ads,  to  meet  your  ])raise. 

But  all  our  Dramatis  Person;e  wait, 

In  fond  suspense,  this  crisis  of  tlieir  fate. 

No  venal  vi(;ws  our  ])i-<)grcss  can  nnard. 

Your  iienerous  plaudits  are  our  sob'  reward; 

For  these,  each  Hero  all  his  power  d'splays, 

Each  timid  Heroine  shrinks  before  your  gaze  : 

Surelv,  the  last  will  some  protection  find, 

None  to  the  softer  sex  can  [)rove  unkind  : 

W^hilsl  Youth  and  Beauty  form  the  temale  shield. 

The  sternest  Censor  to  the  fair  must  yield. 

Yet  should  our  feeble  elforts  nouglit  avail, 

Should,  after  all,  our  best  end(iavours  fail  ; 

Still,  let  some  mercy  in  your  hosmns  live, 

And,  if  you  can't  applaud,  at  least  forgive 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR  FOX. 

Tlie  foUowing  illilwral   Lnpromptu    n])j)eared  in  a 
Alormn^  Pxper, 

Our  Nation's  foes  lament,  on  Fox's  d(3ath, 
But  bless  the  hour  when  Pitt  resign'd  his  l-.reath  ; 
These  feelings  wide  let  Sense  an  1  Truth  undue, 
We  give  the  |talm  where  Justice  points  it  due. 

7'o  which  the  Author  of  these  Pieces  .^eiif  the  following 

Reply. 
On!   factious  viper!    whose  envenoin'd  tooth 
Would  mangle  still  the  dead,  perverting  trut}i  ; 
What,  thougli  our  "  nation's  ii.es"  laiiieni  tlie  fate. 
With  generous  feeliii;:,  of  tiie  good  and  gieat; 
Shall  dastard  tongues  essay  to  blast  th(!  name 
Of  him,  whose  meed  exists  in  endless  tlinie  / 
When  Pitt  expired,  in  plenitude  of  power, 
Though  ill  success  obscured  ins  dying  hour, 
Pity  her  dewy  winns  before  him  sprt;ad, 
For  noble  spirits  "  war  not  uilli  tiie  dead." 
His  friends,  in  tears,  a  last  sad  rojuicm  gave. 
As  all  his  errors  sliimber'd  in  t!ie  grave  ; 
He  sunk,  an  Atlas,  bending 'ni  alb  the  weight 
Of  care's  o'erwlujlming  our  contlicliiii;  state; 
When,  lo !   a  Hercules,  in  Fox,  ajtpear'd, 
Who,  for  a  time,  the  ruin'd  fabric  rear'i  ; 


HOURS    OF     [DLENESS. 


1ft 


li^,  lOo,  is  tall'ii,  uno  Britain's  loss  supplied ; 

\\  ith  him,  our  fast-reviving  hopes  have  died: 

Not  one  great  people  only  raise  his  arn, 

All  Europe's  t'ai"-e\teiKlt;d  regions  mourn. 

"  These  feeliiiiis  ivide  lef  Sense  and  Truth  unelue, 

To  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  it  due  ;" 

Vet  let  not  canker'd  caliunny  assail, 

Or  loundour  statesman  uind  her  gloomy  veil. 

Fox !   o'er  whose  corse  a  mourning  world  must  weep. 

Whose  dear  remains  in  honour'd  marble  :s!eep, 

For  whom,  at  last,  e'en  hostile  nations  groan. 

While  triends  and  foes  alike  his  talents  own  ; 

Fox  shall,  in  IJriiain's  future  annals,  shine, 

Nor  e'en  to  Pitt  the  patriot's  palm  resign, 

Which  Envy,  wearing  Candour's  sacred  mask, 

For  Pixr,  and  Pitt  alone,  has  dared  to  ask. 


^^  STANZAS  TO  A  LADY. 

JVitk  the  Poems  of  Camuens. 
This  votive  pledge  of  fond  esteem, 

Perhaps,  dear  girl !   for  nie  thou  'It  prize  ; 
It  sings  of  Love's  enchanting  dream, 

A  theme  we  never  can  despise. 
Who  blames  it  but  the  envious  fool, 

The  old  and  disappointed  maid? 
Or  pupil  of  the  prudish  school, 

In  single  sorrow  doom'd  to  fade. 
Then  read,  dear  girl,  with  feeling  read. 

For  thru  wilt  ne'er  be  one  of  those ; 
To  thee  in  vain  I  shall  not  plead. 

In  pity  for  the  Poet's  woes. 
He  was.  in  sooth,  a  genuine  bard  ; 

His  was  no  faint  fictitious  flame  ; 
Like  his,  may  love  be  thy  reward, 

But  not  thy  hapless  fate  the  same. 

^^  TO  M  *  *  *. 

Oh  !   did  those  eyes,  instead  o    fire, 
With  bright,  but  mild  affection  shine ; 

Though  they  might  kindle  less  flesire. 
Love,  more  thar  mortal,  would  be  thine. 

For  thou  art  form'd  so  heavenly  fair, 
Howe'er  those  orbs  may  wildly  beam. 

We  must  admire,  but  still  despair  : 
That  fatal  glance  forbids  esteem. 

When  Nature  stamp'd  thy  beauteous  birth, 
So  much  perfection  in  thee  shone. 

She  fear'd  that,  too  divine  for  earth. 

The  skies  might  claim  thee  for  their  own. 

Therefore,  to  guard  her  dearest  work, 
Lest  angels  might  dispute  the  prize, 

She  bade  a  secret  lightning  lurk 
Within  those  once  celestial  eyes. 

These  might  the  boldest  sylph  appal. 
When  gleaming  with  meridian  blaze ; 

Thy  beauty  must  enrajjture  all, 

But  who  can  dare  thine  ardent  gaze  ? 

T  is  said,  that  Berenice's  hair 

In  stars  adorns  the  vault  of  heaven  ; 

Bat  they  would  ne'er  permit  thee  there. 
Thou  would'st  so  far  outshine  the  seven. 

For,  did  those  eyes  as  planets  roll. 
Thy  sister  lights  would  scarce  appear  : 

t"en  suns,  which  systems  now  control, 
Would  Iwinkle  dimly  through  their  sphere. 
1806. 


t-"^  TO  WOMAN. 

Woman!   experience  might  have  t  »ld  me. 

That  all  must  love  thee  who  behold  tlu  e, 

Surely,  experience  might  have  taught, 

Thy  iirniesl  promises  are  nouoht ; 

But,  i)!aced  in  all  thy  charms  before  me. 

All  1  tbrget,  but  to  adore  thee. 

Oh  !   Memory  !    thou  choicest  blessing  ; 

When  jom'd  with  hope,  when  still  posses«ipjf ! 

But  how  much  cursed  by  every  lover. 

When  hope  is  tied,  and  passion  '■=  ovnr. 

\Voman,  that  fair  and  fond  deceiver. 

How  [»rompt  are  striplings  to  believe  her! 

How  throbs  the  pulse,  when  first  we  view 

The  eye  that  rolls  in  gk)ssy  bkn;. 

Or  sparkles  black,  or  mildly  throws       ^ 

A  beam  from  under  hazel  brows ! 

How  quick  we  cri.'dit  every  oatli. 

And  hear  her  plight  the  willing  troth ! 

Fondly  we  hope 't  will  last  for  aye. 

When,  lo !   she  changes  in  a  dny. 

This  record  will  for  ever  stand, 

"  Woman  !   thy  vows  are  traced  in  sand.'" 


^^,-^  TO  M.  S.  P'- 

When  I  dream  that  you  love  me,  you  '11  surely  f(.fgive 

Extend  not  your  anger  to  sleej) ; 
For  in  visions  alone,  your  atTection  can  live  ; 

I  rise,  and  it  leaves  me  to  weep. 

Then,  Morpheus!   envelope  my  faculties  fast, 

Shed  o'er  me  your  languor  benign  ; 
Should  the  dream  of  to-mght  but  resemble  the  last; 

What  rapture  celestial  is  rnmc  I 

They  tell  us,  that  slumber,  the  sister  of  deatli. 

^Mortality's  emblem  is  given  ; 
To  fate  how  I  long  to  resign  my  frail  breath. 

If  tins  be  a  foretaste  of  heaven ! 
Ah !   frown  not,  sweet  Lady,  unbend  your  soft  brow, 

Nor  deem  me  too  haj)py  in  this  ; 
If  I  sin  in  my  dream,  I  atone  for  it  now. 

Thus  dcK^m'd  but  to  gaze  upon  bliss. 
Though  in  visions,  sweet  Lady,  perhaps,  you  may  smi.o. 

Oh  !   think  not  my  penance  deficient ; 
When  dreams  of  your  presence  my  slumbers  beguile. 

To  awake  will  be  torture  sufficient. 


SONG. 

When  I  roved,  a  young  Highlander,  o'er  the  datk  heath 
And  climb'd  thy  steep  summit,  oh  !  Morven  ot  Snow^,» 

To  saze  on  the  torrent  that  thunder'd  beneath. 
Or  the  mist  of  the  tempest  that  gathered  below,^ 


1  The  last  line  is  almost  a  literal  translation  from  \fi€  Sp.uiirf 
proverb. 

2  .Morven,  a  lofty  mountain  in  Aberdeenshire  "  Gornml  oi 
giunv,"  is  an  expression  freqiiunlly  to  be  foiimi  in  Ossian 

SThiswill  not  appearextraordinary  to  those  who  have  ueeP 
acpustomed  to  the  mounlains  :  it  is  by  no  means  uncommon  on 
attaining  the  top  of  Ben  e  vis.  Ben  y  boiini,  etc.  to  perceive, 
between  llie  summit  ami  the  valley,  clouds  pourmsr  ('own  rain, 
and.  occasionally,  accompani.^d  by  lightnina,  while  the  spc<> 
tator  literally  looks  down  on  the  storm,  perfectly  secure  tion 
ita  etfecls. 


IC 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


(JntutorM  by  science,  a  stranger  to  fear, 

And  rude  as  the  rocks  where  my  nifancy  grew, 
No  feeting,  save  one,  to  my  bosom  was  dear, 

Need  I  say,  my  sweet  Mary,  't  was  centred  in  yon  ? 
Vet,  it  could  not  be  Love,  for  I  knew  not  the  name  ; 

What  passion  can  dwell  in  the  heart  of  a  child  ? 
But,  still,  I  perceive  an  emotion  the  same 

As  I  felt,  when  a  boy,  on  the  crag-cover'd  wild : 
One  image,  alone,  on  my  bosom  imprest, 

I  loved  my  bleak  regions,  nor  panted  for  new  ; 
And  few  were  my  wants,  for  my  wishes  were  blest. 

And  pure  were  my  thoughts,  for  my  soul  was  with  you. 
I  arose  with  the  dawn ;   with  my  dog  as  my  guide, 

From  mountain  to  mountain  I  bounded  along, 
I  breasted  '  the  billows  of  Dee's^  rushing  tide. 

And  heard  at  a  distance  the  Highlander's  sonc : 
At  eve,  on  my  heath-cover'd  couch  of  repose. 

No  dreat^fe,  save  of  Mary,  were  spread  to  my  view. 
And  warm  to  the  skies  my  devotions  arose, 

For  the  first  of  my  prayers  was  a  blessing  on  you. 
1  left  m^'  bleak  home,  and  my  visions  are  gone. 

The  mountains  are  vanish'd,  my  youth  is  no  more  ; 
As  the  last  of  my  race,  I  must  withei-  alone. 

And  delight  but  in  days  I  have  witness'd  before. 
Ah  !   splendour  has  rais'd,  but  embitter'd  my  lot. 

More  dear  were  the  scenes  which  my  infancy  knew ; 
Though  mv  hopes  maj'  have  fail'd,  yet  they  are  no>  forgot. 

Though  cold  is  my  heart,  still  it  lingers  with  you. 
When  I  see  some  dark  hill  point  its  crest  to  the  sky, 

I  think  of  the  rocki  that  o'crshadow  Coioleen  j  ' 
When  I  see  the  soft  blue  ol  a  love-speaking  eye, 

I  think  of  those  eyes  that  endear'd  the  rude  scene ; 
When,  haply,  some  ligiit  waving  locks  I  beheld, 

That  faintly  resemble  my  Mary's  in  hue, 
I  think  on  the  long  flowing  ringlets  of  gold. 

The  locks  that  wert  sacred  to  beauty,  and  j-ou. 

Yet  the  day  may  arrive,  when  the  mountains,  once  more, 

Shall  rise  to  nrf  sight,  in  their  mantles  of  snow : 
But  while  these  soar  above  me,  unchanged  as  before, 

Will  Mary  be  there  to  receive  me  ?  ah,  no ! 
Adieu !   then,  ye  hills,  where  my  childhood  was  bred, 

Thou  sweet  flowing  Dee,  to  thy  waters  adieu  ! 
No  home  in  the  forest  shall  shelter  my  head  ; 

Ah  !  Mary,  what  home  could  be  mine,  but  with  you? 


TO  *  *  *. 

Oh  !   yes,  I  vvi'.l  own  we  were  dear  to  each  other. 
The  friendshij)s  of  childhood,  though   fleeting,    are 
true  ; 

The  love  which  you  felt  was  the  love  of  ^^other, 
Nor  less  the  affection  I  cherish'd  for  you. 

But  Friendship  can  vary  her  gentle  dominion. 
The  attachment  of  years  in  a  moment  expires  ; 

Like  Love  too,  she  moves  on  a  swift-waving  pinion, 
But  glows  not,  like  Love,  with  unquenchable  fires. 

Full  oft  have  we  wander'd  through  Ida  togv^ther. 

And  blest  were  the  scenes  of  our  youth,  I  ahow; 
In  the  spring  of  our  life,  how  serene  is  the  weatb)*  ! 

But  winters  rude  tempests  are  gathering  now. 
No  more  with  Affection  shall  Memory  b'ending 

The  wanted  dciights  of  our  diildhood  retrace  ; 
When  Pride  steeds  the  Ixjsom,  the  heart  is  unbending, 

And  what  would  be  .lu'^ticf  !u>|icars  a  disy.race. 

1  "  nrcnsiinj;  the  k)rty  Hiirtrt'.."  —  S/in/is/innrf.. 

'J  Tlic  Di'O  Ik  :i  ln!autilul  river,  which  rmef  nuiir  Mar  Lodge, 
ind  fiills  into  tiie  sea  lit  New  Alterdccn. 

'.i  <r()ll)!»-on  is  II  iiiountain  near  the  verge  of  the  Highlands, 
not  far  from  tlie  ruhis  of  Dee  Ca<t]e 


However,  dear  S ,  for  1  still  must  esteem  /ou, 

The  few  whom  I  love  I  can  never  upbraid. 

The  chance,  whicti  has  lost,  may  in  future  redeem  vo«i 
Repentance  will  cancel  the  vow  you  have  nade. 

I  will  not  complain,  and  though  chill'd  is  aftbctijn. 
With  me  no  corroding  resentment  shall  live  ; 

Mj'  bosom  is  calni'd  by  the  simple  reflection. 
That  both  may  be  wrong,  and  that  both  shouiu 
forgive. 

You  knew  that  my  soul,  that  my  nearc,  my  «  xisifiur  e. 
If  danger  demanded,  were  wholly  your  own  ; 

You  knew  me  unalter'd,  by  years  or  by  distance, 
Devoted  to  love  and  to  friendship  alone. 

You  knew, — but  away  with  the  vain  retrospection. 
The  bond  of  affection  no  longer  endures  ; 

Too  late  you  may  droop  o'er  the  fond  recollection, 
And  sigh  for  the  friend  who  was  formerly  yours. 

For  the  present,  we  part, — 1  will  hoj)e  not  for  ever. 
For  time  and  regret  will  restore  you  at  last ; 

To  forget  our  dissension  we  both  should  endeavour  . 
I  ask  no  atonement,  but  days  like  the  past. 


TO  MARY, 

On  receiving  her  picture. 

This  faint  resemblance  of  thy    harms, 

Though  strong  as  mortal  art  could  give, 
Mj^  constant  heart  of  fear  disarms, 

Revives  my  hopes,  and  bids  me  live. 
Here,  I  can  trace  the  locks  of  gold. 

Which  round  thy  snowy  forehead  wave  ; 
The  cheeks,  which  sprung  from  Beauty's  mould 

The  lips,  which  made  me  Beauty's  slave. 

Here,  I  can  trace ah  no  !   that  eye. 

Whose  azure  floats  in  liquid  fire, 
Must  all  the  painter's  art  defy. 

And  bid  him  from  the  task  retire. 

Here  I  behold  its  beauteous  hiie, 

But  where's  the  beam  so  sweetly  straying  7 
Which  gave  a  lustre  to  its  blue. 

Like  Luna  o'er  the  ocean  playing. 

Sweet  copy  !   fa-r  more  dear  to  me, 

Lifeless,  unfeeUng  as  thou  art. 
Than  all  the  living  forms  could  be, 

Save  her  who  placed  thee  next  my  heart. 

She  placed  it,  sad,  with  needless  fear, 
Lest  time  might  shake  my  wavering  soul, 

Unconscious,  that  her  image,  there. 
Held  every  sense  in  fast  control. 

Thro'  hours,  thro'  years,  thro'  time,  't  will  cheer , 
My  hope,  in  gloomy  moments,  raise ; 

In  life's  last  conflict  't  will  appear, 
And  meet  my  fond  expiring  gaze. 


DAMiETAS. 


In  law  an  infant,  '   and  in  years  a  boy, 

In  mind  a  slave  to  every  vicious  joy, 

From  every  sense  of  shame  and  virtue  wean'd, 

In  lies  an  adopt,  in  deceit  a  fiend ; 

\"ersed  in  hyi)ocrisy,  while  yet  a  child, 

Fickle  as  wind,  of  inclinations  wild ; 

Woman  his  dupe,  his  bet  dless  friend  a  tool, 

Old  in  th"  world,  tho'  scarcely  broke  from  schooi ; 


1  In  iuw,  every  person  is  an  infant  who  haar.ot  attained  the 
age  of  twenty  one 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


17 


Daniajtas  ran  through  all  the  maze  of  sin, 
An(J  found  the  goal,  when  others  just  begin ; 
Even  still  conHictiug  passions  shake  his  soul, 
Ami  bid  him  drain  the  dregs  of  pleasure's  bowl ; 
But,  i)all'd  with  vice,  he  breaks  his  former  chain, 
And,  what  svas  once  his  bhss,  a])pears  his  bane. 


TO  MARION. 

Marion!   whv  that  pensive  brow? 

What  disgust  to  life  hast  thou '/ 

Chauje  thct  discontentod  air; 

Frowns  beconie  not  one  so  fair. 

'T  is  not  love  disturbs  thy  rest, 

Love's  a  stranger  to  thy  breast ; 

He  m  dimpling  smiles  appears; 

Or  mourns  in  sweetly  timid  tears ; 

Or  bf'nds  the  languid  eyehd  down, 

But  slums  the  cold  forbidding  frown. 

Then  resume  thy  former  fire, 

Some  will  love,  and  all  admire ; 

While  that  icy  aspect  chills  us, 

Nought  but  cool  indifference  thrills  us. 

Wouldst  thou  wandering  hearts  beguile. 

Smile,  at  least,  or  seem  to  smile  ; 

Eyes  like  thine  were  never  meant 

To  hide  their  orbs,  in  dark  restraint ; 

Spite  of  all  thou  fain  wouldst  say. 

Still  in  truant  beams  they  play. 

Thy  lips, — but  here  mv  modest  Muse 

Her  impulse  chaste  nmst  needs  refuse  ; 

She  blushes,  curtsies,  frowns, — in  short,  she 

Dreads,  lest  the  subject  should  transport  me  ; 

And  flying  off,  in  search  of  reason, 

Brings  prudence  back  in  proper  season. 

Ail  I  shall  therefore  say  (whate'er 

I  ihuik  IS  neither  here  nor  there), 

Is  that  such  lips,  of  looks  endearing. 

Were  form'd  for  better  things  than  sneenng ; 

Of  soothing  compliments  divested, 

Advice  at  least  dismterested  ; 

Such  is  mv  artless  song  to  ihee. 

From  all  the  riow  of  riatterj-  tree ; 

Counsel,  like  mine,  is  as  a  brother's, 

My  heart  is  given  to  some  others ; 

That  is  to  say,  unskill'd  to  cozen, 

It  shares  itself  amongst  a  dozen. 

Marion !  adieu !  oh !   prithee  sHght  not 

This  warning,  though  it  may  delight  not ; 

And  lest  my  precepts  be  displeasing 

To  those  who  think  remonstrance  teazing. 

At  once  I  '11  tell  thee  our  opinion, 

Concerning  woman's  soft  dominion: 

Howe'er  we  gaze  with  admiration. 

On  eyes  of  blue,  or  lips  carnation  ; 

Howe'er  the  flowing  locks  attract  us, 

Howe'er  those  beauties  may  distract  us 

Still  fickle,  we  are  prone  to  rove, 

Ihese  cannot  fix  our  souls  to  love ; 

It  is  not  too  severe  a  stricture. 

To  say  they  form  a  pretty  picture. 

Buiwould'st  thou  see  the  secret  cham, 

Whiiih  binds  us  in  your  humble  train. 

To  hi?  you  queens  ol"  all  creation, 

Know,  iu  a  word,  'tis  Ammation. 


OSCAR  OF  ALVA  ' 

A    TALE. 

How  sweetly  shines,  through  azure  skica, 
The  lamp  of  heaven  on  I.ora's  shore, 

Where  Alva's  hoary  turrets  rise, 
And  hear  the  din  of  arms  no  more. 

Bui  often  has  yon  rolling  moon 

On  Alva's  casques  of  silver  play'd, 

And  view'd,  at  midnight's  silent  noon, 
Her  chiefs  in  gleaming  mail  array'd. 

And  on  the  «rimson'd  rocks  beneath, 
Which  scowl  o'er  ocean's  sullen  flow 

Pale  iu  the  scatter'd  ranks  of  death. 
She  saw  the  gasping  warrior  low. 

While  many  an  eye,  which  ne'er  agair 
Could  mark  the  rising  orb  of  day, 

Turn'd  feebly  from  the  gory  plain. 
Beheld  in  death  her  fading  ray. 

Once,  to  those  eyes  the  lamp  of  Love, 
They  blest  her  dear  propitious  hcjht : 

But  now,  she  glimmer'd  from  above, 
A  sad  funereal  torch  of  night. 

Faded  is  Alva's  noble  race. 

And  grey  her  towers  are  seen  afar  ,\ 
No  more  her  heroes  ur^e  the  chase, 

Or  roll  the  crimson  tide  of  war. 

But  who  was  last  of  Alva's  clan  ? 

W"hy  grows  the  moss  on  Alva's  stone  7 
Her  tou  ers  resound  no  ste[)s  of  man, 

They  echo  to  the  gale  alone. 

And,  when  that  gale  is  fierce  and  high, 
A  sound  is  heard  in  yonder  hall. 

It  rises  hoarsely  through  the  sky. 

And  vibrates  o'er  the  mouldering  wall. 

Yes,  when  the  eddying  tempest  sighs, 
It  shakes  the  shield  of  Oscar  brave  ; 

But  there  no  more  his  banners  rise. 
No  more  his  plumes  of  sable  wave. 

Fair  shone  the  sun  on  Oscar's  birth, 
When  Angus  hail'd  his  eldest  born  ; 

The  vassals  round  their  chieftain's  hearth, 
Crowd  to  applaud  the  happy  morn. 

They  feast  upon  the  mountain  doer. 
The  Pibroch  raised  its  piercing  note. 

To  gladden  more  their  Highland  chi;er, 
The  strains  in  martial  numbers  float. 

And  they  who  heard  the  war-notes  wild, 
Hoped  that,  one  day,  the  Pibroch's  strain 

Should  plav  before  the  Hero's  child. 
While  he  should  lead  the  Tartan  train. 

Another  year  is  quickly  past, 

And  An-ivis  hails  another  son. 
His  natal  dav  is  like  the  last. 

Nor  soon  the  jocund  feast  was  done. 

Tauaht  by  their  sire  to  bend  the  bow. 

On  Alva's  dnskv  hills  of  wind, 
The  boys  in  childhood  chased  the  ro«, 

And  left  their  hounds  in  speed  liehii'.d. 


1  The  catastrophe  of  this  talc  was  siissestpd  by  the  ?t(>ry  o! 
".leronymo  and  Lorenzo."  in  the  firr^t  volume  of  "The  Ar 
menian,  or  Ghost-Seer ."  it  al?o  bears  some  resemblance  \o 
a  scene  in  the  third  act  of  "  Macbe  h  " 


18 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKa. 


It  breaks  rhe  stillness  of  tne  night, 

But  echoes  through  her  shades  m  vam ; 

It  sounds  through  morning's  misty  light, 
But  Oscar  comes  not  o'er  the  plain. 

Three  days,  three  sleepless  nights,  the  chief 
For  Oscar  search'd  each  mountain  cave ; 

Then  ho{)e  is  lost  in  boundless  grief. 
His  locks  ill  grey  torn  ringlets  vvave. 

"  Oscar  !   my  son  ! — Thou  God  of  heaven ! 

Restore  the  prop  of  sinking  age ; 
Or,  if  that  hope  no  more  is  given. 

Yield  his  assassin  to  my  rage. 

"  Yes,  on  some  desert  rocky  shore. 

My  Oscar's  whiten'd  bones  must  he ; 
Then,  grant,  thou  God !   I  ask  no  more, 

With  him  his  frantic  sire  may  die. 

"Yet,  he  may  live — away  despair; 

Be  calm,  my  soul !   he  yet  may  live  '. 
P  arraign  my  fate,  my  voice  forbear ; 

0  God,  my  im[)ious  prayer  forgive. 

"  What,  if  he  live  for  me  no  more, 

1  sink  forgotten  in  the  dust, 
The  hope  of  Alva's  age  is  o'er ; 

Alas!   can  jiangs  like  these  be  just?" 

Tims  did  the  hapless  parent  mourn, 
Til!  Tiine,  wlio  sof)tli(!s  severest  woe. 

Had  bade  serenity  return. 

And  made  the  tear-drop  cease  to  flow, 

For  still  some  latent  hope  survived, 
That  Oscar  mi<;ht  once  more  appear ; 

His  hope  now  droop'd,  and  now  revived, 
Till  Time  liad  told  a  tedious  year. 

Days  roll'd  along,  the  orb  of  light 
Again  h;id  run  Ids  destined  race; 

No  Oscar  bless'd  his  father's  sight, 
And  sorrow  left  a  fainter  trace. 

For  youthful  Allan  still  remain'd, 
And,  now,  his  father's  only  joy  : 

And  Mora's  heart  was  quickly  gain'd, 
For  beauty  crown'd  the  fair-hair'd  boy. 

She  thought  that  Oscar  low  was  laid, 
And  Allan's  face  was  wondrous  fair; 

If  Oscar  livetl,  some  other  maid 

Had  c'.aim'd  his  faithless  bosom's  care. 

And  Angus  said,  if  one  year  more 
In  fruitless  liojje  was  pass'd  away. 

His  fondest  scruple  should  be  o'er. 
And  he  would  name  their  nuptial  day. 

Slow  roll'd  the  moons,  but  blest  at  last, 
Arrived  the  dearly  destined  morn; 

The  year  of  anxious  trembling  jiast, 
What  smiles  the  lover's  cheeks  adorn! 

Hark !   to  the  Pibroch's  pleasing  note, 
Hark  !   to  the  swelling  nuptial  song  ; 

In  jovous  strains  the  voices  float. 
And  stil.  tlie  choral  peal  prolong. 

Again  the  clnri,  in  festive  crowd. 

Throng  through  tiie  gat.'  of  Alva's  hall; 

The  soutKi-;  of  mirth  r<-(Mdio  loud, 
And  all  their  fjniK'r.joy  recall. 

But  vvho  is  he,  whose  darK<;n'd   brow 
(ilooms  in  lh<;  midst  of  general   mirth? 

Before   his  eve's  far  fiercer  glow 
The  l)lue  tlames  curdle  o'er  tlie  hearth. 


But,  ere  their  years  of  youth  are  o'er, 
They  mingle  in  the  ranks  of  war  ; 

They  lightly  wield  the  bright  claymore. 
And  send  the  whistling  arrow  far. 

Dark  was  the  flow  of  Oscar's  hair, 

Wildly  it  stream'd  along  the  gale ; 
But  Allan's  locks  were  bright  and  fair, 

And  pensive  seeni'd  his  cheek,  and  pait 
But  Oscar  own'd  a  hero's  soul, 

His  dark  eye  shone  through  beams  of  Tuth , 
Allan  had  early  learn'd  control. 

And  smooth  his  words  had  been  from    oum 

Both,  both  were  brave  ;   the  Saxon  spear 
Was  shiver'd  oft  beneath  their  steel  ; 

And  Oscar's  bosom  sconi'd  to  fear, 
But  Oscar's  bosom  knew  to  feel. 

While  Allan's  soul  behed  his  form. 

Unworthy  with  such  charms  to  dwell ; 
Keen  as  the  lightning  of  th-e  storm, 

On  foes  his  deadly  vengeance  fell. 
From  high  Southannon's  distant  tower 

Arrived  a  j'oung  and  noble  dame  ; 
Whh  Kenneth's  lands  to  form  her  dower, 

Glenalvon's  blue-eyed  daughter  came ; 

And  Oscar  claim'd  the  beauteous  bride, 
And  Angus  on  liis  Oscar  smiled  ; 

It  soothed  the  father's  feudal  i)ride. 
Thus  to  obtain  Glenalvon's  chdd. 

Hark  !  to  the  Pibroch's  pleasing  note, 
Hark  !   to  the  swelling  nuptial  song  ; 

In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float. 
And  stiil  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

See  how  the  heroes'  blood-red  p1um»^ 

A.iseml>led  wave  in  Alva's  hall ; 
Each  youth  his  varied  plaid  assumes, 

Attending  on  their  chieftain's  call. 

It  is  not  war  their  aid  demands, 

The  Pibroch  plaj-s  the  song  of  peace ; 

To  Oscar's  nuptials  throng  the  bands. 
Nor  yet  the  sounds  of  pleasuie  cease. 

But  where  is  Oscar?  sure  'tis  late: 
Is  this  a  bridegroom's  ardent  flame? 

While  thronging  guests  and  ladies  wait, 
Nor  Oscar  nor  his  brother  came. 

At  length  young  Allan  join'd  the  bride, 
"  Whv  comes  not  Oscar?"  Angus  said  ; 

"Is  he  not  ht_-re?"  the  youth  replied, 
"  With  me  he  roved  nut  o'er  the  glade. 

"  Perchance,  forgetful  of  the  day, 
'T  is  his  to  chase  the  bounding  roe ; 

Or  Ocean's  waviss  prolong  his  stay. 
Yet  Oscar's  bark  is  seldom  slow\" 

"Oh  !  no  !"  the  anguish'd  sire  rejoin'd, 
"  Nor  chase  nor  wave  my  boy  delay; 

Woul<l  he  to  Mora  seem  unkind  ? 

Would  aught  to  her  impede  his  wa}? 

"  Oh  !   search,  ye  chiefs  !   oh,  search  artumd  I 

Allan,  with  these  through  Alva  fly. 
Till  Oscar,  till  my  son  is  found. 

Haste,  haste,  nor  dare  attempt  rejily  !" 
All  is  Confusion — througli  the  vale 

The  name  of  Oscar  hoarsely  rings, 
It  rises  on  the  murmuring  gale. 

Till  night  expands  her  dusky  wmj^s. 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


la 


Dark  i.-!  the  robe  which  wraps  his  form, 
■\rn]  ivl\  his   plume  of  j>orv  red  ; 

His  voice  is  like  the  nsinj.    storm, 
Bui  li>^ht  atiJ  tnicklcss  is  his  tread. 

T  's  moil  of  night,  the  [iletlgo  goes  round, 
The  bridegroom's  health  is  decnlj-  quaft ; 

Wilh  ^hoats  the  vaulted  roofs  resound, 
Ahd  all  combine  to  hail  the  draught. 

Sudden  the  stranger  chief  arose, 

And  all  the  clamorous  crowd  are  hush'd  ; 
And  Angus.'  cheek  with  wonder  glows, 

And  Mora's  temler  bosom  blush'd. 

•*  Old  man !"  he  cried,  "  this  pledge  is  done, 
Thou  saw'st  't  w^as  duly  drunk  by  me. 

It  hail'd  the  nuptials  of  thy  son  ; 

Now  will  I  claim  a  pledge  from  thee. 

"  While  all  around  is  mirth  and  joy, 
To  bless  tliy  Allan's  happy  lot; 

Say,  had'st  thou  ne'er  another  boy  ? 
Say  why  should  0=.car  be  forgot?" 

"  Alas  !"  the  hapless  sire  repUed, 

The  big  tear  starting;  a?  he  spoke ; 
*  When  Oscar  left  my  hall,  or  died. 
This  aped  heart  was  almost  broke. 

"  Thrice  has  the  earth  revob-ed  her  course, 
Since  Oscar's  form  has  blest  mv  siglit ; 

And  x\llan  ir.  my  last  resouiee. 

Since  martial  Oscar's  death  or  flight." 

"  'T  is  well."  replied  the  stranger  stern, 
And  fiercely  flash'd  his  rollin-  eye  ; 

•*Thy  Oscar's  fate  I  fain  would  learn; 
PerhaT»s  the  hero  did  not  die 

'  Perchance,  if  those  whom  mosi  he  loved 

Would  call,  thy  Oscar  might  return  ; 
Perchance  tiie  chief  has  only  roved, 
For  him  thy  Beltane  '   yet  may  burn. 

"  Fill  high  the  bowl,  the  table  round, 

We  will  not  claim  the  pledge  by  stealth  ; 

With  wine  let  every  cup  be  crown'd, 
Pledge  me  departed  Oscar's  health." 

"  With  all  my  soul,"  old  Angu'?  said, 
And  iill'd  his  gol)let  to  the  brim  ; 

"  Here  "s  to  my  boy  !  alive  or  dead, 
I  ne'er  shall  lind  a  son  like  him." 

"  Bravely,  old  man,  this  health  has  sped, 
But  whv  docs  Allan  tremldiiis  stand? 

Come,  <lrinl;  iTmembrance  of  the  dead, 
And  raise  thy  cup  with  firmer  hand." 

The  crimson  glow  of  Allan's  face 
Was  tuni'd  at  once  to  ghastlv  hue  ; 

The  drops  of  death  each  other  chase, 
Adown  in  agonizing  dev 

Thrice  did  he  raise  the  goblet  high. 
And  thrice  his  lips  refused  to  taste; 

For  thrice  he  caught  the  stranger's  eye, 
On  his  with  deadly  fury  placed. 

*'  And  is  it  thus  a  brother  hails 

A  brother's  fond  remembrance  here  ? 

If  thus  affection's  strength  prevails, 
What  might  we  not  expect  from  fear?" 


I  Beltane-Tree. — A  Highland  festival,  on  the  1st  of  May, 
teld  near  fires  lighted  for  the  oceasion. 


Rouseu  by  the  sneer,  he  raised  the  bowl ; 

"  Would  Oscar  now  could  share  our  mirth!'' 
Internal  fear  appall'd  his  soul. 

He  said,  and  dash'd  the  cuji  to  earth. 

"  'Tis  he  !  I  hear  my  murderer's  voice," 
Loud  shrieks  a  darklj'-gleaming  Form; 

"  A  murderer's  voice  !"  the  roof  replies, 
And  deeply  swells  the  bursting  storm. 

The  tapers  wink,  the  chieftains  shrink. 
The  stranger  's  gone,  amidst  the  crew 

A  Form  was  seen,  in  tartan  green, 
And  tall  the  shade  terrific  grew. 

His  waist  was  bound  with  a  broad  belt  round, 

His  plume  of  sable  stream'd  on  high ; 
But  his  breast  was  bare,  with  the  red  wounds  there, 

And  fix'd  was  the  glare  of  his  glassy  eye. 

And  thrice  he  smiled,  with  his  eye  so  wild, 

On  Angus,  bending  low  the  knee  ; 
And  thrice  he  frown'd  on  a  Chief  on  the  ground. 

Whom  shivering  crowds  with  horror  see. 

The  bolts  loud  roll,  from  pole  to  pole. 

The  thunders  through  the  welkin  ring ; 
And  the  gleaming  Form,  through  the  mist  of  the  stttfra, 

Was  borne  on  high  by  the  whirlwind's  wing. 

Cold  was  the  feast,  the  revel  ceased ; 

Who  hes  upon  the  stony  floor? 
Oblivion  j)r(;st  old  Angus'  breast, 

At  length  his  life-pulse  throbs  once  msre. 

"  Away,  away,  let  the  leech  essay. 
To  pour  the  light  on  Allan's  eyes  !" 

His  sand  is  done, — his  race  is  run, 
Oh !  never  more  shall  Allan  riae ! 

But  Oscar's  breast  is  cold  as  clay 

His  locks  are  lifted  by  the  gale, 
And  Allan's  barbed  arrow  lay. 

With  ]iim  in  dark  Glentanar's  vale. 

And  whence  the  dreadful  stranger  came, 

Or  who,  no  mortal  wight  can  tell ; 
But  no  one  doubts  the  Form  of  Flame, 

For  Alva's  sons  knew  Oscar  well. 

Ambition  nerved  young  Allan's  hand, 

Exulting  demons  wiiig'd  his  dart, 
While  Envy  waved  her  burning  brand. 

And  pour'd  her  venom  round  his  heart. 

Swift  is  the  shaft  from  Allan's  bow : 

Whose  streaming  life-blood  stains  his  side? 

Dark  Oscar's  sable  crest  is  low, 
The  dart  has  diunk  his  vital  tide. 

And  Mora's  eye  could  Allan  move, 
She  bade  his  wounded  pride  rebel: 

Alas!   that  eyes,  which  oeam'd  with  love, 
Should  urge  the  soul  to  deeds  of  Hell. 

Lo !   see'st  thou  not  a  lonelj'  tomb. 

Which  rises  o'er  a  warrior  dead ! 
It  glimmers  through  the  twilight  gloom  , 

Oh  !   that  is  Allan's  nuptial  bed. 

Far,  distant  far,  the  noble  grave. 

Which  held  his  clan's  great  a^hes,,  stood , 

And  o'er  his  corse  no  banners  wave. 

For  they  were  stain'd  with  Kaiclred  biooO. 

What  minstrel  grey,  what  hoary  bard, 
Shall  Allan's  deeds  on  harp-st'-ings  raise'' 

The  song  is  glory's  chief  reward, 

But  who  can  strike  a  murderer'g  p>*ay?e  "* 


2U 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WOBKS 


fJnstning,  untonch'd,  the  harp  must  stand, 
No  minstrel  dare  the  theme  awake  ; 

Guilt  would  benumb  his  palsied  hand, 

His  harp  in  shuddering  chords  would  break. 

No  lyre  of  fame,  no  hallow'd  verse, 
Snail  sound  his  glories  high  in  air, 

A  dying  father's  bitter  curse, 

A  brother's  death-groan  echoes  there. 


TO  THE  DUKE  OF  D. 

In  k)okina  over  my  papers,  to  select  a  few  additional  Poems 
for  tills  second  edition,  I  found  the  i'oliowing  lines,  wiiich  I 
liiid  totally  forgotten,  compose(l  in  the  Sunmier  of  1805,  a 

short  time  previous  to  my  departure  from   H .    Tliey 

were  addressed  to  a  younsr  scliool-feliow  of  high  rank,  who 
nad  t)een  my  frequent  companion  in  some  rambles  through 
tlie  neighi)ouring  country ;  however  he  never  saw  the  lines, 
ami  most  probai)iy  never  will.  As,  on  a  le  perusal,  I  found 
tliem  not  worse  than  some  other  pieces  in  the  collection,  I 
have  now  published  them,  for  the  first  time,  after  a  slight 
revision.  

D-~R — T  !   whose  early  steps  with  mine  have  stray'd, 

Exploring  every  path  of  Ida's  glade. 

Whom,  still,  affection  taught  me  to  defend. 

And  made  me  less  a  tyrant  than  a  friend ; 

Though  the  harsh  custom  of  our  youthful  band 

Bade  thee  obey,  and  gave  me  to  command  ; ' 

Thee,  on  whose  head  a  few  short  years  \\  ill  shower 

The  gift  of  riches,  and  the  pride  of  power ; 

Even  now  a  name  illustrious  is  thine  own, 

Renown'd  in  rank,  not  far  beneath  the  throne. 

Yet,  D — r — t,  let  not  this  seduce  thy  soul. 

To  shun  fair  science,  or  evade  control ; 

Though  passive  tutors,^  fearful  to  dispraise 

The  titled  child,  whose  future  breath  may  raise. 

View  ducal  errors  with  Indulgent  ej'es, 

And  wink  at  faults  they  tremble  to  chastise. 

When  youthful  parasites,  who  bend  the  knee 

To  wealth,  their  golden  idol, — not  to  thee ! 

And,  even  in  sini])le  boyhood's  opening  dawn, 

Some  slaves  are  found  to  flatter  and  to  fawn  : 

When  liiese  declare,  "that  pomp  alone  should  wait 

On  one  by  birth  predestined  to  be  great ; 

That  books  w  ere  only  meant  for  drudging  fools  ; 

Tliat  gallant  spirits  scorn  the  common  rules;" 

Believe  them  not, — they  point  the  path  to  shame. 

And  seek  to  blast  the  honours  of  thy  name : 

Turn  to  the  few,  in  Ida's  early  throng, 

Whose  souls  disdain  not  to  condemn  the  wrong  ; 

Or  if,  amidst  the  comrades  of  thy  youth. 

None  dare  to  raise  the  sterner  voice  of  truth, 

Ask  thine  own  heart !   't  will  bid  thee,  boy,  forbear, 

For  >vell  I  know  that  virtue  lingers  there. 

Yes !   1  have  mark'd  thee  many  a  passing  day. 

But  now  new  scenes  invite  me  far  away; 

Yes !  I  have  mark'd,  within  that  generous  nund, 

A  s<nil,  if  well  matured,  to  bless  mankind: 

Ah!   though  mysulf  by  nature  haughty,  wild. 

Whom  luiliscrftion  hail'd  her  favourite  child, 

Thouj_'h  everv  error  stamps  me  for  Ikt  own. 

And  dooms  mv  l;i'!,  I  tiiiu  would  fall   aloiK" ; 

1  At  every  public  gchool,  the  junior  boys  art;  complrUily 
subservient  to  the  upi)cr  forms,  till  iln^y  attain  a  seat  in  the 
hiirhcr  <'lassos.  From  this  state  of  probation,  very  pr'ipirly, 
no  rank  is  exempt ;  init  after  a  certain  period,  tln'y  corninund, 
ji  turn,  those  who  succeed. 

2  Allow  me  to  disclaim  any  i)ersonul  allusions,  even  the 
most  distant;  I  merely  mentio'.,  generally  wiiat  is  too  oft«n 
Uie  wuaKni^ss  of  prccciitors. 


j    Though  my  proud  heart  no  precept  now  can  ,ame. 
I  love  the  virtues  which  I  cannot  claim. 
'T  is  not  enough,  with  other  Sons  of  power, 
To  gleam  the  lambent  meteor  of  an  hour. 
To  swell  some  peerage  page  in  feeble  pride, 
With  long-drawn  names,  that  grace  no  page  besid«< 
Then  share  with  titled  crowds  the  common  lot. 
In  life  just  gazed  at,  in  the  grave  forgot ; 
While  nought  divides  thee  from  the  vulgar  dead, 
Except  the  dull  cold  stone  that  hides  thy  head, 
The  mouldering  'scutcheon,  or  the  herald's  roll, 
That  v.-ell-emblazon'd,  but  neglected  scroll. 
Where  Lords,  unhonour'd,  in  the  tomb  may  find 
One  spot  to  leave  a  worthless  name  behind  ; — 
There  s\ee\>^  unnoticed  as  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  veil  their  dust,  their  follies,  and  their  faults , 
A  race,  with  old  armorial  lists  o'erspread, 
In  records  destined  never  to  be  read. 
Fain  would  I  view  thee,  with  prophetic  eyes. 
Exalted  more  among  the  good  and  wise  ; 
A  glorious  and  a  long  career  pursue, 
As  first  in  rank,  the  first  in  talent  too ; 
Spurn  every  vice,  each  little  meanness  shun. 
Not  Fortune's  minion,  but  her  noblest  son. 
Turn  to  the  annals  of  a  former  day, — 
Bright  are  the  deeds  thine  earlier  Sires  display; 
One,  though  a  Courtier,  lived  a  man  of  worth, 
And  cill'd,  proud  boast!   the  British  Drama  forth. 
Another  view  !   not  less  renown'd  for  vVit, 
Alike  for  courts,  and  camp?,  or  senates  fit ; 
Bold  in  the  field,  and  favour'd  by  the  Nine, 
In  every  splendid  part  ordain'd  to  shine  ; 
Far,  far  distinguish'd  from  the  glittering  throng. 
The  pride  of  jjrinces,  and  the  boast  of  song.  ^ 
Such  were  thy  Fathers  ;  thus  preserve  their  name, 
Not  heir  to  titles  only,  but  to  Fame. 
The  hour  draws  nigh,  a  few  brief  days  will  close, 
To  me,  this  little  scene  of  joys  and  woes  ; 
Each  knell  of  Time  now  warns  me  to  resign 
Shades,  where  Hope,  Peace,  and  Friendship,  all  wort 

mine  ; 
Hope,  that  could  vary  like  the  rainbow's  hue, 
And  gild  their  pinions,  as  the  moments  flew  ; 
Peace,  that  reflection  never  frown'd  awaj-, 
Bj'  dreams  of  ill,  to  cloud  some  future  day ; 
Friendship,  whose  truth  let  childhood  only  tell — 
Alas  !   they  love  not  long,  who  love  so  well. 
To  these  adieu  !   nor  let  me  linger  o'er 
Scenes  hail'd,  as  exiles  hail  their  native  shore, 
Receding  slowly  through  the  tlark  blue  deep, 
Beheld  by  ey(;s  that  mourn,  yet  cannot  weep. 

D — r — t !   farewell !   I  will  not  ask  one  part 

Of  sad  remembrance  in  so  young  a  heart ; 

The  coining  morrow  from  thy  youthful  mind 

Will  sweep  my  name,  nor  leave  a  trace  behind.  J^ 

And  vet,  perhaps,  in  some  maturer  year. 

Since  chance  has  thrown  us  in  the  self-same  s])hrre, 


1  '"I'hotnas  S— li— lie,  Lord  1?— k— st,  Croat, m!  Karl  at 
D by  .lames  the  First,  was  one  of  the  carliosl  and  'bright- 
est oriniments  to  the  poetry  of  his  country,  ami  liie  tirst  who 
product'il  a  n^gular  drama."  — .Andersun's  firifi.-i/i  Pouts. 

■i.  Charles    S— k— lie,  Earl    '>f  D ,  esteemed   the  m..st 

accomplished  man  of  his  day,  was  alike  distinu'uished  in  tiie 
voluptU(jus  court  of  Charles  II.  and  the  gloomy  one  of  Wil- 
liam III.  He  behaveil  with  great  gallantry  in  the  sea  /i-lil 
with  the  Duich,  in  1<)0."),  on  the  day  prtnious  to  which  he 
composed  his  celebrated  song.  Ills  character  has  be(>i  dnwr 
in  the  highest  colours  by  Dryden,  Pope,  Prior,  and  Ciaigrove 
Vide,  Anderson's  British  Poets 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


21 


Smcf  the  same  senate,  nay,  the  same  debate, 

May  one  dry  claim  our  sutfrage  for  the  state, 

We  lioiice  may  meet,  and  pass  eacli  otlier  by 

With  faint  rejjard,  or  cold  and  distant  eye. 

For  me,  in  future,  ncitlu'r  iVumd   nor  foe, 

A  ■tran;.er  to  thvsclf,  thy  weal  or  woe  ; 

With  thee  no  more  ajjain  I  hope  to  trace 

Tiie  recolli'ction  of  our  early  race  ; 

N'<  more,  as  once,  in  social  ho\n-s,  rejoice, 

Or  hcai,  unless  in  crowds,  tiiy  well-known  voice. 

Still,  if  the  wislies  of  a  heart  untauoht 

To  veil  those  feelings,  which,  perchance,  i*.  onpht 

If  these, — but  let  me  cease  the  lengthen'd  strain, 

Oh !   if  these  wishes  are  not  breathed  in  vain, 

The  Guardian  Seraph,  who  directs  tliy  fate. 

Will  leave  thee  glorious,  as  he  found  thee  great. 


^TrnnMattoHfj  mits  Mxitatimm, 


ADRIAN'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SOUL,  WHEN 
DYING. 

Animula  !   vagula,  blandula, 
Hospes,  comesque,  corporis, 
Qua?  nunc  abibis  in  loca  ? 
Pallidula,  ri^^ida,  nudula, 
Nee,  ut  soles,  dabis  jocos. 


TRANSLATION. 

Ah  !  gentle,  fleeting,  wavering  Sprite, 
Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay ! 

To  what  unknown  region  borne. 
Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight? 
No  more,  with  wonted  humour  gay, 

But  pallid,  cheerless,  and  forlorn. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 


"ad   lesbiam." 


EqUAL  to  Jove  that  youth  must  be, 

Greater  than  Jove  he  seems  to  me, 

Who,  free  from  Jealousy's  alarms, 

Securely  views  thy  matchless  charms ; 

That  cheek,  which  ever  dimpling  glows, 

That  mouth  from  whence  such  music  flows, 

To  him,  aliKC,  are  always  known. 

Reserved  for  him,  and  him  alone. 

Ah!   Lesbia!   though  't  is  death  to  me, 

I  cannot  choose  but  look  on  thee  ; 

But,  at  the  sig'.t,  my  senses  fl>  ; 

I  needs  must  gaze,  but  gazing  die ; 

Whilst  trembling  with  a  thousand  fears, 

Parch'd  to  the  throat,  my  tongue  adheres, 

My  pulse  beats  quick,  my  breath  heaves  short, 

My  limbs  deny  their  slight  supjiort ; 

Cold  dews  my  pallid  face  o'erspread, 

With  de;idly  languor  droops  my  head. 

My  ears  with  tingling  echoes  ring. 

And  life  itself  is  on  the  wing ; 

My  eyes  refuse  the  cheering  light. 

Their  orbs  are  veil'd  in  starless  night: 

Such  pangs  my  nature  sinks  beneath, 

And  feels  a  temp:)rary  death. 


TRANSLATION 

OF  THE  EPITAPH   ON   VIRGIL  ANT)  TIBULLUS 

BY     OOxMITIUS    MARSUS. 

He  who,  sublime,  in  Epic  numbers  roll' d, 
And  he  who  struck  the  softer  lyre  of  love, 

By  Death'i  unequal  hand  '   alike  control'd, 
Fit  comrades  in  Elysian  regions  move. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 


"  LUCTtrS     DE     MOKTE      PASSERi" 

Ye  Cupids,  droop  each  little  head, 
Nor  let  your  wings  with  joy  be  spread  ; 
Mv  Lesbia's  favourite  bird  is  dead, 

Whom  dearer  than  her  eyes  she  loved , 
For  he  was  gentle,  and  so  true, 
Obedient  to  her  call  he  flew. 
No  fear,  no  v.'ild  alarm  he  knew, 

But  lightly  o'er  her  bosom  moved  : 
And  softly  fluttering  here  and  there. 
He  never  sought  to  cleave  the  air ; 
But  chirrup'd  oft,  and,  free  from  cart, 

Tuned  to  her  ear  liis  grateful  strain. 
Now  having  pass'd  the  gloomy  bourn, 
From  whence  he  never  can  return, 
His  death,  and  Lesbia's  grief,  I  mourn, 

Who  sighs,  alas !   but  sighs  in  vain 
Oh !  curst  be  thou,  devouring  grave  ! 
Whose  jaws  eternal  victims  crave, 
From  whom  no  earthly  power  can  save, 

For  thou  hast  ta'en  the  bird  away : 
From  thee,  my  Lesbia's  eyes  o'erflow. 
Her  swollen  cheeks  with  weeping  glow. 
Thou  art  the  cause  of  all  her  woe. 

Receptacle  of  life's  decay. 


IMITAIED  FROM   CATULLUS. 


TO     EI.LEN. 


0h\   might  I  kiss  those  eyes  of  fire, 
A  million  scarce  would  quench  desire  ; 
Still  would  I  steep  my  lips  in  bliss, 
And  dwell  an  age  on  every  kiss  ; 
Nor  then  my  soul  should  sated  be, 
Still  would  I  kiss  and  cling  to  thee : 
Nought  should  my  kiss  from  thine  dissever 
Still  would  we  kiss,  and  kiss  for  ever ; 
E'en  though  the  number  did  exceed 
The  yellow  harvest's  countless  seed  ; 
To  part  would  be  a  vain  endeavour, 
Could  I  desist  ?— ah  !  never— never. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  ANACREON 


TO    HIS     LVRE. 


I  WISH  to  tune  my  <|uivering  lyre, 
To  deeds  of  fame,  and  notes  ot  fire ; 
To  echo  from  its  rising  swell, 
How  heroes  fought,  and  nations  fell ; 


1  Tlie  hand  of  Death  is  said  to  be  unjust,  or  uiieijual.  as 
Virgil  was  considerably  older  than  ribullua  at  his  decessw 


22 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


When  Atreus'  sons  advanced  to  war, 
Or  Tyrian  Cadmus  roved  afar; 
But,  still,  to  martial  strains  unknown, 
IVIy  lyre  recurs  to  love  alone. 
Fired  with  the  hope  of  future  fame, 
I  seek  some  nobler  hero's  name; 
I'he  dying  chords  are  strung  anew, 
To  war,  to  war  my  harp  is  due  ; 
With  glowing  strings,  the  epic  strain 
To  Jove's  great  son  I  raise  again  ; 
Alcides  and  his  glorious  deeds, 
Beneath  whose  arm  the  Hydra  bleeds ; 
All,  all  in  vain,  my  wayward  lyre 
Wakes  silver  notes  of  soft  desire. 
Adieu  !  ye  chiefs  renown'd  in  arms ! 
Adieu !  the  clang  of  war's  alarms. 
To  other  deeds  my  soul  is  strung, 
And  sweeter  notes  shall  now  be  sung ; 
My  harp  shall  all  its  powers  reveal. 
To  tell  the  tale  my  heart  must  feel ; 
Love,  Jove  alone,  my  lyre  shall  claim, 
[n  songs  of  bliss,  and  sighs  of  flame. 


ODE  III. 

'T  WAS  now  the  hour,  when  Night  had  driven 

Her  car  half  round  yon  sable  heaven ; 

Bootes,  only,  seem'd  to  roll 

His  Arctic  charge  around  the  Pole; 

While  mortals,  lost  m  gentle  sleep, 

Forgot  to  smile,  or  cease  to  weep  ; 

At  this  lone  hour,  the  Paphian  boy, 

Descendmg  from  the  realms  of  joy. 

Quick  to  my  gate  directs  his  course, 

And  knocks  with  all  his  little  force  -• 

My  visions  fled,  alarm'd  1  rose  ; 

"  Whft  stranger  breaks  my  blest  repose?" 

"  Alas !''  replies  the  wily  child. 

In  faltering  accents,  sweetly  mild, 

''  A  hapless  infant  here  I  roam, 

Far  from  my  ("ear  maternal  home  ; 

Oh  !   shield  me  from  the  wintry  blast, 

The  mighty  storm  is  pouring  fast  j 

No  prowling  robber  lingers  here, 

A  wandering  baby  who  can  fear  ?" 

I  heard  his  seeming  artless  tale, 

I  heard  his  sighs  upon  the  gale ; 

My  breast  was  never  pity's  foe, 

But  felt  for  all  the  baby's  woe ; 

I  drew  the  bar,  and  by  the  light. 

Young  Love,  the  infant,  met  my  sight ; 

His  bow  across  his  shoulders  flung. 

And  thence  his  fatal  quiver  hung, 

(Ah  !  little  did  I  think  the  dart 

Would  rankle  soon  within  my  heart;) 

With  care  I  tend  my  weary  guest, 

His  little  fingers  chill  my  breast ; 

His  glossy  curls,  his  azure  wing. 

Which  droo[)  with  nightly  showers,  I  wring: 

His  shivering  limbs  the  embers  warm, 

And  now,  reviving  from  the  storm, 

Jicarce  had  he  felt  his  wanted  glow. 

Than  swift  he  seizci  his  blender  bow : 

*'  1  fam  would  know,  my  gentle  host," 

He  cried,  "  if  this  its  strength  has  lost ; 

f  fe;ir,  relax'd  with  midnight  dews. 

The  strings  th^ir  former  aid  refuse:" 

With  poison  lipt,  liis  arrow  flies. 

Deep  ii)  my  torh  it  ed  heart  it  U«s: 


Then  loud  the  joyous  urchin  laugh'd, 
"  My  bow  can  still  impel  ihe  shaft ; 
'T  is  firmly  fix'd,  thy  sighs  reveal  it ; 
Say,  courteous  tiost,  canst  tJiou  not  feel  it  ? 


FRAGMENTS    OF   SCHOOL    EXKRCl^ES 

FROM     THE     TKOMETHEUS    OF    .ESCHYLVB. 

Gkeat  Jove  !   to  whose  Almighty  tlirone 

Both  gods  and  mortals  h  jmage  pay. 
Ne'er  may  my  soul  thy  power  disown. 

Thy  dread  behests  ne'er  disobey. 
Oft  shall  the  sacred  victim  fall 
In  sea-girt  Ocean's  mossy  hall ; 
My  voice  shall  raise  no  impious  strain 
'Gainst  him  who  rules  the  sky  and  azure  main, 
*  =f  *  *  *  ♦  * 

How  different  now  thy  joyless  fate. 

Since  first  Hesione  thy  bride. 
When  |)laced  aloft  in  godlike  state. 

The  blushing  beauty  by  thy  side, 
Thou  sat'st,  while  reverend  Ocean  smiled, 
And  mirthliil  strains  the  hours  beguiled  ; 
The  Nymphs  and  Tritons  danced  around, 
Nor  yf^t  thy  doom  was  fix'd,  nor  Jove  relentless  frown'd 
Harrow,  Dec.  1,  1S()4. 


THE  EPISODE  OF  NTSL  S  AND  EITRYALI'S 

A     TARAPHRASE     FROM    THE    jEfsLTT.,     lib.    9. 

Nisus,  the  guardian  of  the  ])ortal,  s4<:>od, 
Eager  to  gild  his  arms  with  hostile  blood  ; 
Well  skill'd  in  fight,  the  quivering  lance  to  wielc3 
Or  pour  his  arrows  through  th'  embattled  field  • 
From  Ida  torn,  he  left  his  sylvan  cave, 
And  sought  a  foreign  home,  a  distant  grave  ; 
To  watch  the  movements  of  the  Daunian  host, 
With  him,  Euryalus  sustains  the  {lost ; 
No  lovelier  mien  adorn'd  the  ranks  of  Troy, 
And  bea'-dlcss  bloom  yet  graceil  the  gallant  boy; 
Though  few  the  seasons  of  his  youthful  life. 
As  yet  a  novice  m  the  martial  strife, 
'T  was  his,  with  beauty,  valour's  gift  to  share, 
A  soul  heroic,  as  his  form  was  fair ; 
These  burn  with  one  pure  flame  of  generous  love, 
In  peace,  in  war,  united  still  they  move ; 
Friendship  and  glory  form  their  joint  reward. 
And  now  combined,  they  hold  the  nightly  guard. 

"What  god,"  exclaim'd  the  first,  "instils  this  fire? 
Or,  in  itself  a  god,  what  great  desire  ? 
My  labouring  soul,  with  anxious  thought  op})rest, 
Abhors  this  station  of  inglorious  rest ; 
The  love  of  fame  with  this  can  ill  accord, — 
Be  't  mine  to  seek  for  glory  with  my  sword. 
See'st  thou  yon  cam]),  with  torches  twinkling  dim, 
Where  drunken  slumbers  wrap  each  lazy  limb  ? 
Where  confidence  and  ease  the  watch  disdain. 
And  drowsy  Silence  holds  her  sable  reign  ? 
Then  hear  my  thought : — In  deep  and  sullen  grief, 
Our  troops  and  leadeis  mourn  their  absent  chief; 
Now  could  the  gifts  and  promised  |)rize  be  thine 
(The  deed,  the  danger,  and  the  fame  be  mine); 
Were  this  decreed — beneath  yon  rising  mound, 
Methinks,  an  easy  path  perchance  were  found, 
Which  past,  I  speed  my  way  to  Pallas'  walls, 
And  lead  iF.neas  from  Evander's  halls." 
With  <!(]ual  ardour  fired,  and  warlike  joy, 
His  glowing  friend  address'd  the  Dardan  bov  : 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


28 


'  These  deeds,  my  Nisus,  shall  thou  dare  alone  ? 
Must  all  the  fame,  the  peril,  he  tliine  own  ? 
Am  I  by  thee  despised,  and  left  afar, 
As  one  uutit  to  share  the  toils  of  w  ar  ? 
Not  thus  his  son  the  great  Opheltes  tau<:ht, 
Not  thus  my  sn  e  in  Argive  combats  fought ; 
Not  thus,  when  Ilion  fell  by  heavenly  hate, 
track'd  .i-'.neas  through  the  walks  of  fate  ; 
hou  know'st  my  aceds,  my  breast  devoid  of  fca.. 
And  hostile  life-drops  dun  my  gory  spear ; 
Here  is  a  soul  with  iiope  immortal  burns, 
And  life,  ignoi)le  life,  for  Glory  spurns  ; 
Fame,  fame  is  chea|)ly  earn'd  by  Heeting  breath, 
llu!  price  of  honour  is  the  sleep  of  dealli," 
1  hen  Aisus — "Calm  tliy  bosom's  fond  alarms, 
Thi'  heart  beats  fiercely  to  tlie  din  of  arms ; 
IMore  dear  tiiv  worth  and  valour  than  mv  own, 
i  swear  b_v  him  who  hlls  Olympus'  throne ! 
So  may  I  triumph,  as  I  speak  the  truili, 
Antl  clasp  again  tne  comrade  of  my  youth. 
But  should  I  fall,  and  he  who  dares  advance 
Through  hostile  legions  must  abide  by  chance ; 
If  some  Rutulian  arm,  with  adverse  blow, 
Should  lay  the  friend  who  ever  loved  thee  low  ,- 
Live  thou,  sucii  beauties  I  would  fain  preserve. 
Thy  budding  years  a  lengthen'd  term  deserve  ; 
When  hunsbled  iji  the  dust,  let  some  one  be. 
Whose  gentle  eyes  will  shed  one  tear  for  me  ; 
Whose  manly  arm  may  snatch  me  back  by  force. 
Or  wealth  redeem  from  toes  my  captive  corse : 
Or,  if  niy  destiny  tliese  last  deny. 
If  in  the  spoiler's  power  my  ashes  lie, 
Tiiy  pious  care  may  raise  a  simple  tomb, 
Ti.  mark  thy  love,  and  signalize  my  doom. 
Why  should  tliy  doatuig  wretched  mother  weep 
HiT  only  boy,  rrclinod  in  end!"«s  sleep? 
W  ho,  ti)r  thy  sake,  the  tempest's  fury  dared, 
\Vho,  for  thy  sake,  war's  deadly  |)eri!  shared; 
V\  ho  braved  what  woman  never  braved  before. 
And  left  iier  native  tor  the  Latian  shore." 
"  In  vam  yc»    damp  the  ardour  of  my  soul," 
Jiephed  Euryalus,  "  it  scorns  control ; 
ilence,  let  us  hast«>." — Their  brother  guards  arose, 
lioused  by  their  cull,  nor  court  again  repose  ; 
The  pair,  buoy'd  up  on  Hope's  exulting  wing, 
'J'heir  stations  leave,  and  siieed  to  seek  the  king. 
Now,  o'er  the  earth  a  solemn  stillness  ran, 
And  luil'd  alike  the  cares  of  brute  and  man ; 
Save  wlwre  the  Dardan  leaders  nightly  hold 
Alternate  con.'erse,  and  their  plans  unfold; 
Oa  oi;e  great  j>oiiit  the  council  arc;  agreed,       , 
An  uisiaut  leessage  to  their  prince  decreed  ; 
Each  1.  M\\\  upM.n  the  lance  he  well  could  wield. 
And  poised,  wi-h  easy  arm,  his  ancient  shield  ; 
VV  hen  Nisus  and  iiis  friend  their  leave  refjuest 
lo  offer  someihing  to  their  high  behest. 
With  anxious  tremors,  yin  iinawed  by  fea- 
The  faithful  pair  l)ef(>re  the  throne  appea;-, 
ulus  greets  them  ;   at  hi<  kind  command. 
The  elder  first  iKJdress'd  the  hoarv  band. 
"With  patience,''  thus  Hyrtacides  began, 
\ttend    nor  judge  from  youth  our  humble  plan  ; 
V  h.ite  yonder  beacons,  liall-expiring,  beam, 
'./ur  slumbeniig  toes  of  future  con(]uest  dream, 
Nor  hf  ed  that  we  a  secret  path  have  traced, 
Between  the  ocean  and  the  portal  placed  : 
Beneath  the  covert  of  the  blackening  smoke. 
Whose  shade  securely  our  design  will  cloak. 
If  you,  ye  chiefs,  and  Fortune  will  allow, 
We  '11  bend  our  course  to  yonder  mountain's  brow; 
Where  Pallas'  walls,  at  distance,  meet  the  sight. 
Seen  o'er  the  glade,  when  not  obscured  bv  nioht 


Then  sliall  iEneas  i.i  his  pride  return, 
W^hile  hostile  matrons  raise  their  olispring's  urn. 
And  Latian  spoils,  and  pur))led  heaps  of  deaa, 
Shall  mark  the  havoc  of  our  hero's  tread  ; 
Such  is  our  purpose,  not  unknown  the  way, 
Where  yonder  torrtrnt's  devious  \/aters  stray. 
Oft  have  we  seen,  when  hunting  by  the  stream, 
The  distant  spires  above  the  valleys  gleam." 

Mature  in  years,  for  sober  wisdcjin  tamed, 
Moved  by  the  speech,  Alethes  here  exclaim'd : 
"  Ye  jtarent  gods  !   who  rule  the  fate  of  Troy, 
Still  dwells  the  Dardan  spirit  in  the  boy; 
When  minds  like  these  in  stri[)lings  thus  ye  raise. 
Yours  is  the  godlike  act,  be  yours  the  praise ; 
In  gallant  youth  my  fiiinting  hopes  revive. 
And  Ilion's  wonted  gl ,  ries  still  survive." 
Then,  in  his  warm  embrace,  the  boys  he  jiress'd. 
And,  (|uivering,  strain'd  them  to  his  aged  breast ; 
With  tears  the  burning  cheek  of  each  bedew'd. 
And,  sobbing,  thus  his  first  discoi  rse  reiiew'd  : — 
"  WJKit  gilt,  my  countrymen,  what  martial  prize 
Can  we  bestow,  which  you  may  not  despise? 
Our  deities  the  first,  best  boon  havi;  given. 
Internal  virru«;s  are  the  gift  of  Heaven. 
What  poor  rewards  can  bless  your  deeds  on  earth, 
Doubtless,  await  sucli  young  exalted  worth  ; 
^^neas  and  Ascanius  shall  combine 
To  3-ield  applause  far,  far  s\irpassing  mine." 
lulus  then  :    "  By  all  the  powers  above  ! 
By  those  Penates*  who  inv  country  love; 
By  hoary  \'esta's  sacred  fane,  I  swear. 
My  hopes  are  all  in  you,  ye  generous  })air  ' 
:     Restore  my  father  to  my  grateful  sighi, 
j     And  all  my  sorrows  yield  to  one  deligiit. 
Nisus !   two  silver  goblets  are  thine  own. 
Saved  from  Arisba's  stately  domes  o'erthrowu ; 
ISIy  si'-e  secured  tliem  on  that  fatal  day, 
Nor  left  such  bowls  an  Argive  rol)ber's  prey. 
Two  massy  tripods  also  shall  be  thine, 
Two  talents  polish'd  from  tl'e  glhtering  mine  ; 
An  ancient  cup  which  Tyrian  Dido  gave. 
While  yet  our  vessels  press'd  the  Punic  wave  ; 
But,  when  the  hostile  chiefs  at  length  bow  down, 
W^hen  great  ^^neas  wears  Hesperia's  crown, 
The  cas(]ue,  the  buckler,  and  the  fiery  steed, 
Which  Turnus  guides  with  more  than  mortal  speed. 
Are  thine  ;   no  envious  lot  shaTl  then  be  cast, 
I  pledge  my  word,  irrevocably  pass'tl ; 
Nay  more,  twelve  slaves  and  twice  six  captive  dames 
To  soothe  thy  softer  hours  with  amorous  fiarnes, 
Ann  all  the  realms  which  now  the  Latians  sway, 
The  labours  of  to-night  shall  well  repay. 
But  thou,  my  generous  youth,  whose  tender  years 
Are  near  my  own,  whose  worth  my  heart  reveres. 
Henceforth  affection,  sweetly  thus  begun. 
Shall  join  our  bosoms  and  our  souls  in  one  ; 
Without  thy  aid  no  glory  shall  be  mine, 
W  ithout  thj'  dear  advice,  no  great  design  ; 
Alike,  through  life  esteem'd,  thou  godlike  boy, 
In  war  my  bulwark,  and  in  peace  my  joy." 

To  him  Euryalus  :   "  No  day  shall  shame 
The  rising  glories  which  from  this  1  claim. 
Fortune  mhy  favour  or  the  skies  may  frown. 
But  valour,  spite  of  tale,  obtains  renown. 
Yet,  ere  from  hence  our  eager  steps  depart, 
One  boon  I  beg,  the  nearest  to  my  heart : 
Mv  mother  s|)rung  from  Priam's  royal  line, 
Like  thine  e!inol)ied,  hardly  less  diviitej 


24 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Nor  Troy  nor  King  Acestes'  realms  restrain 

Her  feeb.ed  age  from  dangers  of  the  main ; 

Alone  she  came,  all  selfish  fears  above, 

A  bright  example  of  maternal  love. 

Uiiknosvn,  the  secret  enterprise  I  b^a^e, 

Lest  grief  should  bend  my  parent  to  the  grave  :    ' 

From  thiS  alone  no  fond  adieus  1  seek, 

No  fainting  mother's  lips  have  press'd  rny  cheek  ; 

By  gloomy  Night,  and  thy  right  hand,  I  vow 

Her  parting  tears  would  shake  my  puruose  now  : 

Do  thou,  my  prince,  her  failing  age  sustain. 

In  thee  her  much-ioved  child  may  live  again ; 

Her  dying  hours  with  pious  conduct  bless. 

Assist  her  wants,  relieve  her  fond  distress: 

So  dear  a  hope  must  all  my  soul  iiiiiame, 

To  rise  in  glorj^,  or  to  fall  in  fame." 

Struck  with  a  filial  care,  so  deej)ly  felt. 

In  tears,  at  once,  the  Trojan  warriors  melt ; 

Faster  than  all,  lulus'  eyes  oerflow  ; 

Such  love  was  his,  and  such  had  been  his  woe. 

"All  thou  hast  ask'd,  receive,"  the  prince  replied, 

"Nor  this  alone,  but  many  a  gift  beside  ; 

To  cheer  thy  mother's  3'cars  shall  Ix;  my  aim, 

Creusa's  '  style  but  wanting  to  the  dame  ; 

Fortune  an  adverse  wayward  course  may  run, 

But  bless'd  thy  mother  in  so  dear  a  son. 

Now,  by  my  life,  my  Sire's  most  sacrtJ  oath, 

To  thee  I  pledge  my  fviU,  my  firmest  troth. 

All  the  rewards  which  once  to  thee  were  vow'd, 

If  thou  shouldst  fall,  on  her  shall  be  bestow'd." 

Tiius  spoke  the  weeping  prince,  the*  fortfi  to  view 

A  gleaming  falchion  from  the  sheath  lie  drew  ; 

Lycaon's  utmost  skill  had  graced  the  steel. 

For  fi-iends  to  envy  and  for  foes  to  feel. 

A  tawny  hide,  the  Moorish  lion's  spoil, 

Slain  midst  the  forest,  in  the  hunter's  toil, 

Mnestheus,  to  guard  the  elder  youth,  bestows. 

And  old  Alethes'  casque  defends  his  brows  ; 

Arm'd,  thence  they  go,  while  all  the  assembled  trair 

To  aid  their  cause,  implore  the  gods  in  vain  ; 

More  than  a  boy,  in  wisdom  and  in  grace, 

lulus  holds  amidst  the  chiefs  his  place  ; 

His  prayers  he  sends,  but  what  can  prayers  avail, 

Lost  in  the  murmurs  of  the  sighing  gale? 

The  trench  is  past,  and,  favour'd  by  the  night, 
Througii  sleeping  foes  they  wheel  their  wary  fugh-t. 
When  shall  the  sleep  of  many  a  foe  be  o'er? 
Alas  !   some  slumber  who  shall  wa!(e  no  mwe  ! 
Chariots,  and  bridles,  mix'd  with  arms,  are  seen, 
And  flowing  flasks,  and  scatter'd  troops  hetwetn  ; 
Bacchus  and  Mars  to  ruie  the  camp  combine, 
A  mingled  chaos  this  of  war  and  wine. 
"  Now,"  cries  the  first,  "  for  deeds  of  blood  prepare, 
With  me  the  conquest  and  the  labour  share; 
Here  lies  our  path  ;  lest  any  hand  arise. 
Watch  thou,  while  many  a  dreaming  chieftain  dies; 
I'll  carve 'our  passage  through  the  heedless  foe, 
And  clear  thy  road,  with  many  a  deadly  blow." 
II is  whispering  accents  then  the  youth  represt, 
And  pierced  jiroud  Kamnes  through  his  panting  breast; 
Stretcli'd  at  liis  ease,  th'  incautious  king  reposed, 
Debauch,  and  not  fatigue,  his  eyes  had  closed; 
To  Turuus  dear,  a  propliet  and  a  prince, 
His  omens  more  than  augur's  skill  evince; 
But  he,  who  thus  foretold  the  fate  of  all, 
Could  not  avert  his  o,\ii  untimely  fall. 
Next  Remus'  armour  ^rarer,  hapless,  foil, 
And  three  unhappy  s:.ives  the  carnage  swell; 

•  The  mother  of  lulus  lost  on  the  night  when  Trov  was  taken. 


The  charioteer  along  his  courser's  sides 
Expires,  the  steel  his  severed  neck  divides; 
And,  last,  his  lord  is  number'd  with  the  dead, 
Bounding  convulsive,  flies  the  gasping  head  ; 
From  the  swollen  veins  the  blackening  torrenti^  pour, 
Stam'a  is  the  couch  and  earth  with  clottijiij  goro. 
Young  Lamyrus  and  Lamus  next  expire, 
And  gay  Serranus,  fill'd  with  youthful  firt- , 
Half  the  long  nii^ht  in  childish  jjauies  was  past, 
Lull'd  by  the  [wUtnl  grape,  he  slept  at  last ; 
Ah !   happier  far,  had  he  the  morn  survey'd, 
And,  till  Aurora's  dawn,  his  skill  display'd. 

In  slaughtcr'd  folds,  the  keepers  lost  in  sleep 
His  hungry  fangs  a  lion  thus  may  steep  ; 
Mid  the  sad  flock,  at  dead  of  night,  he  pro\vls. 
With  murder  glutted,  and  in  carnage  rolls  ; 
Insatiate  still,  through  teeming  herds  he  roams^ 
In  seas  of  gore  the  lordly  tyrant  foams. 

Nor  less  the  other's  deadly'  vengeance  came, 
But  falls  on  feeble  crowds  witliout  a  nan^e  ; 
His  wound  unconscious  Fadiis  scarce  can  feet, 
Vet  wakeful  Rhaesus  sees  the  threatening  steel ; 
His  coward  breast  behind  a  jar  he  hides. 
And,  vainly,  in  the  weak  defence  confides; 
Full  in  his  heart,  the  falchion  search'd  his  veins, 
The  reeking  weapon  bears  a!tem<ate  stains; 
Through  wine  and  hloo<i,  commingling  tie  I  hey  flow 
l^he  feeble  spirit  seeks  the  shades  below. 
Now,  where  jMessapus  dwelt  they  bend  their  way, 
Whose  fires  emit  a  faint  and  tremblins  rav; 
There,  unconfined  behold  each  j:!razing  stetd, 
Unwatch'd,  unheeded,  on  the  herbage  ^^^eA  ; 
Brave  Nisus  h(;re  arrests  his  comrade's  arm, 
Too  flush'd  with  carnage,  and  with  concuest   war?)! : 
"  Hence  let  us  haste,  the  dangerous  path  is  past, 
Full  foes  enough,  to-night,  have  breatlxid  theii  iasi  , 
Soon  will  the  day  those  eastern  clouds  adorn. 
Now  let  us  speed,  nor  tempt  the  rising  morn." 

What  silver  arms,  with  various  arts  emboss' J, 
Whai  bowls  and  mantles,  in  confusion  toss'd, 
They  leave  regardless!   yet,  one  glitterii:;;  prize 
Attracts  the  younger  hero's  wandering  eyes  ; 
The  gilded  harness  Rhamnes'  coursers  felt, 
The  gems  which  stud  the  monarch's  golden  belt ; 
This  from  the  pallid  corse  was  (piickly  torn 
Once  by  a  line  of  former  cliieftains  worn. 
Th'  exulting  boy  the  studtied  girdle  wears, 
Messapus'  helm  his  head,  in  triumph,  bears; 
Then  from  the  tents  their  cautious  steps  they  bene. 
To  seek  the  vale,  where  safer  paths  ex4end. 

Just  at  this  hour,  a  band  of  Latian  norse 
To  Turnus'  camjj  pursue  their  destined  course; 
While  the  slow  ff)Ot  their  tardy  march  delay. 
The  knights,  im]jatient,  s})ur  along  the  way : 
Three  hundred^ mai!-ciad  men,  by  \oiscens  led, 
To  Turnus,  with  their  master's  promise  sped  : 
Now,  they  approach  the  trench,  and  view  the  wkI  ft, 
When,  on  the  left,  a  light  reflection  falls; 
The  plunder'd  helmet,  through  the  Aaning  night, 
Sheds  fortii  a  silver  radiance,  glanciif;  bright ; 
Volscens,  with  ipiestion  loud,  the  ])air  alarms — 
"Stand,  strag<ik'rs !   stand!   w)iy  early  thus  m  arm*  7 
From  whence?  to  whom?"  He  meets  with  no  reply; 
Trusting  the  covert  of  the  night,  they  fly ; 
The  thicket's  depth,  with  hurried  pace,  they  tread, 
While  round  the  wood  the  hostile  scpiadron  spread. 

With  l>rake«  entangled,  scarce  a  path  between, 
Dreary  and  dark  appeirs  the  sylvan  scene ; 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


20 


Kiu-y-alus  his  heavy  spoiis  impede, 
The  boufihs  and  winding  turns  his  steps  mislead  ; 
But  Nisus  scours  along  the  forest's  maze, 
To  where  Latinus'  steeds,  in  safety  graze, 
Then  backward  o'er  the  plain  his  eyes  extend. 
On  'nery  side  they  seek  his  absent  friend. 
"  O  God  !   my  lx)y,"  he  cries,  "  of  me  bereft, 
In  what  uiipending  perils  art  thou  left  !" 
I.isteunig  he  runs— above  die  waving  trees, 
I'ninultuous  vmccs  swell  the  pa^sing  breeze; 
file  war-crv  rises,  thundering  hoofs  around 
Wake  the  dark  echoes  of  the  trembling  ground  ; 
Ajain  he  turns — of  footsteps  hears  the  noise, 
l"he  sound  s'ltes — the  sight  his  hope  destroys  ; 
The  hapb>5  boy  a  ruffian  train  surround, 
Wiiile  ien^thoning  shades  his  weary  way  confound  ; 
Hiui,  with  loud  shouts,  the  furious  knii:!us  inirsue, 
Struggling  in  vain,  a  captive  to  the  crew, 
^'hat  can  his  friend  'gainst  thronging  numbers  daro  / 
Ah !  must  'ic.  rush,  his  comrade's  fate  to  sh;u-e  ! 
What  force,  what  aid,  what  stratagem  essay, 
Back  to  redeem  the  Latian  spoiltT's  prey  ! 
His  life  a  votive  ransom  nobly  give, 
Or  die  with  him  for  whom  he  wish'd  to  live ! 
PoisiuiT  witli  strength  his  lifted  lance  on  high, 
On  Luna's  orb  he  cast  his  phrenzied  eye : 
"Goddess  serene,  transcending  every  star! 
Queen  of  the  sky  !   whoso  beams  are  seen  afar  ; 
Bv  night.  Heaven  owns  thy  sway,  by  day,  the  grove. 
When,  as  chaste  Dian,  here  thou  deign'st  to  rove  ; 
If  e'ermvself  or  sire  have  sought  to  grace 
Thine  altars  with  the  produce  of  the  chase  ; 
Speed,  speed  my  dart  to  pierce  yon  vaunting  crowd, 
To  free  my  friend,  and  scatter  far  the  proud." 
Thus  having  said,  thf  hissing  aart  he  Hung; 
Throiigh  parted  shades  the  hurtling  weapon  sung  ; 
The  thirsty  point  in  Silmo's  entrails  lay, 
rranstixM  his  heart,  and  stretch'd  him  on  the  clay : 
He  sobs,  he  dies, — the  troop,  in  wild  amaze, 
Unconscious  whence  the  death,  with  horror  gaze; 
Wlule  i>;iie  they  stare,  through  Tagus'  temples  riven, 
A  second  sluil't  with  equal  force  is  driven  ; 
Fierce  \'olsce.\s  rolls  around  his  lowering  eyes, 
S"eil\i  bv  the  night,  secure  the  Trojan  lies. 
Burning  with  wrath,  he  view'd  his  soldiers  fall ; 
'  Tliou  youth  accurst!   thy  life  shall  pay  for  aii." 
Quick  from  the  sheath   his  flaming  glaive  he  drevv-. 
And,  raging,  on  the  boy  defenceless  tiew. 
Nisus  no  more  the  blackening  shade  conceals. 
Forth,  forth  he  starts,  and  ail  his  love  reveals  ; 
Aghast,  confused,  his  fears  to  madness  rise, 
.\nd  pour  these  accents,  shrieking  as  he  flies: 
•'  .Ale,  me, — your  vengeance  hurl  on  me  alone, 
Hert:  sheathe  the  steel,  my  blood  is  all  y.'iur  own; 
Ve  starrj'  Si;heresl   thou  conscious  Heaven  attest  ! 
He  could  not— durst  not— lo!   the  guile  confest! 
All,  all  was  mine — his  early  fate  suspend. 
He  only  loved  too  well  his  ha|)less  friend  ; 
Si  ve,  spare,  ye  chiefs!   from  him  your  rage  remove, 
His  fault  was  friendship,  all  his  crime  was  love." 
He  pray'd  in  vain,  the  dark  assassin's  sword 
Pierced  the  fair  side,  the  sno\\y  bosom  gored  ; 
Lowly  to  earth  inc.ines  his  plume-clad  crest, 
And  sanguine  torrents  mantle  o'er  his  breast : 
As  softie  young  rose,  whose  blosscm  f^cents  the  air. 
Languid  in  death,  expires  beneath  <he  share  ; 
Or  crimson   poppy,  sinking  witli  the  shower, 
Dec-iring  gently,  falls  a  fading  flower ; 


Thus,  sweetly  drooping,  bends  his  .^>ely  neaa, 
And  lingering  Beauty  hovers  round  the  rtead. 
But  fiery  Nisus  stems  the  battle's  tide. 
Revenge  his  leader,  and  Despair  his  guitle  ; 
Volscens  he  seeks,  amidst  the  gailiering  host, 
Volscens  must  soon  appease  his  comrade's  ghost. 
Steel,  flashing,  pours  on  steel,  foe  crowds  on  foe, 
Rage  nerves  his  arm.  Fate  gleams  in  evei  v  blow  ; 
In  vain,  beneath  unnumber'd  wounds  he  bleeils, 
Nor  wounds,  nor  death,  distracted  Nisus  heeds; 
In  viewless  circles  wlu'ciM  liis  tlilrliion  liies. 
Nor  quits  the  Hero's  grasp  liil  \  olsct  ns  dies; 
Deep  in  his  throat  its  eiui  the  weapon  iijund. 
The  tyrant's  soul  fled  groaning   through  the  wounc* 
Thus  Nisus  all  his  f  nd  aflection  jjroved. 
Dying,  revenged  the  fate  of  hiiii  he  loved; 
Then  on  his  bosom,  sought   his  wonted  place, 
And  death  was  iieavenly  ir  his  triend's  em!)race ! 

Celestial  pair!   if  aught  mv  verse  can  claim. 
Wafted  on  Time's  broad  pinion,  yours  is  fame ! 
Ages  on  ages  shall  your  fate  admire  ; 
No  future  day  shall  see  your  names  exi)ire ; 
While  stands  the  Capitol,  immorlal   dome! 
And  vanquish'd  millions  hail  their  Empress,  Rome' 


TRANSLATION  FRO:^!  THE   MEDEA   0§ 
EURIPIDES. 

When  fierce  conflicting  passions  urge 

The  breast  where  love  is  wont  to  glow, 
What  mind  can  stem  the  stormy  surge. 

Which  rolls  the  tide  of  human  woe? 
The  hope  of  praise,  the  dread  of  shame. 

Can  rouse  the  tortured  breast  no  more  ; 
The  wild  desire,  the  guilty  flame. 

Absorbs  each  u  ish  it  felt  before. 

But,  if  affection  gently  thrills 

The  soul,  by  p-a-er  dreams  possest, 
The  pleasing  balm  of  mortal  ills. 

In  love  can  soothe  the  aching  breast ; 
If  thus,  thou  comesl  in  gentle  gmse. 

Fair  V^enus !   from  thy  native  heaven, 
What  heart,  unfeeling,  would  despise 

The  sA'eetest  boon  the  gods  have  given? 

But,  never  from  thy  golden  how 

May  I  beneath  the  shaft  expire, 
Wliose  creeping  venom,  sure  and  slow, 

Awakes  an  all-consumaig  fire  ; 
Vc  racking  doubts  !   ye  jealous  fears! 

With  others  wage  eternal  war ; 
Reui-ntance  !   source  of  future  tears, 

From  me  be  ever  distant  far. 

May  no  distracting  thoughts  destroy 

The  holy  calm  of  sacred  love ! 
iMay  all  the  hours  be  wing'd  with  joy, 

Which  nover  faithful  hearts  above  I 
Fair  \'enus  !   on  thy  myrtle  shrine. 

May  I  with  some  fond  lover  sigh  ! 
Whose  heart  may  mingle  pure  with  mine. 

With  ine  to  live,  with  me  to  die. 

My  native  soil !   beloved  before, 
Now  dearer,  as  my  peacefiil  home, 

Ne'er  may  I  quit  thy  rocky  shore. 
A  hapless,  banish'd  wretch  to  roani , 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


This  ver>  day,  this  very  hour, 
May  1  resign  this  fleeting  breath. 

Nor  unit  my  silent,  lunnble  bower — 
A  doom,  to  me,  far  worse  than  death. 

Have  I  not  heard  the  exile's  sigh, 

And  seen  the  exile's  silent  tear? 
Tlirough  distant  climes  couflcmn'd  to  fly, 

A  pensive,  weary  wanderer  here : 
Ah  !   hafjless  dame  !  '   no  sire  bewails. 

No  friend  thy  wretchud  fate  deplores. 
No  kindred  voice  with  raptnre  hails 

Thy  steps,  within  a  stranger's  doors. 

Perish  the  fiend  !   whose  iron  heart, 

To  fair  affection's  truth  unknown, 
Bids  her  he  fondly  loved  depart, 

Uni)itied,  helpless,  and  alone  ; 
Who  ne'er  unlocks,  with  silver  key,  * 

The  milder  treasures  of  his  soul ; 
May  such  a  friend  be  far  from  me. 

And  Ocean's  storms  between  us  roll ! 


FUGI  i  IVE    PIECES. 


THOUGHTS  SUGGESTED  BY  A  COLLEGE 
EXAMINATION.  3 
High  in  the  midst,  surrounded  by  his  peers, 
M.vGyu^  his  am|)le  front  sublime  uprears ; 
P'aced  on  his  chair  of  slate,  he  seems  a  god, 
While  Sophs  and  Freshmen  tremble  at  his  nod ; 
As  all  around  sit  wrapt  in  spe-echless  gloom. 
His  voice,  in  thunder,  shakes  the  sounding  dome, 
Den<»uncing  dire  reproach  to  luckless  fools, 
Lnskill'd  to  plod  in  mathematic  rules. 

Happy  the  youth  !   in  Euclid's  axioms  tried, 
7'hongh  little  versed  in  any  art  beside ; 
VV'ho,  scarcely  sknl'd  an  Enghsh  hne  to  pen. 
Scans  Attic  metres  with  a  critic's  ken. 
What !   though  lie  knows  not  how  his  fathers  bled. 
When  civil  discord  piled  the  fields  with  dead  ; 
When  Edward  bade  his  conquering  bands  advance. 
Or  Fli.Miry  trmnpled  on  the  crest  of  France; 
Though,  marvTuii.'  at  the  name  of  Magna  Charta, 
Vet  well  he  recollects  the  laws  of  Sparta; 
Can  tell  what  edicts  sage  Lycurgus  made. 
While  Blackstone's  on  the  shelf  neglected  laid, 
Of  Grecian  dramas  vaunts  the  deathless  fame, 
Of  Avon's  bard  reniemb(;ring  scarce  the  name. 

1  Medert,  who  accompanied  Jason  to  Corintli,  whs  ilesprted 
by  him  for  th(!  ilatif:h'rr  (»f(  "reon,  kini.'  oftliat  city.  The  Chorus 
from  which  this  is  taken,  iH-re  address  Medea:  thouudi  a  ce-n- 
•iderafile  liherty  is  taken  with  the  oricinai,  hy  expanding  the 
kde4,  a*  also  in  some  oilu^r  parts  of  the  translation. 

2  The  orii,'inal  is  "  KnOaijav  avoi^avTi  HXs'ic^a  ({ipci'uiv  :" 
Sterally  "  Dit^closinK  the  liriyh!  key  oTlhe  mind." 

3  No  reflection  is  li-re  intended  airainsl  ihe  person  iiieiitioned 
nnderthe  name  of  Maunns.  II(;  is  merely  r(;presenled  as  per- 
formim:  nn  unavoidable  fnnciion  oi'liis  office -.  indeed  sudi  an 
altftmpt  conid  only  n^cr.d  npon  rnys.df;  as  that  ^einliMiian  is 
now  as  much  (iistiniH.ii.lie(l  hy  liis  elo(luenc.^  and  the  diciiilied 
propriety  with  which  hi'  fills  his  siinaiion,  as  he  wa.^^,  iii  his 
»ouui{cr  days,  for  \Tit  and  eouviviaiiiy. 


I         Such  is  the  youth,  whose  scientific  pate.. 
Class-honours,  medals,  fellowships,  await ; 

I    Or  even,  perhaps,  the  declamation  prize, 

j    If  to  such  glorious  height  he  lifts  his  eyes. 
But,  lo !   no  common  orator  can  hope 

j    The  envied  silver  cup  within  liis  scope  : 
Not  that  our  Heads  much  eloquence  require, 
Th'  Athenian's  glowing  style,  or  Tully's  fire 
A  manner  clear  or  warm  is  useless,  since 
We  do  not  try,  by  speaking,  to  convince : 
Be  other  orators  of  pleasing  proud. 
We  speak  to  please  ourselves,  not  move  the  crowd, 
Our  gravity  prefers  the  muttering  tone, 
A  |)roper  mixture  of  the  ,']ueak  and  groan  ; 
No  borrow'd  grace  of  action  must  be  seen. 
The  slightest  motion  would  displease  the  Dean ; 
Whilst  every  staring  Graduate  would  prate 
Against  v.hat  he  could  never  imitate. 

The  man,  who  hopes  t'  obtain  the  jiromised  cuf), 
Must  in  one  posture  stand,  ond  ne'er  look  up ; 
Nor  stop,  but  rattle  over  every  word. 
No  matter  what,  so  it  can  not  be  heard — 
Thus  let  him  hurry  on,  nor  think  to  rest ! 
Who  speaks  the  fastest 's  sure  to  speak  the  best: 
Who  utters  mast  within  the  shortest  space. 
May  safely  hope  to  win  the  word\'  race. 

The  sons  of  science  these,  who,  thus  repaid, 
Linger  in  ease  in  Granta's  sluggish  shade; 
Where,  on  Catu's  sedgy  banks,  supine  they  I'.e, 
Unkuov.n,  iinhonour'd  live, — unwept  for,  die; 
Dull  as  the  pictures  which  adorn  their  halls, 
They  think  all  learning  fix'd  within  their  \\ills; 
In  manners  rude,  in  foolish  forms  precise, 
All  modern  arts  affecting  to  despise  ; 
Yet  prizing  Bentlev's,  Brunck's,  '   oi   Forsos 

note. 
More  than  the  verse  on  which  the  critic  wrote ; 
Vain  as  their  honours,  heavy  as  their  ale, 
Sad\as  their  wit,  and  tedious  as  their  tale, 
To  friendship  dead,  though  not  untaught  to  feel. 
When  Self  and  Church  demand  a  bigot  zeal. 
vVith  eager  haste  they  court  the  lOrd  oi"  power, 
VYhether  't  is  Pitt  or  P— ttv  rules  the  hour:  ^ 
To  him,  witn  suppliant  smiles,  they  bend  the  head. 
While  distant  mitres  to  their  eyes  are  spread  ; 
But  should  a  siorm  o'erwhelm  him  with  disgrace. 
They  'd  fly  to  seek  the  next  who  filFd  his  place. 
Such  are  the  men  who  learning's  treasures  guard, 
Such  is  their  practice,  such  is  their  reward  ; 
This  much,  at  least,  we   may  presume  to  say— 
The  premium  can't  exceed  the  price  Miey  pay 


.801) 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  * 


"  tu  semper  anions 
Sis  mernor,  et  cari  comitis  ne  abs-.-edat  iinaao." 

VALKFUUS  FLAt^CCS 


Friend  of  my  youth  !   when  young  we  roved, 
Like  stripHngs  mutually  bidoved. 

With  Friendship's  purest  glow  ; 

1  Celebrated  critics. 

y  The  present  Greek  pn.ressor  at  Trinity  Collnce.  Cam 
hridiio  ;  a  m;in  whose  powers  of  mind  and  writing's  may  pej 
haps  justify  their  preference. 

;{  t^iiice  this  was  written,  Lord  II.  P y  has  Inst  his  place 

and  siibseqiienlly  (I  had  almost  said  coJi.sTr/ (/'/)''(/  thohoi.oui 
of  represent  ins  'lie  Cniversity ;  a  fact  so  Rlariig  lequ  res  no 
comment. 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


97 


The  bliss  which  \vin<iVl  those  rosy  hours 
Was  such  as  pleasure"  seuiora  showers 
On  niurtals  liere  below. 

The  ri  collection  seems,  alone, 
Dearer  thar.  all  the  joys  I  He  known, 

^^  hen  distant  far  iVom  you  ; 
Though  i)ain,  't  is  still  a  pleasing  pain, 
To  trace  those  days  and  hours  again, 

And  sigh  again,  adieu  ! 

My  pensive  memorj-  liiu'fM-s  o'er 
Those  scenes  to  be  enjoy'd  no  more, 

Those  scenes  regretted  ever  ; 
The  measure  of  our  youth  is  full, 
Life's  evening  dream  ^s  dark  and  dull, 

And  we  may  meet — ah  !   never! 

As  when  one  parent  si)riiig  supplies 

Two  streams,  which  from  one  fountain  nse, 

Together  join'd  in  vain  ; 
How^  soon,  diverging  from  their  source, 
Each  munliuring  seeks  another  course, 

Till  mingled  in  the  main. 

Our  vital  streams  of  weal  or  woe, 
Though  near,  alas  !   distinctly  flow, 

Nor  mingle  as  before  ; 
Now  swift  or  slow,  now  black  or  clear, 
Till  death's  unfathom'd  gulf  a]  pear. 

And  both  shall  quit  the  shore. 

Our  souls,  mv  Friend !   which  once  supplied 
One  wish,  nor  breathed  a  thought  beside. 

Now  flow  in  ditierent  channels  : 
Disdaining  humbler  rural  sports, 
*T  is  yours  to  mix  in  polish'd  courts. 

And  shine  in  Fashion's  annals. 

'T  is  mine  to  waste  on  Love  my  time, 
Or  vent  my  reveries  in  rhyme. 

Without  the  aid  of  Reason ; 
For  Sense  and  Reason  (critics  know  it) 
Have  quilted  every  amorous  poet, 

Nor  left  a  thought  to  seize  on. 
Poor  Little!  sweet,  melodious  bard! 
Of  late  esteem'd  it  monstrous  hard. 

That  he,  who  sang  before  all ; 
He,  who  the  love  of  Love  expanded, 
By  dire  reviewers  should  be  branded, 

As  void  of  wit  and  moral. ' 
And  yet,  while  Beauty's  praise  is  thine, 
Harmonious  favourite  of  the  Nine  ! 

Repine  not  at  thy  lot ; 
Thy  sootliing  lays  may  still  be  read, 
When  Persecution's  arm  is  dead. 

And  critics  are  forgot. 
Still,  I  must  yield  those  worthies  merit, 
Who  chasten,  with  unsparing  spirit, 

Bad  rhymes,  and  those  who  write  themj 
And  though  myself  may  be  the  next 
By  critic  sarcasm  to  be  vext, 

I  really  will  not  fight  them ;  ^ 
Perhaps  they  would  do  quite  as  well. 
To  break  the  rudely-sounding  shell 

Of  such  a  young  beginner  ; 

1  These  Stanza  were  written  soon  after  the  appearance  of 
severe  critique  in  a  Northern  review,  on  a  new  pubiicatiou 

of  the  British  Anacreon. 

2  A  Bard  (horresco  referens)  defied  his  reviewer  to  mortal 
combat.  If  this  example  liecomes  prevalent,  our  periodical 
censors  must  be  dipped  ii  the  river  Styx,  for  what  else  can 
secure  tliem  from  the  numerous  host  of  tlieir  enraged  assail- 
ants ? 


He  WHO  otTends  at  pert  ninetein,^ 

Ere  thirty,  may  become,  I  ween, 

A  verv  harden'd  sinner. 


Now 


I  must  return  to  you. 


And  sure  a[)o!ogies  are  due ; 

Accept  then  my  concession  ; 

In  truth,  dear ,  in  fancy's  flight, 

I  soar  along  from  left  to  rigiit ; 

My  muse  admires  digre«'^ion. 

I  thuik  I  said  't  would  be  your  fate 
To  add  one  star  to  royal  state ; 

INlay  regal  smiles  attend  you  ; 
And  should  a  noble  Monarch  reign, 
You  will  not  seek  his  smiles  in  vain. 

If  worth  can  recommend  you. 

Yet,  since  in  danger  courts  abound. 
Where  specious  rivals  glitter  round, 

From  snares  may  saints  preserve  ymi; 
And  grant  your  love  or  friendship  ne'er 
From  any  claim  a  kintlred  care, 

But  those  who  best  deserve  you. 

Not  for  a  moment  may  \  ou  stray 
Fr«m  Truth's  secure  unci  ring  way  ; 

May  no  delights  decoy  ; 
O'er  roses  may  your  footsteiis  move, 
Your  smiles  be  ever  smiles  of  love, 

Your  tears  be  ti-ars  of  joy. 

Oh!    if  you  v.ish  that   happiness 

Your  coming  days  and  years  may  bless, 

And  virtues  crown  your  brow  ; 
Be  still,  as  you  were  uoiit  to  be. 
Spotless  as  you  've  been   known  to  me, 

Be,  still,  as  jou  are  now. 

And  though  some  trifling  share  of  praise, 
To  cheer  my  last  declining  days, 

To  me  were  doubly  dear  ; 
Whilst  blessing  your  beloved  name, 
I  'd  waive  at  once  a  Poet's  tame. 

To  prove  a  Prophet  here. 


GRANTA,  A   MEDLEY. 

Apyvtaig  Xoy^uKTL  ni'X,"'->  '^^'^  "•'»'""  Kpurrj-aif 

Oh!   could  Le  Sack's  '   demon's  gift 

Be  realized  at  my  desire, 
This  night  my  trembling  form  he'd  lift. 

To  place  it  on  St.  Mary's  s})ire. 
Then  would,  unroof 'd,  old  Granta's  halls 

Pedantic  inmates  full  display  ; 
Fellows  who  dream  on  lawn,  or  stalls, 

The  price  of  venal  votes  to  pay. 
Then  would  I  view  each  rival  wight, 

P — tty  and  P — Im — st^^— n  survey  ; 
Who  canvass  there  with  ah  their  might. 

Against  the  next  elective  day. 
Lo !   candidates  and  voters  lie. 

All  lull'd  m  sleep,  a  goodly  number! 
A  race  renown'd  for  piety, 

Whose  conscience  won't  disturb  their  slumber 
Lord  H ,  indeed,  may  not  demur, 

Fellows  nre  sage,  reflecting  men  ' 
Tliev  know  preferment  car    occur 

But  very  seldom, — no      ind  then. 


1  The  Diable  Boiteux  of  I.e  Sase,  vliero  Asmodeus,  '.h« 
demon,  places  Don  Cleofas  on  an  elevati  il  situation,  and  un 
roottj  the  huu.ses  for  his  inspection. 


28 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


lae)  a.riow  tne  Chancellor  has  got 

Some  pretty  Uvings  in  disposal; 
Each  ho]>es  that  one  may  be  his  lot, 

Aud>  i,hti-efore,  smiles  on  his  proposal. 

Now,  from  the  soporific  scene 

I'll  tm"n  mine  eye,  as  night  grows  later, 
To  view,  unheeded  and  unseen. 

The  studious  sons  of  Alma  Matrer. 

There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp, 

The  candidate  for  college  prizes 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp, 

Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  rises. 

He,  surely,  well  deserves  to  gain  them, 
With  all  the  honours  of  his  college, 

Who,  striving  harflly  to  obtain  them, 
Thus  seeks  unprofitable  knowledge 

Who  sacrifices  hours  of  rest. 

To  scan,  precisely,  metres  Attic, 

Or  agitates  his  anxious  breast 

In  solving  proolems  mathemaiic  ; 

*■>  ho  reads  false  quantities  in  Sele,' 
Or  puzzles  o'er  the  deep  triangle, 

Deprived  of  many  a  wholesome  meal, 

In  barbarous  Latin  ^  doom'd  to  wrangle ; 

K,(inouncing  every  pleasing  page 

From  authors  of  historic  use  ; 
Preferring  to  the  letterM  sage 

The  square  of  the  hypothenuse.  s 
Still,  harmless  are  these  occupations. 

That  hurt  none  but  the  hapless  stuctenl, 
Compared  with  other  recreations. 

Which  bring  together  the  imprudent ; 
Whose  darmg  revels  shock  the  sight, 

When  vice  and  infamy  combine, 
When  drunkenness  and  dice  unite. 

And  every  sense  is  stcep'd  in  wine. 
Not  so  the  methodistic  crew. 

Who  plans  of  reformation  lay  : 
In  humble  attitude  they  sue. 

And  for  the  sins  of  others  pray. 
Forgetting  that  their  pride  of  spirit, 

Their  exultation  in  their  trial. 
Detracts  most  largely  from  the  merit 

Of  all  their  boasted  self-denial. 
'T  is  morn, — from  these  I  turn  my  sight : 

What  scene  is  this  which  meets  the  eye  ? 
A  numerous  crowd,  array'd  ni  A'hite,  4 

Across  the  green  in  numbers  fly. 
Loud  rings,  in  air,  the  chapel  bell ; 

'T  is  hush'd :   What  sounds  are  these  I  hear  V 
The  organ's  soft  celestial  swell 

Rolls  dee[)ly  on  the  listening  ear. 
To  this  is  join'd  the  sacred  song. 

The  royal  niuistrel's  hallow'd  strain ; 


Though  he  who  hears  the  music  long 
Will  never  wish  to  hear  again. 

Our  choir  would  scarcely  be  excused. 
Even  as  a  band  of  raw  beginners; 

All  mercy,  now,  must  be  refused, 

To  such  a  set  of  croaking  sinners. 

If  David,  when  his  toils  were  ended. 

Had  heard  these  blockheads  sing  before  Inm, 

To  us  his  psalms  had  ne'er  descended, 

In  furious  mood  he  would  have  torn  'em. 

The  luckless  Israelites,  when  taken. 
By  some  inhuman  tyrant's  order, 

Were  ask'd  to  sing,  by  joy  forsaken, 
On  Babylonian  river's  border. 

Oh  !  had  they  sung  in  notes  like  these. 

Inspired  by  stratagem  or  l"ear, 
They  might  have  set  their  hearts  at  ease 

The  devil  a  soul  had  stay'd  to  hear. 

But,  if  I  scribble  longer  now. 

The  deuce  a  soul  will  stay  to  read; 

My  pen  is  blunt,  my  ink  is  low, 

'T  is  almost  time  to  stop  indeed. 

Therefore,  farewell,  old  Granta's  spires, 

No  more,  like  Cleofas,  I  fly ; 
No  more  thy  theme  my  Muse  inspires. 

The  reader's  tired,  and  so  am  I. 

1806. 


LACHIN  Y  GAIR. 


Lachin  y  gair,  or,  as  it  is  pronounced  in  the  Erse,  l^och  na 
Garr,  towers  proudly  pre-eminent  in  the  Northern  High- 
lands, near  hivercanld.  One  of  our  modern  tourists  men- 
tions it  as  the  Inehest  mountain,  perhaps,  in  Great  Britain  j 
be  this  ag  it  may,  ^  is  certainly  one  of  tlie  most^  sublime 
and  picturesque  amongst  our  "Caledonian  Alps."  Its  ap- 
pearance is  of  a  dusky  hue,  but  the  summit  is  the  seal  o1 
eternal  snows:  near  Lacliin  y  Gair  1  si)ent  some  ol  the 
early  part  of  my  life,  the  recollection  of  which  has  given 
birth  to  the  following  Stanzas. 


-  Sele's  publication  on  Greek  metres  displays  considerable 
talent  and  ingenuity,  hut,  as  might  be  expected  in  so  difficult 
"ivvork,  is  not  remarkable  tor  accuracy. 

2  The  I/alin  of  the  schools  is  of  the  canine  species, nad  not 
very  intelligdile. 

:; 'J'lu!  (lisc-jvciy  of  Pythagoras,  that  ihe  square  of  the 
hypothenusf  is  "■(|ii,i!  to  the  squares  of  the  other  two  sidesof 
n  r\i:\^'  nr.zk:i\  tiiaiig'e. 

4  Ol  6  c^'inu  day,  ilie  students  wear  surulices  iv  enapel. 


Away,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of  roses ! 

In  you  let  t!ie  minions  of  luxury  rove  ; 
Restore  me  the  rocks  where  the  snow-flake  reposes, 

Though  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom  and  love ; 
Yet,  Caledonia,  beloved  are  thy  mountains. 

Round  their  white  summits  though  elements  war. 
Though  cataracts  foam,  'stead  of  smooth-flowing  foun- 
tains, 

I  sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

Ah  !  there  my  young  footsteps  in  infancy  wander'd. 

My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak  was  the  plaid ;  • 
On  chieftains  long  perish'd  my  memory  ])ondcr'd. 

As  daily  I  strode  through  the  pine-cover'd  glade* 
I  sought  not  my  home  till  the  day's  dying  glory 

Gave  place  to  the  rays  of  the  bright  polar  S'lr  j 
For  Fancy  was  cheer'd  by  traditional  story 

Disclosed  by  the  natives  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

"  Shades  of  the  dead'   iiave  I  not  heard  your  voices 
Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breatli  of  the  gale?" 

Surely  *he  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices, 

And  rides  on  the  wind  o'er  his  own  Highland  vale. 

1  This  word  is  erroneously  pronounced  plod;  the  proper 
pronunciation  (accuiding  to  the  Scotch)  is  shown  by  th* 
orthogrupliy 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


29 


Round  Loch  na  Garr,  while  the  stormy  mist  gainers 

\^'inter  presides  in  his  cold  icy  car ; 
f'loiKls  there  encircle  the  forms  of  my  fathers — 

They  dwell  in  the  tempests  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

"  Ill-starrM,  ■  tliough  brave,  dul  no  visions  foreboding 

Tell  you  that   Fate  had  ibrs.iken  your  cause?" 
Al'i !    were  you  destined  to  die  at  Culloden,  ^ 

Victory  crown'd  not  your  fall  with  applause; 
till  were  you  hap}>y,  in  death's  early  slumber 

You  rest  with  your  clan,  in  the  caves  of  Braemar,' 
The  Pibroch'*  resounds  to  the  [liper's  loud  number 

Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

Years  have  roll'd  on,  Loch  na  Garr,  since  I  left  you  ; 

Years  must  elapse  ere  I  tread  you  again ; 
Nature  of  verdure  and  flowers  has  bereft  you. 

Yet,  still,  are  you  dearer  than  Albion's  plain; 
England!   thy  beauties  are  tame  and  domestic 

To  one  who  has  roved  on  the  mountains  afar ; 
Oh!   for  the  crags  that  are  wild  and  majestic, 

The  steep-frowning  glories  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr! 


TO  ROMANCE. 

Parent  of  goldon  dreams,  Romance! 

Auspicious  queen  of  childish  joys  ! 
Who  lead'st  along,  in  airy  dance, 

Thy  votive  train  of  girls  and  boys ; 
At  length,  in  spells  no  longer  bound, 

I  break  the  fetters  of  my  youth  ; 
N<"  more  I  tread  thy  mystic  round, 

But  leave  thy  realms  for  those  of  Truth. 

And  yet,  't  is  hard  to  (|uit  the  dreams 

Which  haunt  the  unsuspicious  soul, 
Where  every  nymph  a  goddess  seems, 

Whose  eyes  through  rays  immortal  roll ; 
While  Fancy  holds  her  boundless  reign, 

And  all  assume  a  varied  hue. 
When  virgins  seem  no  longer  vain, 

And  even  woman's  smiles  are  true. 

And  must  we  own  thee  but  a  name, 

And  from  thy  hall  o/  clouds  descend ; 
Nor  find  a  sylph  in  every  dame,  , 

A  P3'ladeso  in  every  friend? 
But  leave,  at  once,  thy  realms  of  air, 

To  minghng  bands  of  fairy  elves : 
Confess  that  woman's  false  as  fair, 

\.nd  friends  have  feelings  for — thcmseives. 


1  I  allude  hern  to  my  maternal  ancestors,  "the  Oordons," 
many  of  whom  fouirlit  for  tlie  nnrortunate  Prince  Charles, 
aettei  known  hy  !he  name  of  the  Pretender.  This  branch  was 
nenrly  allied  hy  hlnod,  ns  well  as  attachment,  to  the  Stewarts. 
Geortre,  the  sec{'nd  Earl  of  Huntley,  married  the  Princess 
AntKib,di:(  f^lcwait,  daii<;hUT  of  James  the  First  of  Scotland: 
by  her  he  left  lour  sons:  t!ic  thiril,  Sir  William  Gordon,  I 
have  the  h  jmiur  to  chiim  as  one  o.  my  progenitors. 

2  Whether  any  pc  rished  in  the  battle  of  Culloden  I  am  not 
certain  ;  hut  as  inany  fell  in  riie  insurrection,  I  have  used  the 
name  oi'the  prineipal  action,  "  pars  [iro  toto." 

;^  \  tract  of  the  lii;,'hian(ls  so  calleu  ;  there  is  also  a  Castle 
of  Braemar. 

4  The  Bagpipe. 

'  It  is  hardly  n(>cess;iry  to  add,  that  I'ylades  was  the  com- 
p;!n;i)n  of  Orestes,  and  a  partner  in  one  oft!  i-e  t.iendsliips 
which,  vvitt;  tho.-',' ot"  .Achilles  and  I'airocles,  ^lg^s  and  Eury- 
ains,  Damon  and  PytliiaS,  have  been  lianded  nown  to  pos- 
terity as  r.  markable  instances  of  attachments  which,  in  all 
probability  never  existed,  beyond  the  imaj^ination  of  the 
Boet,  the  page  of  a  historian,  or  modern  novelist 


With  shame,  I  own  1  've  felt  tliy  sway, 

Re|)entant,  now  thy  reign  is  o'er ; 
No  more  thy..^)recepts  I  obey. 

No  more  on  fancied  pinions  soar: 
Fond  fool!    io  love  a  sparkling  eye. 

And  think  that  eye  to  Truth  was  dear, 
To  trust  a  [lassing  wanton's  sigh. 

And  melt  beneath  a  wanton's  tear. 

Romance  !   disgusted  with  deceit, 
Far  from  tny  motley  court  I  fly, 

Where  AlFectation  holds  her  seat. 
And  sickly  Sensibility ; 

Whose  silly  tears  can  never  flow 
For  any  pangs  excepting  thine; 

Who  turns  aside  from  real  woe. 

To  steep  in  dew  thy  gaudy  shrine : 

Now  join  with  sable  Sympathy, 

With  cypress  crown'd,  array'd  in  weeds, 
Who  heaves  with  thee  her  simple  sigh, 

Vv  hose  breast  for  every  bosom  bleeds  ; 
And  call  thy  sylvan  female  quire, 

To  mourn  a  swain  for  ever  gone. 
Who  once  could  glow  with  equal  fire. 

But  bends  not  now  before  thy  throne. 

Ye  genial  nj-mphs,  whose  ready  tears. 

On  all  occasions,  swiftly  flow  ; 
Whose  bosoms  heave  with  fancied  fears, 

Wi'th  fancied  flames  and  phrenzy  glo%v ; 
Say,  will  you  mourn  my  absent  name. 

Apostate  from  j'our  gentle  train  ? 
An  infant  Bard,  at  least,  may  claim 

From  you  a  sympathetic  strain. 

Adieu  !  fond  race,  a  long  adieu  ! 

The  hour  of  fate  is  hoveritig  nigh; 
Even  now  the  gulf  appears  in  view. 

Where  unlamented  you  must  lie : 
Oblivion's  blackening  lake  is  seen 

Convulsed  by  gales  y  .",;  c:,.nnot  uealhrr, 
Where  you,  and  eke  your  gentle  (iocct;, 

Alas  !   must  perish  altogether. 


ELEGY  ON  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY.' 


It  is  the  voice  of  years  that  are  goiu^ 
with  all  their  deeds. 


they  roll  befoic  me 
OSSIAN. 


Newstead  !  ilist  falling,  once  resplendent  dome ! 

Religion's  shrine!   repentant  Henri's '-^  pride! 
Of  warriors,  monks,  and  dames  the  cloister'd  tomb, 

Whose  pensive  shades  around  thy  ruins  glide : 

Hail  to  thy  pile  !  more  honour'd  in  thy  fall, 
Than  modern  mansions  in  their  pillarM  state ; 

Proudly  majestic  frowns  thy  vaulted  hall. 
Scowling  defiance  on  the  blast  of  fate. 

No  mail-clad  serfs, '  obedient  to  their  lord, 
In  grim  array,  the  crimson  cross  "*  demand  : 

Or  gay  assemble  round  the  festive  board. 
Their  chief's  retainers,  an  immortal  band. 


1  As  one  poem  on  this  sn!)ject  is  printed  in  the  beg.nniiiR 
the  ;uithor  had  oriirinally  no  intention  of  insertinir  the  foi'.ow 
im,':  it  is  now  added  at  the  particmlar  reruest  of  some  friends. 

'2  Henry  U.  founded  Newstead  soon  after  the  murder  o. 
Thomas-a-Becket. 

A  This  word  is  used  by  Walter  Scott,  in  his  poem  "  The 
Wild  Huntsman,"  as  synonymous  with  Vassal. 

4  The  Red  Cross  was  the  badge  of  the  Crui^jiders 


30 


BYRON'S    rOETICAL    WORKS. 


Else  might  rw^jiinng   Fancy's  magic  ej-e 

IJ':ii;icc  tlu;ir  progress,  through  the  laj'se  of  time; 

Marking  cac^h  anient   \outh,  urdaiii'd  to  die, 
A  votive  pilgrim,  in  .ludea's  ciime. 

But  not  from  thee,  dark  pile!  departs  the  Chief, 

His  feudal  realm  in  otiu-r  regions  lay  ; 
In  thee,  the  wounded  conscience  courts  relief, 

Retiring  from  the  garish  blaze  of  day. 

Yes,  in  thy  gloomy  cells  and  shades  profound, 
The  monk  abjured  a  world  he  ne'er  could  view ; 

Or  blood-stain'd  Guilt  repenting  solace  found, 
Or  innocence  from  stern  Oppression  Hew. 

\  monarch  bade  thee  from  that  wild  arise. 
Where  Sherwood's  outlaws  once  were  wont  to  prowl; 

And  Superstition's  crimes,  of  various  dyes, 
Sought  shelter  in  the  priest's  protecting  cowl. 

Where  now  the  grass  exhales  a  murky  dew, 
The  humid'pall  of  life-extinguish'd  clay, 

In  sainted  fame  the  sacred  fathers  grew. 
Nor  raised  their  pious  voices,  but  to  pray. 

Where  now  the  bats  their  wavering  wings  extend, 

Soon  as  the  gloaming  '  spreads  her  waning  shade. 
The  chorr  did  oft  their  miiigling  vespers  blend. 

Or  matin  orisons  to  Mary  -  paid. 
Fears  roll  on  vears — to  ages,  ages  yield — 

Abbots  tc  alibots  in  a  line  succeed, 
Religion's  charter  their  protecting  shield, 

Till  royal  sacrilege  their  doom  decreed. 

One  holy  Hexrv  rear'd  the  Gothic  walls, 
And  bade  the  pious  inmates  rest  in  peace ; 

Anothc'-  Henry  3  the  kind  gift  recalls, 
And  bids  devotion's  hallow'd  echoes  cease. 

Vain  is  each  threat,  or  sui)plicating  prayer, 
He  drives  them  exiles  from  their  blest  abode. 

To  roam  a  dreary  world,  in  deep  despair, 
No  friend,  no  home,  no  refuge  but  their  God. 

Hark  !   how  the  hall,  resounding  to  the  strain, 
Shakes  with  the  martial  music's  novel  din ! 

The  heralds  of  a  warrior's  haughty  reign, 

High-cresf^d  banr.ers,  wave  thy  walls  within. 

Of  changing  sentinels  the  distant  hum, 

The  mirth  of  feasts,  the  clang  i>f  burnish'd  arms, 
The  braying  trumpet,  and  the  hoarser  drum, 
Unite  in  concert  with  increased  alarms. 

An  abbey  once,  a  regal  fortress "   now, 

Encircled  by  insulting  rebel  powers  ; 
War's  dread  machines  o'erhang  thy  threatening  brov/, 

And  dart  destruction  in  sulphureous  showers. 

All !  vain  defence  !   the  hostile  traitor's  siege, 

Though  oft  repulsed,  by  guile  o'ercomes  the  brave; 

His  thronging  foes  op[)ress  the  faithful  liege, 
Rebellion's  reeking  standards  o'er  him  wave. 

Not  unavenged,  the  raging  baron  yields. 

The  blood  of  traitors  smears  the  purple  plain; 

''nronquer'd  still  his  falchion  th<  re  he  wields, 
And  days  of  glory  yet  for  him  remain. 


1   As  "  GlonminK,"   the  Scottisli  word  tor  TwiliL'hi.  is  liir 
ore  poolical,  am!  has  been  recoiiiiiicinlcd  by  imniy  criiiricnt 
"t«;rary  men,  piirfu^ii^^irly  Dr.  Moore,  in  his  I.rU(!r«  lo  r.si.ns, 
nave  ventured  to  u.-u  it  on  account  of  it.s  Imrinony. 
J  Ttu;  f'riory  was  dcdiciited  to  th(i  Virj/in. 

3  At  the  dissolution  of  Uu-  MonasKries.  Flenry  ^'11 1    be- 
v^w.■(?  Newstead  Abhcy  on  Sir  Jolin  iJyroti. 

4  Newsterid  Biistain.-d  a  .•onsidciiil.In  siego  i>  tiie  war  he- 
twcer  <'liail.'s  I    and  ins  t>:irli;injcnl. 


Still,  in  that  hour  the  wairior  wish'd  tc  strew 
Self-gather'd  laurels  on  a  self-sought  grave ; 

But  Charles'  protecting  genius  hither  flew. 
The  monarch's  friend,  the  monarch's  hope,  to  Ba?« 

Trembling  she  snatch'd  him  '   from  the  unefjua!  stn(«» 

In  othei  fields,  the  torrent  to  repel, 
For  nobler  combats  here  reserved  his  life. 

To  lead  the  band  where  godlike  Falkland'  f 

From  thee,  poor  pile  ;  to  lawless  plunder  given, 
W^hile  dying  groans  theii  painful  recpiiem  sound, 

Far  different  incense  now  ascends  to  heaven — 
Such  victims  wallow  on  the  gory  ground. 

There,  many  a  pale  and  ruthless  robber's  corse, 
Noisome  and  ghast,  defiles  thy  sacred  sod  ; 

O'er  mingling  man,  and  horse  commix'd  with  horse. 
Corruption's  heap,  the  savage  spoilers  trod. 

Graves,  long  with  rank  and  sighing  weeds  o'erspread« 
Ransack'd,  resign  [jerforce  their  mortal  mould  ; 

From  ruffian  fangs  escape  not  e'en  the  dead, 
Raked  from  repose,  in  search  of  buried  gold. 

Hush'd  is  the  harp,  unstrung  the  warlike  lyre. 
The  minstrel's  palsied  hand  reclines  in  death  , 

No  more  he  strikes  the  quivering  chords  with  fire, 
Or  sings  the  glories  of  the  martial  wreath. 

At  length,  the  sated  murderers,  gorged  with  prey. 
Retire — the  clamour  of  the  fight  is  o'er; 

Silence  again  resumes  her  awful  sway 
And  sable  Horror  guards  the  massy  aoor. 

Here  Desolation  holds  her  dreary  court ; 

What  salelhtes  declare  her  dismal  leign! 
Shrieking  their  dirge,  ill-omen'd  birds  resort, 

To  flit  their  vigils  in  the  hoarv  fane. 

Soon  a  new  morn's  restoring  jeains  dispel 
The  clouds  of  anarchy  from  Britain's  skies; 

The  fierce  usurper  seeks  his  native  hell, 
And  Nature  triumphs  as  the  tyrant  dies. 

With  storms  she  welcomes  his  expiring  groans. 
Whirlwinds  responsive  greet  his  labouring  brearth, 

Earth  shudders  as  her  cave  receives  his  bones, 
Loathing  '  the  offering  of  so  dark  a  death. 

The  legal  Ruler*  now  resumes  the  helm, 

He  guides  through  gentle  seas  the  prow  of  stale : 

Hope  cheers  with  wonted  smiles  the  peaceful  realm, 
And  heals  the  bleeding  wounds  of  wearied  Hate. 

The  gloomy  tenants,   Newstead,  of  thy  cells. 

Howling  resign  their  violaterl  nest; 
Again  the  master  on  his  tenure  d  \ells, 

Enjoy'd,  from  absence,  with  enraft^ured  zest. 

1  liord  liyruii  nnd  his  brother  Sir  William  hold  hiah  coin 
inands  in  the  royal  army;  the  former  was  General  in  (^liiel  in 
Irehuid,  Licuien-mt  of  the  To\v(!r,  Jinii  Governor  to  Junie* 
Duke  of  York,  aftervynrds  the  niihiipiiy  .lames  II.  The  laUef 
had  a  ini'icirial  share  in  many  ai;iions.  Fide  Clarer.do* 
Hiinif',  etc. 

2  [iUciiis  Cary,  Lord  V'ispomit  Falkland,  the  most  acconfr 
plislied  man  ofhis  nu'e,  was  killed  at  the  hattle  i  f  Newberry 
ciiarc-m?  in  the  ranks   d"  Lord  Hyron's  regiment  of  cavalry. 

P  Tlds  IS  a  iiistorical  fact.  A  vicdcnt  tempest  ocenrrefl  »m 
mediately  siihscviin'nt  to  the  death,  or  intermi-nt,  of  Cromwell, 
which  occasioned  many  disputes  between  his  partisans  anc 
s  :  botli  inierprete(i   the  circumstance  into  divin" 


the  cavaliers  :  botli  inierpretc(i  the  circumstance  into  diviii" 
I  iiiterposit'ioii,  but  wliethcr  as  approbation  or  condemnation 
!     we  leave  to  ibc  casiiis's  of  that  ape  to  decide.     1  have  made 

sni-h  use  of  the  occurrence  as  suited  the  subject  of  my  poena 
ICliarles  II. 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


II 


Vassals  within  th)  hospitable  pale, 

Loudly  carousing,  bless  their  lord's  return  ; 

Culture  again  adonis  the  gladdejiinc  vale, 

And  matrons,  once  lamenting,  cease  to  mourn. 

A  thousand  songs  on  tuneful  echo  float, 

Umvonted  foliage  mantles  o'er  the  trees ; 
And,  hark !   the  horns  proclaim  a  mellow  note. 

The  hvmter's  cry  hangs  lengthening  on  the  breeze. 
Beneath  their  coursers'  hoofs  the  valleys  shake  : 

What  fears,  what  anxicas  hojies  attend  the  chase! 
The  dying  stag  seeks  refuge  in  the  lake. 

Exulting  shouts  announce  the  finish'd  race. 

Ah !  happy  days!  too  happy  to  endure  I 

Such  simple  sports  our  plain  forefathers  knew : 

No  splendid  vices  glitter'd  to  allure — 

Their  joys  were  many,  as  their  cares  were  few. 

From  these  descending,  sons  to  sires  succeed, 
Time  steals  along,  and  Death  uprears  his  dart ; 

Another  chief  impels  the  foamuig  steed, 
Another  crowd  pursue  the  panting  hart. 

Ne\vste<id!   what  saddening  change  of  scene  is  thine! 

Thy  yawning  arch  betokens  slow  decay  ; 
The  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line 

Now  holds  thy  mouldering  turrets  in  his  swav. 

Deserted  now,  he  scans  thy  grav-worn  towers 

Thy  vaults,  where  dead  of  feudal  ages  sleep — 

Thy  cloisters,  pervious  to  the  wintry  showers 

These,  these  he  views,  and  viev.s  them  but  to  weep 

Yet  are  his  tears  no  em-blein  of  regret, 

Cherish'd  affrction  only  bids  them  flow  ; 
Pride,  Hope,  and  Love  forbid  him  to  fori^et, 

B'i\  warm  his  bosom  with  imnassion'd  '^low. 
Vet,  he  prefers  thee  to  the  gilded  domes, 

Or  gewgaw  grottos  of  the  vainly  great ; 
Vol  hngers  'mid  thy  damp  and  mossy  tombs, 

Nor  breathes  a  murmur  'gainst  the  will  of  fate. 
Haply  thy  sun  emerging  yet  may  shine, 

Thee  to  irradiate  w  ith  meridian  rav ; 
Hours  splendid  as  the  past  may  still  be  thine, 

And  bless  thy  future  as  thy  former  day. 


TO  E.  N.  L.  ESQ. 


Nil  ego  contuierim  jiicundi 


amico. 
HOR. 


Dear  L ,  in  this  sequester'd  scene, 

While  all  around  in  slumber  he, 
The  joyous  days  which  ours  have  been 

Come  roUing  fresh  on  Fancy's  eye: 
Thus,  if  amidst  the  gathering  storm. 
While  clouds  the  darken'd  noon  deform, 
Yon  heaven  assumes  a  varied  glow, 
I  hail  the  sky's  celestial  boa, 
Which  spreads  the  sisn  of  future  peace, 
And  bids  the  war  of  tempests  cease. 
Ah  !   though  the  ])resent  brings  but  pain, 
I  think  those  days  may  come  again ; 
Or  if,  in  melancholy  mood, 
Some  lurking  envious  fear  intrude, 
To  check  my  bosom's  fondest  thought, 

And  interrupt  the  golden  dream  ; 
1  crash  the  fiend  Vvith  malice  fraught, 

And  still  indulge  my  wonted  theme  ; 
Although  we  ne'er  ajjain  can  trace, 

In  G'anta's  vale,  the  ued;int's  lore, 


Nor,  through  the  groves  of  Ida,  chas© 

Our  raptured  visions  as  before  ; 
^J'hough  Youth  has  flown  on  rosy  pinion, 
And  Manhood  claims  his  stern  domii  ion, 
Age  wiH  no   every  hope  destroy, 
But  yield  some  hours  of  sober  joy. 

Yes,  I  will  hope  that  Time's  broad  wing 
Will  shed  around  some  dews  of  spring; 
But,  if  his  scythe  must  sweep  the  flower* 
Whicti  oioom  among  the  fairy  bowers, 
Where  smihng  Youth  delights  to  dwell, 
And  hearts  with  early  rapture  swell ; 
if  frowning  Age,  with  cold  control, 
Coiilines  the  current  of  the  soul, 
Con>ieals  the  tear  of  Pity'j  eye. 
Or  checks  the  sympathetic  sigh. 
Or  hears  unmoved  INIisfortune's  groan. 
And  bids  me  feel  for  self  alone  ; 
Oh  !   may  my  bosom  never  learn. 

To  soothe  its  wonted  hcedl.ess  flow, 
Still,  still,  despise  the  censor  stem, 

But  ne'er  forget  another's  woe. 
Yes,  as  you  knew  me  in  the  days 
O'er  which  Remembrance  yet  delays, 
Still  may  I  rove  imtutor'd,  wild, 
And  even  in  age  at  heart  a  child. 

Though  now  on  airy  visions  borne, 
To  you  my  soul  is  still  the  same, 
Oft  has  ;t  been  mv  fate  to  mourn, 

And  all  my  former  joys  are  tame. 
But,  hence  !  ye  hours  of  sable  hue, 

Your  frowns  are  g«)iic,  my  sorrow's  o'er; 
By  everv  bliss  my  childhood  knew, 

I  'il  think  upon  vour  shadr-  no  more. 
Thus,  when  the  whirlwind's  rage  is  pas! 

And  caves  their  sullen  roar  enclose, 
We  heed  no  more  the  wintry  blast, 
When  lull'd  by  zcjjhyr  to  repose. 
Full  often  has  my  inflint  Muse 

Attuned  to  love  her  languid  lyre  ; 

But  now,  without  a  theme  to  choose, 

The  strains  in  stolen  sighs  expire; 

My  youthfiil  nymphs,  alas  !   are  flown  ; 

E is  a  wife,  and  C a  mother, 

And  Carolina  sighs  alone, 

An.l  Mary  's  given  to  another; 
And  Cora's  eye,  which  roll'd  on  me, 
Cuu  now  no  more  my  love  recall ; 

In  truth,  dear  L ,  't  was  time  to  flee, 

For  Cora's  eye  will  shine  on  ail. 
And  though  the  sun,  with  genial  rays, 
His  Iseams  alike  to  all  displa3-s, 
And  ev(!ry  lady's  eye's  a  sun, 
These  Kst  should  be  confineu  to  one. 
The  soul's  meridian  don't  become  her 
Whose  sun  displays  a  general  summer. 
Thus  iaiMt  is  every  former  flame, 
x\nd  Passion's  self  is  now  a  name  : 
As,  \\he!i  the  ebbing  flames  are  low, 

The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light, 
And  bade  them  burn  with  fiercer  glow, 

Now  (juenches  all  their  sparks  in  night ; 
Th.is  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires. 
As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers, 
While  all  the  force  of  love  expires, 
Extinguish'd  with  the  dying  embers. 

But  now,  dear  L ,  't  is  midnight's  noen. 

And  clouds  obscure  the  watery  moon. 


H2 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


fVhose  boQuties  I  shall  not,  rehearse, 
Described  in  every  stripling's  verse  ; 
For  why  should  I  the  path  go  o'er, 
Which  every  bard  has  trod  before  ? 
Yet,  ere  yon  silver  lamj)  of  night 

Has  thnce  perforrn'd  her  stated  round, 
Has  thrice  retraced  her  path  of  light, 

And  chased  away  the  gloom  profound, 
I  trust  tliat  we,  my  gentle  friend. 
Shall  see  her  rolling  orbit  wend 
Above  the  dear-loved  peaceful  seat 
VYhich  once  contain'd  our  youth's  retreat ; 
And  then,  with  those  our  childhood  knew, 
We  'il  mingle  with  the  festive  crew  ; 
While  many  a  tale  of  former  day 
Shall  wmg  the  laughing  hours  away; 
And  all  the  flow  of  soul  shall  pour 
The  sacred  intellectual  shower, 
Nor  cease,  till  Lun^j's  waning  horn 
Scarce  glimmers  through  the  mist  of  Morn. 

TO  . 

Oh  !   had  my  fate  been  join'd  with  thine, 

As  once  this  pledge  appear'd  a  token, 
These  follies  had  not  then  been  mine. 

For  then  my  peace  had  not  been  broken. 
Tf  thee  these  early  faults  I  owe, 

To  thee,  the  wise  and  old  reproving; 
They  know  my  sins,  but  do  not  know 

'1'  n'as  thme  to  break  the  bonds  of  loving. 
For  once  my  soui,  like  thine,  was  pure. 

And  all  its  risinj;  fires  could  smother; 
But  now  thy  vows  no  more  endure, 

Bestow'd  by  thee  u[!oti  another. 
Perhaps  his  peace  I  could  destroy. 

And  spoil  the  blisses  that  await  him ; 
*Vet,  let  my  rival  smile  mjoy. 

For  thy  dear  sake  1  cannot  hate  him. 
Ah  !   suice  thy  angel  form  is  gone, 

My  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any ; 
But  what  it  sought  in  thee  alone. 

Attempts,  alas  !   to  find  in  many. 
Then  fare  thee  well,  deceitful  maid, 

'T  were  vain  and  fruitless  to  regret  thee  ; 
Nor  ho[)e  nor  memory  yield  their  aid. 

But  pride  may  teach  me  to  forget  thee. 
Yet  all  this  giddy  waste  of  years. 

This  tiresome  round  of  palling  pleasures, 
These  varied  loves,  these  matron's  fears. 

These  thoughtless  strains  to  passion's  measures, 
If  thou  wert  mine,  had  all  jeen  hush'd ; 

This  chev>k,  now  palo  from  early  riot, 
"S^'ith  Passion's  liectic  ne'er  had  flush'd. 

But  bloom'd  in  calm  domestic  quiet. 
Yes,  once  the  rural  scene  was  sweet. 

For  Nature  seem'd  to  smile  before  thee ; 
And  once  my  breast  abhorr'd  deceit, 

Foi  tlii-ri  it  heat  but  to  adore  thee. 
But  now  I  seek  for  other  joys  ; 

^J'cj  think  would  drivi;  my  soul  to  madness ; 
In  thoughtb^ss  thror!>zs  and  empty  noise, 

I  conipicr  half  my  bosom's  sadness. 
Yet,  even  in  lh(!se  a  thought  will  steal, 

In  npite  of  every  vain  endeavour; 
.\nd  fiends  might  pity  what  I  feel. 
To  know  tiuU  thou  art  lost  for  ever. 


I  STANZAS. 

i  I  WOULD  I  were  a  careless  child, 

:       Still  dwelling  in  my  iiighlaad  cave^ 

;  Or  roaming  tiirougli  the  dusky  wild,  v/ 

;      Or  bounding  o'er  the  dark-blue  wave. 

j  The  cumbrous  [joinp  of  Saxon  '  pride 

i      Accords  not  with  the  free-born  soul, 

I  Which  loves  the  mountain's  craggy  side, 

I      And  seeks  the  rocks  where  billows  roll. 

;  Fortune!  take  back  these  cultured  lands, 
j      Take  back  this  nam^c  ot  spi  ndid  sound  ! 
I  hate  the  touch  of  servile  hands — 
I  hate  the  slaves  that  cringe  around : 
;  Place  me  along  the  rocks  I  love, 

Which  sound  to  ocean's  wildest  roar  ; 
I  ask  but  this — again  to  rove 

Through  scenes  my  youth  hath  known  before. 

Few  are  my  years,  and  yet  I  feel 

The  world  was  ne'er  desi;:n'd  for  me  ; 
Ah  !   why  do  dark'ning  shades  conceal 

The  hour  when  man  must  cease  to  be?         ^ 
Once  I  beheld  a  splendid  dream, 

A  visionary  scene  of  bliss  ; 
Truth  !   wherefore  did  thy  hated  beam 

Awake  me  to  a  world  like  this'? 

1  loved — but  those  I  loved  are  gone  ; 

Had  friends — my  early  friends  are  lied  ; 
How  cheerless  feels  the  heart  alone 
"When  all  its  former  hopes  are  dead !  \/ 

Though  gay  comjianions  o'er  the  bowl 
Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill, 
;  Though  Pleasure  stirs  the  rnaddenins  &oul,       ^ 
The  heart — the  heart  is  lonely  still. 

<  How  dull  to  hear  the  voice  of  those 
\      Whom  Rank  or  Chance,  whom  Wealth  or  Power 
•  Have  made,  though  neither  friends  nor  foes. 
Associates  of  the  festive  hour. 
Gi\e  me  again  a  iailhful  few, 
'      In  years  and  leelings  still  the  same, 
And  I  will  fly  the  midnight  crew. 

Where  boist'rous  Joy  is  but  a  name. 

And  Woman!  lovely  VYoman,  thou, 

My  hope,  my  comforter,  my  all ! 
How  cold  must  be  my  bosom  now. 

When  e'en  thy  smiles  begin  to  pall ! 
Without  a  sigh  would  I  resign 

This  bus^'  scene  of  splendid  woe. 
To  make  that  calm  contentment  mine 

Which  V  irtue  knows,  or  seems  to  know. 

Fsan^wouM.l,ily.,lhe  haunts  of  me« — 

I  seek  to  shun,  not  hate  maakiiKl ; 
■My  breast  requir(!s  the  sullen  glen, 
5     Whose  gloom  may  suit  a  darken'd  mind, 
jPh!   that  to  me  the  wings  were  given 
I    Which  hear  the  turtle  to  her  nesti 
trhen  would  I  cleave  the  vault  ol  Jleaven, 
'    To  flee  away  -,111(1  be  at   rest.^ 

4— — 


iC;i 


ic  won]  si;:iiiryiiiu:  elllicr  T^ow 


kn 


1  Saspennh,  or  S 
'nrif]  or  Knt'li.-h. 

2  Psalm  Iv.  v.  6.—"  And  1  said,  (>!i  !  timt  I  liaii_\viiu 
a  dove,  Ihon  would  1  (ly  iivv^ay  and  hu  at  rest."  'I'liis  \i>\<i\ 
also  cuastitutes  a  part  of  the  most  beauliiui  anUiein  ia  uur 
hmguage. 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


88 


LINES 

WRITIEN    BENEATH   AX  ELM     IX  THE  CHURCH VAKL 
OF    HARROW    ON    THE    HILL. 

SEPT.    2,  1807. 

^POT  of  my  youth!   whose  hoarv  b.anchcs  siph, 
Sw  c[)f  by  the  breeze  that  fans  thy  cloiulloss  sky ; 
XN'here  now  alone  I  muse,  who  oft  liave  trod, 
.With  those  I  loved,  thy  soft  and  verdant  sod  ; 
With  those  who,  scatter'd  far,  perchance  ticplore, 
Like  me,  the  happy  scenes  they  knew  before  : 
Oh !   as  I  trace  again  thy  winding  hill, 
IVIine  eyes  admire,  my  heart  adores  thee  still, 
Thou  drooping  Elm!   beneath  whose  boughs  I  lay, 
And  frequent  musetl  the  twilight  hoars  away  ; 
Where,  as  they  once  were  wont,  my  limbs  recline. 
But  ah!   witliout  the  thoughts  which  then  were  mine  . 
How  do  thy  branches,  moaning  to  the  blast, 
Invite  the  bosom  to  recall  the  past; 
And  seem  to  whisper,  as  thev  gentU'  swell^ 
"Take,  while  thou  can'st,  a  lingering  last  farewell!" 
When  Fate  shall  chill  at  length  this  fever'd  breast, 
And  calm  its  cares  and  passions  into  rest. 
Oft  have  I  thought  't  would  soothe  my  dying  hour, 
If  aught  may  soothe  when  life  resigns  her  power, 
1  o  know  some  humbler  grave,  some  nari-ow  cell. 
Would  hide  my  bosom  where  it  loved  to  dwell : 

With  this  fond  dream  methinks  't  were  sweet  to  die 

And  here  it  linger'd,  here  my  heart  might  lie ; 
iiere  might  1  sleep,  where  ail  my  hopes  arose, 
Scone  of  m\-  youth,  and  couch  of  mv  repose  : 
I'  )r  ever  stretch'd  beneath  this  mantling  shade, 
Prest  by  the  turf  where  once  my  childhood  play'd, 
Wrapt  by  the  soil  that  veils  the  spot  I  loved, 
Mix'd  with  the  earth  o'er  %vhicli  my  footsteps  moved 
Blest  by  the  tongues  that  charm'd  my  youthful  ear, 
Mourn'd  by  the  few  my  soul  acknowledged  here. 
Deplored  by  those  in  early  days  allied. 
And  unremember'd  by  the  world  beside. 


THE  DEATH  OF  CALMAR  AND  ORLA. 

An  imitation  of  Dlacphersnri's  Ossian.^ 
Dear  are  the  days  of  youth!  Age  dwells  on  their  re- 
inembrance  through  the  mist  of  time.  In  the  twiliolu 
he  recalls  the  sunny  hours  of  morn.  He  lifts  his  spear 
with  trembling  hand.  "  Not  thus  feebly  did  I  raise  the 
steel  before  my  fathers  !"  Past  is  the  "race  of  heroes  ! 
but  tneir  fame  rises  on  the  harp  ;  their  souls  ride  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind !  they  hear  the  sound  through 
the  sighs  of  the  storm,  and  rejoice  in  their  hall  "oi 
clouds!  Such  is  Calmar.  The  gray  stone  marks  his 
narrow  house.  He  looks  down  from  eddying  tempests, 
he  rolls  his  form  in  the  whirlwind ;  and  hovers  on  the 
blast  of  the  mountain. 

In  iMorven  dwelt  the  chief;  a  beam  of  war  to  Fingal. 
His  steps  in  the  field  were  marked  in  blood  ;  Lochlin's 
sons  had  fled  before  his  angry  spear :   but  mild  was  the 

eye  of  Calmar  ;   soft  was  the  flow  of  his  yellow  locks 

thi'.y  stream'd  like  the  meteor  of  the  night.  No  maid 
was  the  sigh  of  his  soul  ;  his  thoughts  were  given  to 
friendship,  to  diu-k-haired  Orla,  destroyer  of  heroes  ! 
Equiil  were  their  swords  in  battle  ;  but  fierce  was  the 
pride  of  Oria,  gentle  alone  to  Calmar.  Together  they 
dwelt  in  the  cave  of  Oithona. 

From  Lochlin,  Swaran  bounded  o'er  the  blue  waves. 

1  It  may  be  necessary  to  onserve,  that  the  story,  fhouoii 
eonsi'ierahly  varied  in  the  cjitastrophe,  is  tak.-n  from  "  Xisus 
md  Ruryalus."  of  which  episode  a  trangjation  has  been  al 
leady  given. 


Erin's  sons  fell  beneath  his  might.  Fingal  roused  hit 
chiefs  to  combat.  Their  ships  cover  the  ocean  !  Their 
hosts  throng  on  the  green  hills.  They  come  to  the  ma 
of  Erin. 

Night  rose  in  clouds.  Darkness  veils  the  armies  ^ 
bul  the  blazing  oaks  gleam  through  the  valley.  Th* 
sons  of  Lochlin  slept:  their  dreams  were  of  blood.  They 
hft  the  spear  in  thought,  and  Fingal  flics.  Not  so  tne 
host  of  Murven.  To  watch  was  the  post  of  Orla.  Cal- 
mar stood  by  his  side.  Their  spears  were  in  their  hands, 
Fingal  called  his  chiefs.  They  stood  around.  The  king 
wa,  in  the  midst.  Gray  were  his  locks,  but  strong  was 
the  arm  of  the  king.  Age  withered  not  his  powers. 
"  Sonsof.Morven,"  said  the  hero,  "to-morrow  weineei 
the  foo  ;  but  where  is  Cuthullin,  the  shield  of  Erin? 
He  rests  in  the  halls  of  Tura ;  he  knows  not  of  o\v 
coming.  Whe  will  speed  through  Lochlin  to  the  hero, 
and  call  the  chief  to  arms?  The  path  is  by  the  swords 
of  foes,  but  many  are  my  heroes.  They  are  thunderbolts 
of  war.     Speak,  ye  chiefs  !   who  will  arise?" 

"  Son  of  Trenmor  !  mine  be  the  deed,"  said  dark- 
h:iired  Orla,  "  and  mine  alone.  W^hat  is  death  to  me  'I 
I  love  the  sleep  of  the  mighty,  but  little  is  the  danger. 
The  sons  of  Lochlin  dream.  I  will  seek  car-borne 
Cuthullin.  If  I  fall,  raise  the  song  of  bards,  and  lay 
me  by  the  stream  of  Lubar."— "  And  shalt  thou  fall 
alone  ?"  said  fair-haired  Calmar.  "  Wilt  thou  leave  !  hy 
friend  afar,  Chief  of  Oithona?  not  feeble  is  my  arm  in 
fight.  Could  I  see  thee  die,  and  not  lift  the  spear?  No, 
Oi  la !  ours  has  been  the  chase  of  the  roebuck,  and  the 
feast  of  shells  ;  ours  be  the  path  of  danger :  ours  has 
been  the  cave  of  Oithona  ;  ours  be  the  narrow  dwtlhng 
on  the  banks  of  Lubar."— "  Calmar  !"  said  the  chiefs). 
Oilliona,  "why  should  thy  yellow  locks  be  darkened 
in  the  dust  of  Erin?  Let  me  fall  alone.  INIy  father 
dwells  in  his  hall  of  air :  he  will  rejoice  in  his  boy  •  but 
tiie  blue-eyed  Mora  spreads  the  feast  for  her  s(  n  in 
Moi  ven.  She  listens  to  the  steps  of  the  hunter  on  the 
heath,  and  thinks  it  is  the  tread  ot  Calmar.  Let  him 
not  say,  'Calmar  is  fallen  by  the  steel  of  Lochlin  ;  he 
died  with  gloomy  Orla,  the  chief  of  the  dark  brow.' 
Why  should  tears  dim  the  aTrure  eye  ol  Mora?  Why 
should  her  voice  curse  Orla,  the  destroyer  of  Calmar? 
Live,  Calmar  !  live  to  raise  my  stone  of  moss;  live  to 
revenge  me  in  the  blood  of  Lochlin  !  Join  the  song  ot 
bards  above  my  grave.  Sweet  will  be  the  song  of  death 
to  Orla,  from  the  voice  of  Calmar.  INIy  ghost  shall  smile 
on  the  notes  of  praise." — "Orla!"  said  the  son  of 
xMora,  "could  I  raise  the  song  of  death  to  my  frienu? 
Could  I  give  his  fame  to  the  winds?  No;  my  heart 
would  speak  in  sighs ;  faint  and  broken  are  the  sounds 
of  SOI  row.  Orla  !  our  souls  shall  hear  the  song  together. 
One  cloud  shall  be  ours  on  high ;  the  bards  will  "mingle 
the  names  of  Orla  and  Calmar." 

They  quit  the  circle  of  the  chiefs.  Their  steps  are 
to  the  host  of  Lochlin.  The  dying  blaze  of  oak  dim 
twinkles  through  the  night.  The  northern  star  points 
the  path  to  Tura-  Swaran,  the  king,  rests  en  his 
lonely  hill.  Here  the  troops  are  mixed  :  they  frown  in 
sleep,  their  shields  beneath  their  heads.  *Their  swords 
gleam,  at  distance,  in  heaps.  The  fires  are  faint ;  tlieir 
embers  fail  in  smoke.  All  is  hushed  ;  but  the  galo 
sighs  on  the  rocks  above.  Lightly  wheel  »he  hero<'s 
through  the  slumbering  band.  Half  the  journey  i> 
past,  when  Mathon,  resting  on  his  shield,  meets  the 
eye  of  Oria.  it  rolls  in  flame,  and  glistens  through  the 
shade  :  his  spear  is  raised  on  high.  "Why  dost  thou 
bend  thy  brow,  Chief  of  Oithona?"  said  fair-haired 
Calmar.  "We  are  in  the  midst  of  foes.  Is  this  a  time 
for  delay  ?" — "It  is  a  time  for  vengeance,"  said  Orla, 


34 


BYIlO^^'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


of  the  gloomy  brow.  "  Mathon  of  Lochlin  sleeps  :  seest  1 
tliou  his  spear '/  Its  point  is  dim  with  the  gore  of  my  | 
falher.  The  blood  of  Mathon  shall  reek  on  mine  ;  l)ut 
shall  I  slay  him  sleeping,  son  of  Mora?  No!  he  shall 
feel  his  wound ;  my  fame  shall  not  soar  on  the  blood 
of  slumber.  Rise,  Mathon !  rise  !  the  son  of  Connal  calls; 
thy  life  is  his :  rise  to  combat."  Mathon  starts  from 
sleep,  but  did  he  rise  alone  ?  No  :  the  gathering  chiefs 
boimd  on  the  plain.  "Fly,  Calmar,  fly!"  said  dark- 
haired  Oria :  "  Mathon  is  mine  ;  I  shall  die  in  joy  ;  but 
Lochlin  crowds  around ;  fly  through  the  shade  of  night." 
Orla  turns ;  the  helm  of  IMathon  is  cleft ;  his  shield 
falls  from  his  arm  :  he  shudders  in  his  blood.  He  rolls 
by  the  side  of  the  blazing  oak.  Strumon  setjs  him  fall. 
His  wrath  rises;  his  weapon  glitters  on  the  head  of 
Orla  ;  but  a  spear  pierced  his  eye.  His  bram  gushes 
Jhroagh  the  wound,  and  foains  on  the  spear  of  Calmar. 
As  roil  the  waves  of  Ocean  on  two  mighty  harks  of  the 
north,  so  pour  the  men  of  Lochlin  on  the  chiefs.  As, 
breaking  the  surge  in  foam,  proudly  steer  the  barks  of 
the  north,  so  rise  the  chiefs  of  Morven  on  the  scattered 
crests  of  Lochlin,  The  din  of  arms  came  to  the  ear  of 
Fingal.  He  strikes  his  shield  :  his  sons  throng  around  ; 
the  people  pour  along  the  heath.  Ryno  bounds  in  joy. 
Ossian  stalks  in  his  arms.  Oscar  shakes  the  spear.  The 
eagle  wing  of  Fillan  floats  on  the  wind.  Dreadfiil  is 
the  clang  of  death  !  many  are  tiie  widows  of  Lochlin. 
Morven  prevails  in  his  strength. 

Morn  glimmers  on  the  hills:  no  living  foe  is  seen; 
but  the  sleepers  are  many :  grim  they  lie  on  Erin.  The 
breeze  of  ocean  lifts  their  locks  :  yet  they  do  not  awake. 
The  hawks  scream  above  their  prey. 

Whose  yellow  locks  wave  o'er  the  breast  of  a  chief? 
rigu  as  the  gold  of  the  stranger,  they  mingle  with  the 
iark  hair  of  his  friend.     'Tis  Calmar — he  lies  on  the    | 
besom  of  Orla.    Theu's  is  one  stream  of  blood.     Fietce    I 
is  the  look  of  the  gloomy  Orla.     He  breathes  not  ;   but    j 
his  eye  is  still  a  flame :   it  glares  in  death  u^iClosed. 
His  hand  is  grasped  in  Calmar's  ;  but  Calmar  lives :  he 
lives,  though  low.    "Rise,"  said  the  king,  "rise,  son  of 
Mora, 'tis  mine  to  heal  the  wounds  of  heroes.    Calmar    j 
may  vet  bound  on  the  hills  of  Morven." 

"  Never  more  shall  Calmar  chase  the  deer  of  Morvec  ! 
with  Orla;"  said  the  hero,  "what  were  the  chase  to 
me,  aione  ?  Who  would  share  the  spoils  of  battle  with 
Calmar?  Orla  is  at  rest!  Rough  was  thy  soul,  Orla! 
yet  soft  to  me  as  the  dew  of  morn.  It  glared  on  others  in 
lighriiing  ;  to  me  a  silver  beam  of  night.  liear  my  sword 
to  blae-eyed  INIora  :  let  it  hang  in  my  empty  hall.  It  is 
not  pure  from  blood :  but  it  could  not  save  Or\d.  Lay 
me  .vith  my  friend:   raise  the  song  when  I  am  dark." 

They  are  Ifiid  by  the  stream  of  Lubar.  Four  gray 
stones  maik  tne  dwelling  of  Orla  and  Calmar. 

When  Swaran  was  bound,  our  sails  rose  on  the  blue 
waves.  The  winds  gave  our  barks  to  Morven.  The 
Bards  raised  the  song. 

"  What  form  rises  on  the  roar  of  clouds !  whose  dark 
ghost  gleams  on  the  red  streams  of  tempests  ?  his  voice 
rolls  on  the  thunder.  'T  is  Orla  ;  the  brown  chief  of 
Oil  bona.  He  Wiis  unmatched  in  war-  Peace  to  diy  soul, 
Or.a!  thy  fame  will  not  perish.  Nor  thine,  Calmar!  lovely 
wast  thou,  son  of  blue-eyed  iVIora ;  but  not  harmless 
was  thy  sword.  It  hangs  in  tliy  cave.  The  ghosts  of 
L-or  inn  shriek  around  its  steel.  Hear  thy  praise,  Calmar! 
It  d'vells  on  the  voice  of  the  mighty.  Tiiy  name  shakes 
on  ine  echoes  of  Morven.  Then  raise  thy  fair  lo(;ks,  son 
of  Mora;  spread  them  on  the  arch  of  die  rainbow,  and 
smile  througli  the  tears  of  the  storm."  ' 


ON  A  DISTANT  VIEW  OF   THE   VILLAGE.    \NU 
SCHOOL  OF  HARROW  ON  THE  HILL. 


Oh' 


1  1  *'ciir  Liiiii'i'sliitiM'iluion  lias  I'oinpli'ti'ly  overthrown  f-vory 
hov  ilijt  Mucplmrsoi  'h  Os>iiai»  luib'lil  prove  the 'rraiisiutioii  of 


niihi  prcEteritos  refurat  si  .lupiter  annos. 

Virgil,  yEiieid,  lib.  3.  50W 


1. 

Ye  scenes  of  my  childhood,  u  hose  "ioved  recollection 
Embitters  the  present,  compared  with  the  past  , 

Where  science  first  dawned  on  tiif^  powers  of  retiection, 
Aiul  friendships  were  forin'd  too  romantic  to  las.!; 


Where  fancy  yet  J-iys  to  retrace  the  resemlilance 

Of  comrades  in  friendship  and  niiscliief  allied  ; 
How  'w(dcome  to  nu;  your  ne'er  fadinjj  remembrance. 

Which  rests  in  the  bosom,  though  hopi;  is  denied  ! 
3. 
Again  1  revisit  the  hills  where  we  sported, 

The  streams  where  we  swam,  and  the  fields  where  we 
foiijilil ; 
The  school  wIkuc,  loud  \\;>rn'd  by  the  bell,  we  resor»'"d 

To  pore  o'er  the  precepts  \>y  p(;dai.'oiMies  taught 

4. 

Again  I  b-dinld  where  for  hours  I  have  ponder'd, 
As  recliidnj:,  at  eve,  on  yon  tombstone  I  lay  ; 

Or  round  the  steep  brow  of  the  churcliyard  I  wamier'd. 
To  catch  the  last  gleam  of  tiie  sun's  setting  ray. 

5. 
I  once  more  view  the  room  witli  spectators  surroundesi. 

Where,  as  Zauta,  I  trod  on  Alonzo  o'erthrovvn  ; 
While   to   swell    my   young   pride   such   applauses  j». 

I  fancied  that  M.>!-sop'  himself  was  outshone: 
6. 

Or,  as  Lear,  I  poured  forth  the  deep  Imprecation, 
By  my  daughters  of  kingdom  and  reason  deprived; 

Till,  fired  by  loud  [daudits  and  self-adulation, 
I  reuarded  mvseif  as  a  Garrick  revived. 


Ye  dreams  of  my  boyhood,  how  nrucli  I  regret  you  ! 

Unfaiied  your  memory  dwells  in  my  breast ; 
Though  sad  and  deserted,  I  ne'er  can  forget  you; 

Your  pleasures  may  still  be  in  fancy  possest. 

8. 
To  Ida  full  oft  may  remembrance  restore  me, 

While  fate  shall  the  shades  of  the  future  unroll  I 
Since  darkness  o'ershadows  the  prosjiect  before  me. 

More  dear  is  the  beam  of  th:;  past  to  my  soul. 

9. 

But  if,  through  the  course  of  the  years  which  await  me, 
Some  new  scene  of  pleasure  should  open  to  view, 

I  will  say,  while  with  rajiture  the  tliougM  shall  elate  me 
"  Oh  !  such  were  the  days  which  my  infancy  knew." 

1806. 

a  sorire  of  Poem;*,  complete  in  tlD^mselvcs  ;  but,  while  the  itn* 
posturw  is  discovL'iod,  the  merit  of  the  work  rt'iJiuiiiei  undia- 
puted.  thotiirh  not  without  faul'.«,  p.irliciilurjy.  ic  *om(?  p&rta 
turgid  and  bomha^iic  diciiou. — Tin;  prcsi'ut  hurj.>3  ir.itatitia 
will  bo  pfirdoned  l)y  the  iidmuers  of  the  orifcinal,  as  kJi 
attempt,  however  iiilbrior,  wiiich  ovuiccs  an  ultachnient  f# 
their  favourite  author. 

1  Mosr^op,  a  coicmporary  of  Garrick,  fiiinous  for  ftis  per- 
formance of"  Zanga,  in  Youuk's  trub'cdy  of  the  Revenge 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


TO  D. 
1. 
Ill  thtie  I  fontHy  hnp^d  to  c  asp 

A  friend,  whom  deaiii  alone  could  sever; 
Till  envy,  with  niaiiynant  grasp, 
DetachM  thee  from  my  breast  for  ever. 
o_ 

Triw  she  has  forced  thee  from  my  breast, 

Yet  in  my  heart  rhou  kee|)'sl  thy  seat; 
There,  there  thine  inia^o  still  must  rest. 

Until  that  heart  shall  cease  to  beat. 
3. 
And.  when  the  grave  restores  her  dead. 

When  life  airain  to  dust  is  given. 
On  thy  dear  breast  I'll  lay  my  her.d — 

Without  thee,  wiiere  would  be  mj  heaven  ? 

February,  1803 


TO  EDDLESTON. 
1. 

Let  Folly  smile,  to  view  the  names 

Of  thee  and  me  in  friendship  twined; 
Yet  virtue  will  have  greater  claims 

To  love,  than  rank  witii  vice  combined, 
2. 
And  though  unequal  is  thy  fate. 

Since  title  deck'il  my  higher  birth  I 
Yet  envy  not  this  gaudy  state  ; 

Thine  is  the  pride  of  modest  worth. 
3. 
Our  souls  at  least  congenial  meot, 

Nor  can  thy  lot  my  rank  disgrace; 
Our  intercourse  is  not  ess  sweet. 

Since  wortli  of  rank  supplies  the  place. 

J^Tovember,  1802. 


Ei-IPLY    TO    SOME   VERSES   OF  J.  M.   B.  PIGOT, 
LSa.,  ON  THE  CRUELTY  OF  HIS  MISTRESS. 
I. 
Why,  Pigot,  complain 
Of  tiiis  damsel's  disdain. 
Why  thus  m  despair  do  you  fret  ? 
For  months  you  may  try, 
Yet,  believe  me,  a  sigh 
Will  never  obtain  a  coquette. 
2^ 
Would  you  teach  her  to  love? 
For  a  time  seem  to  rove; 
At  first  siie  may  frown  in  a  pet; 
But  leave  her  awhile, 
She  shortly  will  smile, 
And  then  you  may  kiss  your  coquetla 
3. 
For  such  are  the  airs 
Of  these  fanciful  fairs. 
They  think  all  our  homage  a  debt; 
Yet  a  partial  neglect 
Soon  takes  an  effect, 
And  humbles  the  proudest  coquette. 


ui)le  your  pain, 
And  l<;ii;;lhen  your  chain. 

And  seem  her  hauttMir  to  regret^ 
If  ajrain  you  shall  siih. 
She  no  more  will  deny 

That  yours  is  the  rosy  coquette. 

5- 

If  still,  from  false  pride. 
Your  pangs  she  deride. 
This  whimsical  virgin  forget; 


Some  other  admii3 
Who  will  melt  with  your  fire, 
And  laugh  at  the  little  coquette. 

6. 

For  me,  I  adore 

Some  twenty  or  more. 
And  love  them  nmst  dearly ;  but  yet. 

Though  my  heart  they  enthral, 

I'd  abandon  them  all. 
Did  they  act  like  your  blooming  coquette. 
7. 

No  longer  repine, 

Adopt  this  design. 
And  break  through  her  slight-woven  net 

Away  with  despair, 

No  longer  forbear. 
To  fly  from  the  captious  coquette. 
8. 

Then  quit  her,  my  friend! 

Your  bosom  defend, 
Ere  quite  with  her  snares  you're  beset; 

Lest  your  deep-woutided  heart. 

When  incensed  by  the  smart. 
Should  lead  you  to  curse  the  coquette. 

October  27lh,  ^HA 


TO  THE  SIGHING  STREPHON. 
1. 

Your  pardon,  my  friend, 

If  my  rhymes  did  offend. 
Your. pardon,  a  thousand  times  o'er 

From  friendship  1  strove 

Your  pangs  to  renjove. 
But  I  swear  I  will  do  so  no  more. 

2. 

Since  your  beautiful  maid 

Your  flame  has  repaid. 
No  more  I  your  folly  regret; 

She's  now  the  most  divine. 

And  I  bow  at  the  shrine 
Of  this  quickly  reformed  coquette. 
3. 

Yet  still,  I  must  own, 

I  should  never  have  known 
From  your  verses,  what  else  she  deserved 

Your  pain  seem'd  so  great, 

I  pitied  your  fate, 
As  your  fair  was  so  devilish  reserved. 
4. 

Since  the  balm-breathing  kiss 

Of  this  magical  miss 
Can  such  wonderful  transports  produce 

Since  the  "  world  you  forget, 

When  your  i  ips   jnce  have  met," 
My  counsei  wil.  get  out  abuse. 
5. 

You  say  when  "  I  rove, 

I  know  nothing  of  love;" 
•Tis  true,  I  am  iriven  to  range: 

If  I  rightly  remember, 

I've  loved  a  good  number. 
Yet  there's  pleasure,  at  least,  in  a  cbanf* 
6. 

I  will  not  advance. 

By  the  rules  of  romance, 
To  humour  a  whimsical  fair; 

Though  a  smile  may  delight. 

Yet  a  frown  won't  affright, 
Or  drive  me  to  dreadfu    .iespair. 


86 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


7. 

While  my  blood  is  thus  warm 

I  ne'er  shall  reform, 
To  mix  in  the  Platonisls'  school; 

Of  this  I  am  sure, 

Was  my  passion  so  pure, 
Thy  mistress  would  think  me  a  fool. 
8. 

And  if  I  should  shun. 

Every  woman  for  one, 
Whose  ima-re  must  fill  my  whole  breast— 

Whom  I  must  prefer, 

And  sish  but  fur  her— 
What  an  insult  'twould  be  to  the  rest! 
9. 

Now,  Strephon,  good  bye; 

I  cannot  deny 
Your  passion  ajjpears  most  absurd; 

Such  love  as  you  plead 

Is  pure  love  indeed. 
For  it  only  consists  in  the  word. 


TO  MISS  PIGOT. 
1. 

EuzA,  what  fools  are  the  Mussuhnan  sect. 

Who  to  women  deny  the  soul's  future  existence ; 
Could  they  see  thee,  Eliza,  they'd  own  their  defect. 
And  this  doctrine  would  meet  with  a  general  resist- 
ance. 

2. 
»Jaa  their  prophet  possess'd  half  an  atom  of  sense. 

He  ne'er  would  have  women  from  paradise  driven: 
instead  of  his  houris,  a  flimsy  pretence. 
With  women  alone  he  had  peopled  his  heaven. 
3.. 
Yet  still  to  increase  your  calamities  more, 

Not  content  with  depriving  your  bodies  of  spirit, 
He  allots  one  i>oor  husband  to  share  amongst  four ! — 
With  souls  you'd  dispense  ;  but  this  last,  who  could 
bear  it  ? 

4. 
His  religion  to  please  neither  party  is  made  ; 

On  husbands  'tis  hard,  to  the  wives  most  uncivil. 
Still  I  can't  contradict,  what  so  oft  has  !)een  said, 
"  Though  women  are  angels,  yet  wedlock's  the  devil." 


LINES  WRITTP.N  IN  "  LETTERS  OF  AN  ITALIAN 
NUN  AND  AN  ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN.  BY  J.  J. 
ROUSSEAU.     FOUNDED  ON  FACTS." 

"  Away,  away  !  your  flattering  arts 
May  now  betray  some  simpler  hearts; 
And  you  will  smile  at  their  believing. 
And  they  sha;i  weep  at  your  deceiving." 

ANSWER  TO  THK  FOREOOINO,  ADDRESSFD  TO  MISS  . 

iJoar,  simple  girl,  those  flattering  arts, 

From  which  thou'dst  ijuard  frail  f(;male  hearts. 

Exist  but  in  imau'inafion, — 

M«.re  phaiito  us  of  thine  own  creation; 

For  lie  who  virus  that  witching  grace, 

That  i)erfect  form,  that  lovely  face, 

With  eyes  admiring,  oh  !  believe  me, 

He  never  wishes  to  deceive  thee  : 

Once  in  thy  polish'd  mirror  glance, 

Thou'lt  there  descry  that  (slcgance 

Which  from  om  -    v  demands  such  praipca, 

But  envy  in  the  i  :  lier  raises: 


Then  he  who  tells  thee  of  thy  Deaui>, 
Believe  me,  only  does  his  duty  : 
Ah  1  fly  not  from  the  candid  youth , 
It  is  not  flattery,— 't  is  trutii. 


July.  ISO-i 


THE  CORNELIAN. 

1. 

No  specious  splendour  of  this  stone 

Endears  it  to  my  memory  ever  ; 
With  lustre  only  once  it  shone. 

And  blushes  modest  as  the  giver. 
2. 
Some,  who  can  sneer  at  friendship's  ties. 

Have  for  my  weakness  oft  reproved  me ; 
Yet  still  the  simple  gift  I  prize, — 

For  I  am  sure  the  giver  loved  me. 
3. 
He  oflTer'd  it  with  downcast  look. 

As  fearful  that  I  might  refuse  it; 
I  told  him  when  the  gift  I  took. 

My  only  fear  should  be  to  lose  it. 
4. 
This  pledge  attentively  I  view'd, 

And  sparkling  as  I  held  it  near, 
Methought  one  drop  the  stone  bedew'd. 

And  ever  since  I've  lov'd  a  tear. 
5. 
Still,  to  adorn  his  humble  youth. 

Nor  wealth  nor  birth  their  treasures  yields 
But  he  who  seeks  the  flowers  of  truth 

Must  quit  the  garden  for  the  field. 
6. 
'Tis  not  the  plant  uprear'd  in  sloth. 

Which  beauty  shows,  and  sheds  perfume; 
The  flowers  which  yield  the  most  of  both 

In  Nature's  wild  luxuriance  bloom 

Had  Fortune  aided  Nature's  care. 

For  once  forgetting  to  be  Hind, 
His  would  have  been  au  ample  share. 

If  well-proportion'd  to  his  mind. 
8. 
But  had  the  goddess  clearly  seen, 

His  form  had  fix'd  her  fickle  breast , 
Her  countless  hoards  would  his  have  been. 

And  none  remain'd  to  give  the  rest. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY 

Cousin  to  the  Author,  and  very  dear  to  him. 
1. 
Husii'd  are  the  winds,  and  still  the  evening  glow 
Not  e'en  a  zephyr  wanders  through  the  grove, 
Whilst  I  return  to  view  my  Margaret's  tomb. 
And  scatter  flowers  on  the  dust  I  love. 
o 
Within  this  narrow  cell  reclines  her  clay, 

That  clay  where  once  such  animawon  oeamV 
The  King  of  Terrors  seized  h(!r  as  his  prey. 
Not  worth,  nor  Beauty,  have  her  life  redeemed 
3. 
Oh!  could  that  King  of  Terrors  pity  feel. 

Or  Heaven  reverse  the  dread  decre(!s  of  fatpf 
Not  here  the  mourner  vvmld  his  griet"  reveal. 
Nor  here  the  muse  he.  virtues  would  relate. 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS 


87 


3ut  wherefore  weep  ?  her  matchless  spirit  soars 

Beyond  where  spletiJid  shines  the  orb  of  day ; 
(vnd  weeping  angels  load  lier  to  those  bowers 

Where  end'ess  pleasures  virtue's  deeds  repay. 
5. 
And  shall  presumptuous  mortals  heaven  arraign 

And,  madly,  godlike  providence  accuse  ? 
Ah!  no,  far  fly  from  me  attempts  so  vain, 

I'll  ne'er  submission  to  my  God  refuse. 
{). 
Yet  is  remembrance  of  tiiose  virtues  dear, 

Yet  fresh  the  memory  of  tlKit  beauteous  face; 
Still  they  call  forth  my  warm  affection's  tear. 

Still  in  my  heart  retain  their  wonted  place. 


TO  EMMA. 

1 
Since  now  the  hour  is  come  at  last, 

When  you  must  quit  your  anxious  lover  ; 
Since  now  our  dream  of  bliss  is  past, 

One  pang,  my  girl,  and  all  is  over. 
2. 
Alas!  that  pang  will  be  severe, 

Which  bids  us  part  to  meet  no  more, 
Which  tears  me  far  from  one  so  dear, 

Departing  for  a  distant  shore. 
3. 
Well :  we  have  pass'd  some  happy  hours. 

And  joy  will  mingle  with  our  tears; 
When  thinking  on  these  ancient  towers 

The  shelter  of  our  infant  years; 
4. 
Where  from  the  gothic  casement's  height, 

We  view'd  the  lake,  the  park,  the  dale,     ■ 
And  still,  though  tears  obstruct  our  sight, 

We  lingering  look  a  last  farewell. 

5. 

O'er  fields  through  which  we  used  to  run. 
And  spend  the  hours  in  childish  play  ; 

O'er  shades  where,  when  our  race  was  done 
Reposing  on  my  breast  you  lay  ; 

a 

Whilst  I,  a  'miring,  too  remiss, 
Forgot  to  scare  the  hov'ring  flies, 

Yet  envied  every  fly  the  kiss 
It  dared  to  give  your  slumbering  eyes: 

7. 

Ee€  still  the  little  painted  bark. 
In  which  1  row'd  you  o'er  the  lake ; 

See  there,  high  waving  o'er  the  park, 
The  elm  I  clamber'd  for  your  sake. 


These  times  are  past  —  our  joys  are  gonf, 
You  leave  me,  leave  this  happy  vale; 

Tliese  scenes  I  must  retrace  alone ; 
Without  thee,  what  will  they  avail? 


Who  can  conceive,  who  has  not  proved. 
The  anguisli  of  a  last  embrace  ? 

When,  torn  from  all  you  fondly  loved. 
You  bW  a  long  adieu  to  peace. 


10. 

This  is  the  deepest  of  our  woes, 

For  this  these  tears  our  cheeks  bedew { 

This*is  of  love  the  final  close. 
Oh,  God,  the  fondest,  last  adieu ! 


TO  M.  S.  G. 

Whene'er  I  view  those  lips  of  thine. 
Their  hue  invites  my  fervent  Kiss; 
Yet  I  forego  that  bliss  divine, 
Alas!  it  were  unhallow'd  bliss. 
2. 
Whene'er  I  dream  of  that  pure  breast, 
How  could  I  dwell  upon  its  snows? 
Yet  is  the  daring  wish  represt. 
For  that,  —  would  banish  its  repose. 
3. 
A  glance  from  thy  soul-searching  eye 

Can  raise  with  hope,  depress  with  fear, 
Yet  I  conceal  my  love,  and  why? 
I  would  not  force  a  painful  tear. 
4. 
I  ne'er  have  told  my  love,  yet  thou 

Hast  seen  my  ardent  flame  too  well; 
And  shall  I  plead  my  passion  now. 
To  make  thy  bosom's  heaven  a  hell  ? 
5. 
No !  for  thou  never  canst  be  miiie. 

United  by  the  priest's  decree ; 
By  any  ties  but  those  divine. 
Mine,  my  beloved,  thou  ne'er  shalt  be. 
6. 
Then  let  the  secret  fire  consume. 

Let  it  consume,  thou  shalt  not  know; 
With  joy  I  court  a  certain  doom. 
Rather  than  spread  its  guilty  glow. 
7. 
I  will  not  ease  my  tortured  heart, 

By  driving  dove-eyed  peace  from  thine; 
Rather  than  such  a  sting  impart. 
Each  thought  presumptuous  I  resign. 
8. 
Yes  !  yield  those  lips,  for  which  I'd  brave 

More  than  I  here  shall  dare  to  tell ; 
Thy  innot.-nce  and  mine  to  save, — 
I  bid  thee  now  a  last  farewell. 
9. 
Yes!  yield  that  breast,  to  seek  despair. 
And  hope  no  more  thy  soft  embrace, 
Which  to  obtain  my  soul  would  dare, 
All,  all  reproach,  but  thy  disgrace. 
10. 
At  least  from  guilt  shalt  thou  be  free. 
No  matron  shall  thy  shame  repr.^ve ; 
Tliough  cureless  pangs  may  prey  oh  me. 
No  martyr  shalt  thou  oe  to  love. 


TO  CAROLINE. 
1. 

Think'st  thou  I  saw  thy  beauteovs  eyes, 
Suffused  in  tears,  implore  to  stay  • 

And  heard  unmoved  thy  plenteous  sigh. 
Which  said  far  more  than  words  can  sny  t 


28 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Though  keen  the  grief  thy  tears  exprest, 

When  love  and  hope  lay  both  o'erthrown  ; 
Yet  still,  my  girl,  tliis  bleeding  breast 

Tiirobb'd  with  dt'(;|)  sorrou'  as  thine  own 
3. 
But  when  our  cheeks  with  anguish  glow'd 

VVlien  thy  sweet  lips  were  join'd  to  mine, 
The  tears  that  ("rom  my  eyelids  flow'd 

Were  lost  iii  tiu-se  that  fell  from  thine. 
4. 
Thou  could'st  not  feet  my  burning  cheek, 

Thy  gushing  tears  had  quench'd  its  tiame, 
And  as  thy  tongue  essay'd  to  speak, 

In  sighs  alone  it  breathed  my  name. 
5. 
An*  yet,  my  girl,  we  weep  in  vain, 

In  vain  our  fate  in  sighs  deplore; 
Remembrance  only  can  remain,— 

But  that  will  make  us  weep  the  more. 
6. 
Aaain,  thou  best  beloved,  adieu! 

Ah  !  if  thou  canst  o'ercome  regret. 
Nor  let  thy  mind  past  joys  review,— 

Our  only  hope  is  to  forget  ! 


TO  CAROLINE. 
1. 

When  I  hear  you  exi)ress  an  affection  so  warm, 

Ne'er  tliink,  my  beloved,  that  I  do  not  believe ; 
for  yo\ir  lip  would  the  soul  of  suspicion  disarm. 
And  your  eye  beams  a  ray  which  can  never  deceive. 
2. 
Vet  still,  this  fond  bosom  regrets  while  adoring. 

That  love,  like  the  leaf  must  fall  into  the  sear, 
Ihat  age  will  come  on,  when,  remembrance,  deploring, 
Contemplates  the  scenes  of  her  youth  with  a  tear. 
3. 
That  the  time  must  arrive,  when,  no  longer  retaining 
'I'heir   auburn,   those    locks   must    wave   thin   to  the 
breeze 
Wnen  a  tew  silver  hairs  of  those  tresses  remaining. 
Prove  nature  a  prey  to  decay  and  disease. 
4. 
Tis  this,   my    beloved,  which   spreads   gloom  o'er  my 
features, 
Thcmgh  I  ne'er  shall  presume  to  arraign  the  decree 
Which  God  has  proilaim'd  as  the  fate  of  his  creatures, 
In  the  death  which  one  day  will  deprive  you  of  me. 
5. 
Wistake  not,  sweet  sceptic,  the  cause  of  emotion, 

No  doubt  can  the  mind  of  your  lover  invade  : 
He  worshii)s  each  look  with  such  faithful  devotion, 
A  smile  can  enchant,  or  a  tear  can  dissuade. 
6. 
«'n  as  deatn,  my  beloved,  soon  or  late  shall  o'ertake  us. 
And  our  breasts  which  alive  with  such  sympathy  glow. 
Will  sleep  in  the  grave  till  the  blast  shall  awake  us, 
When  call]   g  the  dead,  in  earth's  bosom  laid  low: 
7. 
[)h     then    let    us  drain,  while  we   may,    draughts   of 
pleasure, 
Whi'-li  from  passion  like  ours  may  unceasinirly  flow: 
1^1  us  pass  round  the  cu[)  of  hue's  bliss  in  full  measure 
And  quaff  the  content-  as  our  nectar  below. 

1805. 


TO  CAROLINE. 
1. 
Oh  !  when  shall  the  grave  hide  for  ever  my  sorrow  ? 

Oh  !  when  shall  my  soul  wing  her  flight  from  this  c  aj 
The  present  is  hell,  and  the  coming  to-morrow 
But  brings  with  new  torture,  the  curse  of  to-day. 
2. 
From  my  eye  flows  no  tear,  from  my  lips  fall  no  curse* 
I  blast  not  tlie  fiends  who  have  hurl'd  me  from  bliss; 
For  [loor  is  the  soul  which  bewailing  rehearses 
Its  querulous  grief,  when  in  anguish  like  this. 
3. 
Was   my   eye,    'stead    of  tears,   with   red  fury   flasej 
bright'ning, 
Would  my  lips  breathe  a  llame  which  no  stream  ct  uU 
assuage. 
On  our   foes  should  my   glance  lanch  in  vengeance  its 
lightning. 
With  transport  my  tongue  give  a  loose  to  its  rage. 
4. 
B.it  now  tears  and  curses,  alike  unavailing. 

Would  add  to  the  souls  of  our  tyrants  delight 
Could  they  view  us  our  sad  separation  bewailing, 
Their  merciless  hearts  wuuld  rejoice  at  the  sight. 
5. 
Yet  still,  though  we  bend  with  a  feign'd  resignation, 
Life  beams  not  for  us  with  one  ray  that  can  cheer; 
Love  and  hope  upon  ear>h  bring  no  more  consolation. 
In  the  grave  is  our  hope,  for  in  life  is  oar  fear. 
6. 
Oh  I  when,  my  adored,  in  the  tomb  will  they  place  me. 

Since  in  life,  love  and  friendship  for  ever  are  fled? 
If  aszain  in  the  mansion  of  death  I  embrace  thee, 
Perhaps  they  will  leave  unmolested  the  dead.        IBOS 


THE  FIRST  KISS  OF  LOVE. 


"  '  A    Bap/iiros-  Se  ')(^opSal^ 
'Epujra   /loui'ov    VX^'--" 

Anacreon. 


1. 
Away  with  those  fictions  of  flimsy  romance! 

Those  tissues  of  falsehood  which  folly  has  wove  ! 
Give  me  the  mild  beam  of  the  soul-breathing  glance. 

Or  the  rapture  which  dwells  on  the  first  kiss  of  love 
2. 
Ye  rhymers,  whose  bosoms  with  phantasy  glow. 

Whose  pastoral  [lassions  are  maue  for  the  grove. 
From  what  blest  inspiratiim  your  sonnets  would  flow- 
Could  you  ever  have  lasted  tht;  first  kiss  (jf  love! 
3. 
If  Apollo  should  e'er  his  assistance  refuse, 

Or  the  Nine  be  disposed  from  your  service  to  rove. 
Invoke  them  no  more,  bid  alien  to  the  nmse. 

And  try  the  effect  of  tin;  first  ki.-^s  of  love. 
4. 
I  hate  you,  ye  cold  rompositions  of  art : 

Tliousrh  prudes  may  ((UHiemn  mi",  and  bi<rots  reprovi^ 
I  court  th(!  effusions  tFiat  sprini:  frcmi  the  heart 

Which  throbs  with  delight  to  the  first  kiss  of  love. 
.5. 
Your  shepherds,  your  flocks,  those  fantastical  (hemes 

Perhaps  may  amuse,  yetthey  never  can  iroxe: 
Arcadia  displays  but  a  re<.M(Hi  <if  dreams; 

What  are  visions  like  thes*-  to  the  first  ki?R  of  love  I 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS 


89 


;  ih  !  cpas('"t(i  nffirm  tliat  ni;ni,  since  his  hirth. 

From  Ad  iiu  till  now,  has  with  wn'tcheiiiiess  strove 

K>i!io  jKirtioii  ot'paiaJisi!  still  is  on  earth, 
^Illl  Ciien  revives  in  the  tirst  kiss  of  love. 


V''hpn   a^e  clii  is   the   blood,   when   our   pleasures  ar 
l-ast  - 

For  years  fleet  away  witli  the  win^s  of  the  dove  — 
The  dearest  reniemhranre  will  still  be  the  last, 

Our  nveetest  memorial  tlie  first  kiss  of  love. 


TO  A  BEAUTIFLX  QUAKER. 

Sweet  cirl!  though  only  once  we  met, 
Tliat  meeting  I  shall  ne'er  forget; 
And  though  we  ne'er  may  meet  again, 
Remembrance  will  thy  form  retain. 
I  wouUl  not  say,  "  I  love,"  but  still 
My  senses  struggle  witli  my  will : 
In  vain  to  drive  thee  from  my  breast. 
My  thouirhts  are  more  and  more  represt 
In  vain  I  check  the  rising  sighs. 
Another  to  the  last  replies: 
Perhaps  this  is  not  love,  but  yet 
Our  meeting  I  can  ne'er  forget. 

What  though  we  never  silence  broke, 

Our  eyes  a  sweeter  language  spoke  ; 

The  tongue  in  flattering  falsehood  deals. 

And  tells  a  tale  i'  .Tever  feels  : 

Deceit  the  guilty  1  ps  impart, 

And  hush  tlie  mandates  of  the  heart; 

But  soul's  interpreters,  the  eyes. 

Spurn  such  restraint,  and  scorn  disguise 

As  thus  our  glances  oft  conversed. 

And  all  our  bosoms  feJt  rehearsed. 

No  spirit,  from  within,  reproved  us. 

Say  rati  ^r.  "'twas  the  spirit  moved  us'' 

Though  what  they  utter'd  I  repress. 

Yet  I  conceive  thou'lt  partly  guess ; 

For  as  on  thee  my  memory  ponders, 

Pp-;lKjnce  to  me  thine  also  wanders. 

'inis  for  myself,  at  least,  I'll  say, 

Thy  form  appears  through  niffht,  through  day 

Awake,  with  it  my  fancy  teems  ; 

In  s!e.'[i,  it  smiles  in  fleeting  dreams; 

The  vision  charms  the  hours  away, 

And  bids  me  curse  Aurora's  ray 

For  breaking  slumbers  of  delight 

Wliich  make  me  wish  for  entlless  night. 

Sj;ice,  oh  I  whate'er  my  future  fate. 

Shall  joy  or  woe  my  steps  await, 

Tempted  by  love,  by  storms  beset, 

rhine  image  I  can  ne'er  forgot. 

Alas  '  a^ain  no  more  wa  meet. 

No  more  our  former  looks  rejieat ; 

Then  let  me  breathe  this  parting  prayer, 

The  dictate  of  my  bosonfs  care  : 

"  May  Heaven  so  euard  my  lovely  Q,uak3r, 

Tliat  anguish  never  can  o'ertake  her; 

That  peace  and  virtue  ne'er  f(irsake  lUT 

But  bliss  be  aye  her  heart  s  partaker! 

Oh  !  may  the  happy  mortal  fated 

lo  be,  by  dearest  lies,  related. 

For  her  each  hour  new  joys  discover 

And  lose  the  husband  in  the  lover  1 


May  that  fair  bosom  never  know 
What  'tis  to  feel  thi'  restless  woe 
Wliich  stings  the  soul  with  vain  regret. 
Of  him  who  never  can  forget  ! 


TO  LESBIA. 
1. 

Lesria  !  since  far  from  you  I've  rang(>d, 

Our  souls  with  fond  afl'eotion  glow  not: 
You  say  'tis  I,  not  you,  have  chansed, 

I'd  tell  why,— but  yet  I  know  not. 
o_ 
Your  polish'd  brow  no  cares  have  crost ; 

And,  Lesbia  I  we  are  not  much  older. 
Since  trembling  first  my  heart  I  lost. 

Or  told  my  love,  with  hope  _^rown  boldei 

3. 

Sixteen  was  then  our  utmost  age, 

Two  years  have  lingering  past  av.ay,  love 

And  now  new  tliouirhts  our  minds  engage. 
At  least  I  feel  disposed  to  stray,  love! 

4. 

'Tis  I  that  am  alone  to  blame, 

I,  that  am  guilty  of  love's  treason  ; 

Since  your  sweet  breast  is  still  the  same 
Caprice  must  be  my  only  reason. 

5. 

I  do  not,  love!  suspect  your  truth, 

With  jealous  doubt  my  bosom  heaves  r>f 
Warm  was  the  passion  of  my  youth, 

One  trace  of  dark  deci.'it  it  lijaves  not 
6. 
No,  no,  my  flame  was  not  pretended, 

For.  oh  !   I  loved  \ou  most  sincerely ; 
And — though  our  dream  at  last  is  ended — 

My  bosom  still  esteems  you  dearly. 

No  more  we  meet  in  yonder  bowers  ; 

Absence  has  made  ne  prone  to  roving; 
But  older,  firmer  hearts  than  ours 

Have  found  monotony  in  loving. 
8. 
Your  cheek's  soft  bloom  is  unimpair'd. 

New  beauties  still  are  daily  bright'nin', 
Your  eye  for  conquest  beams  prepared. 

The  forge  of  love's  resistless  lightning. 
9. 
Arm'd  thus,  to  make  their  bosoms  bleed. 

Many  will  throng  to  sigh  like  mo,  love  ' 
More  constant  they  may  prove,  indeed; 

Fonder,  alas!  they  ne'er  can  be,  love! 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  LAE  ? 

As  the  author  was  discharging  bis  pistols  in  a  garden,  twr 
ladies  p-issitii;  near  'he  spot  were  alarmed  by  the  stund  ofc 
bullet  bissiiitf  near  them,  to  one  of  whom  the  follo-viuR 
■tanzas  were  addressed  the  next  morning. 

1. 
Doubtless,  sweet  girl,  the  hissing  lead, 

Wafting  destruction  o  er  thy  charms, 
And  hurtling  o'er  thy  lovely  head, 

Has  fill'd  that  breast  with  fond  alariiw. 


to 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Burely  some  envious  demon's  force, 
Vex'd  to  behold  such  beauty  here, 

Iinpell'd  the  bullet's  viewless  course, 
Diverted  from  its  first  career. 


Yes,  in  that  nearly  fatal  hour 

The  ball  obey'd  some  hell-born  guide  ; 
But  Heaven,  uith  interposing  power, 

In  pity  turn'd  the  death  aside. 


Yet,  as  perchance  one  trembling  tear 
Upon  that  thrilling  bosom  fell ; 

Which  I,  th'  unconscious  cause  of  fear. 
Extracted  from  its  glistening  cell : 


Say,  what  dire  penance  can  atone 
For  such  an  outrage  done  to  thee  ? 

Arraigu'd  before  thy  beauty's  throne, 
What  punishment  wilt  thou  decree  ? 


Might  I  perform  the  judge's  part, 
Tlie  sentence  I  should  scarce  deplore; 

It  only  would  restore  a  heart 
Which  but  belong'd  to  thee  before. 

7. 
The  least  atonement  I  can  make 

Is  to  become  no  longer  free  ; 
Henceforth  I  breathe  but  for  thy  sake, 

Thou  Shalt  be  all  in  all  to  me. 

H. 

But  thou  perhaps,  mayst  now  reject 

Such  expiation  of  my  guilt  : 
Come,  then,  some  other  mode  elect ; 

Let  it  be  death,  or  what  thou  wilt 
9. 
Choose,  then,  relentless  !  and  I  swear 

Naught  shall  thy  dread  decree  prevent 
Yet  hold— one  little  word  forbear: 

Let  it  be  au2ht  but  banishment. 


LOVE'S   LAST   ADIEU. 


A£t  6\  ati  fxs  (pevyei." 

Aiiacreon. 


1. 

The  roses  of  love  glad  the  garden  of  life, 

Tiioiifrh  nurtured  'mid  weeds  dropping  pestilent  dew, 
Fill  Time  crops  the  leaves  with  unmerciful  knife, 

Or  prunes  tliem  for  ever  in  love's  last  adieu  ! 
.      2. 
tn  vain  with  endearments  we  soothe  the  sad  heart, 

In  vain  do  \^■e  vnw  fur  an  age  to  be  true  ; 
The  chaiici;  of  an  hour  may  couunaud  us  to  part, 

O'  death  disunite  ns  in  l;)ve's  last  adieu  ! 
3. 
Still  Hope,  breathing  peace  through  the  grief-swollen 
breast, 

W\\'  whisper,  "  Our  meeting  we  yet  may  renew," 
With  this  drt.'ain  of  deceit  half  our  sorrows  represt, 

Nor  taste  wr  tin;  poison  of  love's  last  adieu  • 


Oh!  mark  you  yon  pair:  in  the  sunshine  of  ^^vouth 

Love  twined  round  their'childhood  his  flowere  as  thej 
grew  ; 
They  flourish  awhile  in  the  season  of  trutli. 

Till  chill'd  by  the  winter  of  love's  last  adieu 
5. 
Sweet  lady!  why  thus  doth  a  teai  stea.  its  w*'' 

Down  a  cheek  which  outrivals  thy  bosom  in  uJ8? 
Yet  why  do  I  ask?  to  distraction  a  prey, 

Thy  reason  has  perish'd  with  love's  last  adieu! 

6. 

Oh !  who  is  yon  misanthrope,  shunning  mankind  ? 

From  cities  to  caves  of  the  forest  he  flew: 
There,  raving,  he  howls  his  complaint  to  the  wind  j 

The  mountains  reverberate  love's  last  adieu ! 

7. 
Now  hate  rules  a  heart  which  in  love's  easy  chains 

Once  passion's  tumultuous  blandishments  knew; 
Despair  now  inflames  the  dark  tide  of  his  veins; 

He  ponders  in  frenzy  on  love's  last  adieu  ! 


How  he  envies  the  wretch  with  a  soul  wrapt  in  stee 
His  pleasures  are  scarce,  yet  his  troubles  are  few. 

Who  laughs  at  the  pang  that  he  never  can  feel. 
And  dreads  not  the  anguish  of  love's  last  adieu  ! 


Youth  flies,  life  decays,  even  hope  is  o'ercasl , 

No  more  with  love's  former  devotion  we  sue  : 
He  spreads  his  ycung  wing,  he  retires  with  the  blwit 

The  shroud  of  affection  is  love's  last  adieu  ! 
10. 
In  this  life  of  probation  for  rapture  divine, 

Astreai  declares  that  some  penance  is  due  ; 
From  him  who  has  worshipp'd  at  love's  gentle  shnn^ 

The  atonement  is  ample  in  love's  last  adieu ! 
11. 
Who  kneels  to  the  god  on  his  altar  of  light, 

Must  myrtle  and  cypress  alternately  strew: 
His  myrtle,  an  emblem  of  purest  delight ; 

His  cypress,  the  garland  of  love's  last  adieu! 


IMITATION  OF  TIBULLUS. 


Sulpicia  ad  Cerinthum." — Lib.  Quart, 


Cruel  Cerinthus  !  does  the  fell  disease 

Which  racks  my  breast  your  fickle  bosom  please? 

Alas!  I  v/ish'd  but  to  o'ercome  the  pain. 

That  I  might  live  for  love  and  you  again  : 

But  now  1  scarcely  shall  bewail  my  fate : 

By  dea'.h  alone  I  can  avoid  your  hate. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  HORACE. 

ODE    3,    LIB.  3. 
1. 

The  man  of  firm  and  noble  soul 
No  factious  clamours  can  control ; 
No  threat'ning  tyrant's  darkling  brow 
Can  swerve  him  from  his  just  intent : 


The  Goddess  of  Justice. 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


41 


Gales  the  warring  waves  which  plough, 

By  Auster  on  the  billows  spent. 
To  curb  the  Adriatic  main, 
Would  awe  liis  tix'd  determined  mind  in  vain. 


Ay,  and  the  red  right  arm  of  Jove, 
Hurtlijig  his  lightnings  from  above, 
VVilh  all  his  terrors  then  unfurPd, 

He  would  unmoved,  unawed  behold: 
The  flames  of  an  expiring  world, 

Again  in  crashing  chaos  roll'd, 
In  vast  promiscuous  ruin  hurl'd. 
Might  li<.'ht  his  glorious  funeral  pile: 
Still  daunt  ess  midst  the  wreck  of  earth  he'd  smile. 


FUGITIVE   PIECES. 


ANSWER  TO  SOME  ELEGANT  VERSES  SENT  BY 
A  FRIEND  TO  THE  AUTHOR.  COMPLAINING 
THAT  ONE  OF  HIS  DESCRIPTIONS  WAS  RA- 
'IHER  TOO  WARMLY  DRAW^X. 

"  But  if  an  old  lady,  knighi,  priest,  or  physician, 
Should  condemn  me  for  printing  a  second  edition ; 
It"  good  Madam  Squintum  my  work  should  abuse. 
May  I  venture  to  eive  her  a  smack  of  my  muse?" 
^nstc.i/'s  jYcw  Bath  Guide,  p.  169. 


Candour  compels  me,  Beecher  !  to  commend 
]7e  verse  which  blends  the  censor  with  the  friend. 
V'Diir  Ptronir,  yet  just,  reproof  extorts  applause 
From  me,  the  Jieedless  and  imprudent  cause. 
For  this  wild  error  which  pervades  my  strain, 
I  sue  fir  pardon, — must  I  sue  in  vain  ? 
The  wise  sometimes  from  Wisdom's  ways  depart; 
Can  y(uith  then  hush  the  dictates  of  the  heart  ? 
Prc-cepts  of -prudence  curb,  but  can't  control. 
The  fierce  emotions  of  the  flowing  soul. 
When  love's  delirium  haunts  the  glowing  mind, 
Liiiipirg  Decorum  lingers  far  behind: 
Vainly  tl»e  dotard  mends  her  prudish  pace, 
OiitstriDt  and  vanqjpah'd  '»     ■><"  mental  chase. 


The  }'oung,  the  old,  have  worn  the  chains  of  love : 
Let  those  who  ne'er  confirm'd  my  lay  reprove  : 
Let  those  whose  souls  contemn  the  pleasing  power 
Their  censures  on  the  hapless  victim  shower. 
Oh  !   how  I  hate  the  nerveless,  frigid  song. 
Tile  ceaseless  echo  of  the  rhyming  throng. 
Whose  labour'd  lines  in  chilling  numbers  flow, 
To  paint  a  pang  the  author  ne'er  can  know 
The  artless  Helicon  I  boast  is  youth  ; — 
My  lyre,  the  heart ;  my  muse,  the  simple  truth. 
Far  be 't  from  me  the  "virgin's  mind"  to  "taiit:*' 
Seduction's  dread  is  here  no  slight  restraint. 
The  maid  whose  virgin  breast  is  void  of  guile. 
Whose  wishes  dimple  in  a  modest  smile,     . 
Whose  downcast  eye  disdains  the  wanton  leer, 
Firm  in  her  virtue's  strength,  yet  not  severe — 
She  whom  a  conscious  grace  shall  thus  refine 
Will  ne'er  be  "  tainted"  by  a  strain  of  mine. 
But  for  the  nymph  whose  premature  desires 
Torment  the  bosom  with  unholy  fires. 
No  net  to  snare  her  willing  heart  is  spread; 
She  would  have  fallen,  though  she  ne'er  had  read 
For  me,  I  fain  would  please  the  chosen  few. 
Whose  souls,  to  feeling  and  to  nature  true. 
Will  spare  the  childish  verse,  and  not  destroy 
The  light  etlusions  of  a  heedless  boy. 
I  seek  not  glory  from  the  senseless  crowd ; 
Of  fancied  laurels  I  shall  ne'er  be  proud  ; 
Their  warmest  plaudits  I  would  scarcely  prize, 
Their  sneers  or  censures  I  alike  despise. 

November  26,  1801 


ON  A  CHANGE  OF  MASTERS  AT  A  GREAT 
PUBLIC  SCHOOL. 

Where  are  those  honours,  Ida  !  once  your  own, 
When  Probus  fill'd  your  magi.-tciial  throne? 
As  ancient  Rome,  fast  falling  to  disgrace, 
Hail'd  a  barbarian  in  her  Ctesar's  place, 
So  you,  degenerate,  share  as  hard  a  fate. 
And  seat  Pomposus  where  your  Probus  sate. 
Of  narrow  brain,  yet  of  a  narrower  soui, 
Pomposus  holds  you  in  his  harsh  control ; 
Pomposus,  by  no  social  virtue  sway'd. 
With  florid  jargon,  and  with  vain  parade  ; 
With  noisy  nonsense,  and  new-fangled  rules, 
Such  as  were  ne'er  before  enforced  in  schools. 
Mistaking  p<;daiitry  for  learning's  laws, 
He  governs,  sanction'd  but  by  self-api-lause. 
W^ith  him  the  same  dire  fate  attending  Rome, 
Ill-fated  Ida  !  soon  must  stamp  your  doom: 
Like  her  o'erthrown,  for  ever  lost  to  fame. 
No  trace  of  science  left  you  but  the  name. 

July,  IBOi 


CHILDISH  RECOIiLECTIONS. 


"I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
And  were  most  dear  to  me.' 


When  slow  Disease,  with  all  her  host  of  pains. 
Chills  the  warm  tide  which  flows  along  the  veiu* 
When  Health,  affrighted,  spreads  her  rosy  wing. 
And  flies  with  every  changing  gale  of  spring* 


42 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Sot  to  the  aching  framo  alone  confined, 
IJnyieliliiiir  pangs  assail  the  droopins  mind: 
VViiat  grisly  forms,  the  sceptre-train  of  woe, 
!{id  shn(l<lering  Nature  shrink  beneath  the  blow, 
W^ith  Resignation  wage  relentless  strife, 
iViiile  Hope  retires  appall'd  and  clings  to  life. 
Yet  less  the  pang  when  thr(>ugh  the  tedious  hour 
Remembrance  sheds  around  her  genial  power, 
Tails  back  the  vanish'd  days  to  rapture  given, 
When  love  was  bliss,  and  Beauty  form'd  our  heaven ; 
Or,  dear  to  youth,  portrays  each  childish  scene. 
Those  fairy  bowers,  where  all  in  turn  have  been. 
As  when  through  clouds  that  pour  the  summer  storm 
The  orb  of  day  unveils  his  distant  form, 
Gilds  with  faint  beams  the  crystal  dews  of  rain, 
And  dindy  twinkles  o'er  the  watery  i)lain  ; 
Thus,  while  the  fiiture  dark  and  cheerless  gleams, 
The  siMi  of  memory,  glowing  through  my  dreams, 
'I'liough  sunk  the  radiance  of  his  former  blaze, 
To  scenes  far  distant  points  his  paler  rays  ; 
Still  rules  my  senses  with  unbounded  sway. 
The  past  confounding  with  the  present  day. 

Oft  does  my  heart  indulge  the  rising  thought. 
Which  still  recurs,  unlook'd  for  and  unsought; 
My  soul  to  Fancy's  fond  suggestion  yields. 
And  roams  romantic  o'er  her  airy  fields; 
Scenes  of  my  youth,  develop'd,  crowd  to  view, 
To  which  I  long  have  bade  a  last  adieu! 
Seats  of  delight,  inspiring  youthful  themes; 
Friends  lost  to  me  for  aye  except  in  dreams ; 
Some  who  in  marble  prematurely  sleep. 
Whose  forms  I  now  remember  but  to  weep ; 
Some  who  yet  urge  the  same  scholastic  course 
Of  early  science,  future  fame  the  source; 
Who,  still  contending  in  the  studious  race, 
In  quick  rotation  fill  the  senior  place! 
These  with  a  thousand  visions  now  unite, 
To  dazzle,  though  they  please,  my  aching  sight. 

Ida  !  lilest  spot,  where  Science  holds  her  reign, 
flow  joyous  once  I  join'd  thy  youthful  train! 
bright  in  idea  gleams  thy  lofty  spire, 
A::ain  I  mingle  with  thy  playful  quire; 
Our  tricks  of  mischief,  every  childish  game, 
CJnchanged  by  time  or  distance,  seem  the  same; 
Through  winding  paths,  along  the  glade,  I  trace 
The  social  smile  of  ev'ry  welcome  face  ; 
My  wonted  haunts,  mv  scenes  of  joy  and  woe. 
Each  early  boyish  friend  or  youthful  foe. 
Our  feuds  dissolved,  but  not  my  friendship  past :  — 
I  bless  the  former,  find  forgive  the  last. 
Hours  of  my  youth  '  when,  nurtured  in  my  breast, 
'J'o  h)ve  a  stranger,  friendship  made  me  blest:— 
Friendslii]),  the  dear  peculiar  bond  of  youth. 
When  every  artless  bosom  throbs  with  truth; 
UntauL'ht  by  worldly  wisdom  how  to  feign. 
And  check  I'ach  impulse  with  prudential  rein; 
When  all  we  feel,  our  honest  souls  disclose— 
fn  love  U>  friends,  in  ojjcn  hate  to  foes  ; 
\>  varnish'd  tales  the  lips  of  youth  repeat, 
\  >  dear-bought  knowh^dge  purclKisei!  by  deceit. 
(I'.pocrisy,  the  gift  of  lengthon'd  yeara, 
Matured  by  age,  the  garb  of  prudence  wears. 
When  now  the  boy  is  ripen'd  into  man, 
His  careful  sire  chalks  forth  some  wary  plan  ; 
Instructs  his  son  from  candour's  path  to  shrink. 
Smoothly  to  speak,  and  cautiously  to  think  ; 
Still  to  assent,  and  never  to  deny  — 
A  patron's  praise  can  wel"  reward  the  lie* 


And  who,  when  Fortune's  wari..ng  voice  is  lieara. 
Would  lose  his  opening  prospects  for  a  word  ? 
Although  against  that  word  his  heart  rebel. 
And  truth,  indignant,  all  his  bosom  swell. 

Away  with  themes  like  this !  not  mine  the  task 
From  flattering  fiends  to  tear  the  hateful  n:£3kj 
Let  keener  bards  delight  in  satire's  sting; 
My  fancy  soars  not  on  Detraction's  wing  : 
Once,  and  but  once,  she  aim'd  a  deadly  blow 
To  hurl  defiance  on  a  secret  foe  ; 
But  when  that  foe,  from  feeling  or  from  shame, 
The  cause  unknown,  yet  still  to  me  the  same, 
Warn'd  by  some  friendly  hint,  perchance,  retired. 
With  this  submissien  all  her  rage  expired. 
From  dreaded  pangs  that  feeble  toe  to  save. 
She  hush'd  her  young  resentinent,  and  forgave  ; 
Or,  if  my  muse  a  pedant's  portrait  drew, 
Pomposus'  virtues  are  but  known  to  few: 
I  never  fear'd  the  young  usurper's  nod. 
And  he  who  wields  must  sometimes  feel  the  rod. 
If  since  on  Granta's  failings,  known  to  all 
Who  share  the  converse  of  a  college  hall. 
She  sometimes  trifled  in  a  lighter  strain, 
'Tis  past,  and  thus  she  will  not  sin  again 
Soon  must  her  early  song  for  ever  cease, 
And  all  may  rail  when  I  shall  rest  in  peace. 

Here  first  remember'd  be  the  joyous  band 
Who  hail'd  me  chief,  obedient  to  command ; 
Who  join'd  with  me  in  every  boyish  sport  — 
Tlieir  first  adviser,  and  their  last  resort ; 
Nor  shrunk  beneath  the  upstart  pedant's  frowi. 
Or  all  the  sable  glories  of  his  gown  ; 
Who,  thus  transplanted  from  his  father's  school  — 
Unfit  to  govern,  ignorant  of  rule  — 
Succeeded  him  whom  all  unite  to  praise. 
The  dear  preceptor  of  my  early  days  ; 
Probus,  the  pride  of  science,  and  the  boast, 
To  Ida  now,  alas  !  for  ever  lost. 
With  him  for  years  we  searcli'd  the  classic  page. 
And  fear'd  the  master,  though  we  loved  the  sage; 
Retired  at  last,  his  small  yet  peaceful  seat 
From  lea'rning's  labour  is  the  blest  retreat. 
Pomposus  fills  his  magisterial  ch-air; 
Pomposus  governs,— but,  my  muse,  forbear  ; 
Contempt,  in  silence,  be  the  pedant's  lot ; 
His  name  and  precepts  be  alike  forgot  ; 
No  more  his  mention  shall  my  verse  degrade. 
To  him  my  tribute  is  already  paid. 

High,  thro'  those  elms  with  hoary  branches  crown'd. 
Fair  Ida's  bovver  adorns  the  landscape  round; 
There  Science,  from  her  favour'd  seat,  surveys 
The  vale  where  rural  Nature  clniins  her  praise; 
To  her  awhile  resigns  her  youthful  train. 
Who  move  in  joy,  and  dance  along  the  plain  ; 
In  scatter'd  groups  each  favour'd  haunt  pursue ; 
Repeat  old  pastimes,  and  discover  new: 
Flusird  with  his  rays,  beneath  the  noontide  sun. 
In  rival  bands  between  th(!  wickets  run. 
Drive  o'er  the  sward  the  ball  with  active  force, 
Or  chase  with  nimble  feel  its  rai)id  counse. 
But  these  with  slower  steps  dirc^ct  their  way 
Where  Brent's  cool  waves  in  limpid  currents  stray  i 
While  yonder  tew  search  out  scune  green  retreat. 
Ami  arbours  shade  them  from  the  summer  heat: 
Others  again,  a  pert  and  lively  crew, 
SnuKj  rough  and  thoughtless  stranger  p  aced  in  view 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


48 


With  frolic  quaint  their  antic  jests  expose, 

Ami  lease  I  lie  gnunWing  rustic  as  he  goes; 

Nor  rest  with  tliis,  but  many  a  past^iiig  fray 

Tradition  treasures  for  a  future  day  : 

"'Twas  here  the  gatiier'd  swains  ff)r  vengeance  fought. 

And  liere  we  earn'd  the  conquest  dearly  bought ; 

H°re  have  we  fled  before  superior  might, 

And  here  renew'd  the  wild  tumultuous  fight." 

While  thus  our  souls  with  early  passions  swell, 

In  lingering  tones  resounds  the  distant  bell  ; 

I'll'  allotted  hour  of  daily  sport  is  o'er, 

And  Learning  beckons  from  her  temple's  door. 

No  splendid  tablets  grace  her  simple  hall. 

But  ruder  records  fill  the  dusky  wall ; 

There,  deeply  carved,  behold  !  each  tyro's  name 

Secures  its  owner's  academic  fame; 

Here  mingling  view^  the  name  of  sire  and  son  — 

The  one  long  graved,  the  other  just  begun  ; 

These  shall  survive  alike  when  son  and  sire 

Beneath  one  common  stroke  of  fate  expire  . 

Perhaps  their  last  memorial  these  alone. 

Denied  in  death  a  monumental  stone, 

Whilst  to  the  gale  in  mournful  cadence  wave 

The  sighing  weeds  that  hide  their  nameless  giave 

And  here  jny  name,  and  many  an  early  friend's 

Along  the  well  in  lengthen'd  line  extends. 

Though  still  our  deeds  amuse  the  youthful  race. 

Who  tread  our  steps,  and  fill  our  former  place, 

Wno  young  obey'd  their  iords  in  silent  awe. 

Whose  nod  commanded,  and  whose  voice  was  law 

And  now  in  turn  poises';  the  reins  of  power, 

To  rule  the  little  tyranls  of  ar\  hour  ;  — 

1  "nough  sometimes  with  ihe  tale  of  ancient  day 

niey  pass  the  dreary  wintei's  eve  away— 

And  thus  our  former  rulei.s  stemm'd  the  tide, 
\nd  thus  they  dealt  the  combat  side  by  side  ; 
Just  in  this  place  the  mouldering  walls  they  rcaled, 
Nor  holts  nor  bars  against  their  stisngth  avrtil  d  ; 
Here  Probus  came,  the  rising  fray  to  quell. 
And  here  he  falter'd  forth  his  last  farewell ; 
And  here  one  nisht  abroad  they  dared  to  roam. 
While  bold  Pomposus  bravely  stay'd  at  honie  ;"— 
While  thus  they  speak,  the  hour  must  sooi^  arrive. 
When  names  of  these,  like  ours,  alone  survive: 
Yet  a  few  years,  one  general  wreck  will  whelm 
The  faint  remembrance  of  our  fairy  realm. 

Dear  honest  race,  though  now  we  meet  no  more. 
One  last  long  look  on  what  we  were  before  — 
Our  first  kind  greetings,  and  our  last  adieu  — 
Drew  tears  from  eyes  unused  to  weep  with  yon. 
Through  splendid  circles,  fashion's  gaudy  world. 
Where  folly's  glaring  standard  waves  unfurl'd, 
I  plunged  to  drown  in  noise  my  fond  regret, 
And  all  I  sought  or  hoped  was  to  forget. 
Vain  wish  !  if  chance  some  well  remember'd  face. 
Borne  old  companion  of  my  early  race, 
'  -Ivanced  to  claim  his  friend  with  honest  joy, 
My  eyes,  my  heart  proclaiin'd  me  still  a  boy; 
The  glittering  scene,  the  fluttering  groups  around, 
Were  (piite  forgotten  when  my  friend  was  found; 
The  smiles  of  beauty  —  (for,  alas  !  I  've  known 
What  't  is  to  bend  before  Love's  mighty  throne)  — 
The  smiles  of  beauty,  though  those  smiles  were  dear, 
Could  hardly  charm  me  when  that  friend  was  near: 
My  thoughts  tevvilder'd  in  ihe  fond  surprise, 
riie  w  )ods  of  Ida  danced  b-sfore  my  eyes  ; 


I  saw  the  sprightly  wandirers  pour  aiong, 
I  saw  andjoin'd  again  the  joyous  throng; 
Panting,  again  I  traced  her  lofty  grove, 
And  friendship's  feelings  triuniph'd  over  love. 

Yet  why  should  I  alone  with  such  deliglit 
Retrace  the  circuit  of  my  former  flight? 
Is  there  no  cause  beyond  the  common  claim  • 
Endear'd  to  all  in  cliiMliood's  vory  name? 
Ah!  sure  some  scronger  impulse  v  brattis    lere, 
Which  whispers  friendship  will  be  doubly  lear 
To  one  who  thus  for  kindred  hearts  must  roam 
And  seek  abroad  the  love  denied  at  home. 
Those  hearts,  dear  Ida,  have  I  found  in  thee — 
A  home,  a  world,  a  paradise  to  me. 
Stern  death  forbade  my  orphan  youth  to  share 
The  tender  guidance  of  a  father's  care: 
Can  rank,  or  e'en  a  guardian's  name,  supply 
The  love  whicli  glistens  in  a  father's  eye? 
For  this  can  wealth  or  title's  sound  atone 
Made  by  a  parent's  (!arly  loss  my  own  ? 
What  brotlier  springs  a  brother's  love  to  seek  ? 
What  sister's  gentle  kiss  has  prest  niy  cheek  ? 
For  me  how  dull  the  vacant  moments  rise. 
To  no  fond  bosom  link'd  by  kindred  ties! 
Oft  in  the  progress  of  some  fleeting  dream 
Fraternal  smiles  collected  round  me  seem  ; 
While  still  the  visions  to  my  heart  are  prest, 
The  voice  of  love  will  murmur  in  my  rest: 
I  hear— I  wake— and  in  the  sound  rejoice  ; 
I  hear  again— but  ah  !  no  brother's  voice. 
A  hermit,  'midst  of  crowds.  I  fain  must  stray 
Alone,  though  thousand  pilgrims  fill  the  way; 
While  these  a  thousand  kindred  wreatlis  entwine, 
I  cannot  ca'l  one  sinirle  blossom  mine  : 
What  then  remains?  in  solitude  to  groan, 
To  mix  in  friendship,  or  to  sigh  alone? 
Thus  must  I  cling  tc  some  endearing  hand. 
And  none  more  dear  than  Ida's  social  band 

Alonzo!  best  and  dearest  of  my  friends. 
Thy  name  ennobles  him  who  thus  commends; 
Fnmi  this  fond  tribute  thou  canst  gain  no  praise 
The  praise  is  his  who  now  that  tribute  pays. 
Oh!  in  the  promise  of  thy  early  youth. 
If  hope  anticipate  the  words  of  truth. 
Some  loftier  bard  shall  sing  thy  glorious  name, 
To  build  his  own  upon  thy  deathless  fame. 
Friend  of  my  heart,  and  foremost  of  the  list 
Of  those  with  whom  I  lived  supremely  blest. 
Oft  have  we  drain'd  the  font  of  ancient  lore; 
Thoug!i  drinking  deeply,  thirsting  still  the  moif 
Yet  when  confinement's  lingering  hour  was  done, 
Our  sports,  our  studies,  and  our  souls  were  one 
Together  we  impell'd  the  flying  ball; 
Togethi'r  waited  in  our  tutor's  hall; 
Together  jnin'd  in  cricket's  manly  toil. 
Or  shared  the  produce  of  the  river's  spoil; 
Or  plungin-  from  the  gre' n  declining  shore. 
Our  pliant   limbs  the  buoyant  billows  tiore ; 
In  every  element,  unchanged,  the  same, 
All.  all  that  brothers  should  be  but  the  name 

Nor  yet  are  you  forgot,  my  jocund  hoy! 
Davus,  the  harbinger  of  childish  joy; 
For  ever  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  fun. 
The  laughing  herald  of  the  harmless  pun? 
Y(!t  with  a  breast  of  such  materials  made- 
Anxious  to  please,  of  pleasing  half  afraid 


44 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Candid  and  liberal,  with  a  henrt  of  steel 
In  danger's  path,  thoii;.'h  not  untaiisrht  ta  feel. 
Still  T  remember  in  the  factious  strife 
The  rustic's  musket  aim'd  against  my  life: 
Hish  pois'd  in  air  the  massive  weapon  hung 
A  cry  of  horror  burst  from  every  tongue ; 
Whilst  I,  in  combat  witli  another  foe, 
r'ought  on,  unconscious  of  th'  impending  blow; 
Vonr  arm,  brave  boy,  arrested  his  career — 
Forward  you  sprung,  insensible  to  fear; 
Disarm'd  and  battled  by  your  conquering  hand, 
The  grovelling  savage  roU'd  upon  the  sand: 
An  act  like  this  can  simple  thanks  repays 
Or  all  the  labours  of  a  grateful  lay? 
Oh  no  !    whene'er  my  breast  forgets  the  deed, 
That  instant,  Davus,  it  deserves  to  bleed. 

Lycus!  on  me  thy  claims  are  justly  great: 
Thy  milder  virtues  could  my  muse  relate, 
To  thee  alone,  unrivall'd,  would  belong 
The  feeble  efforts  of  my  lengthen'd  song. 
Well  canst  thou  boast  to  lead  in  senates  fit — 
A  Spartan  firmness  with  Athenian  wit: 
Though  yet  in  embryo  these  perfections  shine, 
Lycus  !  thy  father's  fame  will  soon  be  thine. 
Where  learning  nurtures  the  superior  mind. 
What  may  we  hope  from  genius  thus  refined! 
When  time  at  length  matures  thy  growing  years 
How  wilt  thou  tower  above  thy  fellow  peers. 
Prudence  and  sense,  a  spirit  bold  and  free, 
With  honour's  soul,  united  beam  in  thee. 

Shall  fair  Ecryamis  pass  by  unsung? 
From  ancient  lineage,  not  unworthy,  sprung  : 
What  though  one  sad  dissension  bade  us  part, 
That  name  is  yet  embalm'N  within  my  heart; 
Yet  at  the  mention  does  that  lieart  rebound. 
And  palpitate  responsive  to  the  sound. 
Envy  dissolved  our  ties,  and  not  our  will : 
We  once  were  friends, — I'll  think  we  ate  so  still. 
A  form  unmatch'd  in  nature's  partial  mould, 
A  heart  untainted,  we  in  thee  behold  : 
Yet  not  the  senate's  thunder  thou  slialt  wield. 
Nor  seek  for  glory  in  the  tented  field  ; 
To  minds  of  ruder  texture  these  be  given — 
Thy  ?oul  shall  nearer  soar  its  native  heaven. 
Haply  in  polish'd  courts  might  be  thy  seat, 
But  that  thy  tongue  could  never  forge  deceit ; 
The  courtier's  supple  bow  and  sneering  smile, 
The  flow  of  compliment,  the  slippery  wile. 
Would  make  that  breast  with  indignation  burn. 
And  all  the  glittering  snares  to  tempt  thee  spurn. 
Domestic  happimss  will  stamp  thy  fate; 
Sacred  to  love,  unclouded  e'er  by  hate  ; 
The  world  admire  thee,  and  thy  friends  adore; 
Ambition's  slave  alone  would  toil  for  more. 

Now  last,  but  nearest  of  the  social  band, 
Bee  honest,  open,  generous  Cleon  stand  ; 
With  scarce  one  speck  to  cloud  the  pleasing  scene, 
No  vice  degrades  that  purest  soul  serene. 
On  the  same  day  our  studious  race  begun, 
Un  the  same  day  our  studious  race  was  run  ; 
Thus  side  by  side  we  pass'd  our  first  career. 
Thus  side  by  side  we  strove  for  many  a  year; 
At  last  concluded  our  scholastic  life, 
We  ni.'ither  coiuiuer'd  in  the  classic  strife; 
As  sjieakers  each  supports  an  equal  name, 
And  crov\ds  allow  to  lioih  a  partial  fame: 


To  soothe  a  youthful  riva.'s  early  pride. 
Though  Cleon's  candour  would  the  palm  divide. 
Yet  candour's  self  compels  me  now  to  own 
Justice  awards  it  to  my  friend  alone. 

Oh  !  friends  regretted,  scenes  for  ever  dear, 
Remembrance  hails  you  with  her  warmest  teat  f 
Drooping,  she  bends  o'er  pensive  Fancy's  uru 
To  trace  the  hours  which  never  can  return  ; 
Yet  with  the  retrospectiim  loves  to  dwell. 
And  soothe  the  sorrows  of  her  last  farewell ! 
Yet  greets  the  triumph  of  my  boyish  mind 
As  infant  laurds  round  my  head  were  twined 
When  Probus'  praise  repaid  my  lyric  song. 
Or  placed  me  higher  in  the  studious  throng, 
Or  when  my  first  harangue  received  applause, 
His  sage  instruction  the  primeval  cause, 
Wliat  gratitude  to  him  my  soul  possest. 
While  hope  of  dawning  honours  fill'd  my  breast  I 
For  all  my  humble  fame,  to  him  alone 
The  praise  is  due,  who  made  that  fame  my  own. 
Oh  !  could  I  soar  above  these  feeble  lays, 
Tliese  young  effiisions  of  my  early  days, 
To  him  my  muse  her  noblest  strain  would  give* 
The  song  might  perish,  but  the  theme  must  live 
Yet  why  for  him  the  needless  verse  essay? 
His  honour'd  nan>e  requires  no  vain  display  ; 
By  every  son  of  grateful  Ida  blest, 
It  finds  an  echo  in  each  youthful  breast; 
A  fame  beyond  the  glories  of  the  proud. 
Or  all  the  plaudits  of  the  venal  crowd. 

Ida,  not  yet  exhausted  is  the  tiieme. 
Nor  closed  the  progress  of  my  youthfur  dream. 
How  many  a  friend  deserves  the  grateful  strain. 
What  scenes  of  childhood  still  unsung  remain  I 
Yet  let  rue  hush  this  echo  of  the  past. 
This  parting  song,  the  dearest  and  the  .ast ;         ' 
And  brood  in  secret  o'er  those  hours  of  joy, 
To  me  a  silent  and  a  sweet  emjiloy, 
While,  future  hope  and  fear  alike  unknown, 
I  think  with  pleasure  on  tlie  past  alone  ; 
Yes.  to  the  past  alone  my  lH'art  confine. 
And  chase  the  phantom  of  what  luioe  was  mine. 

Ida  !  still  o'er  thy  hills  in  joy  preside, 
And  proudly  steer  through  time's  eventful  tide; 
Still  may  thy  blooming  sons  thy  name  revere. 
Smile  in  thy  bovver,  but  quit  thee  with  a  tear 
That  tear  perhaps  the  fondest  which  will  flow 
O'er  their  last  scene  of  lia[)piness  below. 
Tell  me,  ye  hoary  few  who  glide  along. 
The  feeble  veti'rans  of  some  loiiner  throng. 
Whose  fri(>iids,  like  autumn  IcavL's  by  tempes'.s  whirS'd. 
Are  swept  for  ever  from  this  busy  world  ; 
Revolve  the  fleeting  moments  of  your  youth. 
While  Care  as  yet  withlield  her  venom'd  tootl  ; 
Say  if  remembrance  days  like  these  endears 
Beyond  the  rapture  of  succeeding  years? 
Say  can  ambition's  fever'd  brain  bestow 
So  sweet  a  balm  to  soothe  your  hours  of  wo? 
Can  treasures,  hoarded  for  some  thankless  son. 
Can  royal  smiles,  or  wreaths  by  slaughter  won. 
Can  stars  or  ermine,  man's  maturer  toys, 
(For  glittering  baubles  are  not  Icll  to  boys,) 
Recall  one  scene  so  much  b(doved  to  view 
As  those  where  Youth  her  garland  twined  lor  you 
Ah,  no!  amid  the  gloomy  calm  of  age 
You  turn  with  faltering  hand  life's  varied  page; 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


4A 


Peruse  the  record  oi  your  days  on  earth, 
Uiisiilliod  only  where  it  marks  your  birth  ; 
Still  lingcrins  pause  above  each  chequer'd  leaf, 
And  blot  with  tears  tlie  sable  lines  of  grief; 
Win  re  passion  o'er  the  theme  her  mantle  threw, 
Or  weeping  Virtue  sighM  a  faint  adieu  ; 
But  ble.-s  the  scroll  wh.ich  fairer  words  adorn, 
Traced  by  the  rosy  tiiiger  of  the  morn  ; 
U'hiMi  Friendshii)  bow'd  betore  the  shrine  of  truth, 
And  Love,  witliout  his  pinion,  smiled  on  youth. 


A  N-yWER  TO  A  BEAUTIFl'L  POEM,  WRITTEN 
BY  MOXTGO^IEKY,  AUTHOR  OF  "  HUE  WAN- 
DERER I\  SWrrZERLAXD,"  &c.  <kc.  ENTITLED 
'•THE  CO^LMOX  LOT." 

1 

Montgomery  !  true,  the  common  lot 

Of  mortals  lies  in  Lethe's  wave; 
Yet  some  shall  never  be  forgot  — 

Some  shall  exist  beyond  the  grave. 


"  Cnknown  the  region  of  his  birth," 
The  lieroi  rolls  the  tide  of  war; 

Yet  not  unknown  his  martial  wortli. 
Which  glares  a  meteor  from  afar. 


His  joy  or  grief  his  weal  or  woe, 

Perchance  ma\     scape  the  page  of  fame  ! 
YeX  nations  now    unborn   will  know 
The  record  of  his  d.;allil'jss  name. 


The  patriot's  and  the  poefs  frame 
Musi  share  the  comm-Mi  tomb  of  all; 

Their  glr,ry   will  not  sleej)  the  same; 
That  will  arise  though  empires  tall. 


The  lustre  of  a  beauty's  eye 

Assumes  the  ghastly  stare  of  death; 

The  fair,  the  brave,  the  good  must  die. 
And  sink  the  yawning  grave  beneath. 

G. 
Once  more  the  speaking  eye  revives. 

Still  beamiiiii  through  the  lover's  strain 
For  Petrarchs  La  ira  still  survives: 

She  died,  but  neer  will  die  again. 


The  rolling  seasons  pass  away, 

And  Time,  unlirin?,  waves  his  wing: 

Whilst  honour's  laurels  ne'er  decay. 
But  bloom  in  fresh  unfading  spring. 


All    all  must  sleep  in  grim  repose. 

Collected  in  the  silent  tomb  ; 
The  old  and  young,  with  friends  and  foes, 

Fosterins  alike  in  shrouds,  consume. 


I  No  particular  hero  is  here  alluded  to.  The  exploits  of 
Bayard,  Nemours,  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  and  in  more 
modern  times  the  fame  of  Marlhnrou.^h,  Frederick  the  Great, 
Count  Srixe,  (.'harles  of  Sweden,  &c.  are  familiar  to  every 
historical  reader,  but  the  exact  places  of  dn'ir  birUi  are  known 
*o  a  very  small  proportion  of  ihoir  admirers. 


The  mouldering  marble  lasts  its  day, 

Yet  falls  at  length  an  useless  tane; 
To  ruin's  ruthless  pangs  a  prey. 

The  wrecks  of  pillar'd  pride  remain. 
10. 
What  thoush  the  sculpture  be  destroy'd. 

From  dark  oblivion  meant  to  guard? 
A  briizht  renown  shall  be  enjoy'd 

By  those  whose  virtues  claim  reward 

n. 

Then  do  not  say  the  common  lot 
Of  all  lies  d(>ep  in  Lethe's  wave; 

Some  few  who  ne'er  will  be  forgot 
Shall  burst  tlie  bondage  of  the  grave 


TO  THE  REV.  J.  T.  BECHER. 
1. 
Dear  Becher,  you  tell  me  to  mix  with  mankind 

I  cannot  deny  such  a  precept  is  wise; 
But  retirement  accords  with  the  tone  of  my  min«^; 
I  will  not  descend  to  a  world  I  despise. 
2. 
Did  the  senate  or  camp  my  exertions  require. 

Ambition  might  prompt  me,  at  once,  to  go  forth; 
When  infancy's  years  of  probation  ex  ire, 
Perchance  I  may  strive  to  distinguis-i  my  birth, 
3. 
The  fire  in  the  cavern  of  Etna  conceal'd 

Still  mantles  unseen  in  its  secret  recess: 
At  length  in  a  volume  terrific  reveal'd. 
No  torrent  can  quench  it,  no  bounds  can  repress. 

4. 

Oh!  thus,  the  desire  in  my  bosom  tor  fame 
Bids  me  live  but  to  hope  for  posterity's  praise. 

Could  I  soar  with  the  phoenix  on  pinions  of  flame 
With  nim  I  would  w  ish  to  expire  in  the  blaze. 

5. 
For  the  life  of  a  Fox,  of  a  Chatham  the  death. 

What  censure,  what  danger,  what  woe  would  I  br«  vj 
Their  lives  did  not  end  when  they  yielded  their  hreatll 

Their  glory  illumines  the  gloom  of  their  grave. 


Yet  why  should  I  ininsle  in  Fashion's  full  nerd  ? 

Why  crouch  to  her  leaders,  or  cringe  to  her  rules  7 
Why  bend  to  the  proud,  or  applaud  the  absurti  ? 

Wliy  search  for  delight  in  the  friendship  of  fools  7 


I  have  tasted  the  sweets  and  the  bitters  of  love  ; 

In  frieiniship  I  early  was  taught  to  believe  ; 
My  passion  the  matrons  of  prudence  rejirove  ; 

I  have  found  that  a  friend  may  profess,  yet  deceivr 

8. 
To  me  what  is  wealth  ?  it  may  pass  in  an  hour. 

If  tyrants  prevail,  or  if  F'ortune  should  frown. 
To  me  what  is  title?— the  phantom  of  power; 

To  me  what  is  fashion  ?— I  seek  but  renown. 

9. 
Deceit  is  a  stranger  as  yet  to  my  soul, 

I  still  am  unpractised  to  varnish  the  truth  ; 
Then  why  should  I  live  in  a  haicl'ul  control  ? 

Why  waste  upon  folly  the  days  of  niy  -outh  » 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


TO  MISS  CHAVVORTH. 
L 
Oh!  Irid  my  fate  been  join'd  with  thine, 

As  once  this  pledge  appearVl  a  token, 
These  lollies  had  not  tlien  been  mine. 
For  then  my  peace  liad  not  been  broken. 
2. 
To  thee  these  early  faults  I  owe. 

To  thee,  the  wise  and  old  reproving: 
They  know  my  sins,  but  do  not  know 
'T  was  thine  to  break  the  bonds  of  loving 
3. 
For  once  my  soul,  like  thine,  was  pure, 
And  all  its  risinff  fires  could  smother; 
And  now  thy  vows  no  more  endure, 
Bestow'd  by  thee  ujjon  another. 
4. 
i*erhaps  his  peace  I  could  destroy, 

And  spoil  the  blisses  that  await  nim; 
Yel  let  my  rival  smile  in  joy. 
For  thy  dear  sake  1  cannot  hate  him. 
5. 
Ah  !  since  thy  anjjel  form  is  gone, 

My  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any ; 
But  wliat  it  sought  in  thee  alone, 
Attempts,  alas !  to  find  in  many. 
6. 
Then  fare  thee  well,  deceitful  maid, 

•Twere  vain  and  fruitless  to  regret  thee; 
Nor  Hope,  nor  Memory,  yield  their  aid, 
But  Pride  may  teach  me  to  forget  thee. 
7. 
Yet  all  this  giddy  waste  of  years. 

This  tiresome  round  of  palling  pleasures; 
These  varied  loves,  these  matron's  fears. 
These  thout'htless  strains  to  Passion's  measures; 


a 

If  thou  wert  mine,  had  all  been  hush'd:— 
This  cheek,  now  pale  from  early  riot. 

With  Passion's  hectic  ne'er  had  flush'd, 
But  bloom'd  in  calm  domestic  quiet. 


Yes,  once  the  rural  scene  was  sweet, 
For  Nature  seem'd  to  smile  before  thee; 

And  once  my  breast  abhorr'd  deceit, 
For  then  it  beat  but  to  adore  thee. 

]0. 

But  now  I  seek  for  other  joys  ; 

To  think  would  drive  my  soul  to  madnewj 
In  thoughtless  throngs  and  empty  noise 

I  conquer  half  my  bosom's  sadness. 

11. 

Yet,  even  in  these  a  thought  will  steal 
In  spite  of  every  vain  endeavour  ; 

And  fiends  might  pity  what  1  fee!. 
To  know  that  thou  art  lost  for  ever. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

'Tis  done!— I  saw  it  in  my  dreams; 

No  more  with  Hope  the  future  beam*; 
My  days  of  happiness  are  few  : 

Chill'd  by  misfortune's  wintry  blast, 

My  dawn  of  life  is  overcast, 
Love,  Hope,  and  Joy,  alike  adieu!— 
Would  1  could  add  Remembrante  toof 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


47 


critiquf: 


EXTRACTED  FROM  THE  EDINBURGH 
RE  MEW,  NO.  -22,  FOR  JAN.  1808. 


Hours  of  IiUeiicss ;  a  Series  of  Paciiis,  original  and 
transhited.  By  Geohgi;  Gordon,  Lokd  Bvron, 
a  Minor.  8vo.  [)i..  200.— Newark,  1807. 

The  poesv  of"  this  yoiin^  Lord  belongs  to  the  class 
which  neitlier  gods  nor  men  are  said  to  permit.  Indeed, 
we  do  not  recollect  to  have  seen  a  quantit\-  of  verse 
with  so  few  deviations  in  cither  direction  from  that 
exact  standard.  His  etilisions  are  spread  over  a  dead 
flat,  and  can  no  more  get  above  or  belov.-  the  level,  than 
if  thev  were  so  much  stagnant  water.  As  an  extenuation 
of  this  offence,  the  noble  author  is  peculiarly  lorward 
in  pleading  minority.  We  have  it  in  the  title-page, 
and  on  the  very  back  of  the  volume ;  it  follows  his 
name  like  a  favourite  part  of  his  style.  Much  stress  is 
laid  upon  it  in  the  preface,  and  tlie  poems  are  connected 
with  this  general  statement  of  his  case,  by  particular 
dates,  substantiating  the  age  at  which  each  was  written. 
Now,  the  law  upon  the  jioint  of  minority  we  hoK!  to  be 
pertl.Ttly  clear.  It  is  a  plea  available  onlv  to  the  de- 
fendant ;  no  plaintiff  can  oifer  it  as  a  supplementary 
ground  of  action.  Thus,  if  any  suit  could  be  l)roii<:ht 
against  Lord  Byron,  for  the  purpose  of  comj)eHini;  him 
to  put  into  court  a  certain  quantity  ot  poetry,  and  if 
judgment  were  given  against  him,  it  is  highly  probable 
that  an  exception  would  be  taken  were  he  to  deliver 
for  poetry  the  contents  of  this  volume.  To  tliis  he 
might  plead  minority  ;  but,  as  he  now  makes  voluntary 
tender  of  the  article,  he  hath  no  right  to  sue,  on  tliat 
giound,  for  the  price  in  good  current  praise,  sb.ould 
the  goods  be  unmarketable.  This  is  our  view  of  the 
law  on  the  point,  and,  we  dare  tosaj',  so  will  it  be  ruled. 
Perha[)s  however,  in  realitv,  all  that  he  tells  us  about 
his  youth  is  rather  v.ith  a  view  to  increase  our  wonder, 
than  to  soften  our  censures.  He  possibl\-  means  to  say, 
"  See  how  a  minor  can  write !  This  poem  was  actuallj' 
composed  by  a  young  man  of  eighteen,  and  this  by  one 
ofonly  sixteen!" — But,  alas  !  we  all  remember  the  poetry 
of  Cowley  at  ten,  and  Pope  at  twelve  ;  and  so  far  from 
hearing,  with  any  degree  of  surprise,  that  very  poor 
verses  were  written  by  a  youth  from  his  leaving  school 
to  his  leaving  college,  inclusive,  we  really  believe  this 
to  be  the  most  common  of  all  occurrences  ;  that  it  hap- 
p»  lis  in  the  life  of  nine  men  in  ten  who  are  educated  in 
Ensland  ;  and  that  the  tenth  man  writes  better  verse 
tlian  Lord  Byron. 

His  other  plea  of  privilege  our  author  rather  brings 
forward  in  order  to  waive  it.  He  certainly,  however, 
does  allude  frequently  to  his  family  and  ancestors — 
t»oinetimes  in  poetry,  sometimes  in  notes  ;  and  while 
giving  up  his  claim  on  tl>e  score  of  rank,  he  takes  care 
to  remember  us  of  Dr.  Johnson's  saving,  that  when  a 
nobleman  appears  as  an  author,  his  merit  should  be 
iiandsomcly  acknowledged.  In  truth,  it  is  this  consitl- 
e  ation  only,  that  induces  us  to  give  Lord  Byron's  poems 
a  place  in  our  review,  beside  our  desire  to  counsel  him, 
that  he  do  forthwith  abandon  poetrj',  an  i  turn  his  talents, 
which  are  considerable,  and  his  opportunities,  which  are 
great,  to  better  account. 


With  this  view,  we  must  beg  leave  seriously  id  assure 
liim,  that  the  mere  rhyming  of  the  linal  svllab'.e,  even 
when  accompanied  by  the  presence  ol  a  certain  number 
of  feet;  nay,  allhough  (wiiich  does  not  always  happen) 
those  teet  should  scan  regularly,  and  liave  been  all 
counted  accurately  upon  the  lingers, — it  is  not  the 
whole  art  of  poetrv.  We  would  entreat  him  to  believe, 
that  a  certain  portion  of  liveliness,  someuhat  of  fancy, 
is  necessary  to'conslitute  a  ])oem,  and  that  a  i)oeni  in 
the  present  day,  to  be  read,  must  coutuln  at  l.'asi  one 
thought,  either  in  a  little  degree  uitferent  froui  toe  ideas 
of  former  writers,  or  ditierently  expressed.  U  e  put  a 
CO  his  candour,  whether  th6re  is  any  thing  sc  deserving 
the  name  of  poetry  in  verses  like  the  following,  written 
in  1806  ;  and  whether,  if  a  youth  of  eighteen  could  say 
any  thing  so  uninteresting  to  his  ancestors,  a  youth  of 
nineteen  should  publish  it: 

"Shades  of  heroes,  farewell  I  your  desceiiilant,  dupartin? 

From  the  seat  of  his  ancesrors,  bids  ynu  adu  u  ! 
Abroad  or  at  home,  your  rfinemhraiiCf  imparting 

New  courage,  lie  'II  iliink  upjii  glory  and  you. 

"Though  a  tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separation 
'Tis  nature,  not  tear,  that  excites  his  rf^riet : 

Far  distant  lie  goes,  with  ihe  same  eiiiul:'.ti(m  ; 
The  lame  ot  hi;  fathers  he  ne'er  can  forget. 

"That  fame,  and  tliat  memory,  still  will  lie  cherish, 
He  vows  liiat  he  ne'er  will  disgrace  your  renown  ; 

Like  you  will  he  live  or  like  you  will  W  perish : 
When  decay'd,  may  he  mingl'  !iis  dust  with  your  own.' 

Now  we  positively  do  assert,  that  there  is  nothina  bet- 
ter than  these  stanzas  in  *he  whole  compass  of  tlie  noble 
minor's  volume. 

Lord  Bvron  should  also  have  a  care  of  attcni()ting 
what  the  greatest  poets  have  done  before  him,  for 
comparisons  (as  he  must  have  had  occasion  to  see  at 
his  writinii-master's,)  are  odious. — Grab's  Ode  on  Eton 
College  should  really  have  kept  out  the  ten  hobbling 
stanzas  "  On  a  disttuit  view  of  the  village  and  school  of 
Harrow." 

"  Where  fanny  yet  joys  to  retrace  the  rcsenddance 
Ot' comrades,  in  fneiuiship  ami  mischief  allied; 

How  welcome  to  nio  you;  ne'er-ladmg  rememhrance, 
Which  resis  in  ihe  bosom,  though  hi.pe  is  demed." 

In  like  manner,  the  exquisite  lines  of  Mr.  Rogers  "On 
a  7'f(ir,"  inii;ht  have  warned  tlie  noble  author  ofi"  those 
premises,  and  spared  us  a  whole  dozen  such  sta.nzas  as 
the  following : 

"  Mild  Charity's  glow, 
To  us  mortals  below. 
Shows  the  soul  from  IjMrbarity  clear; 
Coinpaysit)n  will  melt. 
Where  this  virtue  is  felt, 
And  its  duw  is  diffused  in  a  Tear. 
"  The  man  doom'd  to  sail. 
With  the  blast  of  the  gaie. 
Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer, 
As  he  bends  o'er  the  wave. 
Which  may  soon  be  his  grave. 
The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a  Tear." 

And  so  of  instances  in  which  former  poets  had  failed. 
Thus,  we  do  not  think  Lord  Byron  was  made  for  trans- 
lating, during  his  non-age,  Adrian's  Address  to  his 
Soul,  when  Pojie  succeeded  so  indifferently  in  the  a;- 
tempt.  If  our  readers,  however,  are  of  anotiier  opinion, 
they  may  look  at  it. 

"  Ah  !  gentle.  Peeling,  waverins  sprite. 
Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay  I 

To  what  unknown  reL'ion  home. 
Wilt  thou  -..ow  wins  thy  distant  f!i;;ht  ? 
No  more  with  wonted  hmnoiir  i.'ay. 

Rut  pallid,  cheerless,  and  forlorn." 

However,  be  this  as  it  may,  we  fear  ms  translations 
and  imitations  are  great  favourites  with  Lord  B%roii. 
We  have  them  of  all  kinds,  from  Anacreon  to  Ossian, 


48 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


and,  viewing  them  as  school  exercises,  they  may  pass. 
Only,  why  prnit  them  after  they  have  had  tiieir  day 
and  served  their  turn?  And  why  call  the  tiling  in  p.  79,' 
a  translation,  where  two  words  (GtAw  Xsy^iv)  of  tlie 
onginal  are  expanded  into  four  lines,  and  the  otlier 
thing  in  p.  81,^  where  ficaovvKTiaig  ~od'  lopuig^  is  ren- 
dered by  means  of  six  liobbling  verses?  As  to  his  Os- 
anic  poesy,  we  are  not  very  good  judges,  being,  in 
nth,  so  moderately  skilled  in  that  species  of  compo- 
sition, tnat  we  should,  in  all  probability,  be  criticising 
some  bit  of  the  genuine  INIacpherson  itself,  were  we  to 
exj)ress  our  opinion  of  Lord  Byron's  rhapsodies.  If, 
.then,  the  following  beginning' of  a  "  Song  of  Bards'^  is 
'  by  his  Loidship,  we  venture  to  object  to  it,  as  far  as  we 
can  comprehend  it.  "  What  form  rises  on  the  roar  of 
clouds,  whose  dark  ghost  gleams  on  the  red  stream  of 
tempests  ?  His  voice  rolls  on  the  thunder ;  't  is  Orla,  the 
brown  chief  of  Oithona.  He  was,"  etc.  Af'er  detaining 
this  "  brown  chief"  some  time,  the  bards  conclude  by 
giving  him  their  advice  to  "  raise  his  fair  locks  ;"  then 
to  "spread  them  on  the  arch  of  the  rainbow  ;"  and  "to 
smile  through  the  tears  of  the  storm."  Of  this  kind  of 
thing  there  are  no  less  than  nine  pages  ;  and  we  can  so 
far  venture  an  ojnnion  in  their  favour,  that  they  look 
very  like  Mac]jherson ;  and  we  are  positive  they  are 
pretty  nearly  as  stupid  and  tiresome. 

It  is  a  sort  of  privilege  of  poets  to  be  egotists  ;  but 
they  should  "  use  it  as  not  abusing  it ;"  and  particu- 
larly one  who  piques  himself  (though  inrleed  at  the 
ripe  age  of  nineteen)  of  being  "  an  infant  bard," — 
( "The  artless  Helicon  1  boast  is  youth;")— should  either 
not  know,  or  should  seem  not  to  know,  so  much  about 
his  own  ancestry.  Besides  a  poem  above  cited,  on  the 
family  seat  of  the  Byrons,  we  iiave  another  ol  eleven 
pages,  on  the  selfsame  subject,  mtroduced  with  an 
apology,  "  he  certainly  had  no  intention  of  inserting 
it,"  but  really  "  the  particular  re(|uest  of  some  friends," 
etc.,  etc.  It  concludes  with  tive  stanzas  on  himself,  "  the 
last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line."  There  is  a  good 
deal  also  about  his  maternal  ancestors,  in  a  poem  on 
Lachin  y  Gair,  a  mountain  where  he  spent  part  of  his 
youth,  and  might  have  learnt  th:it  pibroch  is  not  a 
bagpipe,  any  more  than  duet  means  a  fiddle. 

As  the  author  has  dedicated  so  large  a  part  of  his 
volume  to  immortalize  his  employments  at  school  and 
college,  we  cannot  possibly  dismiss  it  without  present- 
mg  the  reader  with  a  specimen  of  these  ingenious  effu- 
sions. In  an  ode  with  a  Greek  motto,  called  Granta, 
we  have  the  following  magnificent  stanzas  r 

"  There,  in  apartmnnts  small  and  damp, 

I'iie  candidiite  for  college  prizes 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp, 

Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  rises. 

"  Who  reads  false  quantities  in  Sele, 
Or  puzzles  o'er  the  deep  tiiangle, 

Deprived  ofmMiiy  a  wholesome  meal, 

In  barbarous  Latin  dooin'd  to  wrangle^: 

"  Renouncing  every  pleasing  page, 
Fniin  authors  of  historic  use, 
Preferring  to  tlx;  iftter'd  sa^'e 

The  square  of  the  hypothenuse. 

'Still  harmless  arc;  lliese  occnpations, 

'J'liat  hurt  none  hul  the  ha()lc.-s  student, 
Cuinpan  (i  with  other  recrcali.)ns, 

Which  bring  luL'ctlier  the  imprudent." 

We  are  sorry  to  hear  so  bad  an  account  of  the  col- 
lege psalmody  as  is  contained  in  the  following  Attic 
Btanzas : 


"  Our  choir  would  scarcely  be  excused 

Even  as  a  b:tiiil  oi'raw  ))eginners; 
All  mercy  cow  niu.s;  be  ret'iiseJ 

Tu  tuch  a  set  ot' croaking  sinners. 

"  If  David,  when  his  toils  were  ended. 

Mad  heard  these  blockheads  sing  before  hirn. 

To  us  his  psalms  had  ne'er  descended  : 

In  furious  mood  he  would  have  tore  'em  !" 

But  whatever  judgment  may  be  passed  on  the  poomt> 
of  this  noble  minor,  it  seems  we  must  take  them  as  we 
find  them,  and  be  content ;  for  they  are  the  last  wn 
shall  ever  have  from  him.  He  is,  at  best,  he  says,  but 
an  intruder  into  the  groves  of  Parnassus  ;  he  never  lived 
in  a  garret,  like  thorough-bred  poets ;  anu  "  though  lie 
once  roved  a  careless  mountaineer  in  the  Highlands  o. 
Scotland."  h'e'Has  not  of  late  enjoyed  this  advantage. 
Moreover,  he  expects  no  profit  from  his  jiuolication ; 
and,  whether  it  succeeds  or  not,  "  it  is  highly  improba- 
ble, from  his  situation  and  pursuits  hereafier,"  that  he 
should  again  condescend  to  become  an  authtir.  There- 
fore, let  us  take  what  we  get,  and  be  thankful.  Wliat 
right  have  we  poor  devils  to  be  nice  ?  We  are  \\  ell  off 
to  have  got  so  much  from  a  man  of  this  Lord's  station, 
who  does^  not  live  in  a  garret,  but,  "  has  the  sway  "  of 
Newstead  Abbey.  Again,  we  say,  let  us  be  thankful ; 
and,  with  honest  Sancho,  bid  God  bless  the  giver,  nor 
look  the  gift  horse  m  the  mouth. 


AND 

SCOTCH  REYIEWERS; 

ik    SilTIRE. 


I  See  page  21. 


2  Page  22. 


I  had  i-ather  be  a  kitten,  and  cry  mew  ! 

Thai'  one  of  these  same  metre  balhid-inongers. 

SHAKSPEARE. 
Such  L''ameless  Bards  we  have  ;  and  yet,  't  is  true. 
There  are  ah  "nad,  abandon'd  Critics  too. 


PREFACE.! 

All  iny  friends,  learned  and  unlearned,  have  urged 
me  not  to  publish  this  Satire  with  my  name.  If  I  were  to 
I.e  "turned  from  the  career  of  my  humour  by  quibbloH 
■|uick,  and  pajjer  bullets  of  the  brain,"  I  should  have 
compHed  with  their  counsel.  Hut  I  am  not  to  be  ter- 
rified bv  al)usc,  or  bullied  by  reviewers,  with  or  with- 
out arms.  I  can  safely  say  that  I  have  attacked  none 
■personally  who  did  not  commence  on  the  offensive. 
\n  author's  works  are  pul)!ic  property  :  lie  who  \  vc- 
chases  mav  judge,  and  publish  his  opinion  if  he  plea;-  C3; 
and  the  authors  I  luive  endeavour(;d  to  commemorate 
may  do  by  me  as  I  have  done  by  them  :  I  dare  say  they 
will  succeed  better  in  condemning  my  scribblings  than 
in  mending  their  own.  But  my  objt'Ct  is  not  to  i)r()ve 
that  I  can'  write  well,  but,  if  p^jssvde,  to  make  others 
write  better. 


1  This  Preface  was  written  for  the  second  edition  of  ihiB 
Poem,  and  printed  with  it. 


ENGLISH    BARDS    AND   SCOTCH    REVIEWERS. 


49 


As  the  Poem  has  met  with  far  more  success  than  I 
expected,  I  liave  endeavoured  in  .his  edition  to  make 
sonje  adchtions  and  alterations,  to  render  it  more  worlhj 
of  public  perusal. 

In  the  firs"  edition  of  this  Satire,  published  anony- 
mously, fourteen  lines  on  the  subject  of  Bowles's  Pop 
were  written  and  inserted  at  the  retpiest  of  an  inge- 
nious friend  of  mine,  who  has  now  in  the  press  a  vol- 
ume of  pot'try.  In  the  present  edition  they  are  erased, 
and  some  of  my  o\\n  substituted  in  their  stead  ;  my 
onli'  reason  for  this  beiiiij  that  which  I  conceive  would 
operate  with  any  other  person  in  the  same  manner — a 
determination  not  to  publish  with  my  name  any  pro- 
duction which  was  not  entirely  and  exclusively  my  own 
coinposiiion. 

With  regard  to  the  real  talents  of  many  of  the. poet- 
ical persons  whose  i>ertbrmances  are  mentioned  or 
alluded  to  in  the  following  pages,  it  is  presumed  by  the 
author  that  there  can  be  little  ditference  of  «,  pinion  in 
the  public  at  large ;  though,  like  other  sectaries,  each 
has  his  separate  tabernacle  of  proselytes,  by  whom  his 
abili'.ies  are  overrated,  his  faults  overlooked,  and  his 
metrical  canons  received  without  scruple  and  without 
consideration.  But  the  unquestionable  possession  ol 
lonsiderable  genius  by  several  of  the  writers  here 
censured,  renders  their  mental  prostitution  more  to  be 
regretted.  Imbecility  may  be  pitied,  or,  at  worst, 
laughed  at  and  forgotten  ;  perverted  powers  demand 
the  most  decided  reprehension.  No  one  can  wish  more 
than  the  author,  that  some  known  and  able  writer  had 
undertaken  their  exposure  ;  but  INIr.  Gifford  has  de- 
voted himsrlf  to  I\Iassinger,  and,  in  the  absence  of  the 
regular  physician,  a  country  practitioner  may,  m  cases 
of  absolute  necessity,  be  allowed  to  prescribe  his  nos- 
tnim,  to  prevei>.  the  extension  of  so  deplorable  an 
epidemic,  provided  there  be  no  quackery  in  his  treat' 
ment  of  tlie  malady.  A  caustic  is  here  offered,  as  it  is 
'.o  be  feared  nothing  short  of  actual  cautery  can  re- 
cov  er  the  numerous  patients  afflicted  with  the  present 
prevalent  and  distressing  rabies  for  rhyming. —  As  to 
tlie  Edinburgh  Reliefers,  it  would  indeed  require  a 
Hercules  to  critsh  the  Hydra ;  but  if  the  author  succeeds 
in  merely  "  bruising  one  of  the  he^ds  of  the  serpent," 
though  his  own  hand  should  suffer  in  the  encounter, 
he  will  be  amply  satisfied. 


ENGLISH  BARDS, 

etc.  etc. 


Still  must  I  hear? — shall  hoarse  Fitzgerald'  bawl 
His  creaking  couplets  in  a  tavern  hall, 
And  1  not  sing,  lest,  haply,  Scotch  Reviews 
Should  dub  me  scribbler,  and  denounce  my  Muse? 
Prepare  for  rhyme — I  '11 '  publish,  right  or  wrong  ; 
Fools  are  my  theme,  let  Satire  be  my  song. 

Oh  !  Nature's  noblest  gift — my  gray  goose-quill ! 
Slave  of  my  thoughts,  obedient  to  my  will, 
Torn  from  thy  parent  bird  to  form  a  pen, 
That  mighty  instrument  of  little  men  ! 

1  IMITATION 
"  Semper  ego  auditor  tantum  ?  nurK|uamne  reponam, 
Vexatus  tolies  rauci  Theseide  Codri  7" — Juvenal.  Sat.  1. 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,  facetiously  termed  by  Cohbett  the  "  Sm;fll- 
Beer  Poet,"  inflicts  his  annual  tribute  of  verse  on  the  "Lit- 
erary Fund;"  not  content  with  writiii<r,  he  spouts  in  person, 
after  the  company  have  imhil)ed  a  reas(jnaljle  quantity  of  bad 
port,  to  enable  them  to  sustain  the  operation. 

4 


The  pen  I   foredoom' d  to  airl  the  mental  throes 
Of  brains  that  labour,  big  with  verse  or  prose, 
Though  nymphs  forsake,  and  critics  may  deride, 
The  lover's  solace,  and  the  author's  pride : 
What  wits;  what  poets  dost  thou  daily  raise! 
How  fre<juent  is  thy  use,  how  small  thy  praise! 
Condeum'd  at  length  to  be  forgotten  quite. 
With  all  the  pages  which  't  was  thine  to  write. 
But  thou,  at  least,  mine  own  especial  pen  !  , 

Once  laid  aside,  but  now  assumed  again,  ^^ 

Our  task  complete,  like  Hamet's '  shall  be  free; 
Though  s])urn'd  by  others,  yet  beloved  by  me  : 
Then  let  us  soar  to-day ;   no  common  theme. 
No  eastern  vision,  no  distemper'd  dream 
Inspires — our  path,  though  full  of  thorns,  is  plain ; 
Smooth  be  the  verse,  and  easy  be  the  strain. 

When  vice  triumphant  holds  her  sovereign  sway. 
And  men,  through  life  her  willing  slaves,  obey ; 
W^hen  Follv,  fre([uent  harbinger  of  crime, 
Unfolds  her  motley  store  to  suit  the  time ; 
When  knaves  and  fools  combined  o'er  all  prevail, 
W^hen  Justice  halts,  and  Right  begins  to  fail, 
E'en  then  the  boldest  start  from  public  sneers, 
Afraid  of  shame,  unknf)wn  to  other  fears. 
More  darkly  sin,  by  Satire  kept  in  awe, 
And  shrink  from  ridicule,  though  not  from  law. 

Such  is  the  force  of  Wit !  but  not  belong 
To  me  the  arrows  of  satiric  song  ; 
The  ro\  J  vices  of  our  age  demand 
A  keener  weapon,  and  a  mightier  hand. 
Still  there  are  follies  e'en  for  me  to  chase. 
And  yield  at  least  amusement  in  the  race  : 
Laugh  when  I  laugh,  I  seek  no  other  fame — 
The  cry  is  up,  and  Scribblers  arc  my  game ; 
Speed,  Pegasus  ! — ye  strains  of  great  and  small. 
Ode,  Epic,  Elegy,  have  at  you  all! 
I  too  can  scrawl,  and  once  upon  a  time 
I  pour'd  along  the  town  a  flood  of  rhyme — 
A  school-boy  freak,  unworthy  praise  or  blame  ; 
I  printed — older  children  do  the  same. 
'T  is  pleasant,  sure,  to  see  one's  name  in 
A  book 's  a  book,  although  there 's  nothing 
Not  that  a  title's  sounding  charm  can  save 
Or  scrawl  or  scribbler  from  an  equal  grave  : 
This  Lambe  must  own,  since  his  patrician  name 
Fail'd  to  preserve  the  spurious  farce  from  shame.  ^ 
No  matter,  George  continues  still  to  write,'' 
Though  now  the  name  is  veil'd  from  public  sight. 
Ptioved  by  the  great  example,  I  pursue 
The  selfsame  road,  but  make  my  own  review  : 
Not  seek  great  Jeffrey's — yet,  like  him,  will  be 
Self-constituted  judge  of  poesy. 

A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every  trade,. 
Save  censure — critics  all  are  ready  made. 
Take  hackney'd  jokes  from  Miller,  got  by  rote, 
With  just  enotigh  of  learning  to  misquote  ; 
A  mind  well  skill'd  to  find  or  forge  a  fault ; 
A  turn  for  punning,  call  it  Attic  salt ; 
To  Jeffrey  go,  be  silent  and  discreet, 
His  pay  is  just  ten  sterling  pounds  per  sheet : 
Fear  not  to  lie,  't  will  seem  a  lucky  hit ; 
Shrink  not  from  blasphemy,  'l  w'll  pass  for  wit : 

1  Cid  H  iiitet  Hr.r^ensdi  promises  repose  to  his  pen  in  the  last 
chapter  of  Don  Qiiixi'e.  Oh  :  that  our  voluminous  geotw 
would  follow  the  exampl  t  of  Cid  Hamet  Beiien^dif 

•I  This  insenious  youth  is  fncntioiied  more  paru  juiuny,  with 
his  production,  in  another  place. 

3  In  the  Edinburgh  Review 


in  print  ;Y 
hig  in 't. ) 


50 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


t/are  not  for  feeling — pass  jiour  proper  jest, 
A.nd  stand  a  critic,  hated  yet  caress'd. 

And  shall  we  own  such  judgment  7  no — as  soon 
Seek  roses  in  December,  ice  in  June  ; 
Ho'pe  constancy  in  wind,  or  corn  in  chart", 
Believe  a  woman,  or  an  epita])h, 
Or  any  other  thing  that 's  I'alse,  before 
Yoii  trust  in  critics  who  themselves  are  sore  ; 
Or  vield  one  single  thought  to  be  misled 
Hy  Jep^kiiev's  heart,  or  Lambe's  Boeotian  head.  ' 

To  these  young  tyrants,  ^  by  themselves  misplaced, 
Combined  usurpers  on  the  throne  of  Taste  ; 
To  these,  when  authors  bend  in  humble  awe, 
A.nd  hail  their  voice  as  truth,  their  word  as  law ; 
While  these  are  censors,  't  would  be  sin  to  s|)are  ; 
While  such  are  critics,  why  should  I  forbear  ? 
But  yet,  so  near  all  modern  worthies  "run, 
'T  is  doubtful  whom  to  seek,  or  whom  to  sfiun  ; 
Nor  know  we  when  to  spare,  or  where  to  strike, 
Our  bards  and  censors  are  so  much  alike. 

^  Then  should  you  ask  me,  why  I  venture  o'er 
l"he  path  vvhich  Pope  and  Gifford  trod  before; 
[f  not  yet  sicken'd,  you  can  still  proceed :  y 

Go  on  ;   my  rhyme  u  ill  tell  you  as  you  read.  ,< 

Time  was,  ere  j-et  in  these  degenerate  days 
Ignoble  themes  obtain'd  mistaken  praise, 
When  Sense  and  Wit  with  poesy  allied, 
No  fabled  Graces,  tlourish'd  side  by  side, 
From  the  same  fount  their  inspiration  drew, 
All  1,  rear'd  by  Taste,  bloom'd  fairer  as  they  grew. 
Then,  in  this  happy  isle,  a  Pope's  pure  strain 
Sought  the  rapt  soul  to  charm,  nor  sought  in  vain  ^ 
A  jKiiish'd  nation's  [iraise  aspired  to  claim. 
And  raised  the  people's,  as  the  poet's  fame. 
Like  him  great  Dkvoen  pour'd  the  tide  of  song, 
In  stream  less  smooth,  indeed,  yet  doubly  strong. 
Tiu.'u  Coxgreve's  scenes  could  cheer,  or  Otwav's 

melt — 
For  Nature  then  an  Enghsh  audience  felt. 
But  why  these  names,  or  greater  still,  retrace, 
When  all  to  feebler  bards  resign  their  place? 
V^et  to  such  times  our  hngering  looks  are  cast. 
When  taste  and  reason  with  those  times  are  past. 
Nov,-  look  around,  and  turn  each  trifling  page, 
Siirvey  tiie  precious  works  that  please  the  age; 
Tiiis  tr!it!i  at  least  let  Satire's  self  allow. 
No  dearth  of  bards  can  be  complain'd  of  now: 
The  loaned  [iress  beneath  her  labour  groans. 
And  [)rmters'  devils  shake  their  weary  bones ; 
Wink;  Southey's  epics  cram  the  creaking  shelves. 
And  Little's  lyrics  shine  in  hot-press'd  twelves. 

Thus  saith  the  ])reacher,  *  "nought  beneath  the  sun 
Is  new;"  yet  still  from  change  to  change  we  run  : 
What  varied  wonders  tempt  us  as  they  pass! 
The  cow-])o.\,  tractors,  galvanism,  and  gas, 
In  turns  appear,  to  make  the  vulgar  stare, 
Till  the  swoln  bubble  bursts — and  all  is  air ! 

1  Mesurs.  Ji  ffrcy  i\\h\  Jjamhf.  are  tho  Alpha  and  Oine^'a,  the 
(irsl  aiit]  iiist,  of  the  Kdinburgh  Review  :  the  otJiers  ur^-  nicii 
honed  heroaficr. 

S  "siiill;i  cs?  rlciripwia,  onm  tot  iiliiqiie 

uccurras  [x^riiiira' pari-crtM-hariii:." — Jiivcnid.  Sat.  1 

:i  IMITATION. 
"Ciir  tainen  ho".  potiiH  lilmat  dci'urrcro  p.-itnpo 
Per  queiii  inaumiH  ((iiics  Aiininca'  tli-xit  alnniiius; 
Hi  va«at.  et  placiiii  lalioneiii  adinittiii.s,  cdani." — 

Juvtnal.  Sat    1 

^  Ecclegiasica,  Cliap.  1 


Nor  less  new  schools  of  poetry  arise, 

Where  dull  pretenders  grapple  for  the  pnze: 

O'er  Taste  awhile  these  pseudo-baals  prevail : 

Each  country  book-club  bows  the  knee  to  Baal, 

And,  hurling  lawful  genius  from  the  throne, 

Erects  a  shrine  and  idol  of  its  own  ; 

Some  leaden  calf — but  whom  it  matters  not, 

From  soaring  Southey  down  to  groveling  ^f\OTt   * 

Behold  !   in  various  throngs  the  scribbling  cew, 
For  notice  eager,  pass  in  long  review  : 
Each  spurs  his  jaded  Pegasus  apace. 
And  rhyme  and  blank  maintain  an  equal  race , 
Sonnets  on  sonnets  crowd,  and  ode  on  ode ; 
And  tales  of  terror  jostle  on  the  road; 
Immeasurable  measures  move  along  ; 
For  simpering  Folly  loves  a  varied  song. 
To  strange  mysterious  Dalness  still  the  friend, 
Admires  the  strain  she  cannot  comprehend. 
Thus  Lays  of  Mlistrels- — may  they  be  the  last! 
On  half-strung  harps  whine  mournful  to  the  blast, 
VVhile  mountain  spirits  prate  to  river  sprites. 
That  dames  may  listen  to  their  sound  at  nights ; 
And  goblin  brats,  of  Giljiin  Horner's  ^  brood. 
Decoy  young  border-nobles  through  the  wood. 
And  skip  at  every  step.  Lord  knows  how  high. 
And  frigliten  foolish  babes,  the  Lord  knows  why  ; 
While  high-born  ladies  in  their  magic  cell, 
Forbidding  knights  to  read  who  cannot  spell. 
Despatch  a  courier  to  a  wizard's  grave. 
And  fight  with  honest  men  to  shield  a  knave. 

Next  view  in  state,  proud  prancing  on  his  roan, 
The  solden-crested  haughty  Marmion, 
Now  forging  scrolls,  now  foremost  in  the  fight, 
Not  quite  a  felon,  yet  but  half  a  knight. 
The  gibbet  or  the  field  prepared  to  grace — 
A  mightj'  mixture  of  the  great  and  base. 

1  Stott,  better  known  in  the  "  Morning  Post"  by  the  nam 
of  Hajiz.  This  personage  is  at  present  the  must  protbutid  es 
plorer  of  tho  bathos.  I  reiriemlje.r,  to  the  reisrning  family  o 
PortUfe'ul,  a  siHcial  ode  of  Master  StdtVs,  bciriiining  thus 

(r^tott  loquitur  quoad  Tlibernia.) 
"l'i-incc!y  offsprinir  'if  Braeanza, 
Erin  fireets  thee  with  a  stanza,"  etc.  etc. 

Also  a  sonnet  to  Rats,  well  worthy  of  the  subject,  and  a  most 

thunderiuf?  ode  commencing  as  follows : 

"  Oh  :  for  a  lay  1  loud  as  thesiirtre 
That  lashes  Lapland's  soundiiiy;  shore.' 

Lord  have  metcy  on  us  1  liie  "Lay  of  the   Lust  Minstrel" 

was  nothing  to  this. 

2  See  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  pns.'^nn.  Never  was 
any  plan  so  incongruous  and  absurd  as  the  groundwork  o. 
this  production.  The  entrance  of  T!inn(h;r  ami  l^iiihtomg  pm- 
loauising  to  P.ayr-s'  traiircdy,  UMfortuu  itely  tai<..' ;  away  the 
merit  of  origintility  from  the  dialogue  between  Messieurs  the 
Spirits  of  Fhiod  and  Fell,  in  the  first  canto.  Then  we  have 
the  amiable  William  of  Deloraine,  "a  stark  l!U>^s-lroop(  r," 
videlicit,  a  iuippy  compound  of  poacher,  sheep-stea'er,  tnirl. 
higiiwayman.  The  pri)pri(!iy  of  liis  mtigical  lady's  injiinciion 
not  to  read  can  only  be  equalled  by  his  candid  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  independence  of  the  trammels  of  spcding,  al- 
iJimigh,  to  US':!  his  own  elegant  phrase,  "  't  was  his  neck-verse 
at  Uairibee,"  i.  e.  the  gallows. 

.3  Tlie  Biography  of  (Jilpin  Horner,  and  the  marvellous  pe- 
destrian pagi'.  who  travelled  twic  »s  fast  as  his  master's  hor.se, 
without  the  aid  of  seven-leaaued  boots,  are  r/irfg-d' wMvre  in 
the  improvement  of  taste.  For  incident  we  ha-,  e  the  invir  hie 
nut  by  no  means  sparing,  box  on  tlie  ear  liestowed  on  the 
page,  and  the  (uitrance  of  a  Kni^'ht  and  Charger  into  th 
castle,  under  the  very  natural  dis;:nise  of  a,  wain  of  hay.  Mar- 
mion, the  hero  of  the  iaifor  romance,  is  exai-ily  what  William 
of  Deli.rame  would  have  been,  had  hi-  been  able  to  read  or 
write.  The  Poem  was  maimfactiired  for  Messrs.  Coiistalde. 
Jliirr.ii;,  and  Mill,  r,  worshipful  Booksrllrrs,  in  (umsideration 
of  the  receipt  of  a  sum  of  money  ;  and,  truly,  conside-int:  the 
inspiration,  it  is  a  very  crcditabli'  produciion.  If  Mr.  Scolt  will 
write  for  hire,  let  him  do  his  best  'or  his  paymasters,  but  not 
discrace  his  genius,  which  is  iindoubled  y  great,  by  a  re-eti 
tion  of  black -leitcr  imitations. 


ENGLISH  BARDS  VXD  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS 


Ami  tniiilc"st  tliou,  ScottI  oy  v:iin  conceit  porcliance, 
0'.'  luiblic  tasto  to  t'uist  thy  stale  romance, 
TliouL;h  Miiir.AV  witli  liis  Miller  may  conil)ine 
To  yield  thy  muse  just  half-a-ciown  per  line? 
No  1  wlieu  the  sous  uf  song  desceud  to  tnule, 
Their  l)ays  are  sear,  ilieir  former  laurels  fade. 
Lcl  such  foreijo  the  poet's  sacred  name, 
\Vli<r  rack  their  hrains  for  hicre,  not  for  fame: 
f.ow  may  they  suik  to  merited  conteinjit, 
A:ul  scorn  rcmiHierate  the  mean  attempt ! 
Such  he  thi-ir  meed,  such  still  the  just  reward 
{)t   [irDsiituied  tnuse  and  hirclini.'  hard! 
For  this  we  spurn  Apc^llo's  venal  son, 
And  hid  a  long  "good  night  to  3larnnon."* 

These  are  the  themes  that  claim  our  plaudits  nc  w  , 
These  are  the  bards  to  whom  the  muse  must  boT\  . 
While  Milton,  Drvdex,  Pope,  alike  forgot. 
Resign  their  hallow'd  bays  to  Walter  Scott. 

Tlie  time  has  been  when  yet  the  muse  was  young, 
When  Homer  swept  the  lyre,  and  Mako  sung, 
An  epic  scarce  ten  centuries  could  claim, 
SVhile  awe-struck  nations  hail'd  the  ma^ic  name: 
Tiie  work  of  each  immortal  bard  appears 
The  single  wonder  of  a  thousand  years.  ^ 
Enij^ires  have  moulder'd  from  the  face  of  earth. 
Tongues  have  evpired  with  those  who  gave  them  birth, 
Without  the  glory  such  a  strain  can  give, 
As  even  in  ruin  bids  the  language  live. 
Not  so  with  lis,  thoui;h  minor  bards,  content, 
On  one  great  work  a  life  of  labour  spent: 
With  eagle  pinions  soaring  to  the  skies, 
Behold  the  ballad  monger,  Southev,  rise! 
To  him  let  Ca.aioexs,  Miltox,  Tasso,  yield 
Wiiose  annual  strains,  "ike  armies,  take  the  field. 
First  in  the  ranks  see  Joan  of  Arc  advance. 
The  scourge  of  England,  and  the  boast  of  France  ! 
Tliough  burnt  by  wicked  Bedford  for  a  witch. 
Behold  lier  statue  placed  in  glory's  niche  , 
Her  fetters  burst,  and  just  released  from  prison, 
A  virgin  Phcenix  t>om  her  ashes  risen. 
Next  see  tremendous  Thalaba  come  on,' 
Arabia's  monstrous,  wild,  and  wondrous  son; 
Donidaniel's  dread  destroyer,  who  o'erthrew 
More  mad  magicians  than  the  world  e'er  knew. 
Inmiortal  hero!   all  thy  foes  o'ercome, 
For  ever  rei^in — the  rival  of  Tom  Thumb ! 
Since  startled  metre  fled  beibre  thy  face. 
Well  wert  thou  doonfd  the  last  of  all  thy  race ! 
Wei!  might  triumphant  Genii  bear  thee  hence. 
Illustrious  concj  len/r  of  ccmmon  sense  ! 
N(iw,  last  and  iireatest,  Madoc  spreads  his  sails. 
Cacique  in  Mexico,  and  Pnnce  in  Wales; 
Tells  us  strange  tales,  as  other  travellers  do, 
More  old  than  Mandeville's,  and  not  so  true. 

1  "  Giiyd  niirhl  to  Marmion" — tiie  pathetic  and  also  pro- 

hetie  exriamation  of  ffenrij  Blvunl,  Esquire,  on  the  death 

f  liouest  Marmion. 
'i  As  the  Odyssey  is  so  closely  connected  with  the  story  of 

he  [iiad,  tliey  may  almost  he  classed  as  one  grand  (listoiical 
poein.    In   alluding  to  Milton  and   Tasso.  we  <-«nsi(ier  the 

'Para:lise  Lost,"  and  "  (iierusalemrne  Lil)eratu,"  as  their 
standard  efTorts,  since  neither  t!ie  ".Ifrusaiem  Coii'iuercci"  of 
tlicltaiian,  northe  "Paradise  Resiaint'd"  ofthe  Kie.disli  Hard. 
uhtained  a  proportionile  celebrity  to  their  former  uoerns. 
Query:  VVhicii  of  Mr.  Soufhry's  will  survive? 

3  Thalaba,  Mr  SoiiJJie!/''s  se'cond  poem,  is  written  in  open 
i!('ti;inee  ef  i)rf  <;e(lent  and  poetry.  Mr.  S.  wished  to  produce 
-oijietliing  novel,  and  sueceedid  to  a  miracle.  Joan  of  Arc 
was  marvellous  enough,  butTlialaiia  was  one  of  those  poems 
'  wliicii  (in  the  words  of  Porson)  will  be  read  when  Homer 
ind  Virgil  are  forgotten,  but — not  till  then.'" 


Oh  !   Southev,  Southey  !  '  cease  thy  varied  son^  ' 

A  Bard  may  chaunt  too  often  and  too  long : 

As  tlioii  art  strong  in  verse,  in  mercy  spare  ! 

A  toiirth,  alas  !   were  more  than  we  could  bear. 

But  if,  in  sjiite  of  all  tiie  world  can  say, 

Tiiou  still  wilt  verseward  plod  thy  sveary  way; 

If  still  in  Berkley  ballads,  most  uncivil, 

Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil,  - 

The  babe  unborn  thy  dread  intent  may  rue  ; 

"  God  help  thee,"  Southev,  and  thy  readers  too*  ' 

Next  comes  the  dull  disciple  of  thy  school, 
That  mild  a[)ostate  from  poetic  rule, 
The  sim[)le  Wokdswou-th,  franier  of  a  lay 
As  soft  as  evening  in  his  favourite  May ; 
Who  warns  his  friend  "to  shake  oiF  toil  and  trouble; 
And  (juit  his  books,  for  fear  of  growing  double  ;"  * 
Who,  both  by  [)recept  and  example,  shows 
That  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  is  merely  prose, 
Coiivincing  all,  by  demonstration  plant, 
I'oetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane  ;  V 

And  Cliristmas  stories,  tortured  into  rhyme        ^~^        ^ 
C(jntain  tlie  essence  of  the  true  sublime: 
Thus  when  he  tells  the  tale  of  Betty  Fov, 
The  I, Hot  mother  of  "an  idiot  Boy;" 
A  moon-struck  silly  lad  who  lost  his  way, 
.\n  1,  like  his  bard,  confounded  night  with  day;  ^ 
So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells, 
And  each  adventure  so  sublimely  tells, 
That  all  who  view  flie  "idiot  in  his  glory," 
Conceive  the  Bard  the  hero  of  the  story. 

Shall  gentle  Coleridge  pass  unnoticed  here, 
To  turgid  ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear? 
Thouiiii  themes  of  innocence  amuse  him  best, 
i'et  still  obscurity's  a  welcome  guest. 
If  Inspiration  should  her  aid  refuse 
To  him  who  takes  a  Pi.xy  for  a  Muse,"^ 
i'et  none  in  lofty  numbers  can  surpass 
The  bard  who  soars  to  elegize  an  ass. 
[low  well  the  subject  suits  his  noble  mind  I 
"A  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind  !" 

Oh  !   wonder-working  Leavis  !   Monk,  or  Bar  1, 
Who  fain  wouldst  make  Parnassus  a  church-yard ! 

1  We  beg  yix.  Snuthey's  pardon:  "Made, ^  disdains  the  de- 
gradcMl  tide  of"  epic."  See  his  preface.  Why  is  epicdearadt  d  1 
i  aiKi  by  whom  7  Certainly  the  l:\u;  Romauntsof  Masters  Cotlle, 
I  Ijaiireat  Pije,  Of:ilvy,  Hitiile,  and  gentle  Mistress  Cinrli://, 
have  not  exalted  the  E|)ic  Muse:  but  as  Mr.  Southrp\-i  poem 
I  "  disdains  the  appellation,"  allow  us  to  ask — has  he  substituted 
I  any  thing  better  in  its  stead  ?  or  must  he  be  content  to  rival  cir 
I     Richard  Blackntvre,  in  the  quantity  as  well  as  quality  of  his 

verse. 
I        2  See  The  Old  Woman  of  Berkley,  a  Kallad  by  Mr.  Saiithnj. 
i     wiieiein  an  aL'cd  gentlewo;iiaii  is  carried  away  by  Beelzehul), 
j     on  a  "  lugh-trottiiig  horse." 

3  The  list  line,  "  God  help  thee,"  is  an  evident  plagiarism 
I     froui  tlie  .Vnti-jacdhiu  to  .Mr.  Soiithfi/,  on  his  Dactylics- 

"  (iod  hell)  thee,  silly  one.' ' — Poetry  of  the  Anti-jacobin,  p.  23 

4  Lyrical  H  diuils,  page  4. — *  The  tables  turned.''  Stanza  I 

"  V\>,  up.  my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks — 

VVhy  all  mis  toil  and  trouble  ? 
Fo.  up,  my  tVieud,  and  quit  your  books. 
Or  surely  you  'II  ^row  double." 
Mr.  \y  .  in  his  preface,  labours  hard   to  prove  that  proM 
a'lfi  versi'  are  much  the  same,  and  certainly  his  pretepljj  uriJ 
practice  are -strictly  conformable: 

"  And  thus  to  Betty's  questions  he 
Made  answ(!r,  like  a  travtdler  bold. 
The  cock  did  crow  to- who,  to-who. 
And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold,"  etc.,  etc. 

Lyrical  Ballads,  page  129. 
6    CoUridi:e''s   Poems,  page  IL   Songs  of  the  Pixies,  *   < 
Devonshire  Fairies.    Page  4-2,  we  have,   "  Lines  to       7('Uiji 
Lady,"  and  page  52,  "  Lines  to  a  Young  Ass." 


52 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


J 


Lo  !  wreaths  of  yew,  not  laurel,  bind  thy  brow, 
rh\'  Muse  a  sprite,  Apollo's  sexton  thou ! 
Whether  on  ancient  tombs  thou  tak'st  thy  stand, 
By  gibbering  spectres  hail'd,  thy  kindred  band  ; 
Ot  .racest  chaste  description  on  thy  page, 
To  please  the  females  of  our  modest  age, 
Ail  hail,  M.  P.  !  '  from  whose  infernal  brain 
hin-sheeted  phantoms  glide,  a  grisly  train ; 
At  whose  command,  "  grim  women"  throng  in  crowds, 
And  kings  of  fire,  of  water,  and  of  clouds, 
With  "small  gray  men," — "  wild  yagers,"  and  what  not, 
To  crown  with  honour  thee  and  Walter  Scott  : 
Agam,  all  hail !  If  tales  like  thine  may  please, 
St.  Luke  alone  can  vanquish  the  disease  ; 
E'en  Satan's  self  with  thee  might  dread  to  dwell, 
And  in  thy  skull  discern  a  deeper  hell. 

Who  in  soft  guise,  surrounded  by  a  choir 
Of  virgins  melting,  not  to  Vesta's  fire. 
With  sparkling  eyes,  and  cheek  by  passion  flush'd. 
Strikes  his  wild  lyre,  whilst  list'ning  dames  are  hush'd? 
'T  is  Little  !  young  Catullus  of  his  day. 
As  sweet,  but  as  immoral  in  his  lay ! 
Grieved  lo  condemn,  the  Muse  must  still  be  just, 
Nor  spare  melodious  advocates  of  lust. 
Pure  is  the  flame  which  o'er  the  ahar  burns; 
From  grosser  incense  with  disgust  she  turns 
Yet,  kind  to  youth,  tiiis  expiation  o'er, 
SIkj  bids  thee  "  mend  thy  line  and  sin  no  more." 

For  thee,  translator  of  the  tinsel  song, 
To  whom  such  glittering  ornaiHcnts  belong, 
Hiliernian  SrRANGFORD !   wuh  thine  eyes  of  blue,^ 
And  boasted  locks  of  red,  or  auburn  nue, 
Whose  plaintive  strain  each  love-sick  Miss  admires. 
And  o'er  harmonious  fustian  half  exjiires. 
Learn,  if  thou  canst,  to  yield  thine  author's  sense, 
Nor  vend  thy  sonnets  on  a  false  pretence. 
Think'st  thou  to  gain  thy  verse  a  higher  place 
By  dressing  Camoens  in  a  suit  of  lace  ? 
Mend,  Strangford!  mend  thy  morals  and  thy  taste  ; 
Be  warm,  but  pure  ;   be  amorous,  but  be  cliaste : 
Cease  to  deceive  ;   thy  pilfer'd  harp  restore. 
Nor  teach  the  Lusian  Bard  to  CQpy  Moore. 

In  many  marble-cover'd  volumes  view 
Havley,  in  vain  attempting  something  new: 
VVhether  he  spin  his  comedies  in  rhyme,    • 
Or  scrawl,  as  Wood  and  Barclay  walk,  'gainst  time, 
Hi.>  style  in  youth  or  age  is  still  the  same. 
For  ever  feeble  and  for  ever  tame. 
Triumphant  first  see  "Temper's  Triumphs"  shine! 
\t  least,  1  'm  sure,  they  triumph'd  over  mine. 
Of  "  Music's  Triumphs"  all  \n  ho  read  may  swear 
That  luckless  Music  never  triumph'd  there.* 

1  "  Forcviy  (,n.;  knows  liUki  M.itt's  an  M.P."— S.'ea 
'•o'-iii  to  i\lr.  fjiiri---,  in  The  Statesman,  supposed  to  be  writ- 
ter  by  Mr.  Jrkuil. 

3  The  reader,  who  m-jy  wish  for  an  cxplanjition  of  this,  may 
refi^r  to  "  Str/uifsfiiriPs  Ciriiioriig,''  [V.n'.ti  127,  note  to  page  fif), 
or  to  the  last  priiri!  of  the  Edinhiirizh  Review  oi'  Stravffford's 
Oi-iiopris.  It  IS  also  lo  he  remarked,  that  the  thin-rs  given  to 
ttiB  piil)lic  a«  I'oeins  of  ('ainoeiis,  are  no  more  to  he  found  in 
till'  uriuinal  Porlu.'uese  than  in  the  Song  of  Solomon. 

4/f((///f'7/'.«two  most  notorious  verse  proihiclioiis,  are  "  Tri 
innphs  of  Temper,"  and  "  Trium|)hs  of  .Music."  He-  has  also 
written  much  comeiiy  in  rhyme;,  F.pistles,  etc.  etc.  As  he  is 
rather  an  ele^'Miit  writcn  of  notes  anri  hioirra ">•,}:,  |(,.t  ii.s  recom- 
(n<Mid  Pope's  Advice  to  IViirJu'rlcy  U>  Mr.  H.  s  considerLilion  ; 
'n.  "to  convert  his  poetry  into  prose."  vhic"^  may  he  easily 
\one  hy  taking  away  the  final  ayliable  of  eac,  couplet. 


Moravians,  rise  !   bestow  some  meet  reward, 
On  dull  Devotion — lo !   the  Sabbath  Bard, 
Sepulchral  Grahame,  t)ours  his  notes  sublime 
In  mangled  prcse,  nor  e'en  aspires  to  rhyme, 
Breaks  into  blank  the  Gospel  of  St.  Luke, 
And  boldly  pilfers  from  the  Pentateuch  ; 
And,  undisturb'd  by  conscientious  qualms. 
Perverts  the  Prophets,  and  purloins  the  Psalms.' 

Hail,  Sympath}' !   thy  soft  idea  brings 
A  thousand  visions  of  a  thousand  things. 
And  shows,  dissolved  in  thine  own  melting  tears. 
The  maudlin  prince  of  mournful  sonneteers. 
And  art  thou  not  their  prince,  harmonious  BowlebI 
Thou  first  great  oracle  of  tender  souls  ? 
Whether  in  sighing  winds  thou  seek'st  relief, 
Or  consolation  in  a  yellow  leaf; 
Whether  thy  i  \use  most  lamentably  tells 
What  merry  sounds  proceed  from  Oxford  bells,^ 
Or,  still  in  bells  delighting,  finds  a  friend. 
In  every  chime  that  jingled  from  Ostend  ? 
Ah  !   how  much  juster  were  thy  Muse's  hap. 
If  to  thy  bells  thou  wouldst  but  add  a  cap  ! 
Delightful  Bowles  !   still  blessing  and  still  blest, 
All  love  thy  strain,  but  children  like  it  best. 
j    'Tis  thine,  with  gentle  Little's  moral  song, 
i    To  soothe  the  mania  of  the  amorous  throng ! 
I    With  thee  our  nursery  damsels  shed  their  tears. 
Ere  Miss  as  yet  completes  her  infant  years  : 
But  in  her  teens  thy  whining  jiowers  are  vain : 
She  quits  [loor  Bowles  for  Lj.ttle's  purer  stra  n. 
Now  to  soft  themes  thou  scornest  to  confinti 
The  lofty  numbers  of  a  harp  like  thine  : 
"Awake  a  louder  and  a  loftier  strain,"  3 
Such  as  none  heard  before,  or  will  again ; 
Where  all  discoveries  jumbled  from  the  flood, 
Since  first  the  leaky  ark  reposed  in  mud, 
By  more  or  less,  are  sung  in  every  book. 
From  Captain  Noah  down  to  Captain  Coox. 
Nor  this  alone,  but  pausing  on  the  road. 
The  bard  sighs  forth  a  gentle  e{)isode ;  ■> 
And  gravely  tells — attend  each  beauteous  Miss! — 
When  first  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss. 
Bowles  !   in  thy  memory  let  this  precept  dwell, 
Stick  to  thy  Sonnets,  man !   at  least  they  sell. 
But  if  some  new-born  whim,  or  larger  bribe. 
Prompt  thy  crude  brain,  and  claim  thee  for  a  scnno ; 
If  chance  some  bard,  though  once  by  dunces  fear'd. 
Now,.  ])rone  in  dust,  can  only  be  revered  ; 
of  Pope,  whose  fame  and  genius  from  the  first 
Have  foil'd  the  best  of  critics,  needs  the  worst. 
Do  thou  essay  ;   each  fault,  each  failing  scan  ; 
The  first  of  poets  was,  alas  !  but  man ! 


1  Mr.  <?r«/!fflme  has  poured  forth  two  volumes  of  cant,  undei 
the  naiHC  of  "  Sahhalh  Walks,"  and  "Biblical  Pictures." 

2  See  Buwlrs's  Sonnets,  etc.— "  Sonnen  to  O.xford,"  and 
"  Stanzas  on  hearin-  the  Hells  of  Ostend." 

3  "  Awake  a  louder,"  etc.  etc.  is  the  first  line  in  Eowlcg' 
"Spirit  of  Discovery  ;"  a  very  spirited  and  pretty  Dwarf  EptU 
Among  other  e.xquisite  lines  wo  have  the  following: — 

" A  kiss 

Stole  on  the  list'ninfr  silonci?,  never  yet 

Here  heard;  they  trembled  even  as  if  the  power,"  etc.ote 
— That  is,  the  woods  of  Madeira  trembled  to  a  ki.-^s,  very  mum 
aatonished,  as  well  they  mijrht  be,  at  such  a  phenomemm. 

4  The  episode  above  alluded  to  is  the  story  of  "  Koherf  a 
Machin,"  and  "  Anna  d'Arfi't,"  a  pair  of  con.s-ant  loveis 
who  performed  the  kiss  above-mentioned,  that  startled  tht 
woods  of  Madeira. 


ENGLISH    BARDS    AND    SCOTCH    REYIEry'ERS. 


53 


Rake  from  each  ancient  diinj.'nill  every  pe^rl, 

L;oii.>ii1i  Lr.nl  Fanny,  and  eontide  in  Curll  ; ' 

Li.-t  all  the  .scuiuials  ol"  a  tbnner  age 

Perch  on  tliy  pen  and  Hutler  o'er  lliy  page  ; 

Affect  a  caiidcur  which  thou  canst  not  feel, 

Clothe  envv  in  the  j^arb  of  hone.<t  zeal  ; 

Write  as  ii"  ^it.  John's  soul  covild  still  inspire, 

And  do  from  hale  what  INIai-let^  did  for  hire. 

Oh  I    hadst  ihou  hved  in  that  congenial  time, 

To  rave  uith  Dknms,  and  with  Ralph  to  rliyme,^ 

TlirongM  with  the  rest  around  his  living  heail. 

Not  raised  ihv  hoof  aganist  the  lion  deatl, 

A  meet  reward  had  crownM  thy  glorious  gains, 

And  liiik'd  tiiee  to  the  Dunciact  for  thy  pahis.  * 

Anotlier  Epic!    who  inflicts  agani 
JNlore  l>ooks  o*"  blank  upon  the  sons  of  men  ? 
Boeotian  Cottle,  rich  Brislowa's  boast. 
Imports  old  stones  from  the  Cambrian  coast, 
And  sends  his  goods  to  market — all  alive  ! 
Lmes  forty  thonsiuid,  Cantos  twenty-five! 
Fresh  tish  from  Helicon  !   who  '11  buy  ?  who  '1!  buy  ? 
The  precious  bargain's  cheap — in  faith  not  I. 
Too  much  in  turtle  Bristol's  sons  delight. 
Too  much  o'er  bowls  of 'rack  prolong  the  ni<  ht: 
If  commerce  tills  the  jiurse,  she  clogs  the  brain, 
And  Amos  Cottle  strikes  the  Lyre  in  vain. 
In  him  an  author's  luckless  lot  behold  ! 
Condemn'd  to  make  the  books  which  once  he  sold. 
Oh  !   A.Mos  Cottle  ! — Pha?bus  !   what  a  name 
To  fill  the  s[teaking-trump  of  future  fame  ! — 
Oil !   Amos  Cottle  !   for  a  moment  think 
What  meagre  profits  spread  from  pen  and  ink! 
When  thus  devoted  to  poetic  dreams. 
Who  will  peruse  Miv  prostituted  reams? 
Oh  !   j)eii  perverted  !   paper  misapplied  ! 
Had  Cottle  s  still  adorn'd  the  counter's,  side, 
Bent  o'er  the  desk,  or,  born  to  useful  toils. 
Been  taught  to  make  the  paper  which  he  soils, 
Plough'd,  delved,  or  plied  the  oar  with  lusty  limb, 
He  had  not  sung  of  Wales,  nor  I  of  him. 

As  Si:*v-phus  against  the  infernal  steep 
Rolls  the  huire  rock,  whose  motions  ne'er  may  sleep, 
So  up  thy  hill,  ambrosial  Richmond !   heaves 
Dull  3L\t'uicE«  all  his  frranite  weight  of  leaves: 
Smooth,  solid  nu^iuinents  of  mental  pain! 
The  petrifactions  of  a  |)iodding  brain. 
That  ere  they  reach  the  top  fall  lumbering  back  again. 

1  Cnrll  is  one  of  the  heroes  of  theDunriad,  and  was  a  Inxik 
sfllir.  Lord  Fanny  is  the  poetical  name  of  Lord  H,:rrcy 
author  of  "  Lines  to  the  imitator  of  Horace." 

2  Lord  BoUngbrukc  hired  Mullet  to  tradiire  Pope  aftrr  hi.-- 
dei'case,  hefau<e  the  poet  had  retained  some  copie?:  of  a  work 
by  Lord  BolmL'hrnke  (the  Patriot  Kini;),  whicli  thnt  splendai, 
but  maliirnant  genius,  had  ordered  to  be  destroyed. 

3  Devhis  the  critic,  and  Ralph  the  rhymester. 
"Pilence.  ye  wolves  I  while  Kalpli  to  (Cynthia  howls. 
Making  night  liideous — answer  him,  ye  owls  !" — /Jiinr.ind. 

4  See  fii'Wlfs's  late  edition  of  Popf:\t  works,  for  which  he 
received  '.iUAL.  thus  Mr.  B.  has  experienced  how  much  easier 
il  is  to  profit  by  the  reputation  of  another,  than  to  elevate  liis 
own. 

5  Mr.  Cottlfi,  .^mos  or.Toseph,  1  ilon't  know  which,  hut  one 
Dr  both,  once  sellers  of  hooks  they  did  not  write,  and  now 
writers  of  books  that  do  not  sell,  liavc  pul)lished  a  pair  of 
Epics.  "Alfred"'  (poor  Alfred  1  P(/e  has  been  at  him  too!) 
and  the  Fall  of"  Cambria. 

6  Mr.  Jlaiir-ice  hath  manufactured  the  component  parts  of  a 
ponilero\is  quarto,  upon  the  beauties  of  "  Richmond  Hill,"  and 
the    like — it  also   takes    in    a   charmins    view   of  Turnham 

Sreen,  Hammersmith,  Brentford,  Old  and  IVew,  acd  th-i  parts 

idjacent 


With  broken  lyre  and  cheek  serenely  pale, 

Lo  !   sad  Ai.CyEUs  wanders  down  the  vale  ! 

'riiouwh  fair  they  rose,  and  might  have  bloora'dat  last; 

His  hopes  have  perish'd  by  the  northern  blast: 

NlppM  in  the  bud  by  Caledonian  gales. 

His  blossoms  wither  as  the  Mast  prevails! 

O'er  his  loot  works  let  da'isk  Sheffieli,  weep, 

May  no  rude  hand  disturb  their  early  sleep!  ' 

Yet  say  !   whv  should  the  Bard  at  once  resign 
His  claim  to  favoui  from  the  sacred  Nine? 
For  ever  startled  by  '.he  mingled  howl 
Of  northern  wolves,  that  still  in  darkness  prowl . 
A  coward  brood,  which  mangle  as  they  prey. 
By  hellish  instinct,  all  that  cross  their  way; 
Aged  or  young,  the  hving  or  the  dead, 
No  mercy  find — tliese  harpies  must  be  fed. 
Whv  do  the  injured  unresisting  yield 
The  calm  possession  of  their  native  field? 
Why  tamely  thus  before  their  fangs  retreat. 
Nor  hunt  the  bloodhounds  back  to  Arthur's  Seal?» 

Health  to  immortalJEFFREY  !   once,  in  name, 
Enilland  could  boast  a  judge  almost  the  same  : 
In  soul  so  like,  so  merciful,  j-et  just, 
Some  think  that  Satan  has  resigned  his  trust, 
And  given  tha  Spirit  to  the  world  again, 
To  sentence  letters  as  he  sentenced  men ; 
With  hand  less  mighty,  but  with  heart  as  black, 
With  voice  as  willing  to  decree  the  rack ; 
Bred  m  the  courts  betimes,  though  all  that  lav? 
As  yet  hath  taught  him  is  to  find  a  flaw. 
Since  well  instructed  in  the  patriot  school 
To  rail  at  party,  though  a  party  tool, 
Who  knows,  if  chance  his  patrons  should  restore 
Back  to  the  sway  they  forfeited  before. 
His  scril)bling  foils  some  recompense  may  meet. 
And  raise  this  Daniel  to  the  Judgment  Seat. 
Let  Jeffries'  shade  indulge  the  pious  hope, 
And  greeting  thus,  jircscnt  him  with  a  rope: 
"  Heir  to  mv  virtues  !   man  of  equal  mind ! 
Skill'd  tot:ondemn  as  to  traduce  mankind, 
Tliis  cord  receive — for  thee  reserved  with  care, 
To  yield  in  judgment,  and  at  length  to  wear." 

Health  to  great  Jeffrey  !  Heaven  preserve  his  .ife, 
To  flourish  on  the  fertile  shores  of  Fife, 
And  gu  \rd  it  sacred  in  his  future  wars. 
Since  authors  sometimes  seek  the  field  of  Mars ! 
Can  none  remember  that  eventful  daj'. 
That  ever  glorious,  almost  fatal  fray, 
When  Little's  leadless  pistol  met  his  eye. 
And  Bow-street  mvrmidons  stood  laughing  by  ?  » 
Oh  day  disastrous  !   on  her  firm-set  rock, 
Dunedin's  castle  felt  a  secret  shock  ; 
Dark  roll'd  the  sympathetic  waves  of  Forth, 
Low  irroan'd  the  startled  wliirlwmds  of  the  nortli ; 
Tweed  ruflled  hali  Ins  wave  to  torm  a  tear. 
The  other  half  pursued  its  calm  career ;  * 

1  f'oor  J[,)ntso)nf,ni !  though  praised  by  every  EngUsn  Re 
view,  has  l)e<  u  bitterly  reviled  by  the  Edinburgh.  After  alL 
the  Hard  of  Sheffield  is  a  man  of  considerable  genius  ,  hu 
"  Wanderer  of  Switzerland"  is  worth  a  thousand  "Lyrice. 
Biillads,"  and  at  least  fifty  "  degraded  Epics." 

"2  Arthur's  Seat,  the  hill  which  overhangs  Edinburgh 

.3  In  IHOfi,  Messrs.  Jfffrrv  and  Jiloore  met  at  Chalk-Farn. 
The  duel  was  prevented  by  the  interference  of  the  magistracy 
and,  on  examination,  the  balls  of  the  pistols,  like  the  couiag* 
of  the  combatants,  were  found  to  have  evaporated.  Thii  'inci- 
dent gave  occasion  to  much  waggery  in  the  daily  prinu. 

4  The  Tweed  here  behaved  with  proper  decorum  :  it  would 
have  been  highly  reprehensible  in  the  English  half  of  the  r:v« 
to  have  shown  the  smallest  symptom  of  atpteliension. 


54 


BYRON'S    rOETICAL    WORKS. 


Akthv R  ^  steep  summit  nodded  to  its  base, 

The  surly  Tolbooth  scarcely  kept  her  place  ; 

The  Tolbooth  felt — for  marble  sometimes  can, 

On  such  occasions,  feel  as  much  as  man — 

The  Tolbooth  felt  defrauded  of  his  charms 

if  Jeffrey  died,  except  within  her  arms  :  ' 

Nay,  last,  not  least,  on  that  portentous  morn. 

The  sixteenth  storey,  where  himself  was  born. 

His  patrimonial  garret  fell  to  ground, 

And  pale  Edina  shudder'd  at  the  sound  : 

Strew'd  were  the  streets  around  with  milk-white  reams, 

Flow'd  all  the  Canongate  with  inky  streams  ; 

This  of  his  candour  seem'd  the  sable  dew, 

Tliat  of  his  vaiour  show'd  the  bloodless  hue. 

And  all  with  justice  deem'd  the  two  combined 

The  mingled  emblems  of  his  mighty  mind. 

But  Caledonia's  Goddess  hover'd  o'er 

The  held,  and  saved  him  from  the  wrath  of  Moore, 

From  either  pistol  snatch'd  the  vengeful  lead, 

And  straight  restored  it  to  her  favourite's  head  : 

That  head,  with  greater  than  magnetic  power, 

('augiit  it,  as  Danae  the  golden  shower ; 

And,  though  the  thickening  dross  will  scarce  refine. 

Augments  its  ore,  and  is  itself  a  mine. 

"My  son,"  she  cried,   "ne'er  thirst  for  gore  again, 

Resign  the  pistol,  and  resume  the  pen  ; 

O'er  politics  and  poesy  preside. 

Boast  of  thy  country,  and  Britannia's  guide ! 

For,  long  as  Albion's  heedless  sons  submit, 

Or  Scottish  taste  decides  on  English  wit. 

So  long  shall  last  thine  unmolested  reign, 

Nor  any  dare  to  take  thy  name  in  vain. 

Behold  a  chosen  band  shall  aid  thy  plan, 

And  own  thee  chieftain  of  the  critic  clan. 

First  in  the  ranks  illustrious  shall  be  seen 

The  travell'd  Thane !   Athenian  Aberdeen.  2 

Herbert  shall  wield  Thor's  hammer,^  and  sometimes, 

In  gratitude,  thou  'It  praise  his  rugged  rhymes. 

Smug  SvDXEy*  too  thy  bitter  page  shall  seek. 

And  classic  Hall  am,  6  much  renown'd  for  Greek. 


Scott  may  nerchance  his  name  and  influence  lend, 

And  pahrv  Pillaxs'  shall  traduce  his  friend- 

While  gay  Thalia's  luckless  votar>,  Lambe,^ 

As  he  himself  was  damn'd,  shall  try  to  damn. 

Known  be  thy  name,  unbounded  be  thy  sway ! 

Thy  Holland's  baiKjuets  shall  each  toil  repay  ; 

While  grateful  Britain  yields  the  praise  she  owes 

To  Hollaxd'o  hirelings,  and  to  Learning's  foes. 

Yet  mark  one  caution,  ere  thy  next  Review 

Spread  its  light  wings  of  satiron  and  of  blue, 

Beware  lest  blundering  Brougham-^  destroy  the  sali^ 

Turn  beef  to  bannocks,  cauliflowers  to  kail." 

Thus  having  said,  the  kilted  goddess  kist 

Her  son,  and  vanish'd  in  a  Scottish  mist.* 

Illustrious  Holland!    hui\t  v.oiua  be  iiis  lot, 

His  hirelings  niKfltiou'd,  and  himself  forgot ! 

Holland,  with  HENi;v  Petty  at  his  back. 

The  whipper-in  and  huntsman  of  tlic  i)ack. 

Blest  be  tlie  baufpu'ts  spread  at  Holland  House, 

Where  Scotchmen  teed,  and  critics  may  carouse  ! 

Long,  long  beneath  that  hospita])le  roof, 

Shall  Grub-street  dine,  while  duns  are  Kept  aloof. 

See  honest  Hallam  lay  aside  his  fork, 

Resume  his  pen,  review  his  lordship's  work, 

And,  grateful  to  the  founder  of  the  (i^ast. 

Declare  his  landlord  can  translate,  at  least !  ' 

Dunedin!  view  thy  children  with  delight. 

They  write  for  !ood,  ami  feed  because  they  write: 

And  lest,  when  lieated  with  th'  unusual  grape. 

Some  slowing  thouijiits  should  to  the  press  escape, 

And   tinge  with  r(id  tlie  female  reader's  cheek, 

JNIy  lady  skims  the  cream  of  each  criticpie  ; 

Breathes  o'er  the  patre  her  purity  of  soul. 

Reforms  each  error,  and  refines  the  whole.  * 

Now  to  the  drama  turn  :   Oh  motley  sight ! 
AYhat  precious  scenes  the  v,-ondering  eye  invito ! 
Puns,  and  a  prince  within  a  barrel  pent,  1 
And  Dibdin's  nonsense,  yield  com[)lete  content. 
Thouoh  now,  thank  Heaven !   the  Roscio  mania's  o-b» 
And  full-irrosvn  actors  are  endured  once  more : 


1  This  display  ofsympathy  on  the  part  of  the  T'olbooth  (the 
pritioipil  prison  in  Edinburgh),  wiiich  truly  swms  to  have  hefin 
most  afTectC'd  on  this  orciision,  is  niiiph  to  be  commenfled.  It 
wns  to  be  apprehended,  that  tlie  many  unhappy  criminnls  exe 
cuted  in  the  front,  rnipht  have  rendered  the  edifice  more  cal- 
lous. She  is  said  to  be  of  the  softer  sex,  becau>e  her  delicacy 
of  feeling  on  this  day  was  truly  feminine,  thoush,  like  mos> 
(t'miiiine  impulses,  perhaps  a  little  selfish. 

2  His  lordship  has  been  much  abroad,  is  a  member  of  the 
Athenian  Society,  and  reviewer  of  G'eZZ's  Topography  of  Troy. 

3  Mr.  Herbert  is  a  translator  of  Icelandic  and  other  poetry. 
One  of  the  principal  pieces  is  a  "Song  on'the  recovery  of  Thor's 
Hammer :"  the  translation  is  a  pleasant  chaunt  in  the  vulgar 
»ongue.  and  ended  thus  : — 

"  Instead  of  money  and  rings,  I  wot, 
The  hammer's  bruises  were  her  lot; 
Thus  Odin's  son  his  hammer  got." 
^  The   Rev.  Sulnai   Smith,   the   reputed   author   of  Peter 
Plymley's  Letters,  and  sundry  criticisms. 

5  Mc  Nullum  reviewed  /'(^///tji; /Tjr/i'Ai'.*  Taste,  and  was  ex- 
-leeding.y  severe  on  some  Grc.-k  verses  therein:  it  was  not  dis- 
covered that  the  lines  were  Phidar's,  til!  ihe  press  rendered  it 
linpossir»e  to  cancel  the  critique,  which  still  stands  an  everlast- 
ing monument  of  HdHam'y  ingenuity. 

The  »a\i\HiiUam.  is  incensed,  becnuse  he  is  falsely  accused, 
oeeing  that  he  never  dineih  at  Holland  House.  Ifthis  he  true, 
IhTi  sorry — not  for  having  said  so,  but  on  his  account,  as  I 
im.ferstand  his  lordship's  feasts  an;  preferable  to  liis  coitiposi- 
lions.  If  he  did  not  review  liorc.  J/iilfnvirs  performance,  1  inn 
glad,  becau.se  it  must  have  been  p!iiiifid  to  read,  and  irksome 
to  pri  ise  it.  If  Mr.  Hnllnm  will  tell  me  who  did  review  it.  the 
real  name  shall  find  a  place  in  the  text,  providetl  nr;vertluless 
fic  said  name  be  of  two  orthodox  musical  syllables,  and  will 
;ome  info  the  verse  ;  tif.  Iher  Hallam  must  stand  for  w.^nt  of 
A  Setter 


1  Pilltivs  is  a  tutor  at  Eton. 

2  The  Hon.  G.  JMinbe  revii3wed  "  BeresforiVs  Miseries," 
and  is  moreover  author  of  a  (arf.e  enacted  with  much  ap 
plause  at  the  Priory,  Sianinore,  and  damned  with  great  e.xpe- 
diiioi)  at  the  late  Tiieatrc  Coveni -Garden.  It  was  entitled 
"Whistle  for  it." 

3  Mr.  Brou^'ham.  in  No.  \XV.  of  ihe  Edinburgh  Review 
throughout  the  article  concerning  Don  Pedro  do  (:iivalif)s 
has  displayed  more  politics  than  policy  :  many  of  the  worthy 
burgesses  of  Edinburgh  biMng  so  incensed  at  the  infamoua 
principles  it  evinces,  as  to  have  withdrawn  their  subscriptions 
It  s(;eiTis  that  Mr.  Rriivi^hinii  is  not  a  Pier,  as  I  supposed,  Inl 
a  borderer,  and  his  name  is  pronounced  Broom,  from  Trent 
to  Tay.    So  be  it. 

4  I  ouffht  toapfdogizetothe  woithy  Deities  for  introducing 
a  new  (Joddess  with  short  p'^I'icoats  to  their  notice  :  but  alas  1 
what  was  to  be  done?  1  could  not  say  Caledonia's  Genius,  it 
being  well  known  there  is  no  Genius  to  be  found  from  Glark- 
inanrian  to  Gaithness  :  yet,  without  snin'matural  agency,  iu>v« 
was  .leffrey  to  lu;  saved''  The  "  national  Kelpies,"  etc.  ar« 
too  unpoetical,  and  the  "Prownies"  and  "  Gude  Neigh- 
bours" (Spirits  of  a  good  dis|)osition).  refused  to  extricate 
him.  A  Goddess  therefore  has  been  called  for  the  purpose,  and 
great  ought  to  he  the  giatiiudo  of  .leffrey,  seeing  it  is  the  only 
commiHiication  he  ever  held,  o"  is  likely  to  hold,  with  any 
tiling  heavimly. 

5  Lord  H.  has  translated  some  specimens  of  Eope  de  Veaa 
inserted  in  his  life  of  the  .Author:  jolh  are  bepraiied  by  his 
ib.siiitirrst.ril  guest. 

(J  Gi^rtain  it  is.  her  ladyshin  is  suspected  of  havnig  disidaved 
h.>r  nuUcldess  wit  in  the  Edinburiib  Review:  bowtner  In:it 
may  be,  we  know  from  good  anihority  that  the  nianns'-npts 
are  submitted  to  her  perusal — no  doubt  for  correction. 

7  In  the  melo-drame  of  Tekeli,  that  heroic  prince  is  clapf 
into  a  l)arrel  on  the  stage — a  new  asylum  fordistrossei  heroe* 


ENGLISH    BARDS    AND    SCOTCH    REVIEWERS. 


65 


Tel  what  avail  thoir  vain  attempts  to  j)lease, 

A''hile  rintish  critics  sulicr  scenes  like  these? 

V\hile  Kevnolos  vents  his  "dannues,"  "  poolis,"  and 

"zounds,"  ' 
And  roinmon-iilace,  and  common  sense  confounds? 
While  Kenn\''s  World,  just  sutTerM  to  proceed, 
Proclaims  the  audience  very  kind  indeed? 
And  Beaumont's  pilter'd  Caratacii  atibrils 
A  trageily  complete  in  all  but  ^\ords?■^ 
Who  but  must  mourn  wliile  these  are  all  the  rage, 
The  degradatioi   of  our  vaunted  stage  ? 
[leavens!   is  all  sense  of  shame  and  talent  gone? 
Have  we  no  living  bard  of  merit? — none! 
Awake,  GEOiiGE  Col.man,  Cl'.mbehland,  awake! 
Ring  the  alarum-bell,  let  folly  quake  ! 
Oh  Sheridax!  if  aught  can  move  thy  pen, 
Let  comeiiy  resume  her  throne  again. 
Abjure  the  nuimmery  of  German  schools, 
Leave  new  Pizarros  to  translating  fools ; 
Give,  as  th}-  last  memorial  to  the  age, 
One  classic  Drama,  and  reform  the  stage. 
Gods !   o'er  those  boards  shall  Folly  rear  her  head 
Where  Garrick  trod,  and  Kemble  lives  to  tread? 
On  those  shall  Farce  display  Bufibonery's  mask. 
And  HooKE  conceal  his  heroes  in  a  cask? 
.Shall  sapient  managers  new  scenes  produce 
From  Cherry,  Skeffington,  and  ^Mother  Goose? 
While  Shakspeare,  Otway,  Massixger,  forgot. 
On  stalls  must  moulder,  or  in  closets  rot? 
Lo!   with  what  pomp  the  daily  prints  proc.aim 
The  rival  candidates  for  Attic  fame ! 
In  j-riin  array  though  Lewis'  spectres  rise, 
Still  Skeffixgtox  and  Goose  divide  the  prize. 
And  sure  great  Skeffixgtox  must  clann  our  praise, 
For  skirtless  coats  and  skeletons  of  plays 
Kenown'd  alike  ;    whose  genius  ne'er  confines 
Her  tilght  to  garnish  Gueexwood's  gay  designs;  ^ 
Nor  sleeps  with  "  S!ee[)ing  Beauties,"  but  anon 
In  !ive  facetious  acts  comes  thundering  on,  * 
While  poor  John  Bull,  bewilder'd  with  the  scene. 
Stares,  wondering  what  the  devil  it  can  mean  ; 
But  as  some  hands  applaud,  a  venal  few  ! 
Rather  than  sleep,  why  John  applauds  it  too. 

Such  are  we  now,  ah  !   wherefore  should  we  turn 
To  what  our  fathers  were,  unless  to  mourn? 
Degenerate  Britons  !   are  ye  dead  to  shame, 
Or,  kind  to  dulness,  do  ye  fear  to  blame? 
Well  may  the  nobles  of  our  present  race 
Watch  each  distortion  of  a  Naldi's  face  ; 
Well  mav  thev  smile  on  Italy's  buttbons, 
And  worshij)  Catalani's  pantaloons,  * 
Since  their  own  drama  yieVs  no  fairer  trace 
Of  wit  than  puns,  of  humour  than  grnnace. 

Then  let  ArsoxiA,  skill'd  in  every  art, 

0  soften  manners,  but  cc^rupt  the  heart, 

1  All  Itu-se  are  favourite  expressions  of"  Mr.  R.  mu\  prom- 
tiit  if]  hi.-  (' ■,(lifs,  liviiij;  aufi  (icfiuict. 

2  Mr.  T.  r^lK-rid.-iM,  the  new  Matiaser  nf  Dniry-iane  Theiitre, 
tripped  the  Trayreiiy  ot' Hoiuhiea  of  the  dialotrue.  and  e.xhih- 

It;'(J    the  :;renes   as    tli.;  speetacies  of  CaraUacus.   Was  thi.s 
7/or;hy  of  his  sire,  or  of  himself  7   y^ 

3  .Mr.  C;rrf>ur„„.l  is.  sv  h.dievc.'  ^^cene-Painter  to  Drury- 
Lane  '1  heairc  :   ;'.s  sii.-ii  Mr.  S.  is  ninrh  indebted  to  hnii. 

4  Mr.  S.  islh-  illnstri  .ii>  :iii:h.)r  o!  ihe  •■  Sleepm- !?cau!y  ;" 

an     ^nw  (',, ,cs,  p;,;ti,-,,lar,y  "M^iids   and    Haciielor.s," 

Ha"c\!aurei  hacuio  ain'i.s  liuaiti  iauro  (birni. 

5  A'./'//  an<!  Cat:,!, nil  r-  unire  liilie  lailicc,  for  the  visajre  of 
Jie  one.  and  ti.e  ?alary  of  ttie  other,  will  eiiablL-  a.,  Ioiil'  to  re- 
nollnet  Ihe-e  ainusins  vairaiionih^ ;  h-si.'es.  we  are  still  hiaek 
iiiri  hlue  from  the  siiiieize  on  the  rn=l  night  of  th«  lady's  ajt- 
pearame  in  tn  wiers 


Pour  her  e.\otic  follies  o'er  the  town. 
To  sanction  vice  and  hunt  decorum  down : 
Let  wedded  strumpets  languish  o'er  Deshaj'es, 
And  bless  the  promise  which  nis  form  displays ; 
While  Gay  ton  bounds  before  the  enra[)tured  XonVa 
Of  hoary  marquisses  and  stripling  dukes  : 
Li.t  high-born  lechers  eye  the  liv(;ly  Presle 
Twirl  tier  light  limbs  that  spurn  the  needless  veil: 
Let  An^iolini  bare  her  breast  of  snow. 
Wave  the  white  arm  and  jjoint  the  pliant  toe : 
Coliini  trill  her  love-inspiring  song. 
Strain  her  fair  neck  and  charm  the  hstening  throng 
Baise  not  your  scytlie,  sti[)pressors  of  our  vice! 
Retbrmiug  saints,  too  delicately  nice  ! 
By  whose  decrees,  our  sintul  souls  to  save, 
No  Sunday  tankards  foam,  no  barbers  shave. 
And  beer  undrawn  and  beards  unmown  display 
Your  holy  reverence  for  the  sabbath-day. 
Or  hail  at  once  the  patron  and  the  pile 
Of  vice  and  folly,  Greville  and  Argvle !  ' 
Where  yon  jjroud  palace.  Fashion's  hallow'd  fane, 
Spreads  wide  her  portals  for  the  motley  train, 
Behold  the  new  Petronius  ^  of  the  daj', 
The  arbiter  of  pleasure  and  of  play  ! 
There  the  hired  eunuch,  the  Hesperian  choir, 
The  melting  kite,  the  soft  lascivious  lyre. 
The  son'j  tVom  Italy,  the  step  from  France, 
TIk;  midnight  orgy,  and  tlie  mazy  dance, 
The  smile  of  beauty,  and  the  flush  of  wine. 
For  fops,  tools,  g.miesters,  knaves,  and  lords  combine 
Each  to  his  h:inioar, — Comus  all  allows  ; 
Champaign,  dice,  music,  or  your  neighbour's  spouse 
Talk  not  to  us,  ye  starving  sons  of  trade  ! 
Of  |)itcous  niin,  which  ourselves  have  made . 
In  Plenty's  su/ishine  Fortune's  minions  bask, 
Nor  think  of  Povert}',  except  "  en  masque," 
When  for  the  night  some  lately  titled  ass 
Aj)pears  the  beggar  which  his  grandsire  was. 
The  curtain  dropp'd,  the  gay  burletta  o'er, 
The  audience  lake  their  turn  ui)on  the  floor ; 
Now  round  the  room  the  circling  dow'gers  sweep, 
Now  in  loose  waltz  the  thin-clad  daughters  leap : 
The  first  in  lengthened  line  majestic  swim, 
The  last  display  the  free,  unfetter'd  limb : 
Those  for  Hibernia's  lusty  sons  repair 
With  art  the  charms  which  Nature  could  not  spare  ^ 
These  after  husbands  wing  their  eager  flight. 
Nor  leave  much  mystery  for  the  nuptial  night. 

Oh!   blest  retreats  of  infamy  and  ease! 
W^hf^re,  all  forgotten,  but  the  power  to  please, 
Each  maid  may  give  a  loose  to  genial  thought. 
Each  swain  may  teach  new  systems,  or  be  taught: 
There  the  blithe  youngster,  just  return'd  from  Spain, 
Cuts  the  light  pack,  or  calls  the  rattling  main ; 

T  To  prevent  any  blunder,  such  as  mistaking  a  street  fot  s 
man,  I  hes  leave  to  state,  that  it  is  the  Institution,  and  not  the 
Diike  or"  that  name,  which  is  here  alluded  »o. 

A  sreiitleman  with  vvhuLn  1  am  slightly  acquainted,  lo.st  in  tho 
Art'yie  Rooms  several  thousand  pounds  at  baekt^aminon.  I'  is 
but  justice  to  the  manasier  in  this  insiance  to  say,  that  some 
(iemee  of  disapprobation  was  manifested.  But  why  are  the 
impleuienisof  fe'aunn^'  allowed  in  a  place  devoted  to  the  society 
of  hoih  .sexes'?  A  pleasant  thin;,'  for  tlie  wives  and  d;un;hteri' 
of  t.hos  •  who  are  hle-sl  or  fur.-^ed  with  such  coiine.>;ions,  to  heai 
tiie  l)i;liard-tal)!es  rattlimr  in  one  room,  and  the  dice  in  an 
other!  This  is  tliecase  I  my.self  can  testify,  as  a  late  unworthy 
i:;£inh,;r  of  an  institution  wlii'-h  maferially  atVeeis  the  moralM 
of  thehi<;her  orders,  wbile  the  lowei  may  not  even  move  to  lh« 
sound  of  a  tahor  and  fiddle,  without  a  cl:aiice  of  indictment  fot 
riotous  heliaviour. 

2  I',  .roiiii.s,  "  .irl.it.-r  ele;.'  intiarum"  to  Nero.  "•  ana  a  very 
pretty  fellow  in  his  day,"  •dJ^'Sh.  Cons-  eve' s  o\d  Bachelor     itli 


56 


BYRON'S    rOETICAL    WORKS. 


Tlie  jovial  caster's  se  ,  and  seven  's  the  uiok, 

Or — done  ! — a  thousand  on  the  comiii;^  irick  ! 

If  mad  with  loss,  existence  'gins  to  tire, 

And  all  your  hope  or  wish  is  to  expn-e, 

Here  's  Powell's  pistol  ready  for  your  life, 

And,  kinder  still,  a  Paget  for  your  wife. 

Fit  consummation  of  an  earthly  race 

Begun  in  folly,  ended  in  disgrace, 

While  none  but  menials  o'er  the  hed  of  death, 

Wash  thy  red  wounds,  or  watch  thy  wavering  breath  : 

Traduced  by  liars,  and  forgot  by  all, 

The  mangled  victim  of  a  drunken  brawl, 

To  live  like  Clodius,'  and  like  Falkland^  fall. 

Truth !   rouse  some  genuine  bard  and  guide  his  hand. 

To  duve  this  pestilence  from  out  the  land. 

Even  I — least  thinking  of  a  thoughtless  throng. 

Just  sKiird  to  know  the  right  and  choose  the  wrong, 

Frved  at  that  age  when  Reason's  shield  is  lost. 

To  light  my  course  through  Passion's  countless  host. 

Whom  every  path  of  pleasure's  flow^ery  way 

Has  lured  in  turn,  and  all  have  led  astray — 

E'en  I  must  raise  my  voice,  e'en  I  must  feel 

Such  scenes,  such  men,  destroy  the  public  weal ; 

Altho'  some  kind,  censorious  friend  will  say, 

"  What  art  thou  better,  meddling  fool,  than  they?" 

And  every  brother  rake  will  smile  to  see 

That  miracle,  a  moralist,  in  me. 

No  matter — when  some  bard,  in  virtue  strong, 

GiFFOKD  perchance,  shall  raise  the  chastening  song, 

Then  sleep  my  pen  for  ever !   and  my  voi<;e 

He  only  heard  to  hail  him  and  rejoice  ; 

Kejoice,  and  yield  my  feeble  praise  ;  though  I 

Maj'  feel  the  lash  that  virtue  must  apply. 

As  for  the  smaller  fry,  who  swarm  in  shoals, 
From  silly  Hakiz^  uj)  to  simple  Bowles, 
Wh}'  should  we  call  them  from  their  dark  abode, 
In  broad  St.  Giles's  or  in  Tottenham  road  ? 
Or  (since  some  men  of  fashion  nobly  dare 
To  scrawl  in  verse)  from  Bond-street,  or  the  Square  1 
If  things  of  ton  their  harmless  lays  indite. 
Most  wisely  doom'd  to  shun  the  public  sight, 
What  harm  ?  in  spite  of  every  critic  elf, 
Sir  T.  may  read  his  stanzas  to  himself; 
Miles  Andrews  still  his  strength  in  couplets  try. 
And  live  in  prologues,  though  his  dramas  die. 
Lords  too  are  bards  :   such  things  at  times  befall, 
And  'tis  some  praise  in  peers  to  write  at  all. 
Yft,  did  or  taste  or  reason  sway  the  times, 
Ah  I  .v\ho  would  take  their  titles  with  their  rhyme.-,'? 
Roi-coM.MOx  !    SiiEEEiELD  !   with  youf  spirits  fled. 
No  future  laurels  deck  a  noble  head  ; 
No  rnuse  will  cheer,  with  renovating  smile, 
The  [laralytic  puling  of  Caklisle: 
The  puny  school-boy  and  his  early  lay 
Men  pardon,  if  his  follies  pass  away ; 


1  Mut:ito  nomine  de  te 
Fahula  narralur. 

if  I  kii(!w  tlip  late  Lord  Falkland  well.  On  Sunday  nijrht  1 
i/rtiicid  him  prosidit);.'  at  his  own  tai)l(;,  in  all  tiie  honost  pride 
o'hospitiihty  ;  on  Wednesday  moriiiiii:  at  throe  o'clock,  I  saw 
streti-hcd  hefore  in(;,  all  that  remained  orcourajic,  t'eelini:,  and 
B  host  o!"  passions.  He  uai<  a  (,'ailant  and  siieeessfnl  otllcer; 
his  fiiu'ls  were  Uir:  fa'.dlsofa  sailor— as  sueh,  hritons  will  for- 
give Ihem.  He  died  like  a  hrav(!  niari  in  a  hetter  eanse,  Cor  had 
li(!  falli  11  in  like  manner  on  llu;  ileck  of  the  (Vii-'ate  to  whiidi  lie 
"  as  just  np|)niined,  his  last  moments  would  have  heen  lielij 
jp  !>y  his  country. lien  as  an  e\ami)lo  to  succeeding.'  heroes. 

.3  What  would  he  the  sentiments  of  the  Persian  Anacreon, 
fliijiz.  conid  he  rise  ff  ■  >  his  sple.idid  sepidchre  at  Sheeraz. 
where  he  n  poses  witli  .  ''Iiiiisi  .and  .S'r/i//,  the  Oriental  Humtr 
ini'  Cut  II 1 1 II.-!,  and  heii'  '•'  his  name  assumed  hy  om;  .S7»r<  of 
Drnmnri'.Wiv  most  imi  ii  eiilaiid  execriihle  of  literary  poach 
itd  tor  the  ilailj  otiiils? 


But  who  forgives  the  senior's  ceaseless  versR, 

Whose  hairs  grow  hoary  as  his  rhymes  grow  worse  > 

What  heterogeneous  honours  deck  the  peer ! 

Lord,  rhymester,  petit-maitre,  pamphleteer!  ' 

So  dull  in  youth,  so  (UxY.elling  in  his  age. 

His  scenes  alone  had  damn'd  our  sinking  stage : 

But  managers  lor  once  cried  "hold,  enough!" 

Nor  drugg'd  their  audience  with  the  tragic  stuff. 

Vet  at  their  judgment  let  his  lordship  laugh. 

And  case  his  volumes  in  congenial  calf: 

Yes !   doff  that  covering  where  morocco  shines, 

And  hang  a  calf-skin  ^  on  those  recreant  lines. 

With  you,  ye  Druids !   rich  in  native  lead, 
Who  daily  scribble  for  your  daily  bread, 
With  you  I  war  not:   Gieford's  heavy  hand 
Has  crush'd,  without  remorse,  your  numerous  bard. 
On  "all  the  talents"  vent  your  venal  spleen, 
W^ant  your  defence,  let  pity  be  your  screen. 
Let  monodies  on  Fox  regale  your  crew. 
And  Melville's  INIantle^  prove  a  bluiket  too! 
One  common  Lethe  waits  each  ha]>less  bard, 
And  peace  be  with  you  !  't  is  your  best  reward. 
Such  damning  fame  as  Dunciads  only  give. 
Could  bid  your  lines  beyond  a  morning  live  ; 
But  r.'ow  at  once  your  fleeting  labours  close 
With  names  of  greater  note  in  blest  repose. 
Far  be 't  from  me  unkindly  to  upbraid 
The  lovely  PiOsa's  prose  in  mascjuerade, 
Whose  strains,  the  faithful  echoes  of  her  mi  id, 
Leave  wandering  cfmiprehension  far  behind,^ 
Though  Crusca's  bards  no  more  our  jonrnalf  ^Vi, 
Some  stragglers  skirmish  round  their  columns  stilU 
Laatjollbxi-howling  ho.st  which  once  v.as  Bell's^- 
^Matilda  snivels  yet,  and  Hafiz  yells; 
iVnd  Merry's  metaphors  appear  anew, 
Chain'd  to  th-^  signature  of  O.  P.  Q.* 

When  some  brisk  youth,  the  tenant  of  a  siali. 
Employs  a  pen  less  pointed  than  liis  a  vl, 
Leaves  his  snug  shop,  forsakes  his  store  o1  shoes, 
St.  Crispin  quits,  and  cobbles  for  the  .Muse, 
H(iavens  !  how  the  vulgar  stare  !  how  crowds  applaud; 
Mow  ladies  read,  and  literati  laud  ! 
If  chance  some  w.cked  wag  should  pass  Ins  jest. 
'Tis  sheer  ill-nature,  don't  the  world  know  iiest  ( 
Genius  must  guide  when  wits  admire  the  rhyme, 
And  Capel  Lofft  *  declares  'tis  quite  subhnie. 
Hear,  then,  ye  happy  sons  of  needless  trade  ! 
Swains !   quit  tho  plough,  resign  the  useless  spade: 


1  The  Earl  of  Carlisle  has  lately  pnhlished  an  eighteen-pemij 
pamphlet  on  lh(!  state  of  the  si:i!,'e.  and  oilers  his  plan  loi 
hiiildiiifr  a  new  theatre:  it  is  to  be  hoped  his  lordshiti  will  h« 
perniilted  to  bring  tbrwiird  any  tiiinj:  lor  thesta^e,  exc.(!pt  his 
own  trtigedies. 

2  "Doff  that  lion's  hide. 
And  hung  a  cali'-s4\iii  on  those  recreant  limbs." 

Shak^.     Kiiiu'.Iohr 
liord  '^.  s  works   most  resplendently  bound,  form  a  co'it,  x'U 
ous  ornament  to  his  Ixiok-shedves  : 

"The  rest  is  all  hyt  leather  and  prnnetia  "^ 
'^  .Mr'lriUi'''f  Mantle,  a  parody  on  "  Elijah's  Alan.^e,    a  j>firin- 

4  This  lovely  little  .lessica,  the  daiisditer  of  the  noted  le * 
K  seems  to  be  ii  follow(;r  of  the  hella  rmsca  Schi^ol 
and  has  ptiiilished  two  v<diimes  of  very  r(>spectalile  al)>iir(litiefl 
in  rhyme,  as  times  po  :  besides  sundry  novels  in  the  style  of  the 
first  edition  of  iht;  IMonk. 

5  These  are  the  signatures  of  various  wortl)i(>s  who  tifrnit 
in  the  [loetical  di^parlments  of  the  newspapers. 

R  Cajid  Li>lfl,  Ks{|.,  the  IVIa'Cenas  of  shoemakers,  ami 
I'refacii-writer  general  to  distress'd  versemen  ;  a  kind  of  iirntit 
accoucheur  to  those  who  wish  to  be  delivered  of  rhyme,  but 
do  not  know  how  to  bring  it  Cortli. 


ENGLISH    BARDS   AND    SCOTCH    REVIEWERS. 


57 


Lo!  Bur.NS  and  Bi.oomfifxp,!  nay,  a  greater  far, 

GiFFORD  wa-s  born  beneath  an  adverse  star, 

Forsook  the  labours  of  a  servile  state, 

Btemnfd  the  rude  storm,  and  triunii)h'd  over  Fate. 

Then  why  no  more?  if  Phoebus  smiled  on  you, 

Bloomfiki.d!  why  not  on  brother  Nathan  too? 

Ilim  too  the  :\Iauia,  not  the  Muse,  has  seized; 

Not  inspiration,  but  a  mind  diseased: 

And  now  no  boor  can  seek  his  last  abode, 

No  eoniiiiun  be  ent:losed,  without  an  o4e. 

Oh!  sinee  increased  refinement  deigns  to  smile 

On  Britain's  sons,  and  bless  our  genial  isle, 

Let  Poesy  i;o  forth,  pervade  the  whole, 

DAie  tlic  rustic  and  inerhanic  soul  : 

Vf  Inneful  coI)Ii1(ts!    still  your  notes  prolong, 

Co!.n>oso  at  oncn;  a  slij)|)er  and  a  s(ing  ; 

80  shrill  the  fair  }"<)iir  handiwork  peruse  ; 

Vi.iir  ;oiuuts  sure  shall  please — iHirhajis  your  shoes, 

Ma>'  ?,ioorland-  weavers  boast  Pindaric  skill, 

All,!  lailors'  lavs  be  lon^jer  th.an  their  bill ! 

rs'hile  punctual  beaux  reward  the  graltjful  notes, 

All  I  nav  for  ])oeins — when  they  pay  for  coals. 

To  the  famed  throHij  now  pai.!  llie  ti'ibute  due, 
N('::l;:rle'!  Genius  !    lei  m';  T.iu-n  to  you. 
Ct.ine  fortli,  Oh  Camim?eli.  !^  give  thy  talents  scope; 
Who  dares  aspire  if  thou  must  cease  to  hope  / 
And  thou,  nicMKlious  Rogers!   rise  at  last, 
llec.all  the  pleasing  memory  of  the  past; 
Arise!    let  lilcst  r(;memhrance  still  inspire, 
And  strike  to  wonted  tones  thy  h;tllow'd  lyre  ! 
Restore  Apolio  to  liis  vacant  throne. 
Assert  thy  country's  honour  and  thine  own. 
What !    must  deserted   Poesy  still  weep 
Where  lier  last  lujpes  with  pious  Cowi'er  sleep? 
Unless,  perchance,  from  his  cold  bier  she  turns, 
To  deck  the  turf  that  wra])s  her  minstrel.  Burns  ! 
No  !   though  contempt  hath  mark'd  the  spurious  Ivood, 
The  race  wlio  rhyme  from  folly,  or  for  food  ; 
Yet  still  some  geiHiine  sons,  'tis  her's  to  boast, 
".Vho,  least  affecting,  still  effect  the  most; 
t'eiA  as  they  v.rite,  and  write  but  as  they  fee! — 
Bear  witness,  Gifford,  Sothebv,  ^Iacnkii,." 

"  Why  sluiuhers  Gifford?"  once  wasask'd  in  vain: 
Why  s'.uinhers  (J  if  ford?   let  us  ask  again: 
Are  tliere  no  fVilies  tor  his  pen  to  pur^e  / 
\re  tliere  no  fools  whose  backs  demand  the  scourge? 
\re  tliere  no  sins  for  Satire's  Bard  to  greet  ? 
Stalks  not  gigantic  Nice  in  every  street? 
Shall  peers  or  princes  tread  Pollution's  path. 
And  'scape  alike  the  law's  and  ■Muse's  wrath? 
Nor  bla:^e  with  guilty  glare  through  future  time, 
Eternal  beacons  of  consinnmate  crime? 


1  S,-e  .V'ltliiiini i  l:l:,(iitif!/lil\s  ode,  cWizy.  or  wliiiti  vi  r  lie  01 
ary  "iie  else  chooses  to  call  it,  on  the  iiiclosure  of  "  Honing- 
0:1  flrcen." 

i»  Vide  •' R.'collectioiw  of  a  Weaver  in  the  Moorlamls  of 
BtaiTirci^hire." 

•A  It  woiilil  lie  sapcrniioiix  to  r-'call  tothe  mind  of  tlu^  •■cader 
the  iiiilivir  of  "Til.-  I'iras, ires  of  Memory,"  and  *"I'he  Piras- 
u-es  of  Ibuie,"  the  mos'  heaiiliful  (r.ilaetic.  puenir^  in  our  !an- 
Kuatre,  if  we  except  Pojie's  P-ssay  on  Man.  but  so  lunny 
p^ielasters  hav(>  started  up,  t!ial  even  th(f  names  of  Caiiiphrll 
£na  R.iirrr.-'  are  become  stransie. 

4  Cffn-'l.  Miithor  of 'he  '.{.ivi'iil  and  Micviad,  the  first  satire? 
of 'heday.  and  tritn-laror  ot'  .r,.rnHil. 

Satlrh,/.  translator  of  (Vul<iii'l's  OlxTon  and  \  irsiil's 
Geor'iics,  and  author  of  Saul,  an  epic  poem. 

Mini"},  ujiiise  pnems  are  deservedly  p. miliar  :  i>nr'iru!arly 
■'ScotJioid's  S.-ailh,  or  the  Waes  of  War."  of  which  ten 
'.hiMisand  cnpif>  wer^'  sold  in  one  month. 

5  Mr.  rr'^/^wr./iiromisi'd  puh'icly  that  the  Raviad  and  Mtevuld 
f?liuu!d   not  be   his   last   ori^rinal   wqrks  •    let   him    reiueniher 

inox  ill  reluctaiileB  dracoiies  " 


Arouse  thee,  Gifford!  be  thy  promise  claim'd, 
Make  bad  men  better,  or  at  least  asiiained. 

Unhayipv  White  !  '  while  life  was  in  its  spring, 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  Cdine,  and  all  thy  promise  fair 
Has  sought  the  grave,  to  sleefi  for  ever  there. 
Oil!   what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone, 
Wiieii  Science'  self  de.^troy'd  her  favourite  son! 
Yes!    she  too  uiiich  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit. 
She  sow'd  the  seeds,  but  death  has  reap'd  the  fruit. 
"T  was  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow. 
And  help'd  to  piant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low: 
So  the  struck  ea^le,  stretch'd  upon  the  plain, 
No  more  throiiiih  rolling  clouds  lo  soar  again, 
\  iew'd  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 
And  wmg'd  the  shaft  that  quiverM  in  his  heart: 
Ke(Mi  were  iiis  piangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel 
4e  nursed  the  pinion  which  impell'd  the  kleel, 
While  the  same  plutnagf;  that  had  warm'd  his  nest 
Drank  the  last  life-droii  of  his  bleeding  breast. 
There  be  \\  ho  sav  in  these  enii<ihten'd  days 
Tiiat  sjdendid  lies  are  all  the  poet's  praise ; 
That  strain'd  invention,  ever  on  the  wing. 
Alone  impels  the  modern  bard  to  siii2  : 
'Tis  true  that  all  who  rhvnie,  nay,  all  who  write, 
Shrink  from  that  fatal  word  to  genius — trite  ; 
Yet  truth  soir)-;tir^es  will  lend  her  noblest  fires, 
And  decorate  the  verse  herself  inspires: 
This  fact  in  virtue's  name  let  Crabee  attest — 
Though  Nature's  sternest  pauiter,  yet  the  best. 

And  here  let  Shee^  and  genius  find  a  place 
Whose  pen  and  pencil  yield  an  equal  grace  ; 
To  guide  whose  hand  the  sister  arts  comoine, 
And  trace  the  poet's  or  the  yiainter's  line  ; 
Whose  n.agic  touch  can  bid  the  canvas  glow, 
Or  pour  the  easy  rliyme's  harmonious  flow, 
While  honours  douiily  merited  attend 
The  poet's  rival,  biu  the  painter's  friend. 

Blest  is  the  man  who  dares  ajinroach  the  bowei 
Where  dwelt  the  Muses  at  their  natal  hour ; 
Whose  steps  have  prcss'd,  whose  eye  has  marked  afat 
The  clime  that  nursed  the  sons  of  song  and  war, 
Tlie  scenes  which  glory  still  must  hover  o'er, 
Her  place  of  birth,  her  own  Achaian  shore: 
But  doubly  bl<:st  is  he  whose  heart  expands 
With  hallow'd  feelinas  for  those  classic  lands; 
vYho  rends  tbe  veil  of  ases  long  gone  by, 
And  views  th-  remnants  with  a  poet's  eye! 
Wright  !  ^  '\  >.  :i<  the  hajtiiy  lot  at  once  to  view 
Those  shores  of  irlory,  and  to  sing  them  too; 
And  sure  ny  common  muse  inspired  thy  pen 
To  hail  the  land  of  gods  and  godlike  men. 

And  you,  associate  Bards  !  •»  who  snatch'd  to  light 
Those  izeins  too  long  w  ithheld  from  modern  sight ; 


!iai 


1  Heiirii  Kirke  «//(>fi  died  at  Camhridire,  in  October  \^(\^ 

c.Misciiueiiceof  too  much  (fxer-ion  in  the  pursuit  of  studies, 
would  iiave  in  itured  a  mind  which  disetisc  and  poverty 
could  IX. t  impair,  iind  which  De.ith  itselfdesuoyed  latuerthaD 
snhdiiMd.  Mis  poems  ahound  in  such  heauties  as  must  imprcas 
thi-  reader  wiih  the  livt'liest  regret  ihat  t^o  short  a  period  was 
aliottrd  to  talents  which  would  have  disnitied  even  the sucrod 
functions  he  was  desliiied  to  assume. 

2 Mr.  .SVice.  author  of  "  Rhymes  on  Art,"   and 
of  .Art."  ,       . 

3  Mr.  IVnpht,  late  Consiil-Ceneral  lor  llie  Seve 
vuthiir  of  a  very  beautiful  poem  just  plll»!■:^il'■d  :  «  is  'iititled, 
■•  Hora  louiciP,"  and  is  descriptive  of  the  Isles  and  tiie  adja 
ceni  coast  of  Greece.  ,  ,•  ,    j 

4 The  translators  of  the  Anthology  have  since  puhhsh"rt 
separate  poems,  which  evince  genius  that  only  requires  oppor- 
tunity to  attain  eminence. 


■  [-yiemenla 
Inlands.!; 


68 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


Whose  mingling  taste  combined  to  cull  the  wreath 
Wliere  Attic  flowers  Aonian  odours  breathe, 
And  all  their  renovated  fragrance  flung, 
To  grace  the  beauties  of  your  native  longue, 
Now  let  those  minds  that  nobly  could  transfuse 
The  glorious  spirit  of  the  Grecian  muse, 
Though  soft  the  echo,  scorn  a  borrowM  tone, 
Resign  Achaia's  lyre,  and  strike  your  own. 

Let  these,  or  such  as  these,  uith  just  ap[)lause, 
Restore  the  Wuse's  violated  laws  : 
But  not  in  tliinsy  Darwm's  pompous  chime, 
Tliat  mighty  master  of  unmeamng  rhyme ; 
Whose  gilded  cymbals,  more  adorn'd  than  clear, 
The  eve  delighted,  but  fatigued  the  ear. 
In  show  thti  smiple  lyre  could  once  surpass, 
15ul  now  worn  down,  appear  in  native  brass ; 
While  all  his  train  of  hovering  sylphs  around, 
Evaporate  in  similies  and  sound; 
liim  let  them  shun,  with  him  let  tinsel  die: 
False  glare  attracts,  but  more  offends  the  eye. ' 

Vet  let  them  not  to  vulgar  Wordjavokth  stoop, 
The  meanest  object  of  the  lowly  group, 
Whose  verse,  of  all  but  childish  pratUe  void. 
Seems  blessed  harmony  to  Lambe  and  Llovd:  ^ 
Let  them — but  hold,  my  muse,  nor  dare  to  teach 
A  strain  far,  far  beyond  thy  humble  reach: 
The  native  genius  with  their  feeling  given 
Will  i).>int  the  path,  and  [)eal  their  notes  to  heaven. 

And  thou,  too,  Scott  I  »  resign  to  minstrels  rude 
The  wild(;r  slogan  of  a  Border  feud : 
Let  others  spin  their  meagre  lines  for  hire — 
Enough  lor  genius  if  itself  inspire  ! 
Let  Southey  sing,  although  his  teeming  muse, 
Prolihc  every  string,  be  too  profuse ; 
Let  simnle  Wordswokth  chime  his  childish  verse. 
And  brother  Coleridge  lull  the  babe  a«  nurse; 
Let  spectre-mongering  Lewis  aim  at  most 
To  rouse  the  galleries,  or  to  raise  a  ghost ; 
Let  Moore  be  lewd;   let  Stkangford  steal  from 

Moore, 
And  swear  that  Gamoens  sang  such  notes  of  yore: 
Let  Havi.ev  hobble  on,  Montgomerv  rave, 
And  godly  Graha.me  chaunt  the  stupid  stave  ; 
Let  sonneteering  Bowles  his  strains  refine. 
And  whine  and  whimper  to  the  fourteenth  line ; 
Let  Stott,  Carlisle,*  Matjlda,  and  the  rest 
Of  Grub-street,  and  of  Grosvenor-Place  the  best, 

1  Tiii^  ii''!il.'Ct  of  tilt;  "  Rotiinio  Garden"  is  some  iJioot' o' 
rcuiniiiiu'  laste  :  the  scenery  is  its  sole  lecoinmeiKJalioii. 

2  .McKsrs.  f.ambe  'luA  Lloyd,  the  most  ijinoble  followers  o( 
Suuiluiy  and  Co. 

3  Uy  tli<!  byi;,  1  liopo  that  in  Mr.  ScoWs  next  poem  his  hoir 
or  licroiut;  will  bt:  less  iuldicfed  to  "  )j:r;imarye,"  and  rii()r(i  to 
grariiiiiiir,  tliaii  the  Lady  of  the  Lay,  and  her  bravo,  Willia:!) 
of  Deloraiiie. 

4  It  may  Ik;  as-'ked  why  I  have  censured  the  Ear!  of  C  :rl,islr, 
my  guardian  and  relative,  to  whoiri  I  dedicated  a  von  iie  of 
puerile  poeu^i  a  few  years  uko.  The  guardianship  wa  -  aorni- 
nal,  at  leant  as  far  as  I  have  been  able  t(»  discover;  tl.  ;  rela- 
tionship I  cainiot  help,  and  am  very  sorry  for  it;  but  as  his 
lordship  KiMMiied  to  foryet  it  on  a  v(^ry  (!ss(!titial  occasion  to  me, 
I  shall  not  burthen  my  memory  with  the  nicollection.  I  do  no* 
Jiink  thai  personal  diirer(^ni'es  nariction  tin;  unjust  condeuma 
lion  of  a  brother  scribbler  ;  but  I  see  no  reason  why  they  should 
act  as  a  preventive,  when  iIk;  author,  noble  or  iirnoljle,  has 
for  a  series  of  years  bcL'uiled  a  "  disreruiiif?  public"  (as  the 
Ck'vortiseim^nls  liave  itj  with  (livers  reams  of  most  orthodox, 
imperial  nonsense  besides,  I  do  not  sti'p  asidi;  to  vituperate 
the  Earl ;  no— his  w<irlis  come  tanly  in  review  with  those  of 
otlicr  patrician  literati.  If,  before  I  escaped  from  my  ic^ens,  I 
«eiJ  any  tliiufi  u<  favour  of  his  lordship's  paper  Ixjoks,  ii  was  in 


Scrawl  on,  till  death  release  us  from  the  strain 
Or  common  sense  assert  her  rights  again  ; 
But  thou,  with  powers  that  mock  the  aid  of  pra.SH, 
Should'st  leave  to  humbler  bards  ignoble  lays : 
Thy  country's  voice,  the  voice  of  all  the  Nine, 
Demand  a  hallow'd  harp — that  harp  is  thine. 
Say!   will  not  Caledonia's  annals  yield 
The  glorious  record  of  some  nobler  field. 
Than  the  vile  foray  of  a  plundering  clan. 
Whose  proudest  cleeds  disgrace  the  name  of  man  7 
Or  Marmion's  acts  of  darkness,  fitter  food 
For  outlavv'd  Sherwood's  tales  of  Robin  Hood  ? 
Scotland  !   still  proudly  claim  thy  native  bard, 
And  be  thy  praise  his  first,  his  best  reward ! 
Yet  not  with  thee  alono  his  name  should  live, 
But  own  the  vast  renown  a  world  can  give ; 
Be  known,  perchance,  when  Albion  is  no  more, 
And  toil  the  tale  of  what  she  was  before ; 
To  future  times  her  faded  fame  recall. 
And  save  her  glory,  though  his  country  fail. 
Yet  what  avails  the  sanguine  poet's  hope 
To  conquer  ages,  and  with  time  to  coiie? 
New  eras  s[)read  their  wings,  new  nations  rise, 
And  other  victors  '  fill  the  apjilaudmg  skies  : 
A  few  brief  generations  He(;t  along. 
Whose  sOiis  forget  the  poet  and  his  song: 
E'en  now  what  once-loved  minstrels  scarce  may  dauu 
"^I'lie  transient  mention  of  a  dubious  name ! 
When  Fame's  loud  trump  hath  blown  its  noblest  blast, 
Though  long  the  sound,  the  echo  sleeps  at  last, 
And  glory,  like  the  phoenix  midst  her  fires, 
Exhales  her  odours,  blazes,  and  expires. 

Shall  hoary  Granta  call  her  sable  sons. 
Expert  in  science,  more  expert  at  puns? 
Shall  these  apjn-oach  the  muse?  ah,  no!   she  flies, 
And  even  s[)urns  the  great  Seatonian  prize, 
Thougii  [irinters  condescend  the  press  to  soil 
With  rhyme  by  Hoare,  and  e[)ic  blank  by  Hoylf: 
Not  him  whose  page,  if  still  upludd  by  whist, 
Recpiires  no  sacred  theme  to  bid  us  list.^ 
Ye,  who  in  Granta's  honours  would  surpass, 
Must  mount  her  Pegasus,  a  full-grown  ass — 
A  ibal  well  worthy  of  her  ancient  dam, 
Whose  Ilehcon  is  duller  than  her  Cam. 
There  Clarke,  still  striving  piteously  "to  please," 
Forgetting  doggrel  leads  not  to  degrees, 
A  would-be  satirist,  a  hired  buffoon, 
A  monthly  scribbler  of  some  low  lampoon, 
Condemn'd  to  drudge  the  meanest  of  the  mean. 
And  furnish  falsehoods  for  a  magazine, 


the  way  of  dutiful  dedication,  and  more  from  the  advice  >{ 
others  than  my  own  judirmeiif,  and  Lseize  the  first  opportu'  ly 
ofpronomicing  my  sincere  recantation.  1  have  heard  that  s(  le 
persons  conceive  me  to  bounder  obliiraiions  to  Lord  Cirli  In 
if  so,  I  shall  be  most  particularly  happy  to  learn  what  fey 
are,  and  when  conferred,  that  they  may  he  dulv  appreci;,  hd 
and  publicly  acknowledged.  What  I  have  humbly  adv.'it  .'..d 
as  an  (ipimon  on  his  printed  thimxs,  1  am  prepariMi  to  su|:..()rt, 
if  necessary,  by  ([notations  from  (^leiries,  cuIolmcs,  odes,  '!pi- 
odes,  and  certain  facetious  and  dainty  tragedies,  bearing  liis 
naino  and  mark: 

What  can  ennoble  knaves,  or  foola,  or  cowards  '' 
Alas !  not  all  tne  blood  of  all  the  Howards  : 
So  says  Pope.    Anier.. 

1  " 'I'olUne  liuiuo,  vicfoniue  virum  volita.re  per  jra.''-- 
Firffil. 

2  'VUa  "(iamesof  Floyle,"  w.dl  known  to  the  votarie-.  o 
whist,  chess,  etc.,  are  not  to  be  supersediul  by  llu^  vaiz  .rii?s  o'l 
hi>  poetical  namesaki!,  whose  po>:m  compris"(l,  as  evpresslj 
stated  in  the  advcrti-seinent.  all  the  "  I')u;;uos  of  I'-gyui-" 


ENGLISH    BARDS    AND    SCOTCH    REVIEWERS. 


59 


UevoR'S  to  scandal  his  cuiiiicnial  mind — 

riiinselt'  a  livinij  libel  on  nuuikind.' 

Oh,  dark  asylum  of  a  \  andal  race !  -^ 

At  once  the  boast  of  learning,  and  disgrace ; 

Sd  simk  in  dulness  and  so  lost  in  shame, 

Tfiat  S-MVTiiE  and  Hodgson  '  scarce  redeem  thj-  famel 

But  where  tair  Isis  rolls  her  purer  wave, 

The  partial  muse  delighted  loves  to  lave  ; 

Un  iier  green  banks  a  greener  wreath  is  wove, 

To  crown  the  bards  that  haunt  lier  classic  grove, 

Where  Richards  wakes  a  getuiine  poet's  tires, 

And  modern  Britons  justly  praise  their  sires.'^ 

For  me,  who  thus  unask'd  have  dared  to  tell 
iNIy  country  what  her  sons  should  know  too  wel\, 
Zeal  for  her  honour  bade  me  here  engage 
The  host  of  idiots  that  infest  her  age. 
No  just  applause  her  lumour'd  name  shall  lose, 
As  tirst  in  freedom,  dean'st  to  the  muse. 
Oh,  would  thy  bards  but  emulate  thy  fiime. 
And  rise  more  worthy,  Albion,  of  thy  name  ! 
What  Athens  was  in  science,  Rome  in  power, 
Wliat  Tyre  a])i)car"d  ni  her  meridian  hour, 
'Tis  thine  at  once,  fair  Albion,  to  have  been, 
Earth's  chief  dictatress.  Ocean's  miglity  queen: 
But  Rome  decav'd,  and  Athens  strew'd  the  plain. 
And  Tyre's  proiid  piers  lie  shatter'tl  in  the  main : 
Like  these  thy  strength  may  sink  in  ruin  luirl'd. 
And  Britain  fall,  the  bulwark  of  the;  world. 
But  let  me  cease,  and  dread  Cassandra's  fate, 
With  warning  ever  scoff 'd  at,  'till  too  late; 
To  themes  less  lofty  still  my  lay  confine. 
And  urge  thy  bards  to  gain  a  name  like  thine. 

Then,  hapless  Britain !   be  thy  rulers  blest, 
1  he  senate's  oracles,  the  people's  jest ! 
Still  hear  thy  motl«y  orators  dispense 
The  flowers  of  rhetoric,  though  not  of  sense, 
While  Canning's  colleagues  hate  him  for  his  wit. 
And  old  dame  Portlands  fills  the  place  of  Pitt. 

Yet  once  again  adieu  !   ere  this  the  sail 
That  wafts  me  hence  is  shivering  in  the  gale  : 
And  Afric's  coast  and  Calpe's^   adverse  height. 
And  Stamboul's''  minarets  must  greet  my  sight: 
Thence  shall  1  strav  through  beauty's*   native  clime. 
Where  Katf  ^  is  clad  in  rocks,  and  crown'd  with  snows 
sublime. 


1  Tills  person,  who  has  lately  betrayed  the  most  rapid  symp- 
toms of  contirined  autlKjrship,  is  writer  of  a  poem  denoniinated 
die  "Art  of  Pleasing,"  as  "  lucus  a  noii  liK-eiido,"  containing 
little  pleasantry,  and  less  poetry.  He  also  acts  as  monthly 
stipendiary  and  collector  of  calumnies  for  the  Satirist.  If  tiiis 
unl'ortunate  young  man  would  e.xchan^e  the  magazines  for  the 
niathemaiics,  and  endeavour  to  take  a  decent  dcfrree  in  his 
uiiiversity,  it  might  eventually  prove  more  serviceable  than 
liLs  present  salary. 

•2  "  into  Cambridgeshire  the  Emperor  Probus  transported  a 
coiisuierable  body  of  Viindais."— Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall, 
pa^'e  rf;J,  vol.  -2.  There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  the  truth  of  tins 
assertion — the  breed  is  ...till  in  higli  perfection. 

3  This  gentleman's  name  requires  no  praise:  t.)ie  man  who 
in  translation  displays  unquestionable  genius,  may  well  be 
expected  to  c,\(el  in  orisiiial  composition,  of  which  it  is  to  be 
hoped  we  shall  soon  see  a  splendid  specimen. 

4  The  "Aboriginal  Briions,"  an  excellent  poem  by  Rich 
ards. 

6  A  fri'ind  of  mine  being  asked  wiiy  his  Grace  of  P.  was 
fikened  to  an  old  woman?  replied,  "  he  supposed  it  was  ')»- 
eiiuse  he  was  past  bearing." 

6  Calpe  is  the  ancient  name  of  Gibraltar. 

7  Stamboul  is  the  Turkish  w<^rd  for  Constantinople. 

8  Georgia   remarka  )le  for  the  beauty  of  its  inhabitautB. 

9  Mount  Caucasuji. 


But  should  1  back  return,  no  letter'cl  rage 
Shall  drag   my  common|)!aee  book  on  ti.e  siagt; . 
Let  vain  Vai.entia  '    riva'  luckhiss  C' .\  kr 
And  (Kjual   him  whose  work  he  soiigiu  to  mar; 
Let  AiiKR DKi-.N  antl  Elgin-  still  pursue 
The  shade  of  fame  through  regions  of  virtu  ; 
Waste  iiscdess  thousands  on  their  Phidian  tVeaKs, 
MisshapcMi  monuments  and  maiin'd  aiitKjues  ; 
And  make  tlu^ir  grand  saloons  a  general  mart 
For  ail  tiie  mutilated  blocks  of  art : 
Of  Dardan  fours  let  tlilettanti  tell, 
I  leave  topography  lo  classic  Gell  ,  ' 
x\nd,  quite  content,  no  more  shall  interpose 
To  stun   mankind  witli  poesy  or  prose. 

Thus  far  I  've  held  my  undisturb'd  career, 
Prepareil  for  rancour,  steel'd  'gainst  selfish  tear : 
This  thing  of  rhyme  I  ne'er  disdain'd  to  owri — 
Though  not  obtrusive,  yet  not  quite  unknown : 
IMy  voice  was  heard  aga>..  though  not  so  loud  j 
IViy  page,  though  nameless,  never  disavow'd, 
And  now  at  once  I  tear  the  veil  away : 
Cheer  on  the  pack!   the  quarry  stands  at  bay, 
Unscared  by  all  the  dm  of  Me lhournk- house, 
}}y  La-mbe's  resentmetit,  or  by  Holland's  spouse 
By  Jeferev's  harmless  pistol,  Halla.m's  rage, 
Edina's  brawny  sons  and  brimstone  page. 
Our  men  in  buckram  shall  have  blo-vs  (jioiigh. 
And  feel  they  too  are  "  penetrable  stisti:" 
And  though  1  hope  not  hence  unscathed  to  go, 
Who  conijuers  me  sh.all  find  a  stubborn  foe. 
The  time  hath  been,  when  no  harsh  sound  would  faU 
From  lijis  that  now  may  seem  imbued  with  gall. 
Nor  fools  nor  follies  tempt  me  to  despise 
The  meanest  thing  that  crawl'd  beneath  my  eyes: 
But  now,  so  callous  grown,  so  changed  since  youth 
I've  learn'd  to  think  and  sternly  speak  the  truth; 
Lcarii'd  to  deride  the  critic's  starch  decree. 
And  break  him  on  tb.e  wheel  he  meant  for  me; 
To  spurn  the  rod  a  scribbler  bids  me  k'.ss, 
Nor  care  if  courts  and  crowd.s  applaud  or  hiss: 
Nav,  more,  thouoh  all  my  rviii   rhymesters  frown, 
I  too  can  hunt  a  jioetaster  down  ; 
And,  arm'd  in  proof,  the   gauntlet  cast  at  once 
To  Scotch  marauder,  an<l  to  Southern  dunce. 
Thus  much  I  've  dared  to  do  ;    l.ou  far  my  lay 
Hath  wrong'd  tnese  righteous  times,  let  others  say 
This  let  the  world,  wliich  knows  tiot  how  to  spare, 
Yet  rarely  blames  unjustly,  now  declare. 


1  Lord  Valcvtii!  (whose  trcnii  ndous  travels  are  fortlicoi 
ing,  with  due  decoratioiiB,  graphical,  topoirraphica!,  and  typ. 
gra.plMcal)    dep.)sed,  on  Sir  .///.'/,«,   Carr's  u;riicky  suit,  ths 
Dal/ois'   satire  prevented  bis  purchase  of  die  "Stranger  if 
Ireland." — Oh  tie,  my  Lord  I   has  your  lord.-hip  no  more  feel 
ill  ST  for  a  fellow-tourisi  ?  but  "two  of  a  tradi-,"  tiiry  say ,  etc 

2  Lord  Kli:in  wou'd  fain  persuade  us  that  all  the  tiL'ures 
with  and  without  iiosfs,  in  his  stone-shop,  ar(!  the  work  ot 
Piiidias  :     "  Credat  .luihens." 

3  Mr.  GelVs  'J'opotrraphy  of  Troy  and  Ithaca  cannot  fai 
to  ensure  the  approbation  of  every  man  possessed  of  ciassiciL 
taste,  as  well  for  the  information  Mr.  G.  conveys  to  the  mine 
of  the  reader,  as  for  the  ability  and  research  the  respecUvf 
works  display 


60 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


POSTSCRIPT.' 


I  H  A.VE  been  informed,  since  the  present  edition  went 
to  the  press,  that  my  trusty  and  \\  ell-beloved  cousins, 
the  Edinburgh  Reviewers,  are  preparing  a  most  vehe- 
ment criticjue  on  my  poor,  gentle,  unresisting  muse, 
whom  they  have  already  so  bedeviled  with  their  ungodly 
ribaUlry : 

"  TantoDiie  animis  coelestibus  iroB  !" 
I  ?jppose  I  must  say  of  Jeffrey  as  Sir  Andrew 
Agl  ECHEEK  saith,  "  an  1  liad  known  he  was  so  cun- 
ning offence,  I  had  seen  him  damned  ere  I  had  fought 
him  '  What  a  pity  it  is  that  1  shall  be  bejond  the  Bos- 
pho.us  before  the  next  number  has  passed  the  Tweed. 
But  yet  I  hope  to  light  my  pipe  with  it  in  Persia. 

M}'  northern  friends  have  accused  me,  with  justice,  of 
[)ersonality  towards  their  great  literary  Anthropophagus, 
Jeffrey  :  but  what  else  was  to  be  done  with  him  and 
his  dirty  pack,  who  feed  "  by  lying  and  slandering,"  and 
slake  their  thirst  by  "evil-speaking?"  I  have  adduced 
facts  already  well  known,  and  of  Jeffrey's  mind  I  have 
stated  my  free  opinion  ;  nor  has  he  thence  sustained 
any  injury :  what  scavenger  was  ever  soiled  bv  being 
pelted  with  mud?  It  may  be  said  that  I  quit  England 
because  I  have  censured  there  "  persons  of  honour  and 
wit  about  town;"  but  I  am  coming  back  again,  and 
their  vengeance  will  keep  hot  till  my  return.  Those 
who  know  me  can  testify  that  my  motives  for  leaving 
England  are  very  different  from  fears,  literary  or  per- 
sonal ;  those  who  do  not,  may  one  day  bb  convinced. 
Since  the  publication  of  this  thing,  my  name  has  not 
been  concealed ;  I  have  been  mostly  in  London,  ready 
to  answer  for  my  transgressions,  and  in  daily  expecta- 
tion of  sundry  cartels;  bit,  alas!  "The  age  of  chiv- 
alry is  over;"  or,  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  there  is  no 
spirit  now-a-days. 

There  is  a  youth  yclept  Ilewson  Clarke  (subaudi, 
Esq.),  a  sizer  of  Emanuel  College,  and  I  believe  a  den- 
izen of  Berwick-upon-Twee<l,  whom  I  have  introduced 
in  tliese  pages  to  much  better  company  than  he  has  been 
accustomed  to  meet :  he  is,  notwithstanding,  a  very  sad 
dog,  and,  for  no  reason  that  I  can  discover,  e  (cept  a 
personal  quarrel  with  a  bear,  kept  by  me  at  Cambridge 
to  sit  for  a  fellowsliip,  and  whom  tlie  jealousy  of  his 
Trinity  contemporaries  prevented  from  success,  has  been 
abusing  me,  and,  what  is  worse,  the  defenceless  innocent 
a!)ove  mentioned,  in  the  Satirist,  for  one  year  and  some 
months.  I  am  utterly  unconscious  of  having  given  him 
any  i)rovocation  ;  indeed  I  am  guiltless  of  liaving  heo'"d 
his  name,  till  it  was  coupled  with  tlie  Satirist.  He  has, 
ther(;fore,  no  reason  to  complain,  and  I  dare  say  that, 
ike  ^ir  Fretful  Phigiary,  he  is  rather  plcasal  \hiu\  other- 
wise. I  have  now  mentioned  all  who  have  done  me  the 
Honour  to  notice  me  and  mine,  that  is,  my  bear  and  my 
buok,  excejjt  the  editor  of  the  Satirist,  who,  it  seems, 
IS  a  gentleman.  God  wot !  I  wish  lie  could  impart  a  lit- 
tle of  his  gentility  to  his  subordinate  scribblers.  I  hear 
that  Mr.  Jek.ninc  n  \  m  is  about  to  take  up  the  cudgels 
forhisMiecciKis,  Lord  Carlisle  :  I  hope  not;  he  was  one. 
of  the  few  who,  m  the  very  short  intercourse  I  had 
with  him,  treated  nu;  with  kindness  when  a  bov,  and 
-vhatever  he  may  say  or  do,  "  pour  on,  I  vvilj  endure." 
1  have  nodiing  fiirther  to  add,  save  a  general  note;  of 
iiui'iksgiviiiii;  to  readers,  purchasers,  and  publisher;  and, 
in  the  words  of  Scott,  I  wish 

"  To  all  and  cad)  a  fair  pond  nJL'ht, 
And  rosy  dreams  and  sluinhers  lifilit." 


Published  to  tho  Second  Edition. 


TheJoUoming  Lines  were  h:nrfenj)i^  iMr,.  Fiizger  \i  jy, 
in  a  Copij  of  EsG  1.1:^ H  Bar D>  and  Scotch  Re- 
viewers:— 

I  find  Lord  B\'ron  scorns  my  muse — 

Our  f;ites  are  ill  agreed ! 
His  verse  is  safe — I  can't  abuse 
Those  lines  I  never  read. 

W.  F.  P. 


His  Lordship  accidentally  met  with  the   Copy,   and  nub 

joined  the  following  pungent  Rcjili/  : — 
What's  writ  on  me,  cried  Fitz,  I  never  read  ;  — 
What's  wTote  by  thee,  dear  Fitz,  none  will  ind(>ed. 
The  case  stands  simply  thus,  then,  honest  Fitz:  — 
Thou  and  lliine  enemies  are  fiiirly  quits, 
Or  ratiicr  i.'mdd  be,  if,  for  time  to  come, 
They  luckily  were  deaf,  or  thou  wert  (ivnih — 
But,  to  their  pens,  while  scribblers  add  their  tongues^ 
The  waiter  only  can  escape  their  lungs. 


THE 


A  POEM. 


Iinmolat, 


-Pallas  te  hoc  vulnere,  Pallas 

M  piuiiaui  scclcrato  ux  sanu'iiirie  sumit. 


Si.ow  sinks,  more  lovelv  ere  nis  race  ue  run, 
Aloii£  Morea's  liills  the  setting  sun  ; 
Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscirely  bright, 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light! 
()'(!r  the  hush'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 
Gilds  the  green  wave,  that  trembles  as  it  glows. 
On  old  yEgina's  rock,  and  Idra's  isle. 
The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile; 
O'er  his  own  regions  lingering  loves  to  shine, 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descendinsj  fast  the  mountain  stiadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconcpier'd  Salamis! 
Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  exfianse, 
More  deeplv  purpled,  met  his  mellowing  glance, 
And  tenderest  tints,  a.on<:  uw'.r  summits  driven, 
Mark  his  iray  course  and  own  thf>  hues  of  heaven 
Till,  darklv  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep. 
Behind  his  Del[.hian  chtf  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  cost. 
When,  Athens!   here  thy  wis.'st  InokM  his  last. 
Ilow  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 
Thii/  closed  their  murder'd  sage's  latest  day!' 


1  Mr.  VitztKvald  is  in  the  lial     of  '■cciiins  lii«  own  poetry 
-Set!  iiott,  to  Fnglisli  Bards,  p   140. 


THE    CURSE    OF    MINERVA. 


61 


Xoi  v*n— not  ye' — Set  pauses  on  the  hill — 
rise  prtcious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still ; 
But  sad  his  lisht  to  agoiiiziiii;  eyes, 
Anil  dark  the  inouiitain's  once  delightful  dyes; 
(ilodin  o'er  th(!  lovt-ly  land  he  seein'd  to  pour, 
T;ii'  land  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before ; 
Hut  ere  he  sunk  below  Cithieron's  head, 
Tie  cuii  of  woe  was  (juati'M — the  spirit  fled; 
Tht  soul  of  him  that  scorn'd  to  fear  or  llv — 
^^  ho  li\ed  and  died  as  none  can  live  or  die ! 

But,  lo!   from  hi«h  Hymettus  to  the  plain, 
Tiie  queen  of  night  as^-erts  her  silent  reign. '■' 
No  nuiikv  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm, 
flides  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form , 
U'iih  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moon-beams  play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  rav, 
And  briofht  around,  with  quiv3rin<i  beams  beset, 
Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 
The  groves  of  olive  scatter'd  dark  and  wide 
Where  meek  Cephisus  sheds  his  scanty  tide, 
The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk, ^ 
And,  dun  and  sombre  'mid  the  holy  calm. 
Near  Theseus'  fane  yon  solitary  palm, 
All  tinned  with  varied  hues,  arrest  the  eye — 
And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

Asrain  the  ^^gean,  heard  no  more  afar. 
Lulls  his  cliafed  breast  from  elemental  war ; 
A2;i!n  liis  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Tl;<'ir  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  sold, 
Mi\\i  with  the  shades  of  manv  a  distant  isle. 
That  frown — where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile. 

As  tnus  within  the  walls  of  Pallas'  fane 
Imark'd  the  beauties  of  the  land  and  main, 
Alone  and  friendless,  on  the  magic  shore 
Whose  arts  and  arms  but  live  in  poet's  lore, 
Oft  as  the  matchless  dome  I  turn'd  to  scan, 
Sacred  to  gods,  but  not  secure  from  man, 
The  past  return'd,  tne  presen'  seem'd  to  cease, 
And  glory  knew  no  clime  beyond  her  Greece. 
Hours  roil'd  along,  and  Dian's  orb  on  high 
Had  gain'd  the  centre  of  her  softest  sky. 
And  yet  unwearied  still  my  footsteps  trod 
O'er  the  vain  shrine  of  manj'  a  vanish'd  god ; 
But  chiefly,  Pallas !   thine,  w  hen  Hecate's  glare, 
C^ieck'd  by  thy  colunms,  fell  more  sadly  fair 
O'er  the  chill  marble,  where  the  startling  tread 
Thrills  the  lone  heart  like  echoes  from  the  dead. 
Lung  had  I  mused,  and  measured  every  trace 
The  wreck  of  Greece  recorded  of  her  face. 
When,  lo !   a  giant  form  before  me  strode, 
And  Pallas  haii'd  me  in  her  own  abode. 
Ves,  't  was  Minerva's  self,  but,  ah  !   how  changed 
Since  o'er  the  Dardan  field  in  arms  she  ranged! 
Not  such  as  erst,  by  her  divine  command, 
Her  form  apjjear'd  from  Phidias'  !i!;istic  hand ; 
Gone  were  the  terrors  of  her  awul  brow, 
Her  idle  ^tgis  bore  no  Homon  now; 
Her  helm  was  deep  indented,  and  her  lance 
Seeni'd  weak  and  shaftless,  e'en  to  mortal  glance; 
The  olive  branch,  which  still  she  deignVI  to  clasp. 
Shrunk  from  her  touch  and  wither'd  in  her  grasp: 
And,  ah  '   though  still  the  brightest  of  the  sky, 
Celestial  fears  bedimm'd  her  large  blue  eye; 
Round  the  rent  casque  her  oulet  circled  slow. 
And  mourn'd  his  mistress  with  a  shriek  of  woe. 
"  Mortal !  ('twas  thus  she  spake)  that  blush  of  shame 
Proclaims  thee  Briton — once  a  noble  n-ime  — 
First  of  the  mightv,  foremost  of  the  free. 
Vow  honour'a  less  bv  all — and  least  by  me  : 


Chief  of  thy  foes  shall  Pallas  still  be  found:  — 

Seek'st  thou  the  cause?  O  mortal,  look  around' 

Lo !   here,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire, 

I  saw  successive  tyrannies  expire  ; 

'Scaped  from  the  ravage  of  the  Turk  and  Goth, 

Thy  country  sends  a  s[)oiler  worse  than  both  ! 

Survey  this  vacant  violated  fane : 

Recount  the  relics  torn  that  yet  remain  ; 

These  Cecrops  placed — this  Pericles  adorn'd* — 

Th'it  Hadrian  rear'd  when  droopu:g  science  mourn'd 

W'hat  more  I  owe  let  iiratitude  attest — 

Know,  Alaric  and  Elgin  did  the  rest. 

That  all  may  learn  from  whence  the  plunder  came, 

The  insulted  wall  sustains  his  hated  name.* 

For  Elgin's  fame  thus  grateful  Pallas  pleads: 

Below,  his  name — above,  behold  his  deeds! 

Be  ever  haii'd  with  equal  honour  here 

The  Gothic  monarch  and  the  Pictish  peer. 

Arms  gave  the  first  his  right — the  last  had  none, 

But  basely  stole  what  less  barbarians  won  ! 

So  when  the  lion  quits  his  fi;ll  repast, 

Next  prowls  the  wolf— the  fillhy  jackal  last: 

Flesh,  limbs,  and  blood,  the  former  make  their  own  , 

The  last  base  brute  securely  gnaws  the  bone. 

Yet  still  the  gods  are  just,  and  crimes  are  crost — 

See  here  what  Elgin  won,  and  what  he  lost ! 

Another  name  with  his  jjollutes  mv  shrine. 

Behold  where  Dian's  beams  disdain  to  shine! 

Some  retribution  stiil  niii.'ht  Pallas  claim, 

When  Venus  half  avenired  Minerva's  shame."* 

She  ceased  awhile,  and  thus  I  dared  replv, 
To  soothe  the  vengeance  kindling  in  her  eve: — 
"  Daughter  of  Jove  !   in  Britain's  injured  name, 
A  true-born  Briton  may  the  deed  disclaim! 
Frown  not  on  England — England  owns  him  not — 
Athena,  no  !   the  plunderer  was  a  Scot !' 
Ask  thou  the  diflerence  ?  From  fair  Phyle's  towers 
Survey  Boeotia — Caledonia's  ours. 
And  well  I  know  within  that  b-is:,,;-  1  land  * 
Hath  wisdom's  goddess  never  held  cointnind ; 
A  barren  soil,  where  nature's  serms,  connned. 
To  stern  sterility  can  stim  the  mind; 
Whose  thistle  well  betravs  the  niggard  earth, 
Emblem  of  all  to  whom  the  land  gives  l^irth. 
Each  genial  influence  nurtured  to  resist, 
A  land  of  meanness,  sophistry,  and  mist : 
Each  breeze  from  foggy  mount  and  marshv  plain 
Dilutes  with  drivel  every  drizzling  brain. 
Till,  burst  at  length,  each  waterv  head  o'erflows. 
Foul  as  their  soil,  and  frigid  as  their  snows: 
Ten  thousand  schemes  of  petulance  and  pride 
Despatch  her  scheming  children  far  and  wide ; 
Some  east,  some  west,  some  every  where  but  ncirtl» ' 
In  quest  of  lawless  gain  they  issue  forth  ; 
And  thus,  accursed  be  the  day  and  vear. 
She  sent  a  Pict  to  play  the  felon  here. 
Yet,  Caieoonia  claims  some  native  worth. 
As  dull  Boeotia  gave  a  Pindar  birth — 
So  may  her  few,  the  letter'd  and  the  brave, 
Bound  to  no  clime,  and  victors  o'er  the  grave, 
Shake  ofl"  the  sordid  dust  of  such  a  land, 
And  shine  like  children  of  a  hai)|)i(r  strand- 
As  once  of  yore,  in  some  obnoxious  place. 
Ten  names  (if  found)  had  saved  a  wretched  race!'^ 

I  *'  Mortal,"  the  blue-eyed  maid  resumed,  "  once  mora 

{  Bear  back  my  mandate  to  thy  native  shore  ; 

j  Though  fiUen,  alas  !   this  vengeancte  still  k  mine. 

I  To  turn  my  councils  far  from  lands  like  thine. 


62 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


FJeaf  tJioii  in  silence  Palla?'  stern  behest ; 

,„    flear  and  l)elieve,  for  time  shall  tell  the  rest. 
First  on  the  head  oi"  him  who  did  the  deed 
iM.V  curse  shall  light, — on  him  and  all  his  seea : 
Without  one  spark  of  intellectual  fire, 
Be  all  the  sons  as  senseless  as  the  sire : 
f  one  with  wit  the  paren*  brood  disgrace, 
_eheve  him  bastard  of  a  brighter  race ; 

/    Still  with  his  hireling  artists  let  bim  [)rate, 
And  folly's  praise  repay  for  wisdom's  hate 
Long  of  their  patron's  gusto  let  them  tell, 
VVhose  noblest  native  gusto — is  to  sell  : 
To  sell,  and  make  {rrny  shame  record  the  day!) 
The  state  receiver  c<f  his  pilfer'd  prey  !   " 
Meantime,  the  Pat'cmg  feeble  dotarTF,  West, 
Europe's  v^or^',  Jaiiber,  and  poor  Britain's  best, 
With  palsie'j  Oxiui  sliall  turn  each  model  o'er, 
And  own  hi'r^jli  an  infant  of  fourscore  :* 
Be  all  the  bruijers  call'd  from  all  St.  Giles, 
That  r,rt  ?/id  nature  may  compare  their  styles  ; 
While  D.aA-ny  brutes  in  stupid  wonder  stare, 
And  ira*  v<j\  at  his  lordship's  stone-shop  there.'" 
Round  (he  throng'd  gate  shall  sauntering  coxcombs  creep, 
To  lounge  and  lucubrate,  to  prate  and  peep, 
VThile  many  a  languid  maid,  with  longing  sigh. 
On  giant  statues  casts  the  curious  eye ; 
The  room  with  transient  glance  appears  to  skim, 
Vet  marks  the  mighty  back  and  length  of  limb, 
Mourns  o'er  the  ditTerence  of  noiv  and  then; 
Exclaims,  '  these  Greeks  indeed  were  proper  men;' 
Draws  slight  comparisons  of  these  with  those, 
And  enyies  Lais  all  her  Attic  beaux  : 
When  shall  a  modern  maid  have  swains  hkc  these  ? 
Alas  !   Sir  Harry  is  no  Hercules  I 
And,  last  of  all,  amidst  the  gaping  crew. 
Some  calm  spectator,  as  he  takes  his  view," 
In  silent  indignation,  mix'd  with  grief. 
Admires  the  jilunder,  but  abhors  the  thief. 
Loathed  throughout  life — scarce  pardon'd  in  the  dust, 
May  hate  pursue  his  sacrilegious  lust! 
Link'd  with  the  fool  who  fired  the  Ephesian  dome, 
Shall  vengeance  follow  far  beyond  ti\e  tomb ; 
Erostratus  and  Elgin  e'er  shall  shine 
In  many  a  branding  page  and  burning  line! 
Alike  condemn'd  for  aye  to  stand  accursed — 
Perchance  the  second  vih>r  than  t!ie  firsf : 
So  let  him  stand  through  ages  yet  unborn, 
Fix'd  statue  on  the  pedestal  of  scorn ! 
Though  not  for  him  alone  revenge  sliall  wait. 
But  fits  thy  country  for  her  coming  fate: 
Hers  were  the  deeds  that  taught  her  lawless  son 
To  do  what  oft  Britannia's  self  had  done. 
Look  to  the  Baltic  blazing  from  aiar — 
Your  old  ally  yet  mourns  perfidious  var : 
Not  to  such  deeds  did  Pallas  lend  her  aid, 
Or  break  the  compact  which  herself  had  made; 
Far  from  such  coun(;ils,  from  the  faithless  field. 
She  fle<l — but  left  behind  her  gorgori  shield  ; 
A  fatal  gift,  that  turii'd  vour  friends  to  stone, 
A'm!  left  lost  Albion  hated  and  ;'!(..ie. 
Look  to  the  east,  wluire  Ganges'  swarthy  race 
Sfiall  .shake  your  usurpation  to  its  base  ; 
Lo!   there  Rebellion  rears  her  ghastly  head, 
\nd  glares  the  Nemesis  of  native  dead. 
Till  Indus  rolls  a  deep  purpureal  tlood, 
And  claims  his  long  arrear  of  northern  blood, 
So  may  ye  perish  I   Pallas,  when  she  gave 
Vour  free-l)orn  rights,  torbade  ye  to  enslave. 
r^iok  on  your  Spain,  she  clasps  the  hand  she  hates, 
But  coldly  clasps,  and  thrusts  you  from  her  gates. 
Bear  witness,  bright  Barro>sa,  thou  (tanst  tell 
tVuosf*  were  the  sons  tliai  tjravely  fought  and  fell. 


While  Lusitania,  kind  and  dear  ally. 
Can  spare  a  few  to  fight  and  somr '.imes  fly. 
Oh  glorious  field  !   by  famine  fiercely  won ; 
The  Gaul  retires  for  once,  and  all  is  done' 
But  when  did  Pallas  teach  that  one  retreat 
Retrieved  three  long  olympiads  of  defeat? 
Look  last  at  home — ye  love  not  lo  look  there, 
On  the  grim  smile  of  comfortless  despair ; 
Your  city  saddens,  loud  though  revel  howls, 
Here  famine  faints,  and  yonder  rapine  prowls' 
See  all  alike  of  more  or  less  bereft — 
No  misers  tremble  when  there  's  nothing  left. 
'  Blest  paper  credit'  '-  who  shall  dare  to  sing? 
It  clogs  like  lead  corru])tion's  weary  wing : 
Yet  Pallas  plucked  each  Premier  by  the  ear. 
Who  gods  and  men  alike  disdain'd  to  hear ; 
But  one,  repentant  o'er  a  bankrupt  state. 
On  Pallas  calls,  but  calls,  alas  !   too  late  ! 
Then  raves  for+**  ;  '^  to  that  Mentor  bends, 
Though  he  and  Pallas  never  yet  were  friends  : 
Him  senates  hear  whom  never  yet  they  heard, 
Contem))tuous  once,  and  now  no  less  absurd: 
So  once  of  yore  each  reasonable  frog 
Swore  faith  and  fealty  to  his  sovereign  log ; 
Thus  hail'd  your  rulers  their  patrician  clod. 
As  Egypt  chose  an  onion  for  a  god. 


"Now  fare  ye  well,  enjoy  vour  little  hour  ; 
Go,  grasj)  the  shadow  of  your  vanish'd  power; 
Gloss  o'er  the  fiiilure  of  each  fondest  scheme, 
Your  strength  a  name,  your  bloated  wealth  a  dream. 
Gone  is  that  gold,  the  marvel  of  mankind. 
And  pirates  barter  all  that 's  left  behind  ;"^ 
No  more  the  hirelings,  piirehased  near  anii  far 

I    Crowd  to  the  ranks  of  mercenary  war; 
The  idle  merchant  on  the  useless  quay 
Droops  o'er  the  bales  no  bark  may  bear  away. 
Or,  hack  returning;  sees  rejected  stores 
Rot  piecemeal  on  his  own  encumher'd  shores ; 

j    The  starved  mechanic  breaks  his  --uslic  loom, 
And,  desperate,  mans  him  'gainst  the  common  docm. 

j    Then  in  the  senate  of  your  smking  state, 

\    Show  me  the  man  whose  counsels  may  have  weight. 

j    V^ain  is  each  voice  whose  tones  could  once  command; 

I    Even  factions  cease  to  charm  a  factious  land; 

I    While  jarring  sects  convulse  a  sister  isle. 

And  light  with  maddening  hands  tlie  mutual  pile. 


"  'Tis  done,  'tis  past,  since  Pallas  warns  in  vain, 
The  Furies  seizh  h(;r  abdicated  reign  ; 
Wide  o'er  the  realm  they  wave  their  kindling  brands, 
And  wring  her  vitals  with  their  fi(!rv  hands. 
But  one  convulsive  struggle  still  remains. 
And  Gaul  shall  weep  ere  Albion  wear  her  chains. 
The  banner'd  pomp  of  war,  the  glittering  files. 
O'er  whose  gay  trappings  stern  Bellona  smiles  ; 
The  brazen  tniinp,  the  spirit-stirring  drum, 
That  bid  the  foe  defiance  e'er  thev  come; 
The  hero  l»ounding  at  his  country's  call. 
The  glorious  death  that  di^corates  his  fall, 
Swell  tlu;  young  heart  witli  visionary  charms, 
.\u(!  hid  it  antedate  the  joys  of  arms. 
But  know,  a  le^^son  you  may  yet  be  taught—- 
Willi  death  alone  are  laurels  cheajily  bought: 
Not  in  the  ronfiict  havoc  seeks  delight — 
His  day  ol   mercy  is  the  dav  of  fight; 
But  when  the  field  is  fought,  the  battle  won, 
'J'luiugh  drench'd  with  gore,  his  woes  are  but  be<niTV 
His  deep(!r  deeds  ve  yei  know  but  by  name, — 
The  slaughter'd  p(;asanl  ami  the  ravish  d  dame. 


THE    GURSE    OF    MINERVA 


68 


The  I '.fled  mansion  and  the  toe-rcap'd  field, 
(11  suit  with  souls  at  home  uiitau^'ht  to  yield. 
Sa\-  with  what  e\e,  along  the  distant  down, 
Would  flyin^'  hurijiicrs  mark  the  blazing  town? 
how  view  tlie  colnnm  <jt'  aseendin<;  tlaiiKJS 
Shake  his  red  shadow  o'er  the  startled  Thames? 
Nay,  frown  not,  Albion  !   for  the  tondi  was  thine 
'I'hat  lit  such  pyres  from  Taqus  to  th.e  Rhine: 
Now  should  they  burst  on  thv  devoted  coast, 
Go,  ask  thy  besom,  who  deserves  tliem  most? 
The  law  of  lip aven  and  earth  is  life  for  life  ; 
And  she  who  raised  in  vain  regrets  the  strife." 


NOTES. 


Note  1. 

How  watcii'd  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray. 
That  close('  their  imirder'd  ^asio's  latest  day! 

Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sun 
set  (the  hour  of  execution),  notwithstanding  the  en- 
treaties of  his  disciples  to  wait  till  tiie  sun  went  down. 

Note  2. 
The  queen  of  nijriii.  asserts  her  silent  reiirn. 
The  twilight  m  Greece  is  much   shorter  than  in  our 
country  ;   the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  summer 
i>f  less  duration. 

Note  3. 
The  ulcainin?  turret  of  the  sray  Kiosk. 
The  Kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house  :  the  palm  is 
without  the  pr(;sent  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the 
temj)le  of  Theseus,  between  which  and  the  tree  t!io 
wall  intervenes.  Cephisus' stream  is  imleed  scantv,  .md 
liiBsus  has:  no  stream  at  all. 

.  Note  4. 
TUfi^c  Cterops  placed  this  Pcriclrs  adorriM. 
This  is  spoken  of  the  city  in  general,  and  n>it  of  the 
Acro])Cflis  in  particular.  The  temple  of  Jupitt.r  0!ym- 
pias,  by  some  supposed  the  Pantlieon,  was  finished  by 
Hadrian:  sixteen  columns  are  standing,  of  «-he  most 
beautiful  marble  and  style  of  architecture. 

Note  5. 
Tiic  ii;sultcd  wall  sustains  his  hat«d  name. 
It  IS  stated  by  a  late  oriental  traveller,  that  when  the 
wholesale  spoliator  visited  Athens,  he  caused  his  own 
name,  with  that  of  his  wife,  to  lie  inscribed  on  a  pillar 
of  one  of  the  j)rincipal  temples.  This  inscription  was 
executed  in  a  very  conspicuous  manner,  and  deeplv  en- 
graved in  the  marble,  at  a  very  considerable  elevatif>n. 
Ni)twitlisiandlii:rv,hich precautions,  some  person  (doubt- 
less inspired  by  the  Patron  Goddess),  has  been  at  the 
pains  to  get  himself  raised  up  to  th(;  reiiuisite  heii.dit, 
and  has  obliterated  ihr;  name  of  the  laird,  but  left  that 
of  the  lady  untouched.  The  traveller  in  cpiestion  ac- 
companied this  story  by  a  ren-.rk,  that  it  mtist  have 
cost  some  labnur  and  contiAame  to  get  at  the  place, 
an  J  could  only  have  been  effected  by  much  zeal  and 
determination. 

Note  fi. 
Wiien  Venus  hall'  nvenged  Minerva's  shame. 
His  lordship's  name,  and  that  of  one  who  no  longer 
tx^ars  it,  are  carved  conspicuously  on  the  Parthenon 
alKive:  in  a  ()art  not  far  distant  are  the  torn  remnants 
of  the  basso-relievos,  destroyed  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
r«;move  them. 

Note  7. 
Prown  not  on  fviiciand — F.n^land  owns  him  not — 
At.'ioiiii,  no  I   thi'  phiiiiicor  wa.-  ;i  Scot' 

Tlie  plaster  wall  on  I  he  west  side  of  the  temole  of 


Minerva  Polias  bears  the  following  inscription,  ci  t  in 
very  deep  chai  acters  : 

Quod  lion  R'ecrnnt  Goti 
Hoc  fcccruiit  t^i-oti. 
Hohhiiiisr's  Trauds  in  Greece^  etc-,  p.  '^5. 
Note  8. 
And  well  1  know  within  that  biistiird  land. 
Irish  bastards,  according  to  Sk  <^'ail.->ghan  O'Bral- 
laghan. 

Note  9. 


Wiih  pals 
And  own 


(I  hand 
luselt'  ill 


hnll  turn  each  model  o'er, 
miant  ot"  fbuiscoii!. 


wny  brutes  in  stupid  wonder  stare, 
;;l  at  his  lordship's  stauc-shiip  there. 


!\Ir.^Vest,  on  seeing  "the  Elgin  collection"  (I  suppose 
we  shall  hear  of  the  Abershaw's  and  .lack  Shejiberd'a 
colli.'ction  next),  declared  himself  a  mere  Tvro  in  Art. 

Note  10. 
While  hv. 
And  niarv 

Poor  Crib  was  sadly  puzzled  when  exhibited  at  Elgin 
house  ;  he  asked  if  it  was  not  "a  stone-shoj) :  "  he  was 
right, — It  is  a  shop. 

Note  11. 
And,  last  of  all,  amidst  the  "rnpins  crew 
Some  calm  speciat(jr,  as  he  takes  his  view, 

"Alas!   all  the  monuments  of  Roman  magnificence, 
all  the  remains  of  Grecian  taste,  so  dear  to  the  artist, 
the  historian,  the  antiquary,  all  dejiend  on  the  will  of 
an  arbitrary  sovereign  ;   and  that  will  is  influenced  too 
often  by  interest  or  vanity,  by  a  nephew  or  a  sycophant. 
Is  a  new  palace  to  be  erected  (at  Home)  for  an  upstart 
family?  the  Coliseum  is  stripped  to  furnish  materials. 
Does  a  foreign  minister  wish  to  adorn  the  bleak  walls 
i   of  a  northern  castle  with  antiques?  the  temph's  of  The- 
I    sens  or  .Minerva  must  be  dismanti/}d,  and  the  works  o' 
j    Phidias  or  Praxiteles  be  torn  from  the  shattered  friez**, 
I    That  a  decre[)it    uncle,   wrajiped    \y^)    in  the  religious 
J    duties  of  his  age  and  station,  shoiiid   listen  to  the  sug- 
gestions of  an  interested  nepliew,  is  milurin;   and  tba 
I    an  oriental  despot  should  undervalue  the  masterpieces 
I    of  Grecian  art,  is  to  be  expected  ;   though  in  both  cases 
I    the  consecpiences  of  such  weakness  are  mucii  to  be  la- 
mented— but  that   the  minister  of  a  nation,  famed  for 
its  knowledge  of  the  language,  and  its  veneration  for 
the   mf)numents  of  ancient  Greece,  should  have  been 
the  prom[)ter  and  the  instrument  of  these  destructions, 
is  almost  incredible.      Such  rapacity  is  a  crime  against 
all  ages  and  all  gimerations  :    it  deprives  the  past  of  the 
tro, lilies  of  their  genius  and    the  title-deeds  of  their 
fame;    the  present,  of  the    strongest  indueemeiits  to 
exe-iion,    the    noblest    exhibitions    tliat    curiosity    can 
coniemp!  ite  ;  tlie  future,  of  the  masterpieces  of  art,  the 
mo  !els  of  imitation.     To  guard   against   the  repefikion 
\){'  sucii   di  predations  is  the  wish  of  everv  man  of  ge- 
nius, the  dutv  of  everv  man  in  power,  and  the  conimoi: 
interest  of  ev,>ry  civilized  nation." — Eustace's  CbixKinu 
T,urthr  a.:  t  Italy,  p.  269. 

"This  att  -mpt  to  transplant  the  temple  of  Vesta  froiT, 
Italy  to  Engi.ind,  may,  perhaps,  do  honour  to  the  late 
Lord  Bnsidi'-;  patriotism  or  to  his  magnificciice  ;  but  \. 
cannot  b  ■  eonadered  as  an  indication  of  either  taste  •» 
judgmeni." — Ihid.  p.  419. 

Note  12. 
'  lilesi  [laper  credit '  who  shall  dare  to  sing  ? 
P.:   -t  paper  cre(bt,  last  and  hn^f  ?upi>Iy, 

to  fly.-  P'pe. 


don  lisrliter 


1'nat  {end-;  corni] 

Note  13. 

There  raves  for  *  *  * 
The  Deal  and  Dover  trafficVcrs  in  specie. 

Note  14. 
Gone  is  that  gold,  the  maivel  of  mankind. 
And  pirates  barter  all  that  "t?   tift  beiiind 

See  /he  ureceding  note. 


64 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


THE 


JJvoDtirt!)  of  ©ante. 


'T  ifl  the  sunset  of  life  ^ivos  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  tlicir  sImicIows  before. 

CAMPBELL 


DEDICATION. 


Lady!  if  for  the  cold  and  cloudy  clime 

Where  I  was   born,  but  where  I  would  not  die, 

Of  ine  great  poet-sire  of  Italy 
i  (lare  to  build  the  imitative  rhyme, 
Harsh  Runic  copy  of  the  South's  sublime, 

Thou  art  the  cause  ;   and,  howsoe'cr  I 

Fall  short  of  his  immortal  harmony. 
Thy  gentle  heart  will  pardon  me  the  crime. 
Thou,  in  the  pride  of  beauty  and  of  youth, 

Spakest ;   and  for  thee  to  speak  and  be  obcy'd 
Are  one  :   but  only  in  the  sunny  South 

Such  sounds  are  utterM,  and  such  charms  display'd, 
So  swoet  a  language  from  so  fair  a  mouth — 

All !   to  what  etibrt  would  it  not  [)ersuade? 

Ravenna,  June  21,  1819, 


PREFACE. 


In  the  course  of  a  visit  to  the  city  of  Ravenna,  in 
the  summer  of  LSI 9,  it  was  suggested  to  the  author 
that,  having  composed  something  on  the  subject  of 
Tasso's  conrinement,  he  should  do  the  same  on  Dante's 
exile— the  tomb  of  the  poet  forming  one  of  the  princi- 
pal objects  of  interest  in  that  city,  both  to  t!ie  native 
and  to  the  stranger. 

"  On  this  hint  I  spake,"  and  the  result  has  been  the 
following  four  cantos,  in  terza  rima,  now  otfered  to  the 
reader.  If  they  are  understood  and  approvtul,  it  is  my 
purpose  to  continue  the  poem  in  various  other  cantos 
to  its  natural  conclusion  in  the  present  age.  Tlie  reader 
IS  requested  to  suppose  that  Dante  addresses  him  in 
the  interval  between  the  conclusion  «>f  the  Divina  Com- 
media  and  his  death,  and  shortly  before  the  lattei  event, 
foretelling  the  fortunes  of  Italy  in  general  in  the  ensu- 
ing centuries.  In  adoi)ting  this  plan,  I  have  had  in  my 
mind  the  Cassandra  of  Lycophron,  and  the  Prophecy 
of  Nereus  by  Horace,  as  well  as  the  Prijphecies  of 
Holy  Writ.  The  measure  adopted  is  the  terza  rima  of 
Dante,  which  I  am  not  aware  to  liave  seen  hitherto 
tried  in  oin-  language,  e.\ce[)t  it  may  be  by  Mr.  Hiyley, 
of  wliose  translation  I  never  saw  but  one  extract, 
cjuoted  in  the  notes  of  Caliph  Vathek  ;  so  that — if  i 
do  not  err — this  poem  may  be  considered  as  a  metrical 
experiuieiit.  The  cantos  are  short,  an<l  aliout  the  same 
lenuth  of  th<^se  of  the  poet  whose  name  I  have  bor- 
rowed, >.   d  most  [)rol)al)Iy  taken  in  vain. 

Amongst  the  inconveniences  of  authors  in  the  pres- 
ent dav,  it  is  difficult  for  any  who  have  a  name,  good 
or  bad,  to  escape  translation.     I  have  had  the  fortune 


to  see  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe  Harold  translated 
into  Italian  versi  sciolti — that  is,  a  poem  written  in  the 
Spenserean  stanza  into  blank  verse,  without  regard  t.. 
the  natural  divisions  of  the  stanza,  or  of  the  sense.  If 
the  present  poem,  being  on  a  national  topic,  should 
chance  to  undergo  the  same  fite,  I  would  request  the 
Italian  reader  to  remember,  that  wnen  I  have  failed  in 
the  imitation  of  his  great  "  Padre  Alighier,"  I  have 
failed  in  imitating  that  which  all  study  and  few  under- 
stand, since  to  this  very  day  it  is  not  yet  settled  what 
was  the  meaning  of  the  allegory  in  the  first  canto  of 
the  Inferno,  unless  Courrt  Marchetti's  ingenious  and 
probable  conjecture  may  be  considered  as  having  de- 
cided the  question. 

He  may  also  pardon  my  failure  the  more,  as  I  am 
not  quite  sure  that  he  would  be  pleased  with  my  sue 
cess,  since  the  Italians,  with  a  {)ardonable  nationality 
are  particularly  jealous  of  all  that  is  left  them  as  a  na- 
tion— their  literature  ;  and,  in  the  present  bitterness  of 
the  classic  and  romantic  war,  are  but  ill  disposed  to 
permit  a  foreigner  even  to  approve  or  imitate  them,  with- 
out finding  some  fault  with  his  ultramontane  presump- 
tion. I  can  easily  enter  into  all  this,  knowing  what 
would  be  thought  in  England  of  an  Italian  imitator  of 
IMilton,  or  if  a  translation  of  Monti,  or  Pindenionte,  or 
Arici,  should  be  held  up  to  the  rising  generation,  as  a 
model  for  their  future  poetical  essays.  But  I  perceivp 
that  I  am  deviatinir  into  an  address  to  the  Italian  reader, 
when  my  business  is  with  the  English  one,  and,  be  thev 
few  or  many,  I  must  take  my  leave  of  both. 


PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


CANTO  I. 

Once  more  m  man's  frail  world  !   which  I  had  Ufi 
So  long  that  't  was  forgotten  ;   and  I  feel 
The  weight  of  clay  again, — too  soon  bereft 

Of  the  immortal  vision  which  could  heal 

My  earthly  sorrows,  and  to  God's  own  skies 
Lift  me''from  that  deep  gulf  without  repeal. 

Where  late  my  ears  rung  with  t!ie  damned  cries 
Of  souls  in  hopeless  bale ;   and  from  that  (dace 
Of  lesser  torment,  whence  men  may  arise 

Pure  from  tin;  fire  to  join  the  angc-lic  rac<' ; 

'Midst  whom  my  own  bright  Beatrice  bless'd  ' 
My  spirit  with  her  light  ;   and  to  the  base 

Of  tiie  Eternal  Triad  !   first,  last,  best. 

Mysterious,  three,  sole,  infinite,  great  God! 
Soul  universal  !   led  the  mortal  guest, 

Unblasted  by  the  glory,  though  he  trod 

From  star  to  star  to  reacdi  the  almighty  throne. 
Oh  Beatrice  !   whose  sweet  limbs  tlie  sod 

So  long  hath  prcss'd,  and  tlie  cold  marble  stone, 
Thou  sole  [)ure  seraph  of  my  earliest  loves, 
Love  so  inelfable,  and  so  ajone. 

That  nought  on  earth  could   more  my  bosom  move. 
And  meeting  thee  in  heaven  was  but  to  meet 
That  without  which  my  soul,  like  the  arkless  dovs. 

Had  wander'd  still  in  search  of,  nor  her  feet 
Relieved  her  wing  till  found  ;   without  thy  light 
My  paradise  had  still  been  incomplete.* 


THE    PROPHECY    OF    DANTE. 


66 


Sinca  my  tenth  sun  gave  summer  to  my  sight 
Thou  wert  my  life,  the  essence  of  my  thought, 
Loved  ere  I  knew  the  name  of  love,  and  bright 

Snll  in  these  dim  old  eyes,  now  overwrought 

W  (h  the  world's  war,  and  years,  and  banishment. 
And  tears  foi   thee,  by  other  woes  untaught ; 

F  jT  mine  is  not  a  nature  to  be  bent 

By  tyrannous  faction,  and  the  brawling  crowd  ; 
Ai  d  thouiih  the  long,  long  coniiict  hath  been  spent 
n  vajn,  and  never  more,  save  when  the  cloud 
\\!ii';h  overhangs  the  Apennhie,  my  mind's  eye 
P  crces  to  fancy  Florence,  once  so  proud 

O'  me,  <:an  I  return,  though  hut  to  die, 
rnt(j  my  native  soil,  they  have  tiot  yet 
Quench"d  the  old  exile's  spirit,  stern  and  hign. 

But  the  sun,  thoutjh  not  overcast,  must  set, 
And  the  night  cometh ;  I  am  old  in  days, 
And  deeds,  and  contemplation,  and  hav^  met 

Destruction  face  to  face  in  all  his  ways. 

Tlie  world  hath  left  me,  what  it  found  me — pure. 
And  if  I  have  not  gather'd  yet  its  praise, 

I  sought  it  not  by  any  baser  lure  ; 

Man  wrongs,  and  Time  avenges,  and  m^  name 
Mav  form  a  monument  not  all  obscure. 

Though  such  was  not  my  ambition's  end  or  aim, 

.    To  add  to  the  vain-glorious  list  of  those 
Who  dabble  in  the  pettiness  of  fame. 

And  make  men's  fickle  breath  the  wind  that  blows 
Their  sail,  and  deem  it  glory  to  be  class'd 
With  conquerors,  and  virtue's  other  foes, 

In  blood}-  chronicles  of  ages  past. 

I  would  have  bad  my  Florence  great  and  free  :' 
Oh  Florence!   Florence!   unto  me  thou  wast 

Like  that  Jerusalem  which  the  Almighty  He 

'A'ept  over  :  "  but  thou  wouldst  not ;"  as  the  bird 
Gathers  its  young,  I  would  have  gather'd  thee 

BeiKiath  a  parent  pinion,  hadst  thou  heard 
My  voice  ;   but  as  the  adder,  deaf  and  fierce, 
Against  the  breast  that  cherish'd  thee  was  stirr'd 

Ihy  venom,  and  my  state  thou  didst  amerce, 
.\nd  doom  this  body  forfeit  to  the  fire. 
Alas  !   how  bitter  is  his  country's  curse 

To  him  \\]io  for  that  country  would  expire, 
But  did  not  merit  to  expire  by  her, 
And  loves  her,  loves  her  even  in  her  ire. 

The  day  may  come  when  she  will  cease  to  err, 
The  da}  may  come  she  would  be  proud  to  have 
The  dust  she  dooms  to  scatter,"*  and  transfer 

Of  him,  whom  she  denied  a  home,  the  grave. 
But  this  shall  not  be  granted  ;  let  my  dust 
Lie  where  it  fiills ;   nor  shall  the  soil  which  gave 

Me  breath,  but  in  her  sudden  fury  thrust 
jNIe  forth  to  breathe  elsewhere,  so  reassume 
My  indignant  bones,  because  her  angry  gust 

Forsooth  is  over,  and  repeal'd  her  doom. 
No, — she  denied  me  what  was  mine — my  roof. 
And  shall  not  have  what  is  not  hers — my  tomb. 

Too  long  her  armed  wrath  hath  kept  aloof 

The  breast  which  would  have  bled  for  her,  the  heart 
That  beat,  the  mind  ihal  was  temptation-proof, 

The  man  who  fought,  toil'd,  travell'd,  and  each  part 
Of  a  true  citizen  fulfill'd,  and  saw 
For  his  reward  the  GuflPs  ascendant  art 

Pass  his  destruction  even  into  a  law. 

These  things  are  not  made  for  forgetfulness— 
Floren  ;e  shall  be  forgotten  first ;   too  raw 

The  wounn,  too  deep  the  wrong,  and  the  distress 
Of  such  endurance  too  prolon^'d,  to  make 
My  pardon  greater,  her  injustice  less, 

Though  late  repented  ;  yet — yet  for  ner  sake 
5 


I  feel  some  fonder  yearnings,  and  for  thine, 

My  own  Beatrice,  I  would  hardly  take 
Vengeance  upon  the  land  which  once  was  mine, 

And  still  is  hallowed  by  thy  dust's  return. 

Which  would  protect  the  murderess  like  a  shrine, 
And  save  ten  thousand  foes  by  thy  sole  urn. 

Though,  like  old  Marius  from  Minturnns's  marsh 

And  Carthage'  ruins,  my  lone  breast  may  burn 
At  times  with  evil  feelings  hot  and  harsh. 

And  sometimes  the  last  pangs  of  a  vile  foe 

Writhe  in  a  dream  before  me,  and  o'er-arch 
My  brow  with  hopes  of  triumph, — let  them  go ! 

Such  are  the  last  infirmities  of  those 

Who  long  have  suffer'd  more  than  mortal  woe. 
And  yet,  being  mortal  still,  have  no  repose 

But  on  the  pillow  of  Revenge — Revenge, 

Who  sleeps  to  dream  of  blood,  and  waking  glows 
With  the  oft-bafHed,  slakeless  thirst  of  change. 

When  we  shall  mount  again,  and  they  that  trod 

Be  trampled  on,  while  Death  and  Ate  range 
O'er  humbled  heads  and  sever'd  necks — Great  God ! 

Take  these  thoughts  from  me — to  thy  hands  I  yield 

My  many  wrongs,  and  thine  almighty  rod 
Will  fall  on  those  who  smote  me, — be  my  shield ! 

As  thou  hast  been  in  peril,  and  in  pain, 

In  turbulent  chies,  and  the  tented  field — 
In  toil,  and  many  troubles  borne  in  vain 

For  Florence. — I  appeal  from  her  to  Thee! 

Thee,  whom  I  late  saw  in  thv  loftiest  reian, 
Even  in  that  glorious  vision,  which  to  see 

And  live  was  never  granted  until  now, 

And  yet  thou  hast  permitted  this  to  me.  . 

Alas!   with  what  a  weight  upon  my  brow 

The  sense  of  earth  and  earthly  things  comes  baok^ 

Corrosive  passions,  feelings  dull  and  low, 
The  heart's  quick  throb  upon  the  mental  rack. 

Long  day,  and  dreary  night ;   the  retrospect 

Of  half  a  century  bloody  and  black. 
And  the  frail  few  years  I  may  yet  expect 

Hoary  and  hopeless,  but  less  hard  to  bear ; 

For  I  have  been  too  long  and  deeply  wreck'd 
On  the  lone  rock  of  desolate  despair 

To  lift  my  eyes  more  to  the  passing  sail 

Which  shuns  that  reef  so  horrible  and  bare; 
Nor  raise  my  voice — for  who  would  heed  my  wailT 

I  am  not  of  this  people,  nor  this  age, 

And  yet  my  harpings  will  unfold  a  tale 
Which  shall  preserve  these  times,  when  not  a  page 

Of  their  perturbed  annals  could  attract 

An  eye  to  gaze  upon  their  civil  rage. 
Did  not  my  verse  embalm  full  many  an  act 

Worthless  as  they  who  wrought  it  :   't  is  the  doom 

Of  spirits  of  my  order  to  be  rark'd 
In  life,  to  wear  their  hearts  out,  and  consume 

Their  days  in  endless  strife,  and  die  alone  ; 

Then  future  thousands  crowd  around  their  tomb, 
And  pilgrims  come  from  climes  where  they  have  kno»T 

The  name  of  him — who  now  is  but  a  name. 

And  wasting  homage  o'er  the  sullen  stone 
Spread  his — by  him  unheard,  unheeded — fame  ; 

And  mine  at  least  hath  cost  me  dear :   to  die 

Is  nothing  ;   but  to  wither  thus — to  tame 
Mv  mind  down  from  its  own  infinity — 

To  live  in  narrow  ways  with  little  men, 

A  common  sight  to  every  common  eye, 
A  wanderer,  while  even  wolves  can  find  a  den. 

Ripp'd  from  all  kindred,  from  all  home,  all  thin^ 

That  make  communion  sweet,  and  soften  pain — 
To  feel  me  in  the  solitude  of  kings. 

Without  the  power  that  makes  them  bear  a  orown— 

To  envy  every  dove  his  nest  and  wings 


06 


BYRON  S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


'A'hich  waft  him  where  the  Apenniiie  looks  down 

On  \rno,  till  he  perches,  it  may  be, 

VVivhin  my  all-inexorable  town, 
■Vhere  yet  my  boys  are,  and  that  fatal  she,* 

Their  mother,  the  cold  partner  who  hath  brought 

Oestruclion  for  a  dowry — this  to  see 
And  feel,  and  know  without  repair,  hath  taught 

A  bitter  lesson  ;   but  it  leaves  me  free  : 

I  l.avc  not  vilely  found,  nor  basely  sought, — 
I'hey  made  an  exile — not  a  slave  of  me. 

CANTO  II. 

The  spirit  of  the  fervent  days  of  old, 
When  words  were   things  that  came  to  pass,  and 

thought 

Flash'd  o'er  the  future,  bidding  men  behold 

Their  children's  children's  doom  already  brought 

Forth  from  the  abyss  of  time  which  is  to  be. 

The  chaos  of  events,  where  lie  half-wrought 

Shapes  that  must  undergo  mortality  ; 

Wnat  the  great  seers  of  Israel  wore  within, 
That  s])irit  was  on  them,  and  is  on  me, 
And  if,  Cassandra-like,  amidst  the  din 

Of  conflict  none  will  hear,  or  hearing  heed, 
This  voice  from  out  the  wilderness,  the  sin 
Be  theirs,  and  my  own  feelings  be  my  meed, 
The  only  guerdon  I  have  ever  known. 
Hast  thou  not  bled  ?  and  hast  thou  still  to  bleed, 
Italia  ?   Ah  !   to  me  s'.ich  things,  foreshown 
With  dim  sepulchral  light,  bid  me  forget 
In  thme  ii '-ejtarable  wrongs  my  own ; 
W^^  can  have  but  one  country,  and  even  yet 

l^hou  'rt  mine — my  bones  shall  be  within  thy  breast, 
My  soui  within  thy  language,  which  once  set 
vN'ith  our  old  Roman  sway  in  the  wide  west; 
But  I  wil'  make  another  tongue  arise 
As  lofty  ,.nd  more  sweet,  in  which  exprest 
The  hero's  ardour,  or  the  lover's  sighs. 

Shall  find  alike  such  sounds  for  every  theme 
That  every  word,  as  brilliant  as  thy  skies. 
Shall  reali/.e  a  poet's  proudest  dream, 

A>id  make  thee  Euroi)e's  nightingale  of  song; 
So  tli'it  ail  present  speech  to  thine  shall  seem 
The  note  of  meaner  birds,  and  every  tongue 
Coufe-s  its  barbarism  when  compared  with  thine. 
This  shall  thou  owe  to  him  thou  didst  so  wrong, 
Thv  Tuscan  bard,  tlie  banish'd  Ghihelline. 
\Voe  !    woe  !   the  veil  of  coming  centuries 
Is  n-nt,— a  thou  ;and  years,  which  yet  supine 
Lie  hke  the  ocean  waves  ere  winds  arise, 
Heaving  in  dark  and  sullen  undulation. 
Float  from  eternity  into  these  eyes  ; 
The  storms  yet  sleep,  the  clouds  still  keep  their  station, 
The  \ml)oni  ervrlhtpiake  yet  is  in  the  womb. 
The  h!i><)dy  chaos  yet  expects  creation, 
But  all  things  are  dis|)Osing  for  thy  doom  ; 
T!ie  (!l(;me!its  await  but  for  the  word, 
"  T^et  lliere  be  darkness  !"  and  thou  grow'st  a  tomb  ! 
V'es  !    ih'iu,  so  beautiful,  shalt  feel  the  sword. 
Thou,  Italy  !    so  fan-  that  paradise, 
flevived  in  thee,  blooms  f)rt!i  to  man  restored: 
All!    musl  l!ic  sons  of  Adiun  lost;  it  twice? 
Thou,  Italy  !    whose  ev«!r-gold«Mi  fields, 
Ploiigh'd  by  the  sunixiams  sol(;!y,  would  suffice 
For  the  world's  granary  ;    thou  whose  sky  h(;aven  gilds 
With  britditcr  stars,  an.!  robes  with  deeper  blue  ; 
Thou,  in  whose  pleasant  places  summer  builds 
Her  p;dace,  m  whose  cradle  em|)ire  grew 
.And  (iM-in'd  the  .'tern;!!  <-ity's  onKuuenls 
'^n.irn  spoils  of  kings  whom  friMunen  overthrew: 


Birth-place  of  heroes,  sanctuary  of  samts, 
Where  earthly  first,  then  neavenly  glory  made 
Her  home  ;   thou,  all  which  fondest  fancy  painl^ 
And  finds  her  prior  vision  but  portray'd 

In  feeble  colours,  when  the  eye — from  the  Alp 
Of  horrid  show,  and  rock  and  shaggy  shade 
Of  desert-loving  pine,  whose  emerald  scalp 

Nods  to  the  storm — dilat:es  and  dotes  o'er  theb. 
And  wistfully  implores,  as  'twere,  for  help 
To  see  thy  sunny  helds,  my  Italy, 

Nearer  and  nearer  yet,  and  dearer  still 
The  more  approach'd,  and  dearest  were  they  (r(;i\ 
Thou — thou  must  wither  to  each  tyrant's  will  : 

The  Goth  hath  been, — the  German,  Frank,  ana  H-o,i 
Are  yet  to  come, — an    on  the  Im|)crial  h  11 
Ruin,  already  proud  of  tne  deeds  done 

By  the  old  barbarians,  there  awaits  the  new, 
Throned  on  the  Palatine,  while,  lost  and  won, 
Rome  at  her  feet  lies  bleeilitig  ;   and  the  hue 
Of  human  sacrifice  and  Roman  slaughter 
Troubles  the  clotted  air,  of  late  so  blue. 
And  deepens  into  red  the  saffron  water 

Of  Tibei*,  thick  with  dead  ;   the  heljiless  prvest, 
And  still  more  helpless  nor  less  holy  daughter, 
Vov,''d  to  their  god,  have  shrieking  fled,  and  ceased 
Their  ministry :   the  nations  take  their  prey, 
Iberian,  Almain,  Lombard,  and  the  beast 
And  bird,  wolf,  vulture,  more  humane  than  they 
Are  ;   these  but  gorge  the  flesh  and  lap  the  gore 
Of  the  departed,  and  then  go  their  wav; 
But  those,  the  human  savages,  explore 
All  paths  of  torture,  and  ins-atiate  yet 
With  Ugolino  hunger  prowl  for  more. 
\ine  moons  shall  rise  o'er  scenes  like  this  and  set;'' 
The  chiefless  army  of  the  dead    vvhich  late 
Beneath  the  traitor  prince's  b?.aner  met. 
Hath  left  its  leader's  ashes  at  the  gate  ; 
Had  but  the  royal  rebel  lived,  perchance 
Thou  hadst  been  spared,  but  his  involved  ihj  fate 
Oh  !   Rome,  the  spoiler  of  the  spoil  of  France, 
From  Brennus  to  the  Bourbon,  never,  never 
Shall  foreign  standard  to  thy  walls  advauje. 
But  Tiber  shall  become  a  mournful  river. 

Oh !   when  the  strangers  pass  the  Alps  and  Pc 
Crush  them,  ye  rocks  !   floods,  wludm  them,  and  for 
ever ! 
Why  sleep  the  idle  avalanches  so, 

To  topple  on  the  lonely  pilgrim's  head  ? 
Why  doth  Endanus  but  overliow 
The  peasant's  harvest  from  his  turbid  bed  ? 

\Vere  not  each  barbarous  horde  a  nobler  prey  ? 
Over  Cambyses'  host  the  desert  spread 
Her  sandv  ocean,  an  I  the  sea-waves'  s-.vay 
Roll'd  o'er  Pharaoh  and  his  thousands, — why, 
Mountains  and  waters,  do  ye  not  as  they? 
And  you,  ye  men  !    Romans,  who  dare  nt  t  die. 
Sons  of  the  conquerors  who  overthrew 
Those  who  overthrew  \)vo\u\  Xerxes,  wnere  yet  Ue 
The  dead  whose  tomb  oblivion  never  knew, 
Are  the  Alps  weaker  than  Thermopyla-? 
Their  passes  more  alluring  to  the  view 
Of  an  invader?   is  it  they,  or  ye 

That  to  each  host  the  mountain-gate  unbar. 
And  leave  the  m;!rch  in  [leaee,  the  passage  frOd'' 
Why,  Nature's  self  detains  the  victor's  car. 
And  makes  your  land  impregnable,  if  earth 
Could  be  so:    but  alone  she  will  not  war. 
Yet  aids  I  be  warrior  wortliv  of  his  birth. 

In  a  soil  wlnire  tiic  .iiothors  bring  forth  men! 
Not  so  with  tb'.^se  whose  souls  are  ..die  worth  j 
For  Miem  r.o  t;)rtress  can  avail, — the  d^-" 


THE    PROTHECY    OF    DANTE. 


67 


Of  the  poor  reptile  which  preserves  its  sting 
Is  more  seinire  than  walls  of  adamant,  when 

rlie  hearts  of  those  within  are  quivering. 

Are  ye  not  hrave '/   Yes,  yet  the  Ausonian  soil 
Halii  hearts,  and  hands,  and  arms,  and  hosts  ic  bring 

Against  oppression  ;   but  how  vain  the  toil, 
While  still  division  pows  the  seeds  of  woe 
And  weakness,  till  the  s'.ranger  reaps  the  spoil. 

Oh!   my  own  beauteouo  br.d!   so  long  laid  low, 
So  long  the  grave  of  thy  own  children's  hopes, 
When  there  is  but  required  a  single  blow 

To  break  the  chain,  yet— yet  the  avenger  stops. 
And  doubt  and  dijcard  'j'.f  p  'twixt  thine  and  thee, 
And  join  their  strength  to  that  which  with  thee  copes  •• 

What  is  there  wanting  then  to  set  thee  free. 
And  show  thy  beauty  in  its  fullest  light? 
To  make  the  Alps  impassable  ;  and  we. 

Her  sons,  may  do  this  with  one  deed: Unite ! 


CANTO  III. 


From  o>'.t  the  mass  of  never-dying  ill, 

The  plague,  the  prince,  the  stranger,  and  the  sword, 
Yia's  of  wrath  but  emptied  to  refill 

And  flow  again,  I  caunot  all  record 

That  crowds  on  my  prophetic  eye  :   the  earth 
And  ocean  written  o'er  would  not  afford 

J^pace  for  the  anna!,  yet  it  shall  go  forth  ; 

Yes,  all,  though  not  by  human  pen,  is  graven. 
There  where  the  farthest  suns  and  stars  have  birth. 

F(>read  like  a  banner  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
The  bloodv  scroll  of  our  millennial  wrongs 
Waves,  and  the  echo  of  our  groans  is  driven 

Athwart  the  sound  of  archan<relic  songs, 
And  Italy,  the  martyr'd  nation's  gore, 
Will  not  in  vain  arise  to  where  belongs 

Omnipotence  and  mercy  evermore  ; 

Like  to  a  haro-strins  stricken  by  the  wind, 
The  sound  of  her  lamer,  shall,  rising  o'er 

The  seraph  voices,  touch  the  Almighty  Mind. 
Meantime  I,  humblest  of  thy  sons,  and  of 
Earth's  dust  by  immortality  refined 

T)  sense  and  suffering,  though  the  vain  may  soofT, 
And  tyrants  threat,  and  meeker  victims  bow 
Before  the  storm  because  its  breath  is  rough, 

To  thee,  mv  country  !   whom  before,  as  now, 
I  loved  and  love,  devote  the  mournful  lyre 
And  melancholy  gift  high  powers  allow 

To  read  the  future  ;   and  if  now  my  fire 
Is  not  as  once  it  shone  o'er  thee,  forgive ! 
I  but  foretell  thy  fortunes — then  expire  ; 

Think  not  that  I  would  look  on  them  and  live. 
A  spirit  forces  me  to  see  and  speak. 
And  for  mv  guerdon  grants  not  to  survive  ; 

Mv  heart  shall  be  pour'd  over  thee  and  break  : 
Yet  for  a  moment,  ere  I  must  resume 
Thy  sable  web  of  sorrow,  let  me  take, 

Over  the  gleams  that  flash  athwart  thy  gloom, 

A  softer  glimpse  :  some  stars  shine  through  thy  nigliu 
And  many  meteors,  and  above  thy  tomb 

LecLns  sculptured  beauty,  which  death  cannot  blight ; 
And  from  thine  ashes  boundless  spirits  rise 
To  give  thee  honour  and  the  earth  delight ; 

Thy  soil  shall  still  be  pregnant  with  ihe  wise, 

The  gay,  the  learn'd,  the  generous,  and  the  brave. 
Native  to  thee  as  summer  to  thy  skies. 
Conquerors  on  foreign  shores  and  the  far  wave,'' 
Discoverers  of  new  worlds,  wliich  take  their  name;' 
For  thee  alone  they  have  no  arm  to  save, 


And  all  thy  recompense  is  in  thtir  fame, 
A  noble  one  to  them,  but  not  to  thee — 
Shall  they  be  glorious,  and  thou  still  the  same  ? 
Oh !   more  than  these  illustrious  far  shall  be 
The  being — and  even  yet  he  may  be  born — 
The  mortal  saviour  who  shall  set  thee  free. 

And  see  thy  diadem,  so  changed  and  worn 
Bv  fresh  barbarians,  on  thy  brow  replaced; 
And  tl>e  sweet  sun  replenishing  thy  morn, 

Thv  moral  morn,  too  long  with  clouds  defaced 
And  noxious  vapours  from  Averuus  risen, 
Sucli  as  all  they  must  breathe  who  are  debased 

By  servitude,  and  have  the  mind  in  prison. 
Yet  through  this  centuried  echpse  of  woe 
Some  voices  shall  l)e  heard,  and  earth  shall  listen  ; 

Poets  shall  follow  in  the  path  I  show, 

And  make  it  broader  ;   the  same  brilliant  sky 
Which  cheers  the  birds  to  song  siiall  bid  them  glow 

And  raise  their  notes  as  natural  and  high ; 

Tuneful  shall  be  their  numbers  :   they  shall  sing 
iNIanv  of  love,  and  some  of  liberty  ; 

But  few  shall  soar  upon  that  eagle's  wing. 
And  look  in  the  sun's  fa(-e  with  eagle's  gaze 
All  free  and  fearless  as  the  feathered  king. 

But  flv  more  near  the  earth  :   how  many  a  phrase 
Sublime  shall  lavish'd  be  on  some  small  nrince 
In  all  the  prodisrality  of  praise  ! 

And  lani^unge,  eloquentlv  false,  evince 

The  harlotrv  of  jienius,  which,  like  beauty, 
Too  oft  forgets  its  own  self-reverence, 

And  looks  on  prostitution  as  a  duty. 
He  who  once  enters  in  a  tyrant's  hali'' 
As  guest  is  slave,  his  thoughts  become  a  bootj 

And  the  first  day  which  st  .s  tiie  chain  enthral 
A  cajitive  sees  his  half  of  manhood  gone — ''^ 
The  soul's  emasculation  saddens  all 

His  spirit ;   thus  the  bard  too  near  the  throncj 
Quails  from  his  insi)iration,  bcund  to  please^-^ 
How  servile  is  the  task  to  please  alone  ! 

To  smooth  the  verse   o  suit  the  sovereign's  etje 
And  royal  leisure,  nor  too  much  prolong 
Aught  save  his  eulogv,  and  find,  and  seize, 

Or  force  or  forge  fit  argu:);ent  of  song  ' 
Thus  trammeird.  thus  comlemti'd  to  flattery's  trebles, 
He  toils  through  all,  still  trembling  to  be  wrong: 

For  teal-  some  noble  thoughts,  like  heavenly  rebels. 
Should  rise  up  in  high  treason  to  his  brain, 
He  sings,  as  the  Athenian  spoke,  with  pebbles 

111  his  mt)Uth,lest  truth  should  staiimier  through  his  straia 
But  out  of  the  long  file  nf  sonnettoers 
Tliere  shall  be  some  who  will  not  sing  in  vain, 

And  he,  their  prince,  shall  rank  among  my  peers, »i 

And  love  shall  be  his  torment;  but  his  grief 
•    Shall  make  an  immortality  of  tears. 

And  Italy  shall  hail  hiin  as  the  chief 
Of  poet  lovers,  and  his  higher  song 
Of  freedom  wreathe  him  with  as  green  a  leaf. 

But  in  a  farther  age  shall  rise  along 

The  banks  of  Po  two  greater  still  tlian  he  : 

The  world  which  smiled  mi  him  shall  do  them  wrong 

Till  they  are  ashes  and  repose  with  me. 
Tlie  fir^t  will  make  an  epoch  with  his  lyre, 
And  till  t!ie  earth  with  feats  of  chivalry: 

His  fancy  like  a  rainbow,  and  his  fire 

Like  that  of  heaven,  immortal,  atid  his  thought 
Borne  onward  with  a  wing  that  cannot  tire  : 

Pleasure  shall,  like  a  butterfly  new  caught. 
Flutter  her  lovely  pinions  o'er  his  theme. 
And  art  itself  seem  into  nature  wrought 

By  the  transparency  of  his  bright  dream.— 
The  second,  of  a  tenderer,  sadder  mood, 
Shall  pour  his  soul  oat  o'er  Jerusalem  ; 


68 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


He,  too.  shall  sing  of  arms,  and  Christian  blood 

Shed  where  Christ  bled  for  man  ;   and  his  high  "jarp 
Shall,  by  the  willow  over  Jordan's  flood, 

Revive  a  song  of  Sion,  and  the  sharp 
Conflict,  and  final  triumph  of  the  brave 
And  pious,  and  the  strife  of  hell  to  warp 

Their  hearts  from  their  great  purpose,  until  wave 
The  red-cross  banners  where  the  first  red  cross 
\Vas  crimson'd  from  his  veins  who  died  to  save, 

Shall  be  his  sacred  argument  ;   the  loss 

Of  vefirs,  of  favour,  fi-eedom,  even  of  fame 
Contested  for  a  time,  while  the  smooth  gloss 

Of  courts  would  slide  o'er  his  forgotten  name, 
A. id  call  captivity  a  kindness,  meant 
To  shield  him  from  insanity  or  shame : 

Such  shall  be  his  meet  guerdon  !  who  was  sent 
To  be  Christ's  laureate — they  reward  him  well! 
Florence  dooms  me  but  death  or  banishment, 

Ferrara  him  a  pittance  and  a  cell. 

Harder  to  bear  and  less  deserved,  for  I 

Had  stung  the  factions  w^hich  I  strove  to  quell; 

But  this  meek  man,  who  with  a  lover's  eye 

Wii'  look  on  earth  and  heaven,  and  who  will  deign 
To    inbaflm  with  his  celestial  flattery 

As  poor  a  thing  as  e'er  was  spawn'd  to  reign, 
VMiat  will  he  do  to  merit  such  a  doom  ? 
P<'rhaps  he  '1!  /ore, — and  is  not  love  in  vain 

Torture  enough  without  a  living  tomb  ? 
Yet  it  will  be  so — ne  and  his  compeer. 
The  Bard  of  Chivalry,  will  both  consume 

fn  penury  and  pain  too  many  a  year, 
And,  dying  in  despondency,  bequeath 
To  the  kind  world,  which  scarce  will  yield  a  tear, 

A  heritage  enriching  all  who  breathe 

With  the  wealth  of  a  genuine  poet's  soul, 
And  to  their  country  a  redoubled  wreath, 

Jnmatch'd  by  time  ;   not  Hellas  can  unroll 

Through  her  olympiads  two  such  names,  though  one 
Of  hers  be  mighty  ; — and  is  this  the  whole 

Of  such  men's  destiny  beneath  the  sun  ? 

Must  all  the  finer  thoughts,  the  thrilling  sense. 
The  electric  blood  with  which  their  arteries  run. 

Their  body's  self  turn'd  soul  with  the  intense 
Feeling  of  that  which  is,  and  fancy  of 
That  which  should  be,  to  such  a  recompense 

Cijiiduct?  shall  their  bright  plumage  on  the  rough 
Siorm  be  still  scatter'd  ?  Yes,  and  it  must  be. 
For,  form'd  of  far  too  penetrable  stufl\, 

Tli'^se  birds  of  paradise  but  long  to  flee 

Hack  to  their  native  mansion,  soon  they  find 
Earth's  mist  with  their  pure  pinions  not  agree. 

And  die,  or  are  degraded,  for  the  mind 
Succumbs  to  long  infection,  and  despair. 
And  vulture  passions,  flying  close  behind. 

Await  the  moment  to  assail  and  tear  ; 

And  when  at  lcn:.fth  the  winged  wanderers  stoop. 
Then  is  thr  prey-birds'  triumph,  then   they  share 
I'hc  spoil,  o'erpowcr'd  at  length  bv  one  fell  swoop. 
Yet  some  ha\e  been  uutouch'd,  who  learn'd  to  bear, 
Some  uhom  no  power  could  ever  force  to  droop, 

'I'ho  could  resist  thems(dves  even,  hardest  care  I 
And  task  most  hopeless  ;    but  some  such   have  been, 
And  if  my  nariie  amongst  the  number  \\e>T, 

That  destiny  aiistcr.;,  and  yet   serem;, 

\\ Cre  |iri)U(!('r  thin  more  da/./hiig  fame  uiiblcii  ; 
The  Alp's  snow  summit  nearer  heaven  is  st;eu 
Than  the  volcano's  tierce  (;ruptive  crest. 

Whose  splendour  from  the  black  abyss  is  flunir, 
\^'hile  the  scorch'd  mountain,  from  whose  burning 
oreast 
A  temporary  torturing  flame  is  wrung. 


Shines  for  a  night  of  terror,  tnen  repek 
Its  fire  back  to  the  hell  from  whence  it  sprung, 
The  hell  which  in  its  entrails  ever  dwells. 


CANTO  IV. 


Many  are  poets  who  have  never  penn'd 
Their  inspiration,  and  perchance  the  beet : 
They  felt,  and  loved,  and  died,  but  wonld  not  lend 

Their  thoughts  to  meaner  beings ;  they  compress'd 
The  god  within  them,  and  rejoin'd  the  stars 
Unlaurell'd  upon  earth,  but  far  more  blest 

Tliau  those  who  are  degraded  by  tlie  jars 
Of  passion,  and  their  frailties  link'd  to  fame, 
Conquerors  of  high  renown,  but  full  of  scara. 

Many  are  poets,  but  without  the  name; 
For  what  is  poesy  but  to  create 
From  overfeeling  good  or  ill ;  and  aim 

At  an  external  life  beyond  our  fate, 
And  be  the  new  Prometheus  of  new  men, 
Bestowing  fire  from  heaven,  and  then,  too  lato, 

Finding  the  pleasure  given  repaid  with  pain, 
And  vultures  to  the  heart  of  the  bestower, 
"Who,  having  lavish'd  his  high  gift  in  vain, 

Lies  chain'd  to  his  lone  rock  by  the  sea-shore  1 
So  be  it;  we  can  bear.  —  But  thus  all  they. 
Whose  intellect  is  an  o'ermasteriaof  power, 

Which  still  recoils  from  its  encumbering  clay, 
Or  hghtens  it  to  spirit,  whatsoe'er 
The  form  which  their  creations  may  essay. 

Are  bards  ;  the  kindled  marble's  bust  may  wear 
INIore  poesy  upon  its  speaking  brow 
Thar  aught  less  than  the  Homeric  page  may  bear 

One  noble  stroke  with  a  whole  life  may  glow,     - 
Or  deify  the  canvas  till  it  shine 
With  beauty  so  surpassing  all  below, 

That  they  who  kneel  to  idols  so  divine 

Break  no  commandment,  for  high  heaven  is  there 
Transfused,  transfigurated  :   and  the  hne 

Of  poesy  which  peoples  but  the  air 
With  thought  and  beings  of  our  thought  reflected 
Can  do  no  more:  then  let  the  artist  share 

The  palm,  he  shares  the  peril,  and  dejected 
Faints  o'er  the  labour  unapproved  —  Alas! 
Despair  and  genius  are  too  oft  connected. 

Within  the  ages  which  before  me  pass. 
An  shal'  resume  and  ecpial  even  the  sway 
Which  with  Apelles  and  old  Phidias 

She  held  in  Hellas'  unforgotten  day. 
Ye  shall  be  taught  by  ruin  to  revive 
The  Grecian  forms  at  least  from  their  decay, 

And  Roman  souls  at  last  again  shall  live 
In  Roman  works  wrought  by  Italian  hands. 
And  temples  loftier  than  the  old  temples,  give 

New  wonders  to  the  world  ;   and  while  still  standa 
The  austere  Pantheon,  into  heaven  shall  soar 
A  dome,'^  its  image,  while  the  base  expands 

Into  a  fane  surpassing  all  before. 

Such  as  all  llesh  shall  flock  to  kneel  in :   ne'et 
Such  sight  hath  been  unfolded  by  a  door 

As  this,  to  which  all  nations  shall  repair. 

And  lay  their  sins  at  this  huge  gate  of  heaven. 
And  the  bold  architect  unto  whose  care 

The  daring  charge  to  raise  it  shall  be  given. 

Whom  all  arts  shall  acknowledge  as  their  lord. 
Whether  into  the  marble  chaos  driven 

His  chisel  bid  the  Hebrew,"  at  whose  word 
Israel  left  Egy|)t,  stop  the  waves  m  stouf. 
Or  hues  of  hell  be  by  his  pencil  pour'd 

Over  the  dainn'd  before  the  Judgment  tlirone,'* 


THE    PROPnECY    OF    DAXTE. 


69 


Such  as  1  sj\^  them,  such  as  all  shall  see, 
Or  fanes  be  built  of  graucieur  yet  unknown, 

The  stream  of  his  great  thoughts  shall  spring  from  me,' 
The  Ghibellint;,  who  traversed  the  three  realms 
Which  form  the  empire  of  eternity. 

Amidst  the  clasli  of  swords  and  thing  of  helms, 
The  agb  whirh  I  anticipate,  no  less 
Sb.all  be  the  age  of  beauty,  and  while  whelms 

Cahumty  the  nations  with  distress, 
'J-he  genius  of  my  country  sliaH^ariac, 
A  cedar  Iiiwering  o'er  the  wilderness, 


Wean'd  for  an  hour  from  blood,  to  turn  and  gaze 
On  canvas  or  on  stone ;   and  they  who  mar 

All  beauty  upon  earth,  compell'd  to  praise. 

Shall  feel  the  power  of  that  which  they  destroy ; 
And  art's  mistaken  gratitude  shall  raise 

To  tyrants  who  but  take  her  for  a  toy 
Emblems  and  monuments,  and  prost'*"*- 
Her  charms  to  pontilfs  proud, "^  who  but  employ 

I'he  man  of  genius  as  the  meanest  brute 
To  bear  a  burthen,  and  to  serve  a  need, 
To  sell  his  labours,  and  his  soul  to  boot : 

Who  toils  for  nations  may  be  poor  indeed. 

But  free  ;   who  sweats  for  monarchs  is  no  more 
Than  the  gilt  chamberlain,  who,  clothed  and  fee'd, 

Stands  sleek  and  slavish  bowing  at  his  door. 
Oh,  Power  that  rulest  and  inspires! !  how 
Is  it  that  they  on  earth,  whose  earthly  power 

Is  likest  thine  in  heaven  in  outward  show, 
Least  like  to  thee  in  attributes  divine. 
Tread  on  tiie  universal  i/ocks  that  bow, 

\nd  then  assure  us  that  tneir  rights  are  thine? 
And  how  is  it  that  they,  the  sons  of  fame. 
Whose  inspiration  seems  W)  them  to  shine 

From  high,  they  whom  the  nations  oftest  name, 
JMust  pass  their  days  in  penury  or  pain, 
Or  step  to  grandeur  through  the  paths  of  shame, 

And  wear  a  deeper  brand  and  gaudier  chain  ? 
Or  if  their  destiny  be  borne  aloof' 
From  lowliness,  or  tempted  thence  in  vain, 

En  their  own  souls  sustain  a  harder  proof. 
The  inner  war  of  passions  deep  and  fierce  ? 
Florence  !   when  thy  harsh  sentence  razed  my  roof, 
ioved  thee,  but  the  vengeance  of  my  verse, 
The  hate  ci  injuries,  which  every  year 
INIaket  greater  and  accumulates  my  curse. 

Shall  hve,  outliving  all  thou  boldest  dear, 

Thy  pride,  thy  wealth,  thy  freedom,  and  even  thai, 
The  most  infernal  of  all  evils  here, 

The  sway  of  petty  tyrants  in  a  state  ; 
For  such  sway  is  not  limited  to  kings. 
And  demagogues  yield  to  them  but  in  date 

As  swept  off  sooner  ;   in  all  deadly  things 
W^hich  make  men  hate  themselves  and  one  another 
In  discord,  cowardice,  cruelty,  all  that  springs 

From  Death,  the  Sin-born's  incest  with  his  mother. 
In  rank  oppression  in  its  rudest  shai)e. 
The  faction  chief  is  but  the  sultan's  brother. 
And  the  worst  despot's  far  less  human  ape  : 
Florence  !   when  this  lone  spirit  which  so  long 
Yearn'd  as  the  captive  toiling  at  escape. 

To  fly  back  to  thee  in  despite  of  wrong, 
An  exile,  saddest  of  all  prisoners, 
V\  ho  has  the  whole  world  for  a  dungeon  strong, 
Beas,  niounrains,  and  the  horizon's  verge  for  oars, 
Which  shut  him  from  the  sole  small  spot  of  earth 
\\  here,   wb'at.soe'er    his  fate— he  still  were  hers 


Ilis  country's,  and  might  die  where  he  had  birth- 
Florence!  when  tliis  lone  sph-it  shall  return 
To  kindred  spirits,  thou  wilt  feel  my  worth, 

And  seek  to  honour  with  an  empty  urn 
The  ashes  thou  shalt  ne'er  obtain. —  Alas! 
"  What  have  I  done  to  thee,  my  people?  "  "  Stem 

Are  all  thy  dealings,  but  in  this  they  pass 
Tlie  limits  of  man's  common  malice,  for 
All  that  a  citizen  could  be  I  was; 

Raised  by  thy  will,  all  thine  in  peace  or  war, 

And  for  this  thou  hast  warr'd  with  me. — 'T  is  done 
I  may  not  overleap  the  eternal  bar 

Built  up  between  us,  and  will  die  alone. 
Beholding,  with  the  dark  eye  of  a  seer, 
The  evil  days  to  gifte-  souls  foreshown. 

Foretelling  them  to  those  who  will  not  hear, 
As  in  the  old  time,  till  the  hour  be  come 
When  truth  shall  strike  their  eyes  through  many  a  tear 

And  make  them  own  the  prophet  in  his  tomb. 


NOTES. 


Note  I. 
'Midst  whom  my  own  bright  Beatrice  bless'd. 
I         The  reader  is  requested  to  adopt  the  Italian  pronuu- 
I     ciation  of  Beatrice,  sounding  all  the  syllables. 

Note  2. 
My  paradise  had  still  beei  incomi-iete. 
"  Che  sol  per  le  belle  opre 
Che  fanno  in  Cielo  il  sole  e  1'  altre  stcUe 
Do.'itro  di  iui'  si  crede  il  Paradiso, 
Cost  se  guardi  tiso 
Pensar  ben  dei  ch'ogni  terren'  piac^re." 

Canzone,  in  which  Dante  describes  the  person  of  Boa 

trice,  stroohe  third. 

Note  3. 
1  would  have  had  my  Florence  great  and  froo. 
"L'  csilioche  m'  e  dato  onor  mi  tegno. 
****** 
"Cader  tra'  buoni  e  purdi  lode  degno." 

Suniiet  of  Dante, 
m  which  he  represents  Right,  Generosity,  and  Tem- 
perance, as  banished  from  among  men,  and  seeking 
refuge  from  Love,  who  inhabits  his  bosom. 
Note  4. 

The  dust  she  dooms  to  scatter. 
"Ill    si  quis  prasdictorum   ullo   tempore  in  fortiam 
dicti  communis  pervenerit,  talis  perveniens  igne  com 
buratur^  aic  quod  moriatiir,'" 

Second  sentence  of  Florence  against  Dante  and  the 
fourteen  accused  with  him. — The  Latin  is  worthy  of 
the  sentence. 

Note  5. 
Where  yet  my  boys  are,  and  that  fatal  she. 
This  lady,  whose  name  was  Gemma,  sprung  from  one 
of  the  most  powerful  Guelf  families,  named  Donati. 
CorsoDonati  wasth<;  principal  adversary  of  the  Ghibel- 
lines.  She  is  described  as  being  "  Admodum  morosa, 
ut  de  Xantippe  Socratis  philosophi  conjvge  scriptum 
esse  legimus,''^  according  to  Giannozzo  Manetti.  But 
Lionardo  Aretino  is  scandalized  with  Boccace,  in  hifi 
life  of  Danre,  for  saying  that  literary  men  should  noi 
marry.  "  Q.ui  il  Boccaccio  non  ha  pazienza,  e  dice,  le 
mogli  esser  contrarie  agli  studj  ;  e  non  si  ricorda  die 
Socrate  il  piij  nobile  filosofo  che  mai  fosse,  ebbe  mo<rlie 
6  figliuoli  e  uffitj  della  Repubblica  nella  sua  Citth^  « 
Aristotele  che,  etc.,  etc.  ebbe  due  mogli  in  varj  tempi, 
ed  ebbe  figliuoli,  e  ricchezze  assai. — E  Marco  Tullio— 
e  Cat  one — e  Varrone — e  Seneca — ebbero  moglie,"  etc., 
etc.  It  is  odd  that  {lonest  LionarJo's  examples,  with 
the  exception  of  Seneca,  and.  for  anv  thing  I  know  ij< 


70 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Arisl  jtle,  are  nil  th«i  most  felicitous.  Tully's  Terentia, 
and  Socrates'  Xantippe,  by  no  means  contributed  to 
th(Mi  busbands'  happiness,  whatever  they  might  do  to 
then  philosophy — Cato  gave  away  his  wife — of  Varro's 
w(i  know  nothing — and  of  Seneca's,  only  that  she  was 
disposed  to  die  with  him,  but  recovered,  and  hved  sev- 
eral years  afterwards.  But,  says  Lionardo,  '*  L'uomo 
i  am/vale  civile,  secondo  piace  a  tutti  i  filosofi."  And 
thence  concludes  that  the  greatest  proof  of  the  animal's 
civism  is  "  la  prima  congiunzione,  dalla  quale  multipli- 
"ata  nasce  la  Citla." 

Note  6. 
Nine  moons  shall  rise  o'er  scenes  like  this  and  set. 
See  "  Sacco  di  Roma,"  generally  attributed  to  Guic- 
ciardini.   There  's  another  written  by  a  Jacopo  Buona- 
piatc,  Gentiluomo  Samminiatese  che  vi  si  trovo  pre- 
sente. 

Note  7. 
Conquerors  on  foreign  shores  and  the  far  wave. 
AJf^xander  of  Parma,  Spinola,  Pescara,  Eugene  of 
8avov,  IN  ontecucco. 

Note  8. 
Discoverers  of  new  worlds,  wliich  take  their  name. 
Columbus,  Americas  Vespusius,  Sebastian  Cabot. 
Note  9. 
He  who  once  enters  in  a  tyrant's  hall,  etc. 
A  verse  from  the  Greek  tragedians,  with  which  Pom- 
aey  took  leave  of  Cornelia   on  entering  the  boat  in 
«vhich  he  was  slain. 

Note  10. 
And  the  first  day  which  sees  th-^  chain  enthral,  etc. 
he  verse  and  sentiment^ are  taken  from  Homer. 

Note  11. 
And  he  their  prince  shall  rank  among  my  peers 
Petrarch. 

Note  12. 

A  dome,  its 

rhft  cupola  of  St,.  Peter's. 


Note  13. 

His  chisel  hid  the  Hebrew. 
The  statue  of  Moses  on  the  monument  ef  Ju.iua  11 

SON  E  TO. 

Di  Giovanni  Battista  Zappi. 

Chi  e  eostui,  che  in  dura  pietra  scolto, 
Siede  gigatite  ;  e  le  piu  illustri.  e  conte 
Prove  dell"  arte  avanza,  e  h'l  vive,  e  pronte 
Le  labbia  si,  che  le  parole  ascolto  1 

Quest,  e  Mose:  ben  me  'Idicera  11  folto 
Onor  del  meiito,  e  '!  doppio  raggio  in  fronte, 
Q,uest'  e  Mosd,  quando  scendea  del  monte, 
E  gran  parte  del  Name  avea  nel  volto, 

Tal  em  iillor  che  le  soiianti.  e  vaste 
Acque  ei  sosptsc  a  se  d'intorno,  e  tale 
(iuando  il  mar  chiiise,  e  ne  te  tornba  altrui. 

E  voi  sue  ttirbe  un  rio  vIIhIIo  nlzate  7 
Alzata  av<;ste  tmasro  a  queste  eguale . 
Cir  era  men  t'allo  1'  adorar  cestui. 

Note  14. 
Over  the  dainii'd  before  the  Juds^ment  throne. 
The  Last  Judgment,  in  the  Sistine  chapel. 

Note  15. 

The  stream  of  his  great  thoughts  shall  spring  from  me. 

I  have  rend  somewhere  (if  I  do  not  err,  for  1  cannot 
recollect  where)  that  Dante  was  so  great  a  favourite  o. 
Michel  Angiolo's,  that  he  had  designed  the  whole  of 
the  Divira  Cummedia  ;  but  that  the  volume  containmg 
these  studies  was  lost  by  sea. 

Note  16. 
Her  charms  to  pontiffs  proud,  who  but  employ,  etc. 
See  the  treatment  of  Michel  Angiolo  by  Julius  IL, 
and  his  neglect  by  Leo  X. 

Note  17. 
"What  have  I  done  to  thee,  my  people  ?" 
"  E  scrisse  piu  volte  non  solamente  a*particolari  cit- 
tadini  del  reggimento,  i^  ancora  al   popolo,  o  intra  1 
altre  una  epistola  assai  lunga  che  connncia  ; — '  PopuU 
aii,  quid  feci  tihi  T  " 

Vita  di  Dante  scriUa  da  Liona'  *o  Aretivta 


THE    AGE    OF    BRONZE. 


71 


THE 

gisc  of  momc ; 

OR, 

CARMEN    SECULAPxE  ET  ANNUS 
HAUD  MIRABILIS. 


'Impar  Congressus  Achilli.' 


The  "good  old  times" — all  times,  when  old,  are  good — 

Are  gone  ;  the  present  might  be,  if  they  wculd ; 

Great  things  have  been,  and  are,  and  greater  still 

Want  little  of  mere  mortals  but  their  will  : 

A  wider  space,  a  greener  field  is  given 

To  those  who  play  their  "tricks  before  high  Heaven." 

[  know  not  if  the  angels  weep,  but  men 

Have  wept  enough — for  what '/ — to  weep  again. 

II. 

All  is  exploded — be  it  good  or  bad. 
Reader !   remember  when  thou  wert  a  lad. 
Then  Pitt  was  all ;   or,  if  not  all,  so  much, 
His  very  rival  almos.t  deem'd  him  such. 
We,  we  have  seen  the  intellectual  race 
Of  Slants  stand,  like  Titans,  face  to  face — 
Athos  and  Ida,  with  a  dashing  sea 
O^  eloquence  between,  whicli  tlow'd  all  free 
As  th^  deep  billows  of  the  iEgean  roar 
Belwixv  the  Hellenic  and  Phrygian  shore. 
But  where  are  they — the  rivals  ? — a  few  feet 
Of  sullen  earth  divide  each  winding-sheet. 
How  peaceful  and  iiow  i)owerful  is  the  grave, 
Which  hushes  all !   a  calm,  unstormy  w  ave 
Which  overs  weeps  the  world.     The  theme  is  old 
Of  "  dust  to  dust,"  but  half  its  tale  untold. 
Time  tempers  not  its  terrors — still  the  worm 
Winds  its  cold  folds,  the  tomb  preserves  its  form- 
Varied  above,  but  still  alike  below  ; 
The  urn  may  shine,  the  ashes  will  not  glow. 
Though  Cleopatra's  mummy  cross  the  sea, 
O'er  which  from  empire  she  lured  Antony  ; 
I'hough  Alexander's  urn  a  show  be  grown 
On  shores  he  wept  to  conquer,  though  unknown — 
How  vain,  how  worse  than  vain,  at  length  appear 
The  madman's  wish,  the  INIacedonian's  tear. 
He  wei)t  for  worlds  to  conquer — half  the  earth 
Knows  not  his  name,  or  but  his  death  and  birth 
And  desolation  ;   while  his  native  Greece 
Hath  all  of  desolation,  save  its  peace. 
He  "  wept  for  worlds  to  conquer  !"  he  who  ne'er 
Conceived  the  globe  he  panted  not  to  spare ! 
With  even  the  busy  iSorthern  Isle  unknown, 
Which  holds  his  urn,  and  never  knew  his  throne. 

III. 
But  where  is  he,  the  modern,  mightier  far. 
Who,  born  no  king,  made  monarchs  draw  his  car  ; 
The  new  Sesostr's,  whose  unharness'd  kings. 
Freed  from  the  bit,  believe  themselves  with  win<r^. 
And  spurn  the  dust  o'er  which  they  crawl'd  of  late, 
Chain'd  to  the  chariot  of  the  chieftain's  state? 
V'es  !   where  is  he,  the  champion  and  the  child 
Of  all  that  's  great  or  little,  wise  or  wild? 
W^hose  game  was  empires,  and  whose  stakes  were 

thrones ; 
vVhose  table,  e^rth — whose  dice  were  human  bones? 


Behold  the  grand  result  in  yon  lone  isle, 

And,  as  thy  nature  urges,  weep  or  smile. 

Sigh  to  behold  the  eagle's  lofty  rage 

Reduced  to  nibble  at  his  narrow  cage  ; 

Smile  to  survey  the  Queller  of  the  Nations 

Now  daily  squabbling  o'er  disputed  rations  ; 

Weep  to  perceive  him  mourning,  as  he  dines, 

O'er  curlail'd  dishes  and  o'er  stinted  wines  ; 

O'er  petty  quarrels  upon  petty  things — 

Is  this  the  man  who  scourged  or  feasted  kings '< 

Behold  the  scales  in  which  his  fortune  hangs, 

A  surgeon's  statement  and  an  earl's  harangues 

A  bust  delay'd,  a  book  refused,  can  shake 

The  sleeii  of  him  who  kejit  the  world  awake. 

Is  this  indeed  the  Tamer  of  the  Great, 

Now  slave  of  all  could  teazc  or  irritate — 

The  paltry  jailor  and  the  prying  spy, 

The  starmg  stranger  with  his  note-book  nigh? 

Plunged  in  a  dungeon,  he  had  still  been  great ; 

How  low,  how  little,  was  this  middle  state, 

Between  a  prison  and  a  palace,  where 

How  few  could  feel  for  what  ha  had  to  bear ! 

Vain  his  complaint — my  lord  presents  his  bill. 

His  food  and  wine  were  doled  out  duly  still : 

Vain  was  his  sickness, — never  was  a  crime 

So  free  from  homicide— to  doubt's  a  crime  ; 

And  the  stiff  surgeon,  who  niaintain'd  his  cause, 

Hafli  lost  his  place,  and  gain'd  the  world's  applause. 

But  smile— though  all  the  pangs  of  brain  and  heart 

Disdain,  dvSv,  tlie  tartly  aid  of  art; 

Though,  save  the  few  fond  friends,  and  imaged  face 

Of  that  fair  bo>'  his  sire  shall  ne'er  embrace. 

None  standby  his  low  bed— though  even  the  mind 

Be  wavering,  which  Ions  awed  and  awes  mankind, «• 

Smile— for  the  fetter'd  eagle  breaks  his  chain. 

And  higher  worlds  than  this  are  his  again 

IV. 
Flow,  if  that  soaring  spirit  still  retain 
A  conscious  twihght  of  his  blazing  reign, 
How  must  he  smile,  on  looking  down,  to  see 
The  little  that  he  was  and  sought  to  be ! 
What  though  his  name  a  wider  empire  found 
Than  his  ambition,  though  with  scarce  a  bound ; 
Though  first  in  glory,  deepest  in  reverse. 
He  tasted  empire's  blessings,  md  its  curse  ; 
Though  kings,  rejoicing  in  their  late  escape 
Fronrchains,  would  gladly  be  tkdr  tyrant's  ape. 
How  must  he  smile,  and  turn  to  you  lone  grave, 
The  proudest  sea-mark  that  o'ertops  the  wave ! 
What  though  his  jailor,  duteous  to  the  last. 
Scarce  deem'd  the  coffin's  lead  could  keep  him  fast 
Refusing  one  poor  line  along  the  lid 
To  date  the  birtn  and  death  of  ail  it  hid, 
That  name  shall  hallow  the  ignoble  shore, 
A  talisman  to  all  save  him  who  bore  • 
The  fleets  that  sweep  before  the  eastern  blast 
Shall  hear  their  sea-boys  hail  it  from  the  m:ist; 
When  Victory's  G  allic  column  shall  but  rise. 
Like  Pompey's  pillar,  in  a  desert's  skies. 
The  rocky  isle  that  holds  or  held  his  dust 
Shall  crown  the  Atlantic  like  the  hero's  bust. 
And  mighty  Nature  o'er  his  obsequies 
Do  more  than  niggard  Envy  still  denies, 
liut  what  are  these  to  him?     Can  glory's  lust 
Touch  the  freed  sj)irit  of  the  fetter'd  dust? 
Small  care  hath  he  of  wh?t  his  tomb  consists*, 
Nought  if  Ih!  '^ieejjs — nor  more  if  he  exists; 
Alike  the  Ix.'tter-seeing  shade  will  smile 
On  the  rude  cavern  of  the  rocky  isle. 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


As  if  his  ashca  found  their  latest  home 
[n  Rome's  Pantheon,  or  Gaul's  mimic  dome. 
He  \vant«  not  this ;   but  France  shall  feel  the  want 
»Of  this  last  consolation,  though  so  scant  ; 
Her  honour,  fame,  and  faith,  demand  his  bones, 
To  rear  amid  a  pyramid  of  thrones  ; 
Or  ca  "ried  pi  ward,  in  the  battle's  van. 
To  form,  like  Gucsclin's'  dust,  her  talisman. 
But  be  as  it  is,  the  time  may  come 
His  name  shal  beat  the  alarm  like  Ziska's  drum. 

V. 

Oh,  Heaven  !   of  which  he  was  in  power  a  feature  ; 

Oh,  earth !   of  which  he  was  a  noble  creature  ; 

Thou  isle !   to  be  remember'd  long  and  well, 

That  saw'st  the  unfledged  eaglet  chi|)  his  shell ! 

Ye  Alps,  which  view'd  him  in  his  dawning  flights 

Hover  the  victor  of  a  hundred  fights  ! 

Thou  Rome,  who  saw'st  thy  Cajsar's  deeds  outdone! 

Alas  !   why  pass'd  he  too  the  Rubicon  ? 

The  Rubicon  of  man's  awaken'd  rights, 

To  herd  with  vulgar  kings  and  parasites  ? 

Egypt!  from  whose  all  dateless  tombs  arose 

Forgotten  Pharaohs  from  their  long  repose, 

And  shook  witliin  her  pyramids  (o  hear 

A  new  Cambyses  thundering  in  their  ear  ; 

While  the  dark  shades  of  forty  ages  stood 

Like  startled  giants  by  Nile's  famous  flood  ; 

Or  from  the  pyramid's  tall  pinnacle 

Beheld  the  desert  peopled,  as  from  hell, 

With  clashing  hosts,  who  strew'd  the  barren  sand 

To  re-manure  the  uncultivated  land  ! 

Sf  lin!   which,  a  moment  mindless  of  the  Cid, 

Beheld  his  banner  flouting  thy  Madrid  ! 

Austria  !   which  saw  thy  twice-ta'en  capital 

Twice  spared,  to  be  the  traitress  of  his  fall ! 

Ve  race  of  Frederic! — Frederics  but  in  name 

And  falseiiood — heirs  to  all  except  his  fame  ; 

Who,  crush'd  at  Jena,  crouch'd  at  Berlin,  fell. 

First,  and  but  rose  to  follow  ;   ye  who  dwell 

Where  Kosciusko  dwelt,  remembering  yet 

The  unpaid  amount  of  Catherine's  bloody  debt! 

Poland  !   o'er  which  the  avenging  angel  pass'd, 

But  left  thee  as  he  found  thee,  still  a  waste  : 

Forgetting  all  thy  stilL  enduring  claim. 

Thy  lotted  people  and  extinguish'd  name  ; 

Thy  sigh  for  freedom,  thy  long^flowing  tear, 

That  sound  that  crashes  in  the  tyrant's  ear : 

Kosciusko  !   on — on — on — the  thirst  of  war 

Gasps  for  the  gore  of  serfs  and  of  their  czar  ; 

The  half-barbaric  Moscow's  minarets 

Gleam  in  the  sun,  but  't  is  a  sun  that  sets ! 

Moscow  !   thou  limit  of  his  long  career. 

For  which  rude  Charles  had  wept  his  frozen  tear 

To  see  in  vain — lie  saw  thee — how  !  with  spire 

And  palace  fuel  to  one  common  fire. 

To  this  the  soldier  lent  his  kindling  match. 

To  this  the  peasant  gave  his  cottage  thatch. 

To  this  the  merchant  Hung  his  hoarded  store. 

The  prince  his  hall — and  Moscow  was  no  more  ! 

Sublimest  of  volcaiios  !    Etna's  flame 

Pales  b(;fore  thine,  and  (luenchh.'ss  Ilecla's  tame; 

Vesuvius  shows  his  blaze,  an  usual  si^lit 

For  gapitig  tourists,  from  his  hackiKjy'd  height: 

riiou  stand' St  alone  uiirivall'd,  till  the  fire 

To  come,  in  which  all  em|tir(;s  shall  expire. 

Thoii  i)th(;r  (ileiiieiit  '    -is  strong  and  stern 

To  teach  a  lesson  co,  .,iu;rors  will  not  learn. 


1    O-IC! 

end  il.f!  I 


(li.'d  (li 


ill.-  si.r 

It  MMll  hi 


•ity  ;  It  Kurrcnilfifod, 
Ills  iiier,  BU  thai  tiie 


I  lace  mi^jlit  aiiyciir  icndi.rwl  to  liis  asliL-s. 


Whose  icy  wing  flajip'd  o'er  the  faltering  foe. 

Till  fell  a  hero  with  each  flake  of  snow  j 

How  did  thy  numbing  beak  and  silent  fang 

Pierce,  till  hosts  perish'd  with  a  single  pang ! 

In  vain  shall  Seine  look  up  along  his  oanks 

For  the  gay  thousands  of  his  dashing  ranks ; 

In  vain  shall  France  recall  beneath  her  vines 

Her  youth — their  blood  flows  faster  than  her  wines, 

Or  stagnant  in  their  human  ice  remains 

In  frozen  mummies  on  the  polar  plains. 

In  vain  will  Italy's  broad  sun  awaken 

Her  offspring  chill'd — its  beams  are  now  forsaken. 

Of  all  the  trophies  gatber'd  from  the  war, 

Yv'hat  shall  return  ?    The  conqueror's  broken  car  J 

The  conqueror's  yet  unbroken  heart !     Again 

The  horn  of  Roland  sounds,  and  not  in  vain. 

Lutzen,  where  fell  the  Swede  of  victory. 

Beholds  him  conquer,  but,  alas !   not  die  : 

Dresden  surveys  three  despots  fly  once  more 

Before  their  sovereign, — sovereign,  as  before  ; 

But  there  exhausted  Fortune  quits  their  field. 

And  Leipsic's  treason  bids  the  unvanquish'd  yield ; 

The  Saxon  jackal  leaves  the  lion's  side 

To  turn  the  bear's,  and  wolf's,  and  fox's  guide  j 

And  backward  to  the  den  of  his  despair 

The  forest  monarch  shrinks,  but  finds  no  lair  ! 

Oh  ye !   and  each,  and  all !   oh,  France  !  who  found 

Thy  long  fliir  fields  plough'd  up  as  hostile  ground. 

Disputed  foot  by  foot,  till  treason,  still 

His  only  victor,  from  Montmarlre's  hill 

Look'd  down  o'er  trampled  Paris,  and  thou,  isle. 

Which  see'st  Etruria  from  thy  ramparts  smile. 

The  momentary  shelter  of  his  pride, 

Till,  woo'd  by  danger,  his  yet  weejiing  bride  ; 

Oh,  France  !   retaken  by  a  single  march. 

Whose  path  was  through  one  long  triumpha'  sirch  ? 

Oh,  bloody  and  most  bootless  Waterloo, 

Which  proves  how  fools  may  Have  their  fortune  ttxik, 

Won,  half  by  blimder,  half  by  treachery  ; 

Oh,  dull  Saint  Helen  !   with  thy  jailor  nigh — 

Hear!   hear!   Prometheus' from  his  rock  appeal 

To  earth,  air,  ocean,  all  that  felt  or  feel 

His  power  and  glory,  all  who  yet  shall  hear  > 

A  name  eternal  as  the  rolling  year  ; 

He  teaches  them  the  lesson  taught  so  long, 

So  oft,  so  vainly — learn  to  do  no  wrong ! 

A  single  step  into  the  right  had  made 

This  man  the  Washington  of  worlds  betray'd  ; 

A  single  step  into  the  wrong  has  given 

His  name  a  doubt  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven ; 

The  reed  of  fortune  and  of  thrones  the  rod, 

Of  fame  the  Moloch  or  the  demi-god  ; 

His  country's  Cajsar,  Em-ope's  Hannibal, 

Without  their  decent  dignity  of  fall. 

Yet  vanity  herself  had  better  taught 

A  surer  path  even  to  the  fame  he  sought. 

By  pointing  out  on  history's  fruitless  page, 

Ten  thousand  conquerors  for  a  single  sage. 

While  Franklin's  (juiet  memory  climbs  to  heaven. 

Calming  the  lightning  which  he  thence  hath  riven. 

Or  drawing  from  the  no  less  kindled  earth 

Freedom  and  peace  to  that  which  boasts  his  birth; 

While  Washington  's  a  watch-word,  such  as  ne'er 

Shall  sink  while  there  's  an  echo  left  to  air  : 

While  even  the  Spaniard's  thirst  of  gold  and  war 

Forgets  Pizarro  to  shout  Bolivar  ! 

Alas  !   why  must  the  same  Atlantic  wave 

Whitdi  wafted  freedom  gird  a  tyrant  s  grave, — 

The  king  of  kings,  and  yet  of  slaves  the  slave, 


1  I  xt'XiiX  tlio  roador  to  the  first  address  of  Promcthoufl  i^ 
/ICsciiyliis,  wlu^ii  ho  is  U^t'i  aionn  by  his  attondaiils,  and  bofojr 
the  uriivul  of  the  Chorus  of  Sua-nviiiphs. 


THE    AGE    OF    BRONZE. 


f9 


n"ho  r.urst  thf  chains  of  millions  lo  renew 
The  very  felle.s  which  his  arm  broke  through, 
Ana  crush'd  the  rights  of  Europe  and  his  own 
To  ^.i  between  a  dungeon  and  a  throne  ? 

VI. 

But  "t  will  not  De— the  ppark's  awaken\l— lo  ! 

The  swarthy  Siiauiard  feels  liis  fdnm.r  glow; 

The  same  high  f^pirlt  which  beat  back  the  Moor 

Throai;-h  eight  long  ages  of  alternate  gore, 

Revives— an.l  where?  in  that  avenging  climo 

Wlurc  Spain  was  once  synonymous  with  crime, 

•\Vbei-e  Cortes'  and  Pizarro's  banner  Hew; 

The  •riant  world  redeems  her  name  of  "iVetw." 

'T  is  the  old  aspiration  breathed  afresh, 

To  kindle  souls  within  degraded  tlesh, 

Such  as  repulsed  the  Persian  from  the  shore     • 

WhcM-e  Greece  teas— So  !   she  still  is  Greece  once  more. 

One  common  cause  makes  myriads  of  one  breast! 

Slaves  of  the  east,  or  Helots  of  the  west  ; 

On  Andes'  and  on  Athos'  peaks  imfm-l'd, 

The  self-same  standard  streams  o'er  either  world: 

The  Athenian  wears  again  Harmodius'  sword  ; 

The  Chili  chief  abjures  his  foreign  lord  ; 

The  Spartan  knows  himself  once  more  a  Greek  ; 

/ouns  FrecMlom  plumes  the  crest  of  each  Cacique; 

Debatino  dest)ots,  hemm'd  on  either  shore. 

Shrink  vainlv'from  the  roused  Atlantic's  roar: 

Throush  Calpe's  strait  the  rolling  tides  advance, 

Sweep  liahtlv  bv  the  half-tamed  land  of  France, 

Dash  o'er  the  old  Spaniard's  cradle,  and  would  fain 

Unite  Ausouia  to  the  mighty  main  : 

But  driven  from  thence  awhile,  yet  not  for  aye, 

Break  o'er  tlie  .'Egcan,  mindful  of  the  day 

Of  Salamis— there,  there  the  waves  arise, 

Not  to  be  luU'd  by  tyrant  victories. 

Lone,  lost,  abandon'd  in  their  utmost  need 

By  Christians  unto  whom  they  gave  their  creed. 

The  desolated  lands,  the  ravaged  isle. 

The  foster'd  feud  encouraged  to  beguile, 

The  aid  evaded,  and  the  cold  delay, 

Prolong'd  but  in  the  ho[)e  to  make  a  prey  ;— 

Tiieserthese  shall  tell  the  tale,  and,  Greece  can  show 

The  false  friend  worse  than  the  infuriate  foe. 

But  this  is  well:   Greeks  only  should  free  Greece, 

Not  the  barbarian,  with  his  mask  of  peace. 

How  should  the  autocrat  of  bondage  be 

The  king  of  serfs,  and  set  the  nations  free? 

Better  still  serve  the  haughty  .Alussulman, 

Than  swell  the  Cossaque's  prowling  caravan; 

Better  still  toil  for  masters,  than  await, 

The  slave  of  slaves,  bef  jre  a  Russian  gate,—     » 

Number'd  by  hordes,  a  human  capital, 

A  live  estate,  existing  but  for  thrall. 

Lotted  by  thousands  as  a  meet  reward 

For  the  first  courtier  in  the  czar's  regard  ; 

While  their  immediate  owner  never  tastes 

His  slec]),  sans  dreaming  of  Siberia's  wastes ; 

Better  succumb  even  to  their  own  despair, 

And  drive  the  camel  than  purvey  the  bear. 

VH. 
But  not  alone  within  the  hoariest  clime. 
Where  freedom  /ites  her  birth  with  that  of  time  ; 
And  not  alone  where  plunged  in  night,  a  crowd 
Of  Iricas  darlwn  to  a  dubious  cloud, 
The  dawn  revives  ;   renown'd,  romantic  Spain 
Holds  back  the  invader  from  her  soil  a<rain. 
Not  now  the  Roman  tribe  nor  Punic  horde, 
Pemand  her  fields  as  lists  to  prove  the  sword; 
Not  now  the  Vandal  or  the  Visigoth 
Pollute  the  ulains,  alike  abhonmii  both.- 


Nor  old  Pelayo  on  his  mountain  rears 

The  warlike  fatheis  of  a  thousand  years. 

That  seed  is  sown  and  reaii'd,  as  oft  the  Moor 

Sighs  to  remember  on  his  dusk>  shore. 

Long  in  tiie  peasant's  song  or  poors  page 

Has  dwelt  the  memory  of  Abencerage, 

Tiie  Zegri,  and  the  cajitive  victors,  tlung 

Hack  to'^the  barbarous  realm  from  wiience  thry  sprung 

Hut  these  are  gone— their  faith,  their  swords,  their  swa) 

Vet  left  more  anti-christian  foes  than  they  : 

The  bigot  monarch  and  the  butcher  priest, 

The  incpiisition,  with  her  burning  feast. 

The  filth's  red  "  auto,"  fed  with  human  fuel. 

While  sat  the  Catholic  Moloch,  calmly  cruel. 

Enjoying,  with  inexorable  eye. 

That"  fiery  festival  of  agony  ! 

The  stern  or  feeble  sovereign,  one  or  both 

By  turns;   the  haughtiness  whose  pride  was  sloth; 

The  long-degenerate  noble  ;   the  debased 

Hidalgo^  and  the  peasant  less  disgraced 

But  more  degraded  ;   the  unpeopled  realm  ; 

The  once  proud  navy  which  forgot  the  helm  ; 
T!'"  once  impervious  phalanx  disarray'd ; 
T!..e  idle  torge  that  form'd  Toledo's  blade  ; 
Tiie  foreign  wealth  that  ilow'd  on  every  shore, 
Save  iiers  who  earn'<!  it  with  the  natives'  gore  . 
The  very  language,  which  might  vie  with  Rome's. 

And  once  was  known  to  nations  like  their  homes. 

Neglected  or  forgotten  :— such  was  Spain  ; 

But  such  she  is  not,  nor  shall  be  again. 

These  worst,  these  home  invaders,  felt  and  feel 

The  new  Numantine  soul  of  old  Castile. 

Up  !   up  again  !  undaunted  Ta-.'^'dor  ! 

The  bull  of  Phalaris  renews  his  /oai 

Mount,  chivalrous  Hidalgo  !   not  in  vam 

Revive  the  cry—"  lago  !   and  close  Spain  !'" 

Yes,  close  her  with  your  armed  bosoms  round, 

And  form  the  barrier  which  Napoleon  found,— 

The  exterminating  war  ;   the  desert  plain  ; 

Tiie  streets  witiiout  a  tenant,  save  the  slain  ; 

The  wild  Sierra,  with  its  wilder  troop 

Of  vulture-plumed  guerillas,  on  the  stoop 

For  their  incessant  prey  ;   the  desperate  wall 

Of  Saragossa,  migluiest  in  her  fall ; 

The  man  nerved  to  a  spirit,  and  the  maid 

W^a.vin2  her  more  than  Amazonian  blade  ; 

The  knife  of  Arragon,^  Toledo's  steel  ; 

The  famous  lance  of  chivalrous  Castile ; 

Tiie  unerring  rifle  of  the  Catalan  ; 

The  Aiidalusian  courser  in  the  van  ; 

The  torch  to  make  a  Moscow  of  Madrid  ; 

And  in  each  heart  the  spirit  of  the  Cid  : — 

Such  have  been,  such  shall  be,  such  are.      Adv^ance, 

And  win— not  Spain,  but  thine  own  iVeedom,  Franc« 

I  VIII. 

But  lo  !   a  congress !   What,  that  hallow'd  name 
:    Which  freed  the  Atlantic  ?   May  we  hope  the  same 
'    For  outworn  Europe  ?  With  the  sound  arise. 

Like  Samuel's  shade  to  Saul's  monarchic  eyes, 
'•    The  prophets  of  young  freedom,  summon'd  G»' 
!    From  climes  of  Washington  and   Bolivar 
Henry,  the  forest-born  Demosthen(!S, 
Whose  thunder  shook  the  Philip  of  'he  seas; 
And  stoic  Franklin's  energetic  shade, 
Robcvl  m  the  hghtnings  which  his  iiand  allay'd ; 

1  "  ?:t.  lairo  1  and  close  Spain  '."  the  old  Spanish  ward 
"  Th<»  Arragonians  are  peculiarly  dextc'ous  in  the  U8«   ». 

this  weapon,  and  displayed  it  particularly    n  foum"  Fiench 

wars 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  Washincjion,  the  tyrant-tamer,  wake, 
To  bid  lis  blush  for  these  old  chains,  or  break. 
But  who  compose  this  senate  of  the  few 
That  should  redeem  the  many?    f-f^ho  renew 
T'his  consecrated  name,  till  now  assign'd 
fo  councils  held  to  benefit  mankind  ? 
\Vho  now  assemble  at  the  holy  call? — 
The  bless'd  alliance  which  says  three  are  all! 
An  earthly  trinity  !   which  wears  the  shape 
Of  Hea\  en's,  as  man  is  mimick'd  by  the  ape. 
A  [lions  unity  !   in  purjiose  one, 
To  melt  three  fools  to  a  Napoleon. 
Why,  Egy{)t's  <fods  were  rational  to  these  ; 
Their  dogs  and  oxen  knew  their  own  degrees, 
And,  quiet  in  their  kennel  or  their  shed, 
Cared  little,  so  that  they  were  duly  fed: 
Hut  these,  more  hungry,  must  have  something  more- 
The  power  to  bark  and  bite,  to  toss  and  gore. 
Ah,  how  much  ha[)pier  were  good  i^isop's  frogs 
Than  we  !   for  ours  are  animated  logs, 
With  ])onderous  malice  swaying  to  and  fro, 
And  crushing  nations  with  a  stupid  blow, 
All  dully  anxious  to  leave  little  work 
Unto  the  revolutionary  stork. 

IX. 

Thrice  bless'd  Verona  !  since  the  holy  three 
With  their  imperial  presence  shine  on  thee ; 
HonourM  by  them,  thy  treacherous  site  forgets 
The  vaunted  tomb  of  "all  the  Capulets  ;" 
Tfiy  Scaligers — for  what  was  "  Dog  the  Great," 

Can'  Grande"  (which  I  venture  to  translate) 
To  these  sublimer  pugs?  Thy  poet  too, 

alullus,  whose  old  laurels  yield  to  new; 
Thine  amphitheatre,  where  Romans  sate  ; 
And  Dante's  exile,  shelter'd  by  thy  gate  ; 
Thy  good  old  man,'  whose  world  was  all  within 
Thy  wall,  nor  knew  the  country  held  him  in : 
Would  that  the  royal  guests  it  girds  about 
Were  so  far  like,  as  never  to  get  out ! 
Ay,  shout !   inscribe  !   rc^ar  monuments  of  shame. 
To  tell  oppression  that  the  world  is  tame  ! 
Crowd  to  the  theatre  with  loyal  rage — 
The  comedy  is  not  uf)on  the  stage  ; 
The  show  is  rich  in  ribbonry  and  stars — 
Then  gaze  upon  it  through  thy  dungeon  bars  ; 
Clasp  thy  permitted  palms,  kind  Italy, 
For  thus  much  still  thy  fetter'd  hands  are  free ! 

X. 

Resplendent  sight !   behold  the  coxcomb  czar, 

The  autocrat  of  waltzes  and  of  war  ! 

As  eager  for  a  {)laudit  as  a  realm. 

And  just  as  fit  for  tiirting  as  the  helm  ; 

A  Calmnck  beauty  with  a  Cossack  wit. 

And  generous  s|)"rit  when  'tis  not  frost-bit; 

Now  half-dissolving  to  a  liberal  thaw. 

Hut  harden'd  back  whene'er  the  morning  's  raw  ; 

VVith  no  objection  to  true  liberty, 

dxcept  that  it  would  make  the  nations  free. 

Flow  well  the  irn|)erial  dandy  prates  of  peace, 

IIow  fain,  if  Greeks  would  bo  his  slaves,  free  Greece! 

How  nohlj'  gave  lie  back  the  Poles  tlieir  Diet, 

'Hhisn  told  pugnacious  Poland  to  be  quiet! 

Mow  kindly  would  he  send  the  mild  Ukraine, 

With  all  her  pleasant  pulks,  to  lecture  Spain; 

How  royally  show  olf  in  proud  Madrid 

His  goodly  person,  from  the  south  long  hid, — 

A  blessing  cheajily  purchased,  the  world  knows, 

By  having  Musrovitcis  for  friends  or  foes. 


Proceed,  thou  namesake  of  great  Philip's  son  ' 

La  Harpe,  thine  Aristotle,  beckons  on  ; 

And  that  which  Scythia  was  to  him  of  yore, 

Fmd  with  thy  Scythians  on  Iberia's  shore. 

Yel  think  upon,  thou  somewhat  aged  youth, 

Thy  predecessor  on  the  banks  of  Pruth  : 

Thou  hast  to  aid  thee,  should  his  lot  be  thine. 

Many  an  old  woman,  but  no  Catherine. 

Spam  too  hath  rocks,  and  rivers,  and  defiles — 

The  bear  may  rushint  >  the  lion's  toils. 

Fatal  to  Goths  are  Xei  es'  sunny  fields  ; 

Thiniv'st  thou  to  tliee  Napoleon's  victor  yields  ? 

Better  reclaim  thy  deserts,  turn  thy  swords 

To  ploughshares,  shave  and  wash  thy  Bashkir  ho'-de* 

Iledeem  thy  realms  from  slavery  and  the  Knout, 

Than  follow  headlong  in  the  fatal  ro'Jte, 

'i'o  infest  the  clime,  whose  skies  and  laws  are  j)ure. 

With  thy  foul  legions.     Spam  wants  no  manure  ; 

Her  soil  is  fertile,  but  she  feeds  no  foe  ; 

Her  vultures,  too,  were  gorged  not  long  afjo : 

And  wouldst  thou  furnish  them  with  fresher  prey '' 

Alas  !   thou  wilt  not  concpier,  but  purvey. 

I  am  Diogenes,  though  Russ  and  Hun 

Stand  between  mine  and  many  a  myriad's  sun  ; 

But  were  I  not  Diogenes,  I  'd  wander 

Rather  a  worm  than  such  an  Alexander  ! 

Be  slaves  who  will,  the  Cynic  shall  be  free; 

His  tub  hath  tougher  walls  than  Sinope : 

Still  will  he  hold  his  lantern  up  to  scan 

The  face  of  moriarchs  for  an  "  honest  man." 

XI. 
And  what  doth  Gaul,  the  all-proliuc  land 
Of  ne  plus  ultra  Ultras  and  their  band 
Of  mercenaries?   and  her  noisy  Chambers, 
And  tribune  which  each  orator  tirst  clambers, 
Before  he  finds  a  voice,  and,  when  't  is  found. 
Hears  "the  lie"  echo  for  his  answer  round? 
Our  Brhish  Commons  sometimes  deign  to  hear  ; 
A  Gallic  senate  hath  more  tongue  than  ear  ; 
Even  Constant,  their  sole  master  of  di.'bale 
Must  fight  next  day,  his  speech  to  vindicate. 
But  this  costs  little  to  true  Franks,  who  hao  rather 
Combat  than  listen,  were  it  to  their  father. 
What  is  the  sim[)le  standing  of  a  shot. 
To  listening  long  and  intorrupting  not  ? 
Though  this  was  not  the  method  of  old  Rome, 
When  TuUy  fulmined  o'er  each  vocal  dome, 
Demosthenes  has  sanctionM  the  transaction, 
In  saying  eloquence  meant  "  Action,  action  !" 

XII. 

But  where 's  the  monarch?   hath  he  dined  ?  or  ypt 
Groans  beneath  indicestiou's   heavy  debt? 
'  Have  revolutionary  pates  risen. 
And  turn'd  the  royal  entrails  to  a  prison  ? 
Have  discontented  movemtmts  stirr'd  the  troops? 
Or  have  no  movements  follow'd  traitorous  soups? 
Have  Carbonaro  cooks  nilt  carbonadoed 
Each  course  enough?  or  doctors  dire  dissuaded 
Repletion?     Ah  !    in  thy  dejected  looks 

I  read  all 's  treason  in  her  cooks  ! 

Good  classic !    is  it,  canst  thou  say,     . 

Desirable  to  be  the  " ?" 

Why  wouldst  thou  leave  calm 's  green  abode, 

Apician  table  and  Horatian  ode. 

To  rule  a  peojde  who  will  not  he  ruled, 

And  love  much  rather  to  be  scourged  than  school'd? 

Ah!   thine  was  not  the  temiier  or  the  tasie 

For  thrones — the  table  sees  thee  better  placed; 


i  Tin  famous  old  in<m  of 


1  Tlie  dcxfiTily  of  ('iitlicriiie  extricated  I'eler  (Chlled  Iht 
(JicMt  'ly  c'oiirlisy)  wIk-ii  snrriMiiideil  hy  liie  Mussiiliiiani  oo 
U)o  bunks  of  the  river  I'rutli. 


THE    AGE    OF    BRONZE. 


A  iiukl  Epicurean,  foriii'd,  at  best, 
To  be  a  kind  host  and  as  good  a  guest. 
To  talk  of  letters,  and  to  know  by  heart 
One  half  the  poet's,  all  the  gourmand's  art ; 
A  scliolar  always,  now  and  then  a  wit, 
And  gentle  when  digestion  may  pernnt — 
But  not  to  govern  lands  enslaved  or  free  ; 
The  gout  was  martyrdom  enough  for  thee  ! 

XIII.     , 

Shall  noble  Albion  pass  without  a  phrase 
From  a  bold  Briton  in  her  wonted  praise  ? 
«  Arts— arms — and  George— and  glory  and  the  isles— 
And  happv  Britain — wealth  and  freedom's  smiles — 
White  elitfs,  that  held  invasion  for  aloof- 
Contented  subjects,  AX  ahke  tax-proof— 
Proud  Weiliiiirton,  with  ea^le  beak  so  curl'd. 
That  nose,  the  hook  where  he  suspends  the  world  ! ' 

And  Waterloo— and  trade— and (hush!   not  yet 

A  svUable  of  imposts  or  of  debt) 

And  ne'er  (enough)  lamented  Castlereagh, 
Whose  pen-knile  slit  a  goose-iiuill  't  other  day — 
And  "  pilots  who  have  weather'd  every  storm, — 
(But  no,  not  even  for  rhyme's  sake,  name  reform)." 
These  are  the  themes  thus  sung  so  oft  before, 
Alethinks  we  need  not  sing  them  any  more  ; 
Found  in  so  many  volumes  far  and  near. 
There's  no  occasion  you  should  find  them  here. 
Vet  something  may  remain,  perchance,  to  chime 
With  reason,  and,  what 's  stranger  still,  witJi  rhyme  ; 
Lven  this  thy  genius,  Canning!   may  permit. 
Who,  bred  a  statesman,  still  was  born  a  wit, 
And  never,  even  in  that  dull  house,  couldst  tame 
To  unlea.-en'd  prose  thine  own  poetic  tlanie ; 
Our  last,  our  best,  our  only  orator, 
Kven  I  can  praise  thee — Tories  do  no  more, 
Nay,  not  so  much  ; — they  hate  thee,  man,  because 
Thy  spirit  less  upholds  them  than  it  awes. — 
The  hounds  will  gather  to  their  hunt.-man's  hollo. 
And,  where  he  leads,  the  duteous  pack  will  follow : 
But  not  ilr  love  mistake  their  yelling  cry, 
Tiieir  yelp  for  game  is  not  an  eulogy  ; 
Less  faithtul  ^nr  than  the  four-footed  pack, 
A  dubious  scent  vou'd  lure  the  bipeds  back. 
Thy  saddle-girths  a.e  not  yet  quite  secure, 
Nor  royal  stallioti's  feet  extremely  sure  ; 
The  unwieldy  old  white  horse  is  apt  at  last 
To  stumble,  kick,  and  now  and  then  stick  fast 
With  his  great  jelf  and  rider  in  the  mud  ; 
But  what  of  that?  the  animal  shows  blood. 

XIV. 

\las  !  the  country  ! — how  shall  tongue  or  pen 

Bewail  her  now  uncountry  gentlemen  ? 

The  last  to  bid  the  cry  of  warfare  cease, 

The  first  to  make  a  malady  of  peace. 

B'ipr  what  were  all  these  country  patriots  born? 

To  hunt  and  vote,  and  raise  the  price  of  corn  ? 

But  corn,  like  every  mortal  thing,  must  fall — 

Kin2s,  conquerors,  and  markets  most  of  all. 

And  must  ye  fill  with  every  ear  of  grain  ? 

Wliy  would  you  trouble  Buonaparte's  reign? 

He  was  your  great  Triptolemus  ;   his  vices 

Dostroy'd  but  realms,  and  still  maintain'd  your  prices . 

He  amplified,  to  every  lord's  content. 

The  grand  agrarian  alchymy — high  rent. 

Why  did  the  Tyrant  stumble  on  the  Tartars, 

And"  lower  wheat  to  such  desponding  quarters  V 

1  "  Naso  suspendit  adunco." — Horace. 
The  Roman  applies  it  to  one  who  merely  was  imperious  to 
UiB  act.uaintajw«»- 


Wiiv  did  you  chain  him  on  von  isle  so  lone? 

The  man  was  wort  a  much  more  upon  his  throre. 

True,  bloinl  and  treasure  boundlessly  were  spilt. 

But  wiial  of  that  ?   the  Gaul  may  bear  the  guilt  , 

But  bread  was  higii,  the  farmer  paid  his  way, 

And  acres  told  upon  the  aj>poinled  day. 

But  where  is  now  tlrc  goodly  audit  ale? 

The  purse-proud  tenant  never  known  to  fail? 

The  farm  which  never  yet  was  left  on  hand  ? 

The  niar.<h  reclaimed  to  most  improving  land  ? 

The  impatient  hope  of  the  expiring  lease  ? 

The  doubling  rental  ^  What  an  evil 's  peace  ! 

In  vain  the  prize  excites  the  ploughman's  skill. 

In  vain  the  commons  pass  their  patriot  bill ; 

The  landtd  interest — (you  may  understand 

The  phrase  much  better  leaving  out  the  land) — 

The  land's  self-interest  groans  from  shore  to  shore, 

For  fear  that  plenty  should  attain  the  poor. 

Up  !   up  ago  in  :   ye  rents,  exalt  your  notes, 

Or  else  the  ministry  will  lose  their  voles, 

And  patriotism,  so  delicately  nice. 

Her  loaves  will  lower  to  the  market  price  ; 

For  ah  !   "  the  loaves  and  fishes,"  once  so  high, 

Are  gone — their  oven  closed,  their  ocean  dry; 

And  nought  remains  of  all  the  millions  spent. 

Excepting  to  grow  moderate  and  content. 

They  who  are  not  so  had  their  turn — and  turn 

About  still  flows  fr,m  fortune's  equal  urn  ; 

Now  let  their  virtue  be  us  own  rewaru. 

And  share  the  blessings  which  themselves  prepared, 

See  these  inglorious  Cincinnati  swarm, 

Farmers-^f  war,  dictators  of  the  farm ! 

Their  ploughshare  was  the  sword  in  hireling  hafi(i8 

Thru  fields  manured  by  gore  of  other  lands  ; 

Safe  in  their  barns,  these  Sabine  tillers  sent 

Their  brethren  out  to  battle — why?   for  rent! 

Year  after  year  they  voted  cent,  per  cent. 

Blood, sweat, and  tear-wrung  millions— why?  tor  rem 

They  roar'd,  they  dined,  they  drank,  they  swore  Ihej 

meant 
To  die  for  England— why  then  live?  for  rent! 
The  peace  has  made  one  general  malcontent 
Of  these  high-market  patriots  ;   war  was  rent! 
Their  love  of  country,  millions  all  mispent, 
How  reconcile  ? — by  reconciling  rent. 
And  will  they  not  repay  the  treasures  lent  ? 
No:   down  with  every  thing,  and  up  with  rent! 
Their  good,  ill,  health,  wealth,  joy,  or  discontent, 
Being,  end,  aim,  religion— Rent,  rent,  rent ! 
Thou  sold'st  thy  birthright,  Esau  !   for  a  mess  : 
Thou  shouldst  have  gotten  more  or  eaten  less  : 
Now  thou  hast  swill'd  thy  pottage,  thy  demands 
Are  idle  ;   Israel  says  the  bargain  stands. 
Such,  landlords,  was  your  appetite  for  war. 
And,  gorged  wilii  blood,  you  grumble  at  a  scar ! 
What^would  they  spread  their  earthquake  even  o'er  jash^ 
And  when  land  crumbles,  bid  firm  paper  crash? 
So  rent  may  rise,  bid  bank  and  nation  fall. 
And  found  on  'Change  a  foundling  hospital ! 
Lo,  mother  church,  while  all  religion  writhes. 
Like  Niobe,  weeps  o'er  her  offspring,  tithes  ; 
The  prelates  go  to — where  the  saints  have  gone, 
And  proud  pluralities  subside  to  one  ; 
Church,  state,  and  faction,  wrestle  in  the  dark, 
Toss'd  by  the  deluge  in  their  common  ars. 
I     Shorn  of  her  bisho|)s,  banks,  and  dividends, 
■     Another  Babel  soars— but  Britain  ends. 
And  %vhv  ?   lo  pamper  the  self-seeking  warns. 
And  prop  the  hill  of  these  agrarian  ants. 
"Go  to  these  ants,  thou  slugirard,  and  be  ^>'ise;' 
Admire  their  patience  through  each  sacrifice. 


7« 


BYRON  S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Till  laught  to  fec.'l  the  lesson  of  their  pride, 
The  price  c  f  taxes  and  of  homicide  ; 
Admire  their  justice,  whicli  would  fain  deny 
The  debt  of  nations  :   pray,  who  made  it  hii^h  ? 

XV. 

Or  turn  to  sail  between  those  shifting  rocks, 

The  new  Symplegades — the  crushing  Stocks, 

Where  Midas  might  again  his  wish  behold 

(n  real  paper  or  imagined  gold. 

That  magic  palace  of  Alcina  shows 

More  wealth  than  Britain  ever  had  to  lose. 

Were  all  her  atoms  of  unleavened  ore, 

And  all  her  pebb.es  from  Pactolus'  shore. 

There  Fortune  plays,  while  Rumour  holds  the  stake, 

And  the  world  trembles  to  bid  brokers  break. 

How  rich  is  Britain  !   not  indeed  in  mines, 

Or  peace,  or  plenty,  corn,  or  oil,  or  wines  ; 

No  land  of  Canaan,  full  of  milk  and  honey, 

Nor  (save  in  paper  shekels)  ready  money: 

But  let  us  not  to  own  the  truth  refuse, 

Was  ever  Christian  land  so  rich  in  Jews? 

Those  parted  with  their  teeth  to  good  King  John, 

And  now,  ye  kings  !   they  kindly  draw  your  own  ; 

All  states,  all  things,  all  sovereigns,  they  control. 

And  waft  a  loan  "  from  Indus  to  the  Pole." 

The  banker — broker — baron — brethren,  speed 

To  aid  these  bankrupt  tyrants  in  their  need. 

Nor  these  alone  ;   Columbia  feels  no  less 

Fresh  speculations  follow  each  success  ; 

And  philanthropic  Israel  deigns  to  drain 

Her  mild  per  centage  from  exhausted  Spam. 

Not  without  Abraham's  seed  can  Russia  march — 

'T  is  gold,  not  steel,  that  rears  the  conqueror's  arch. 

Two  Jews,  a  chosen  people,  can  command 

In  ever\  realm  their  scripture-uromised  land : 

Two  Jews  koep  down  the  Romans,  and  uphold 

The  accursed  Hun,  more  brutal  than  of  old  : 

Two  Jews — but  not  Samaritans — direct 

The  world,  with  all  the  spirit  of  their  sect. 

What  is  the  happiness  of  earth  to  them  ? 

A  congress  forms  their  "New  Jerusalem," 

Where  baronies  and  orders  both  invite — 

Oh,  holy  Abraham  '   dost  thou  see  the  sight  ? 

Thy  followers  mingling  with  these  royal  swine 

Who  spit  not  "on  their  Jewish  gaberdine," 

But  honour  them  as  portion  of  the  show — 

(Where  now,  oh.  Pope !   is  thy  forsaken  toe  ? 

Could  it  not  favour  Judah  with  some  kicks  ? 

Or  has  it  ceased  to    "kick  against  the  pricks?") 

On  Shylock's  shore  behold  them  stand  afresh. 

To  cut  from  nations'  hearts  their  "  pound  of  tlesh." 

XVI. 
Strange  sight  this  congress  !   destined  to  unite 
All  that 's  incongruous,  all  that 's  opposite. 
I  speak  not  of  the  sovereigns — they  're  alike, 
A  common  coin  as  ever  mint  could  strike: 
But  those  who  sway  the  j)U[)pets,  pull  the  strings, 
Have  more  of  motley  than  their  heavy  kings. 

ews,  authors,  gimerals,  charlatans,  combine, 
While  Europe  wonders  at  the  vast  design: 
There  JNIetternich,  ])ower's  foremost  parasite, 

ajoles  ;   there  Wellington  forgets  to  fight ; 
There  Chateaubriand  forms  new  books  of  martyrs;' 
\xu\  subtle  Greeks  intrigue  for  stujjid  Tartars  ; 
Tliere  Montmorency,  the  sworn  foe  to  charters. 


]  Monsieur  (Jlintcinilirianii,  who  has  not  fortiotton  the  niithor 
•  hu  iiiitiistcr,  ritccivijd   ii  liimd-soinn  cotiiplitnciit  at  Verona 

from  ;i  htcrary  s()veri;ii.'n :  "  Ah  !  iMonsicnr  (." ,  an-  you 

feiati'd  to  that  Chutoaiihriand  who — who — who  lias  written 
somithins  (c.-rit  qinlqiie  rfu')sc)?''  It  is  said  that  the  Autlior 
of  A'.ala  rnpeu'ed  hmi  for  a  tnoriient  of  liis  legitimacy 


Turns  a  diplomatist  of  great  eclat. 
To  furnish  articles  for  the  "  Debats  ;'* 
Of  war  so  certain — yet  not  (]uite  so  sure 
As  his  dismissal  in  the  "Moniteur." 
Alas !   how  could  his  cabinet  thus  err? 
Can  peace  be  worth  an  ultra-minister? 
He  falls  indeed, — perhaps  to  rise  again, 
"Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquer'd  Spain.** 

XVII. 

Enough  of  this — a  sight  more  mournful  woos 

The  averted  eye  of  the  reluctant  muse. 

The  imperial  daughter,  the  imperial  bride, 

The  imperial  victim — sacrifice  to  [)ride  ; 

Tlie  mother  of  the  hero's  hope,  the  boy. 

The  young  Astyanax  of  modern  Troy  ; 

The  still  pale  shadow  of  the  loftiest  queen 

That  earth  has  yet  to  see,  or  e'er  hath  seen : 

She  flits  amidst  the  phantoms  of  the  hour, 

The  theme  of  pity,  and  the  wreck  of  power. 

Oh,  cruel  mockery  !   could  not  Austria  spare 

A  daughter?  What  did  France's  widow  there? 

Her  fitter  place  was  by  St.  Helen's  wave — 

Her  only  throne  is  in  Napoleon's  grave. 

But,  no, — she  still  must  hold  a  })etty  reign, 

Flank'd  by  her  formidable  chamberlain  ; 

The  martial  Argus,  whose  not  hundred  eyes 

Must  watch  her  through  these  paltry  pageantries. 

What  though  she  share  no  more,  and  shared  in  vain, 

A  sway  surpassing  that  of  Charlemagne, 

Which  swept  from  Moscow  to  the  Southern  seas. 

Yet  still  she  rules  the  pastoral  realm  of  cheese, 

Where  Parma  views  the  traveller  resort 

To  note  the  trappings  of  her  mimic  court. 

But  she  appears !    Verona  sees  her  shorn 

Of  all  her  beams — while  nations  gaze  and  mocm— 

Ere  yet  aer  husband's  ashes  have  iiad  time 

To  chill  in  their  inhospitable  clime, 

(If  e'er  those  awful  ashes  can  grow  cold — 

But  no, — their  embers  soon  will  burst  the  mould)  ; 

She  comes  ! — the  Andromache  (but  not  Racine's, 

Nor  Homer's)  ;   lo !   on  Pyrrhus'  arm  she  leans! 

Yes  !   the  right  arm,  yet  red  from  Waterloo, 

Which  cut  her  lord's  half-shatter'd  sceptre  through, 

Is  otfer'd  and  accepted!   Could  a  slave 

Do  more  ?   or  less  ?— and  he  in  his  new  grave ! 

Her  eye,  her  cheek,  betray  no  inward  strife. 

And  the  AVempress  grows  as  Ex  a  wife ! 

So  much  for  human  ties  in  royal  breasts ! 

Why  spare  men's  feelings,  when  their  own  are  jests  I 

XVIII. 

But,  tired  of  foreign  follies,  I  turn  home. 

And  sketch  the  group — the  picture  's  yet  to  come. 

My  Muse  'gan  weep,  but,  ere  a  tear  was  spilt. 

She  caught  Sir  William  Curtis  in  a  kilt! 

While  throngM  the  Chiefs  of  every  Higliland  clan 

To  hail  their  brother,  Vich  Ian  Alderman  ! 

Guildhall  grows  Gael,  and  echoes  with  Erse  roar. 

While  all  the  Common  Council  cry,  "  Claymore  !'* 

To  see  proud  Albyn's  tartans  as  a  belt 

Gird  the  gross  sirloin  of  a  City  Celt, 

She  burst  into  a  laughter  so  extreme, 

Tliat  I  awoke — and  lo  !   it  was  no  dream  ! 

Here,  reader,  will  we  pa  ise : — if  there  's  no  harm  in 
Tliis  first — yoi  '11  have,  lerhaps,  a  second  "  Carmen. 


THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


77 


THE 


mmon  of  3Jutrii;mrnt. 

BY  QUEVEDO  REDIVIVUS. 

UGGESTED     BV    THE    COMPOSITION     SO    ENTITLED 
BY  THE    AUTHOR    OF    "  WAT  TVLER." 


A  Daniel  come  to  jiulgment  1  yea,  a  Daniel ! 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word 


Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate, 

His  kevs  were  rusty,  and  tlie  lock  was  dull, 

So  little  trouble  had  been  given  of  late  ; 
Not  that  the  place  by  any  means  was  full, 

But  since  the  Gallic  era  "  eighty-eight," 

The  devils  had  taken  a  longer,  stronger  pull. 

And  "  a  pull  altogether,"  as  they  say 

At  sea — which  drew  most  souls  another  way. 


The  ancrels  ai.  were  singing  out  of  tune, 

And  hoarse  with  having  little  else  to  do, 
Excepting  to  wind  up  the  sun  and  moon, 

Oi  curb  a  runaway  young  star  or  two. 
Or  wild  colt  of  a  comet,  which  too  soon 

Broke  out  of  bounds  o'er  the  ethereal  blue, 
{5()litting  some  planet  with  its  playful  tail, 
As  tioats  arc  sometimes  bv  a  wanton  whale. 

III. 
The  guardian  seraphs  had  retired  on  high, 

Finding  their  charges  past  all  care  below ; 
1  »;rrestrial  business  fill'd  nought  in  the  sky 

Save  the  recording  angel's  black  bureau  ; 
V^'ho  found,  indeed,  the  facts  to  multiply 

With  such  rapidity  of  vice  and  woe, 
That  he  had  stripp'd  off  both  his  wings  in  quills. 
And  yet  was  in  arrear  of  human  ills. 

IV. 

His  business  so  augmented  of  late  years. 

That  he  was  forced,  against  his  will,  no  doubt, 
(Just  like  those  cherubs,  earthly  ministers) 
For  some  resource  to  turn  himself  about, 
And  claim  the  help  of  his  celestial  peers, 

To  aid  him  ere  he  should  be  quite  worn  out 
By  the  increased  demand  for  his  remarks  : 
Six  angels  and  twelve  saints  were  named  his  clerks. 

V. 
This  was  a  handsome  board — at  least  for  heaven  ; 

And  vet  they  had  even  then  enough  to  do. 
So  many  conquerors'  cars  were  daily  driven. 

So  many  kingdoms  fitted  up  anew  ; 
Each  day,  too,  slew  its  thousands  six  or  seven, 

Till  at  the  crowning  carnage,  Waterloo, 
1  hey  threw  their  pens  duwn  in  divine  disgust — 
Tlie  page  was  so  besmear'd  with  blood  and  dust. 

VI. 
This  hv  the  way  ;   't  is  not  mine  to  record 

What  angels  shrink  from :   even  ine  very  devil 
On  this  occasion  his  own  work  abhorr'd. 

So  surfeited  with  the  infernal  revel : 
Though  he  himself  had  sharpen'd  every  sword. 
It  almost  oueupl^'d  h\v  innate  thirst  of  evil. 


n 
n 


(Here  Satan's  sole  good  work  deser\os  insertion— 
'T  is,  that  he  has  both  generals  in  reversion). 

VII. 

Let 's  skip  a  few  snort  years  of  hollow  peace, 
Which  peopled  earth  no  belter,  heli  as  wont. 

And  heaven  none — they  form  th(;  tyi  <int's  lease. 
With  nothing  but  new  names  inscribed  upon  't; 

'T  will  one  day  finish  :   meantime  they  increase, 
''  With  seven  heads  and  ten  horns,'   and  all  in  from 

Like  Saint  John's  foretold  beasts  ;   but  ours  are  bora 

Less  formidable  in  the  head  than  horn. 

VIII. 

In  the  first  year  of  freedom's  second  dawn 

Died  George  the  Third  ;   although  no  tyrant,  one 
~mro"sfii5td'etf~tyrn.nto,-uU-&ach  sense  withdrawn 
Left  him  nor  mental  nor  external  sun : 

A  better  farmer  ne'er  brush'd  dew  from  lawn, 
A  worse  king  never  left  a  realm  undone ! 

He  died — but  left  his  subjects  still  behind. 

One  half  as  mad — and  t'  other  no  less  blind. 

IX. 

He  died  ! — his  death  made  no  great  stir  on  earth  ; 

His  burial  made  some  pomp  ;   there  was  profusion 
Of  velvet,  gilding,  brass,  and  no  great  dearth 

Of  aught  but  tears — save  those  shed  by  collusion  , 
For  these  things  may  be  bought  at  their  true  worth : 

Of  elegy  there  was  the  due  infusion — 
Bought  also  ;   and  the  torches,  cloaks,  and  banners, 
Heralds,  and  relics  of  old  Gothic  manners, 

X. 
Form'd  a  sepulchral  melo-drame.     Of  afl 

The  fools  who  flock' d  to  swell  or  see  the  show, 
Who  cared  about  the  corpse  ?     The  funeral 

Made  the  attraction,  and  the  black  the  wo«. 
There  throbb'd  not  there  a  thought  which  pierced 'nepaD 

And  when  the  gorgeous  cotiin  was  laid  low, 
It  seem'd  the  mockery  of  hell  'lo  fold 
The  rottenness  of  eighty  years  in  gold. 

XI. 
So  mix  his  body  with  the  dust !     It  might 
Return  to  what  it  must  far  sooner,  were 
The  natural  compound  left  alone  to  fight 

Its  way  back  into  earth,  and  fire,  and  air ; 
But  the  unnatural  balsams  merely  blight 

What  nature  made  him  at  his  birth,  as  bare 
As  the  mere  million's  base  unmummied  clay — 
Yet  all  his  spices  but  prolong  decay. 

Xli. 
He 's  dead — and  upper  earth  with  him  has  done  • 

He  's  buried  ;   save  the  undertaker's  bill, 
Or  lapidary  scrawl,  the  world  is  gone 

For  him,  unless  he  left  a  German  will ; 
But  where  's  the  proctor  who  will  ask  his  son  ? 

In  whom  his  qualities  are  reigning  still, 
Ex(;ept  that  household  virtue,  most  uncommon. 
Of  constancy  to  a  bad  ugly  woman. 

XIII. 
"  God  save  the  king  !"     It  is  a  large  economy 

In  God  to  save  the  like  ;   but  if  he  will 
Be  saving,  all  the  better  ;   for  not  one  am  I 
Of  those  who  think  damnation  belter  still: 
hardly  know  too  if  not  quite  alone  am  I 
In  this  small  hope  of  bettering  fiiture  ill 
By  circumscribing,  with  some  shght  restriction. 
The  eternity  of  bed's  hot  jurisdiction. 

XIV. 
I  know  this  is  unpopular ;   I  know 

'T  is  blasphemous  ;  I  know  one  may  be  damn'd 
For  hoping  no  one  else  may  e'er  be  so  ; 

I  know  my  catechism  ;  I  know  we  are  cramm'd 


BYRON'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Witt  the  best  doctrines  till  we  quite  o'erflow  ; 

I  know  that  all  save  England's  church  have  shamm'd, 
A-ud  that  the  oth.er  twice  two  hundred  churches 
And  synagogues  have  made  a  d^umi'd  bad  purchase. 

XV. 
God  htlp  us  all !   God  help  me,  too  !  I  am, 

God  knows,  as  helpless  as  the  devil  can  wish, 
And  not  a  whit  more  difRcult  to  damn 

Than  is  to  bring  to  land  a  late-hook'd  fish, 
Or  to  the  butcher  to  purvey  the  Iamb  ; 

Not  that  I  'm  fit  for  such  a  noble  dish 
As  one  day  will  be  that  immortal  fi-y 
Of  almost  every  body  born  to  die. 

XVI. 

Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate, 

And  nodded  o'er  his  keys  :   when  lo  !   there  came 
A  wondrous  noise  he  had  not  heard  of  late — 

A  rushing  sound  of  wind,  and  stream,  and  flame  ; 
[n  short,  a  roar  of  things  extremely  great. 

Which  would  have  made  aught  save  a  saint  exclaim  ; 
But  ho,  with  first  a  start  and  then  a  wink. 
Said,  "There's  another  star  gone  out,  I  think  !" 

XVTI. 

But  ere  he  could  return  to  his  repose, 

A  cherub  flapp'd  his  right  wing  o'er  his  eyes — 

At  which  Saint  Peter  yawn'd,  and  rubb'd  his  nose; 
"  Saint  porter,"  said  the  angel,  "  prithee  rise  !" 

Waving  a  goodly  wing,  which  glow'd,  as  glows 
An  earthly  peacock's  tail,  with  heavenly  dyes: 

To  whi<:h  the  saint  replied,  "  Well,  what 's  the  matter? 

Is  Lucifer  come  back  with  alt  this  clatter  ?" 

XVIIl. 

"  No,"  quoth  the  cherub  ;  "  George  the  Third  is  dead." 
"  And  who  is  George  the  Third  ?"  replied  the  a^aostle: 

"  IVliat  GeiTge  '!   what  Third  r   "Tne  King  of  Eng 
land,"  said 
The  angel.     "  Well !   he  won't  find  kings  to  jostle 

Him  on  his  way  ;   but  does  he  wear  his  head  ? 
Because  the  last  we  saw  here  had  a  tussle, 

And  ne'er  would  have  got  into  Heaven's  good  graces, 

flad  he  not  tlung  his  head  in  all  our  faces. 

XIX. 

"  He  was,  if  I  remember,  king  of : 

That  head  of  his,  which  could  not  keep  a  crown 

On  earth,  yet  ventured  in  my  face  to  advance 
A  claim  to  those  of  martyrs — like  my  own : 

If  I  had  had  my  sword,  as  J  had  once 
When  1  cut  ears  otf,  I  had  cut  him  down 

But  naving  but  my  keys,  and  not  my  brand, 

I  only  knock'd  his  head  from  out  his  hand. 

XX. 

"  And  then  he  set  up  such  a  headless  howl. 
That  all  the  saints  came  out  and  took  him  in  ; 

And  there  he  sits  by  Saint  Paul,  cheek  by  jowl ; 
That  fellow,  Paul — the  parvenu  !     The  skin 

Of  Saint  Bartholomew,  which  makes  his  cowl 
In  heaven,  and  upon  earth' redeem'd  his  sin 

So  as  to  make  a  martyr,  never  sped 

BeUer  than  did  this  weak  and  wooden  head. 

XXI. 

But  had  it  come  up  here  upon  its  siiouldfrs. 

There  would  have  been  a  diHerent  tale  lo  tell : 
The  fellow-feeling  in  the  saints  behuMcrs 

Seems  to  have  acted  on  them  like  a  spell. 
And  so  this  very  foolish  head  Heaven  solder" 

Back  OP  its  trunk  :   it  may  be  very  well, 
And  seems  ^ne  custom  here  to  overthrow 
^'h.itever  has  been  wisely  done  below." 


XXII. 

The  angel  answer'd,  "  Peter  !  do  not  pout , 

The  king  who  conies  has  head  and  all  entire. 
And  never  knew  much  \v'hat  it  Wc.s  about — 

He  did  as  doth  the  puppet — by  its  wire. 
And  will  be  judged  like  all  the  rest,  no  doubt  - 

My  business  and  your  own  is  not  to  inquire 
Into  such  matters,  but  to  mind  our  cue — 
Which  is  to  act  as  we  are  bid  *o  do." 

XXIII. 
While  thus  they  spake,  the  angelic  caravan, 

Arriving  like  a  rush  of  mighty  wind, 
Cleaving  the  fields  of  space,  as  doth  the  swan 

Some  silver  stream  (say  Ganges,  Nile,  or  Irde, 
Or  Thames,  or  Tweed),  and  'midst  them  an  old  man 

With  an  old  soul,  and  both  extremely  blind, 
Halted  before  the  gate,  and  in  his  shroud 
Seated  their  fellow-traveller  on  a  cloud. 

XXIV. 
But,  bringing  up  the  rear  of  this  bright  host, 

A  spirit  of  a  different  aspect  waved 
His  wings,  like  thunder-clouds  above  some  coast 

Whose  barren  beach  with  frequent  wrecks  is  paved, 
His  brow  was  like  the  deep  when  tempest-tost ; 

Fierce  and  unfiithomable  thoughts  engraved 
Eternal  wrath  on  his  immortal  face. 
And  where  he  gazed  a  gloom  pervaded  space. 

XXV. 
As  he  drew  near,  he  gazed  upon  the  gate. 

Ne'er  to  be  enter'd  more  by  him  or  sin, 
With  such  a  glance  of  suoernatural  hate. 

As  made  Saint  Peter  wish  n.vkiself  within : 
He  potter'd  with  his  keys  at  a  great  rate. 

And  sweated  through  his  apostolic  skin : 
Of  course  his  perspiration  was  but  ichor. 
Or  s)me  such  otPer  soiritual  linuor. 

XXVI. 
The  very  cherubs  huddled  altogether, 

Like  birds  when  soars  the  falcon  ;   and  they  felt 
A  tingling  to  the  tip  of  every  feather, 

And  fbrm'd  a  circle,  hke  Orion's  belt. 
Around  their  poor  old  charge,  who  scarce  knew  whithei 

His  guards  had  led  him,  though  they  gently  dealt 
With  royal  manes  (for,  by  many  stories. 
And  true,  we  learn  the  angels  all  are  Tories). 

XXVII. 
As  things  were  in  this  posture,  the  gate  flew 

Asunder,  and  the  flashing  of  its  hinges 
Flung  over  space  an  universal  hue 

Of  many-colour'd  flame,  until  its  tinges 
Reach'd  even  our  speck  of  earth,  and  made  a  new 

Aurora  borealis  spread  its  fringes 
O'er  the  North  Pole;   the  same  seen,  when  ice-bound 
By  Captain  Parry's  crews,  in  "Melville's  Sound." 

XXVIII. 
And  from  the  gate  thrown  open  issued  beaming 

A  beautifiil  and  mighty  thing  of  light. 
Radiant  with  glory,  like  a  banner  streaming 

Victorious  from  some  world-o'erthrowing  fight 
Mv  poor  comparison  must  needs  be  teeming 

With  earthly  likenesses,  for  here  the  night 
Of  clay  obscures  our  best  conceptions,  saving 
Johanna  Southcote,  or  Bob  Soulhey  raving. 

XXIX. 
'T  was  the  archangel  Michael :   all  men  know 

The  make  of  angels  and   arch-angels,  since 
There  's  scarce  a  scribbler  has  not  one  to  show, 

From  tiie  fiends'  leader  to  the  angels'  prince. 
There  also  are  some  altar-pieces,  though 

I  really  can't  say  that  they  much  evince 
One's  inner  notions  of  immortal  spirits  ; 
But  let  the  coimoisscMrs  explain  tJuir  merits. 


THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


79 


XXX. 

Mid  a  el  flew  forth  in  crinrv  and  in  good  ; 

A  fioodly  work  of  liini  from  wnom  a.i  g'lOry 
And  good  aridi'  ;   the  portal  pass'd — he  stood  ; 

Before  hini  the  young  cherubs  and  saint  hoary 
(I  say  young,  begging  to  be  understood 

By  looks,  not  years  ;   and  should  he  very  sorry 
To  state,  they  were  not  older  than  Saint  Peter, 
But  merely  that  they  seeni'd  a  little  sweeter). 

XXXI. 
The  cherubs  and  the  saint  bow'd  down  before 

Th.Tt  arch-angelic  hierarch,  tne  first 
Of  essences  angelical,  who  wore 

The  aspect  of  a  god  ;   but  this  ne'er  nursed 
Pride  in  his  heavenly  bosom,  in  whose  core 

No  thought,  save  for  his  Maker's  service,  durst 
Intrude,  however  glorified  and  high  ; 
He  knew  him  but  the  viceroy  of  the  sky. 

XXXII. 
He  and  the  sombre  silent  spirit  met — 

They  knew  each  other  both  for  good  and  ill ; 
Such  was  their  power,  that  neither  could  forget 

Elis  former  friend  and  future  foe ;   but  still 
There  was  a  high,  innnortal,  proud  regret 

In  cither's  eye,  as  if  't  were  less  their  will 
Than  destiny  to  make  the  eternal  years 
Theirdateof  war,  and  their  "Champ  Clos"  the  spheres. 

XXXIII. 
But  here  they  were  in  neutral  space :   we  know 
From  Job,  that  Sathan  hath  the  power  to  pay 
A.  heavenly  visit  thrice  a  year  or  so  ; 

And  that  "  the  sons  of  God,"  hke  those  of  clay, 
Must  kee[)  him  company;   and  we  might  show, 

From  the  same  book,  in  how  polite  a  way 
The  dialogue  is  held  betweiu  the  powers 
'.fi  good  and  evil — but  'twould  take  up  hours. 

XXXIV. 
And  inis  is  not  a  theologic  tract, 

Tt  prove  with  Hebrew  and  with  Arabic 
If   lob  be  allegory  or  a  fact. 

But  a  true  narrative  ;   and  thus  I  pick 
From  out  the  whole  but  such  and  siich  an  act 
As  sets  aside  the  slightest  thought  of  trick. 
'T  is  every  tittle  true,  beyond  suspicion. 
And  accurate  as  any  other  vision. 

XXXV. 
The  spirits  were  in  neutral  space,  before 

The  gate  of  heaven  ;   hke  eastern  thresholds  is 
The  place  where  death's  grand  cause  is  argued  o'e»-. 

And  soul^;  despatch'd  to  that  world  or  to  this ; 
And  therefore  Michael  and  the  other  wore 
A  civil  asj)ect :   though  they  did  not  kiss, 
Yet  still  between  his  Darkness  and  his  Brightness 
Tliere  pass'd  a  mutual  glance  of  great  politeness. 

xxxvi. 

The  archangel  bow'd,  not  like  a  modern  beau, 

But  with  a  graceful  oriental  bend. 
Pressing  one  radiant  arm  just  where  below 

The  heart  in  good  men  is  supposed  to  tend. 
Ue  turn'd  as  to  an  equal,  not  too  low. 

But  kindly  ;   Sathan  met  his  ancient  friend 
With  more  hauteur,  as  might  an  old  Castilian 
P.or  noble  meet  a  mushroom  rich  civilian. 

XXXVII. 
He  merely  bent  his  diabolic  brow 

An  instant ;   and  then,  raising  it,  he  stood 
in  act  to  assert  his  right  or  wrong,  and  show 

Cause  why  King  George  by  no  means  could  or  should 
Make  out  a  case  to  be  exempt  from  woe 

Eternal,  more  than  other  kings  endued 
Wirh  better  sense  and  hearts,  whom  history  mentions, 
•Viio  long  have  "  pived  hcill  with  their  uood  intpniions.* 


XXXVIII. 

Micnael  began  :   "  What  wouldsl  thou  with  fhis  man, 
Now  dead,  and  brought  before  the  Lord?    What  iil 

Hath  he  wrought  since  his  mortal  race  began, 

That  thou  canst  claim  him  ?   Speak  !   and  do  thy  will 

If  it  be  just:   if  in  this  earthly  span 
He  hath  been  greatly  failing  to  fulfi. 

His  duties  as  a  king  and  mortal,  say, 

And  he  is  thine  ;   if  not,  let  him  have  way.' 

XXXIX. 

"Michael!"  replied  the  prince  of  air,  "even  here 

Before  the  gate  of  Him  thou  servest,  must 
I  claim  my  subject ;    and  will  make  appear 

That  ;is  he  was  my  worshipper  in  dust, 
So  shall  he  be  in  spirit,  altiiough  dear 

1  0  thee  and  thine,  because  nor  wine  nor  lust 
W&e  of  his  weaknesses!   yet  on  the  throne 
He  leign'd  o'er  millions  to  serve  me  alone- 
XL. 
"  Look  to  our  earth,  or  rather  mme  j  it  was 

O/ise,  7?Jore  thy  iMaster's :   but  I  triumph  not 
In  this  poor  planet's  conquest,  nor,  alas  ! 

Need  he  thou  servest  envy  me  my  lot : 
With  all  the  myriads  of  bright  worlds  which  pasa 

In  worship  round  him,  he  may  have  forgot 
Yon  weak  creation  of  such  paltry  things  ; 
I  think  few  worth  damnation  save  their  kings, 

XLI. 

**  And  these  but  as  a  kind  of  quit-rent,  to 

Assert  my  right  as  lord  ;   and  even  had 
I  such  an  inclination,  't  were  (as  you 

Well  know)  superfluous  ;   they  are  grown  sq  jad. 
That  hell  has  nothing  better  left  to  do 

Than  leave  them  to  themselves  :   so  much  more  ma 
And  evil  be  their  own  internal  q|^se. 
Heaven  cannot  make  them  better,  nor  I  worse. 

XLIL 
"  Look  to  the  earth,  I  said,  and  say  again  : 

When  this  old,  blind,  mad,  helpless,  weak,  poo'  A^orrei 
Began  in  youth's  first  bloom  and  flush  to  reign. 

The  world  and  he  both  wore  a  different  form. 
And  much  of  earth  and  all  the  watery  plain 

Of  ocean  call'd  him  king :   through  many  a  storm 
His  isles  had  floated  on  the  abyss  of  time  ; 
P"'or  the  rough  virtues  chose  them  for  their  clime. 

XLIII. 

"  He  came  to  his  sceptre,  young  ;  he  leaves  it,  old 
Look  to  the  state  in  which  he  found  his  realm, 

And  left  it ;   and  his  annals,  too,  behold. 
How  to  a  minion  first  he  gave  the  helm ; 

How  grew  upon  his  heart  a  thirst  for  gold. 
The  beggar's  vice,  which  can  but  overwlielm 

The  meanest  hearts  ;   and,  for  tne  rest,  but  glance 

Thine  eye  along  America  and  France ! 

XLIV. 

"  'T  is  true,  he  was  a  tool  from  first  to  last 

(I  have  the  workmen  safe)  ;   but  as  a  tool 
So  let  him  be  consumed  I   From  out  the  past 

Of  ages,  since  mankind  have  known  the  nila 
Of  monarchs — from  the  bloody  rolls  amass'd 

Of  sin  and  slaughter — from  the  Cossar's  schooi| 
Take  the  worst  pupil,  and  produce  a  reign 
Moredrench'd  with  gore,  more  cumber'd  with  the  siam! 

XLV. 
"  He  ever  warr'd  with  freedom  and  the  free  ^ 

Nations  as  men,  home  subjects,  foreign  foes, 
So  that  tliey  utter"d  the  word  '  Liberty  1' 

Found  George  the  Tliird  their  fiifst  opponent.    Whose 


80 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


History  was  ever  stain'd  as  his  will  be 

VVith  national  arxl  individual  woes  ? 
I  grant  his  household  abstinence  ;   I  grant 
His  neutral  virtues,  which  most  monarchs  want ; 

XLVI. 
"  T  know  he  was  a  constant  consort ;   own 

He  was  a  decent  sire,  and  middling  lord. 

11  this  is  much,  and  most  upon  a  throne ; 

As  temperance,  if  at  Apicius'  board, 
[s  more  than  at  an  anchorite's  supper  shown. 

^  grant  him  all  the  kindest  can  accord  ; 
And  this  was  well  for  him,  but  not  for  those 
Millions  who  found  him  what  oppression  chose. 

XLVII. 

The  nevs  world  shook  him  off ;   the  old  yet  groans 

Beneath  what  he  and  his  prepared,  if  not 
Completed :   he  leaves  heirs  on  many  thrones 

To  all  his  vices,  without  what  begot 
C  impassion  for  him — his  tame  virtues  ;   drones 

Who  sleep,  or  despots  who  have  now  forgot 
A  lesson  which  shall  be  re-taught  them,  wake 
Upon  the  throne  of  earth  ;   but  let  them  qi'.ake ! 

XLVIII. 
"  Five  millions  of  the  primitive,  who  hold 

Th'T  faith  which  makes  ye  great  on  earth,  implored 
A  part  of  tliat  vast  all  they  neld  of  <3ld, — 

Freedom  to  worship — not  alone  your  Lord, 
iVTichacl,  but  you,  and  you,  Sain't  Peter  !   Cold 

jMust  be  vom  «:ouIs,  if  you  have  not  abhorr'd 
The  foe  to  f  atholic  participation 
In  all  the  license  of  a  Chriscian  nation. 

XiJX. 
■*  True  !   ne  allow'd  them  to  pray  God  ;   but,  as 

A  conseauence  of  praver.  refusetl  the  law 
*\'iiicn  -Aould  nave  placed  mem  upon  the  same  base 

With  those  who  (lid"^iot  hold  the  saints  m  awe." 
But  here  Saint  Peter  started  from  his  place. 

And  cried,  "  You  may  the  prisoner  withdraw : 
Ere  Heaven  shall  ope  her  portals  to  this  Guelf, 
VViiile  1  am  guard,  may  I  be  damn'd  myself ! 

L. 

"  Sooner  will  I  with  Cerberus  exchange 

Mv  office    (and  his  is  no  sinecure) 
Than  see  this  royal  Bedlam  bigot  range 

The  azure  fields  of  heaven,  of  that  be  sure!" 
*  oaint!"  replied  Sathan,  "you  do  well  to  avencru 

The  wrongs  he  made  your  satellites  endure 
And  if  to  this  exchange  you  should  be  given, 
I  Ml  trv  to  coax  our  C'irberus  up  to  heaven  " 

LI. 

Ht.  "  Michael  interposed  :   "  Good  saint !    and  devil ! 

Prav,  not  so  fast ;  you  both  outrun  discretion. 
Saint  Peter  I   you  were  wont  to  be  more  civil  : 

Sathan  !   excuse  this  warmth  of  his  expression, 
And  condescension  to  the  vulgar's  level  : 

Even  saints  sometimes  forget  themselves  in  session. 
Have  vou  got  more  to  say  ?" — "  No  !" — "  If  you  please 
I  '|i  trouble  vou  to  call  your  witnesses." 

LU. 

'I  lun  Sathan  turn'd  and  waved  his  swarthy  hand, 

Which  stirr'd  with  its  electric  qualities 
Clouds  farther  off  than  we  can  understand. 

Although  wc  find  him  sometimes  in  our  skies  ; 
Iiifernal  thunder  shook  both  sea  and  land 

In  a!,  me  planets,  and  hell's  batteries 
Let  otF  the  artillery,  which  Milton  mentions 
As  one  of  Sathan's  most  sublime  inventions. 

Liir. 

This  was  a  si<<nai  unto  such  damn'd  souls 


As  have  the  privilege  of  t'reir  damnation 
Extended  far  btiyond  the  n^ere  controls 

Of  worlds  past,  present,  or  to  come  ;   no  st&ti(Mi 
Is  theirs  particularly  in  the  rolls 

Of  hell  assign'd  ;  but  where  their  inclination 
Or  business  carries  them  in  search  of  game, 
They  may  range  freely — being  damn'd  the  same 

LIV. 
They  are  proud  of  this — as  very  well  they  may, 

It  being  a  sort  of  knighthood,  or  gilt  key 
Stuck  in  their  loins ;   or  like  to  an  ''entree" 

Up  the  back  stairs,  or  such  free-masonry : 
I  borrow  my  comparisons  from  clay, 

Being  clay  myself.     Let  not  those  spirits  be 
Offendea  with  such  base  low  likenesses  ; 
We  know  their  posts  are  nobler  far  than  these. 

LV. 
When  the  great  signal  ran  from  heaven  to  hell, — 

About  ten  million  times  the  distance  reckon'd 
From  our  sun  to  its  earth,  as  we  can  tell 

How  much  time  it  takes  up,  even  to  a  second, 
For  every  ray  that  travels  to  dispel 

The  fogs  of  London  ;  thiough  which,  dimly  beacon'd. 
The  weathercocks  are  gilt.,  some  thrice  a  year. 
If  that  tlie  summer  is  not  too  severe : — 

LVI. 
I  say  that  I  can  tell — 't  was  half  a  minute; 

I  know  the  solar  beams  take  Uj)  more  time 
Ere,  pack'd  up  for  their  journey,  they  begin  it ; 

Biitthen  their  telegraph  is  less  sublime. 
And  if  thev  ran  a  race,  they  would  not  win  it 

'Gainst  Sathan's  courif.Ts  bound  for  their  own  climo. 
The  sun  takes  up  some  years  for  every  ray 
To  reach  its  goal — the  devil  not  half  a  day. 

LVH. 
Upon  the  verge  of  si)ace,  ai)out  the  size 

Of  half-a-crown,  a  little  speck  appeared 
(I  've  seen  a  something  like  it  in  the  skies 

In  the  iEgean,  ere  a  s(iuall)  ;   it  near'd. 
And,  growing  bigger,  took  another  guise  ; 

Like  an  aerial  ship  it  tack'd,  and  steer'd 
Or  was  steer'd   (I  am  doubiful  of  the  grammar 
Of  the  last  phrase,  which  makes  the  stanza  stammer  ;— 

LVIII. 
But  take  your  choice)  ;   and  then  it  grew  a  cloud, 

And  so  it  was — a  cloud  of  witnesses. 
But  such  a  cloud  !     No  land  e'er  saw  a  crowd 

Of  locusts  numerous  as  the  heaven  saw  these ; 
They  shadow'd  with  their  myriads  space ;  then  loud 

And  varied  cries  were  like  those  of  wild-geese 
(If  nations  may  be  likcn'd  to  a  goose). 
And  realized  the  phrase  of  "  hell  broke  loose." 

LIX. 
Here  crash'd  a  sturdy  oath  of  stout  John  Ruil, 

Who  damn'd  away  his  eyes  as  heretofore : 
There  Paddy  brogued  "by  Jasus!"  "What's  vour  wull?" 

The  temperate  Scot  exclaim'd:  the  French  ghost  swora 
In  certain  terms  I  sha'nt  translate  in  hill, 

As  the  first  coachman  will ;   and  'midst  the  war 
The  voice  of  Jonathan  was  heard  to  express, 
"  Our  President  is  going  t<j  war,  I  guess." 

LX. 
Besides  there  were  the  Spaniard,  Dutch,  an^l  D»ne} 

In  short  an  universal  shoal  of  shades 
From  Otaheite's  Isle  to  Salisbury  Plain, 

Of  all  climes  and  professions,  years  and  trades. 
Ready  to  swear  against  the  good  k.ng's  reign. 
Bitter  as  clubs  in  cards  are  against  spades  . 
All  summon'd  by  this  grand  "subpoena,"   to 
Try  if  kings  may  n't  be  damn'd  like  me  or  vou. 


THE    VISION    OF    JUDG^iENT. 


81 


LXI. 

When  Michae.  saw  this  host,  he  first  grew  pale. 

As  angt'ls  can  ;   next,  like  ItaUan  twihght, 
He  turn'd  all  colours — as  a  peacock's  tail, 

Or  sunset  streaming  through  a  Gothic  skylight 
!n  some  old  abbey,  or  a  trout  not  stale. 

Or  distant  lightning  on  the  horizon  by  night, 
a  fresh  rainbow,  or  a  grand  review 
Of  thir'.y  reginienta  in  red,  green,  and  blue. 

LXII. 
Then  he  address'd  himself  to  Sathan  :   "  Why — 

My  good  old  friend,  for  such  I  deem  you,  though 
Our  dlrfer  ;nt  parties  make  us  fight  so  shy, 

I  ne'er  mistake  you  for  a  perso>ial  foe  ; 
Our  ditference  is  political,  and  I 

Trust  that,  whatever  may  occur  below, 
Vou  know  my  great  respect  for  you  ;   and  this    . 
Makes  me  regret  whate'er  you  do  amiss — 

LXIII. 
"  Why,  my  dear  Lucifer,  would  you  abuse 

My  call  for  witnesses  ?     I  did  not  mean 
That  you  should  half  of  earth  and  hell  produce ; 

'T  is  even  superfluous,  since  two  honest,  clear 
True  testimonies  are  enough  :   we  lose 

Our  time,  nay,  our  eternity,  between 
The  accusation  and  defence :   if  we 
Hear  both,  'twill  stretch  our  immortality." 

LXIV. 
Sathan  rephed,  "  To  me  the  matter  is 

Indifferent,  in  a  personal  point  of  view: 
[  car.  have  fifty  better  souls  than  this 

With  far  less  trouble  than  we  have  gone  through 
Already  ;    and  I  merely  argued  his 

Late  Majesty  of  Britahi's  case  with  you 
rjpon  a  point  of  form :   you  may  dispose 
'  I  f  hii  1  ;  I  've  kings  enoueh  below,  God  knows .'" 

LXV. 
I'hus  spoke  the  demon  (late  call'd  "  multi- faced'* 

By  multo-scribbling  Southey).     "  Then  we  '11  call 
One  or  two  persons  of  the  myriads  placed 

Around  our  congress,  and  dispense  with  all 
The  rest,"  quoth  Michael :  "  Who  may  be  so  graced 

As  to  speak  first  ?  there  's  choice  enough — who  shall 
If  be  ?"    Then  Sathan  answer'd,  "  There  are  many  ; 
But  you  may  choose  Jack  Wilkes  as  well  as  any." 

\.  merry,  cock-eyed,  curious  looking  sprite 

Upon  die  instant  started  from  the  throng, 
Dress'd  in  a  fashion  now  forgotten  quite  ; 

For  all  the  fashions  of  the  flesh  stick  long 
By  people  in  the  next  world  ;   where  unite 

All  the  costumes  since  Adam's  right  or  wrong. 
From  Eve's  fig-leaf  down  to  the  petticoat. 
Almost  as  scanty,  of  days  less  remote. 

LXVII. 
The  spirit  look'd  around  upon  the  crowds 

Ass  imbled,  and  exciaim'd,  "  My  friends  of  aH 
The  spheres,  we  shall  catch  cold  amongst  these  clouds  ; 

So  let 's  to  business  :   why  this  general  call  ? 
If  those  are  freeholders  I  see  in  shrouds, 

And  't  is  for  an  election  that  they  bawl, 
Brhold  a  candidate  with  unturn'd-coat ! 
S  liiit  Peter,  may  1  count  upon  your  vote  ?" 

LXVIII. 
»*  Sir  "  replied  Michael,  "  you  mistake  :   these  things 

Are  of  a  former  hfe,  and  what  we  do 
Above  IS  more  august ;   to  judge  of  kings 

Is  the  tribunal  met ;   so  now  you  know." 
"  Then  I  presume  those  gentlemen  with  wings," 

Said  Wilkes,  "  are  cherubs  ;   and  that  soul  below 
t-noks  much  like  George  the  Third ;   but  to  my  mind 
A  good  deal  o.uer — Bless  me  I   is  he  blind  ?"  " 


LXIX. 

"  He  is  what  you  behold  lam,  aod  lis  doom 
Depends  upo'  his  deeds,"  the  angel  said. 

"  If  you  have  aighl  to  arraign  in  hiin,  the  toma 
Gives  license  to  the  humblest  beggar's  heao 

To  lift  itself  aga  nst  the  loftiest." — "  Some," 

Said  Wilkes,  "  don't  wait  to  see  them  laid  in  knd, 

For  such  a  libert^r — and  I,  for  one. 

Have  told  them  what  I  thought  beneath  the  sun." 

LXX. 

*  Above  the  sun  repeat,  then,  what  thou  hast 
To  urge  against  him,"  said  the  archangel.    "  Why  * 

Replied  the  spirit,  "*  since  old  scores  are  past. 
Must  I  turn  evidence  ?  In  faith,  not  I 

Besides,  I  beat  him  hollow  at  the  last, 

With  all  his  Lords  and  Commons  :   in  the  sky 

I  don't  like  ripping  up  old  stories,  since 

His  conduct  was  but  natural  in  a  prince. 

LXXI. 

'*  Foolish,  no  doubt,  and  wicked,  to  oppress 
A  poor  unlucky  devil  without  a  shilling ; 

But  then  I  blame  the  man  himself  much  less 
Than  Bute  and  Grafton,  and  shall  be  unwilling 

To  see  him  punish'd  here  for  their  excess. 

Since  they  were  both  damn'd  long  ago,  and  still  m 

Their  place  below ;   for  me,  I  have  forgiven. 

And  vote  his  '  habeas  corpus'  into  heaven  " 

LXXII. 

"  Wilkes,"  said  the  devil,  '■'■  I  understand  all  thji ; 

You  turn'd  to  half  a  courtier  ere  you  iied, 
And  seem  to  think  it  would  not  be  amiss 

To  grow  a  vn  hole  one  on  the  other  side 
Of  Charon's  ferry  ;   you  forget  that  his 

Reign  is  concluded  ;   whatsoe'er  betide. 
He  won't  be  sovereign  more  :   you  've  lost  your  labour 
For  at  the  best  he  will  but  be  your  neighbour. 

LXXIII. 

"  However,  I  knew  what  to  think  of  it, 
W^hen  I  beheld  you,  in  your  jesting  way. 

Flitting  and  whispering  round  about  the  spit 
Where  Belial,  upon  duty  for  the  day, 

With  Fox's  lard  was  basting  William  Pitt, 
His  pupil ;   I  knew  what  to  think,  I  say : 

Th-at  fellow  even  in  hell  breeds  fiirthcr  ills  ; 

I  '11  have  him  gagged — 't  was  one  of  his  own  bills. 

LXXIV. 

"  Call  Junius !"  From  the  crowd  a  shadow  gtalk'd, 

And  at  the  name  there  was  a  general  squeeze, 
So  that  the  very  ghosts  no  longer  walk'd 

In  comfort,  at  their  own  aerial  ease. 
But  were  all  ramm'd,  and  jamm'd  (but  to  be  balk'd, 

As  we  shall  see)  and  jostled  hands  and  knees. 
Like  wind  compress'd  and  pent  within  a  bladder, 
Or  like  a  human  colic,  which  is  sadder. 

LXXV. 
The  shadow  came !   a  tall,  thin,  gray-hair'd  figurft. 

That  look'd  as  it  had  been  a  shade  on  earth ; 
Quick  in  its  motions,  with  an  air  of  vigour. 

But  nought  to  mark  its  breeding  or  its  birth* 
Now  it  wax'd  httle,  then  again  grew  bigger. 

With  now  an  air  of  gloom,  or  savaaje  mirtl. 
But  as  you  gazed  upon  its  features,  they 
Changed  every  instant — to  7chat  none  could  saf. 

LXXVI. 
The  more  intently  the  ghosts  gazed,  the  less 

Could  they  distinguish  whose  the  features  were, 
The  devil  himself  seem'd  puzz'ed  even  to  guess ; 

They  varied  like  a  dream — now  here  now  the*« 


82 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORK??. 


And  several  people  swore  from  out  the  press. 

They  knew  him  perfectly  :   and  one  could  swear 
He  was  his  father  ;   upon  v^hich  another 
Was  sure  he  was  his  mother's  cousin's  brother  : 

LXXVII. 
Another,  that  he  was  a  dul<e,  or  knight, 

An  orator,  a  lawyer,  or  a  pnesl, 
A  nabob,  a  man-midwife  ;   but  the  wight 

Mysterious  changed  his  countenance  at  least 
As  oft  as  they  their  minds :   though  in  full  sight 

He  stood,  the  puzzle  only  was  increased  ; 
The  man  was  a  phautastnagoria  m 
Hnnself — he  was  so  volatile  and  thin  ! 

LXXVIII. 
I'he  moment  that  you  had  pronounced  him  one. 

Presto  !   his  tace  changed,  and  he  was  another ; 
And  when  that  change  was  hardly  well  put  on. 

It  varied,  till  I  don't  think  his  own  mother 
(If  that  he  had  a  mother)  would  her  son 

Have  known,  he  shifted  so  from  one  to  t'  other, 
Till  guessing  from  a  pleasure  grew  a  task, 
At  this  epistolary  "  iron  mask." 
LXXIX. 
Ii'or  sometimes  he  like  Cerberus  would  seem — 
"  Three  gentlemen  at  once  "   (as  sagely  says 
Good  r>lrs.  Malaprop)  ;   then  you  might  deem 
That  he  was  not  even  one;  now  many  rays 
VVere  flashing  round  him ;   and  now  a  thick  steam 
Hid  him  from  sight — like  fogs  on  London  days: 
Now  Burke,  now  Tooke,  he  grew  to  people's  fancies. 
And  certes  often  like  Sir  Phihp  Francis. 

LXXX. 
[  've  an  hypothesis — 't  is  quite  my  own ; 

I  never  let  it  out  till  now,  for  fear 
Of  doinsr  people  harm  about  the  throne, 

And  inniring  some  minister  or  peer 
On  whom  the  stigma  might  perhaps  be  blown  ; 

It  is — my  gentle  pubhc,  lend  thine  ear  ! 
T  is,  that  what  Junius  we  are  wont  to  call, 
Was  real! I/,  truly,  nobody  at  all. 
LXXXI 
1  don't  see  wherefore  letters  should  not  be 

Written  without  hands,  since  we  daily  view 
Them  written  without  heads  ;   and  books  we  see 

Are  fill'd  as  well  without  the  latter  too ; 
And  really,  till  we  fix  on  somel)ody 

For  certain  sure  to  claim  them  as  his  due. 
Their  autrior,  hke  the  Niger's  mouth,  will  bother 
The  world  to  say  if  there  be  mouth  or  author. 

LXXXII. 
"  And  who  and  what  art  thou  ?"  the  archangel  said. 

"  For  that,  you  may  consult  my  title-page," 
Replied  this  mighty  shadow  of  a  shade  : 

"  If  I  have  kept  my  secret  half  an  age, 
I  scarce  shall  tell  it  now." — "Canst  thou  upbraid," 
Continued  Michael,  "  George  Rex,  or  allege 
ught  further  ?"  Junius  answer'd,  "You  had  better 
Fiist  ask  him  for  his  answer  to  my  letter. 

LXXXIII. 
■'  My  cnarges  upon  record  will  outlast 

The  brass  of  both  his  epita|)h  and  tomb." 
"Repent'st  thou  not,"  said  Michael,  "of  some  past 

Exaggeration?   something  which  may  doom 
Tliyself  if  false,  as  nim  if  true  ?    Thou  wast 

Too  bitter — is  it  not  so  ?   in  thy  gloom 
Of  passion  ?"  "  Passion  !"  cried  the  phantom  dim, 
'  I  'oved  my  country,  and  I  hafe<l   him. 

LXXXIV. 
'  Wnat  I  have  written,  I  hav<;  written  :   let 

The  rest  be  on  his  head  or  mine  !"  So  spoke 
!)\i\  "noiii.iiis  nml)ra;"  and,  while  speaking  yet, 
A'vay  he  mt'"e(l  in  celestial  smoke. 


Then  Sathan  sakl  to  Michael,  "  Don't  forget 

To  call  George  Washington,  and  John  Home  Took*, 
And  Franklin  :'' — but  at  this  time  there  was  heard 
A  cry  for  room,  though  not  a  phantom  stirr'cL 

LXXXV. 

At  length,  with  jostling,  elbowing,  and  the  aid 

Of  cherubim  appointed  to  that  post. 
The  devil  Asmodeu.-'  to  the  circle  made 

His  way,  and  look'd  as  if  his  journey  cost 
Some  trouble.     When  his  burden  down  he  laid, 

"  W^hat 's  this  ■/"  cried  Michael,   "why,  'tis  no 
ghost!" 
"  I  know  it,"  quoth  the  incubus  ;   "but  he 
Shall  be  one,  if  you  leave  the  affair  to  me. 

LXXXVI. 
"  Confound  the  renegado  !   I  have  sprain'd 

My  left  whig,  he  's  so  heavy  ;   one  would  think 
S  me  of  his  works  about  his  neck  were  chain'd. 

But  to  the  point :    while  hovering  o'er  the  brink 
Of  Skiddaw  (where,  as  usual,  it  still  rain'd), 

I  saw  a  taper  far  below  me  wink. 
And,  stooping,  caught  this  fellow  at  a  libel — 
No  less  on  history  than  the  holy  bible. 

LXXXVII. 
"  The  former  is  the  devil's  scrijjture,  and 

The  latter  yours,  good  Michael ;   so  the  affair 
Belongs  to  ail  of  us,  you  understand. 

I  snatch'd  him  up  just  as  you  see  him  there, 
And  brought  him  off  for  sentence  out  of  hand  : 

I  've  scarcely  been  ten  minutes  in  the  air — 
At  least  a  quarter  it  can  hardly  be  : 
I  dare  say  that  his  wife  is  still  at  tea." 

LXXXYIII. 
Here  Sathan  said,  "  I  know  this  man  of  ola. 

And  have  expected  him  for  some  lime  here ; 
A  sillier  fellow  you  will  scarce  behold. 

Or  more  conceited  ui  his  petty  s[)here : 
But  surely  it  was  not  worth  while  to  fold 

Such  trash  below  your  wing,  Asmodous  dear ! 
We  had  the  poor  wretch  siife  (without  being  bored 
With  carriage)  connng  of  his  own  accord. 

LXXXIX. 

"  But  since  he  's  here,  let 's  see  what  he  has  done." 
"  Done!"  cried  Asmodeus,  "  he  anticipates 

The  very  business  you  are  now  ujion. 

And  scribbles  as  if  head  clerk  to  the  Fates. 

Who  knows  to  what  his  ribaldry  may  run. 

When  such  an  ass  as  this,  like  Balaam's,  prates  7'' 

"Let 's  hear,"  quoth  Michael,  "  what  he  has  to  say  , 

You  know  we  're  bound  to  that  in  every  way  !" 

XC. 

Now  the  bard,  glad  to  get  an  audience,  which 
By  no  means  often  was  his  case  below, 

Began  to  cough,  and  hawk,  and  hem,  and  pitch 
His  voice  into  that  awful  note  of  woe 

To  all  unhappy  hearers  within  reach 

Of  poets  when  the  tide  of  rhyme  's  in  flow  ; 

But  stuck  fast  with  his  first  hexameter, 

Noi  one  of  all  whose  gouty  feet  would  stir. 

XCL 

But  ere  the  spavin'd  dactyls  could  be  spurr'd 

Into  recitative,  in  great  dismay 
Both  cherubim  and  seraphim  were  heard 

To  murmur  loudly  througli  their  long  array; 
And  Michael  rose  ere  he  could  get  a  word 

Of  all  his  founder'd  verses  under  way, 
And  cried,  "  For  God's  sake  stop,  my  fneiiJ  !   'f  wore 

best — 
*  Non  diy  win  homines, — '  you  know  the  rest." 


THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


88 


XCII. 

A  general  .lustle  spread  tliroughout  the  throng, 

Which  seeiu'd  lo  hold  all  verse  in  detestation  ; 
The  angels  had  of  course  enough  of  song 

When  upon  service ;   and  the  generation 
Of  ghosts  had  heard  too  much  in  life,  not  long 

Betijre,  to  prolit  by  a  new  occasion  ; 
The  monarch,  mute  till  then,  exclaim'd  "What !  what ! 
Pyf  come  again  1  No  more — no  more  of  that!" 

XCIII. 
The  tumult  grew,  an  universal  cough 

Convulsed  the  skies,  as  during  a  debate, 
W^hen  Castlereagh  has  been  up  long  enough 

(Before  he  was  first  minister  of  stale, 
jnean — the  sUwcx  hear  now)^  some  cried  "  off,  off," 

As  at  a  farce  ;   till,  grown  quite  desperate, 
The  bard  Saint  Peter  pray'd  to  interpose 
(Himself  an  author)  only  for  his  prose. 

XCIV. 
The  varlet  was  not  an  ill-favour'd  knave  ; 

A  good  deal  like  a  vuhure  in  tiie  face. 
With  a  hook  nose  and  a  hawk's  eye,  which  gave 

A  smart  and  sharper  lookmg  sort  of  grace 
To  his  whole  aspect,  which,  though  rather  grave. 

Was  by  no  means  so  ugly  as  his  case  ; 
But  that  indeed  was  hopeless  as  can  be, 
Quite  a  poetic  felony,  "  de  se." 

xcv 

Then  Michael  blew  his  trump,  and  still'd  the  noise 

With  one  still  greater,  as  is  yet  the  mode 
On  earth  besides  ;   except  some  grumbling  voice, 

Which  now  and  then  will  make  a  slight  inroad 
Upon  o.?corous  silence,  few  will  twice 

Lilt  up  their  lungs  when  fairly  overcrow'd  ; 
An  i  now  the  bard  could  plead  his  own  bad  cause. 
With  aU  the  attitudes  of  self-applause 

XCVi. 
He  said — (I  only  give  the  heads) — he  said. 

He  meant  no  harm  in  scribbling  ;   't  was  his  way 
Upon  all  topics  ;   't  was,  besides,  his  bread. 

Of  which  he  butter'd  both  sides  ;   't  would  delay 
Too  long  the  assembly  (he  was  pleased  lo  dread). 

And  take  up  rather  more  lime  than  a  day. 
To  name  his  works — he  would  but  cite  a  few — 
Wat  Tyler — rhymes  on  Blenheim — Waterloo. 

XCVII. 

I  [e  had  written  praises  of  a  regicide  ; 

He  had  written  praises  of  all  kings  whatever; 
He  had  written  tor  republics,  far  and  wide. 

And  then  against  them,  bitterer  than  ever ; 
For  pantisointjy  he  once  had  cried 

Aloud,  a  scheme  less  moral  than  't  was   clever ; 
Then  grew  a  hearty  ami  -jacobin — 
Had  turn'd  his  coat — and  would  have  turn'd  his  skin. 

xcvin. 

He  had  sung  against  all  battles,  and  again 
In  their  high  praise  and  glory ;   he  had  call'd 

Reviewing'  "the  ungentle  craft,"  and  then 
Become  as  base  a  critic  as  e'er  crawl'd — 

Fed,  paid,  and  pamper'd  by  the  very  men 

By  whom  his  muse  and  morals  had  been  maul'd  : 

He  had  written  much  blank  verse,  and  blanker  prose, 

And  more  of  both  than  any  body  knows. 

XCIX. 

He  had  written  Wesley's  life: — here,  turning  round 
To  Sathan,  "  Sir,  I  'm  ready  to  write  yours. 

In  two  octavo  volumes,  nicely  bound, 

Witn  notes  an  1  preface,  all  that  most  allures 

1  Sef  "  Life  of  H.  Kirke  White  " 


The  pious  purcnaser  ;   and  there  's  no  ground 

For  fear,  for  I  can  choose  my  own  reviewers; 
So  let  me  have  the  pro|>er  documents. 
That  I  may  add  you  to  my  other  saints." 

C. 

Sathan  bow'd,  and  was  silent.   "  Well,  if  you. 

With  amiable  modesty,  dechne 
My  offer,  what  sa^s  Michael?   There  are  few 

\N  hose  memoirs  could  be  reiider'd  more  divine. 
INLne  is  a  pen  of  all  work  ;   not  so  new 

As  it  was  once,  but  I  would  make  you  shine 
Like  your  own  trumpet ;  by  the  way,  my  own 
Has  more  brass  in  it,  and  is  as  well  blown. 

CL 

"  But  talking  about  trumpets,  here  s  my  Vision ! 

Now  you  shad  judge,  all  people ;   yes,  you  shall 
Judge  with  my  judgment,  and  by  my  decision 

Be  guided  wno  shall  enter  heaven  or  fall ! 
£  settle  all  these  things  by  intuition. 

Times  present,  past,  to  come,  heaven,  hell,  and  all 
Like  King  Alfonso  !  '   When  I  tnus  see  double, 
I  save  the  deity  some  worlds  of  trouble." 

cn. 

He  ceased,  and  drew  fortn  an  MS.  :   and  no 
Persuasion  on  the  part  of  devils,  or  saints. 

Or  angels,  now  could  slop  the  torrent ;   so 
He  read  the  first  three  lines  of  the  contents; 

Bui  at  the  fourth,  the  whole  spiritual  show 
Had  vanish'd  with  variety  of  scents. 

Ambrosial  and  sulphureous,  as  thev  sprang. 

Like  Ughtning,  off  from  his  "  melodious  twang.'  > 

cm. 

Those  grand  heroics  acted  as  a  spell : 

The  angels  slopp'd  their  ears,  and  plied  their  piniona 
The  devils  ran  howling,  deafen'd,  down  to  hell ; 

The  ghosts  ried,  gibbering,  for  their  own  dominiona 
(For  't  is  not  yet  decided  where  liiey  dwell, 

And  I  leave  every  man  lo  his  opinions)  ; 
Michael  look  refuge  in  his  trump — but  lo  ! 
His  teeth  were  set  on  edge, — he  could  not  blow ' 

CIV. 

Saint  Peter,  who  has  hitherto  been  known 
For  an  impetuous  saint,  upraised  his  keys. 

And  at  the  fifth  line  knock'd  the  poet  down  ; 
Who  fell  hke  Phaeton,  but  more  al  ease. 

Into  his  lake,  for  there  he  did  not  drown, 
A  different  web  being  by  the  destinies 

Woven  fiir  the  Laureate's  final  wreath,  whene'er 

Reform  shall  happen  either  here  or  there. 

i  CV. 

He  nrst  sunk  lo  the  bottom — like  his  works, 
I        But  soon  rose  lo  the  surface — like  himself: 
I   For  ail  corrupted  things  are  buoy'd,  like  corks,' 
'        By  their  own  rottenness,  light  as  an  elf. 

Or  wisp  that  flits  o'er  a  morass :   he  lurks, 
It  may  be,  still,  like  dull  books  on  a  shelf, 

In  his  own  den,  to  scrawl  some  "  Life"  or  "  Vision, 

As  Welborn  says — "the  devil  turn'd  precisian." 


1  King  Aifonzo,  speakins;  of  the  rtolomean  systPin,  gaid, 
that  "hjui  he  been  coiisultfcl  at  tiie  creHtion  of  the  woilii,  ha 
would  have  spared  the  Makei  some  id.surditios." 

-  See  Auf)rey's  account  of  the  apparition  which  disap 
peared  "  with  a  curious  perfume  and  a  melodious  ttvang;' 
or  see  the  Antiquary,  vol.  I. 

3  A  drowned  body  lies  at  the  bottom  till  rotten ;  it  thw 
floats,  as  most  people  know. 


84 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


CVI. 

As  for  the  rest,  to  come  to  the  conclusion 
Of  this  true  dream,  the  telescope  is  gone 

H'hich  kept  my  optics  free  from  all  delusion 

And  show'd  me  what  I  in  my  turn  have  shown : 

A.1!  I  saw  further  in  the  last  confusion. 
Was,  that  King  George  slipp'd  into- heaven  for  one  ; 

And  when  the  tumult  dwindled  to  a  calm, 
ieft  Qim  practising  the  hundredth  psalm 


S^alt?; 


AN  APOSTROPHIO    HYJVTN. 


Quails  in  Eurotse  ripis,  aut  per  juga  Cynthi, 
Exercet  Diana  choros.  VIRGIL. 

Such  on  Eurota's  banks,  or  Cynthia's  height, 
Diana  seems:  and  so  ane  charms  the  sight, 
When  in  the  dance  the  graceful  goddess  leads 
The  quire  of  nymj  ha,  and  overtops  tlioir  heads. 

DRYDEN'S  VIRGIL 


TO  THE  PUBLISHER. 


Sir, 

1  AM  a  country  gentleman  of  a  midland  county.  I 
might  have  been  a  parliament-man  for  a  certain  bo- 
rough, having  had  the  offer  of  as  many  votes  as 
General  T.  at  the  general  election  in  1812.'  But  1 
was  all  for  domestic  happiness  ;  as,  fifteen  years  ago, 
on  a  visit  to  London,  I  married  a  middle-aged  maid 
of  honour.  We  lived  happily  at  Hornem  Hall  till 
last  season,  when  my  wife  and  I  were  invited  by  the 
Countess  ofWaltzaway  (a  distant  relation  of mv spouse) 
to  pass  the  winter  in  town.  Thinking  no  harm,  and 
our  girls  being  come  to  a  marriageable  (or  as  they  call 
it,  markp.lable)  age,  and  having  besides  a  chancery  suit 
invelerately  entailed  upon  the  family  estate,  we  came 
up  in  our  old  chariot,  of  which,  by  the  by,  my  wife 
grew  so  much  ashanicil  in  less  than  a  week,  that  I  was 
obliged  to  buv  a  second-hand  barouche,  of  which  I 
might  mount  the  box,  Mrs.  H.  says,  if  I  could  drive, 
but  never  see  thfj  inside — that  j)lace  being  reserved 
£br  the  Honourable  Augustus  Tiptoe,  her  partner. 
j^neral  and  opera-knight.  Hearing  great  praises  of 
Mrs.  H.'s  dancing  (she  was  famous  for  birth-night  min- 
uets in  tJK;  latter  end  of  the  last  century),  I  unbooted, 
£.nd  went  to  a  bail  at  the  Countess's,  expecting  to   see 

country  dance,  or,  at  most,  cotilloin,  reels,  and  all 
tlie  old  paces  to  the  newest  tunes.  Hut,  judge  of  my 
surprise,  on  arriving,  to  see  poor  dear  Mrs.  Hornem 
with  her  arms  half  round  the  loms  of  a  huge  hussar- 
looking  gentleman  I  never  set  eyes  on  before  j  and  his, 


to  say  truth,  rather  .more  than  half  round  her  W3is'. 
turning  round,  and  round,  and  round,  to  a  J d  see- 
saw up  and  down  sort  of  tune,  that  reminded  me  of 
the  "black  joke,"  only  more  '■'■  ojful.tuoso,''''  till  it  made 
me  quite  giddy  with  wondering  they  were  not  so.  By 
and  by  they  stopped  a  bit,  and  I  thought  they  would 
sit  or  fall  down : — but,  no  ;  with  Mrs.  H.'s  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  '■'■  quam  familiariter^^^  (as  Terence  said  when 
I  was  at  school),  ihey  walked  about  a  minute,  and  then 
at  it  again,  like  two  cock-chafers  spitted  on  the  same 
bodkin.  I  asked  what  all  this  meant,  when,  with  a 
loud  laugh,  a  child  no  older  than  our  Wilhelmina  (a 
name  I  never  heard  but  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
though  her  motht3r  would  call  her  after  the  Princess 
of  Swappenbach),  said,  "  Lord,  Mr.  Hornem,  can  t  vou 
see  they  are  vallzing,"  or  waltzing  (I  forget  which);  and 
then  up  she  got,  and  her  mother  and  sister,  and  away 
they  went,  and  round-abouted  it  till  supper-time.  Now 
that  I  know  what  it  is,  I  like  it  of  all  things,  and  so 
does  Mrs.  H.  (though  I  have  broken  my  shins,  and  four 
times  overturned  Mrs.  Hornem's  maid  in  practising  the 
prehminary  steps  in  the  morning).  Indeed,  so  much  do 
I  like  it,  that  having  a  turn  for  rhyme,  tastily  displayed 
in  some  election  ballads,  and  songs  in  honour  of  all  the 
victories  (but  till  lately  I  have  had  little  practice  hi  that 
way),  I  sat  down,  and  with  the  aid  of  W.  F.  Esq.,  and 
a  few  hints  from  Dr.  B.  (whose  recitations  I  attend,  and 
am  monstrous  fond  of  Master  B.'s  manner  of  delivering 
his  father's  late  successful  D.  L.  address),  I  composed 
the  following  hymn,  wherewithal  to  make  my  senti- 
ments known  to  the  public,  whom,  nevertheless,  ! 
heartily  despise  as  well  as  the  critics. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  etc.,  etc. 

HORACE  HORNEM, 


WALTZ. 


Muse  of  the  many-twinkling  feet !'  whose  channa 
Are  now  extended  up  from  legs  to  arms  ; 
Terpsichore  !-  -too  long  misdeem'd  a  maid — 
Reproachful  term — bestow'd  but  to  upbraid — 
Henceforth  in  all  the  bronze  of  brightwess  shine, 
The  least  a  vestal  of  the  virgin  Nine. 
Far  be  from  thee  and  thine  the  name  of  prude ; 
Mock'd,  yet  triumphant ;   sneer'd  at,  unsubdued  ; 
Thy  legs  must  move  to  conquer  as  they  fly. 
If  but  thy  coats  are  reasonably  high ; 
Thy  breast — if  bare  enough — requires  no  shield  ; 
Dance  forth — .tans  armour  thou  shalt  take  the  field, 
And  own — impregnable  to  most,  assaults. 
Thy  not  too  lawfully  begotten  "  Waltz." 

Hail,  nimble  nymph !  to  whom  the  young  hussar, 
The  whisker'd  votary  of  waltz  and  war — 
His  night  devotes,  despite  of  spur  and  boots, 
A  sight  unmatch'd  since  Orpheus  and  liis  brutes  : 
Hail,  spirit-stirring  Waltr  ! — beneath  whose  bannera 
A  modern  hero  fought  for  modish  manners  ; 


WALTZ. 


86 


On  H«.imslow's  heath  to  rival  Wellesiey's  *  fame, 

Cock'ti  -fired— ami  iniss'd  his  man— but  gain'd  his  aim 

Hail,  moving  muse  !   to  whom  the  fair  one's  breast 

Gives  all  it  can,  and  bids  us  take  the  rest. 

Oh !   for  the  tlow  of  Busby,  or  of  Fitz, 

The  hitter's  loyalty,  the  former's  wits. 

To  ''  energize  the  object  I  pursue," 

And  give  both  Belial  and  his  dance  their  due ! — 

Imperial  Waltz  !   imported  from  the  Rhine 
(Famed  for  the  growth  of  pedigrees  and  wine), 
Long  be  thine  import  from  all  duty  free, 
And  hock  itself  be  less  esteem'd  than  thee 
In  some  few  qualities  alike — for  hock 
Improves  our  cellar — !hou  our  living  stock. 
The  head  to  hock  belongs— thy  subtler  art 
Intoxicates  alone  the  heedless  heart : 
Through  the  full  veins  thy  gentler  poison  swims, 
And  wakes  to  wantonness  the  willing  limbs. 

Oh,  Gcrmanv  !   how  much  to  thee  we  owe, 
As  heaven-born  Pitt  can  testify  below  ; 
Ere  cursed  confederation  made  thee  France's, 

And  only  left  us  thy  d d  debts  and  dances  ; 

Of  subsidies  and  Hanover  bereft, 

We  bless  thee,  still — for  George  the  Third  is  left ! 

Of  kings  the  best — and  last,  not  least  in  worth. 

For  graciously  begetting  George  the  Fourth. 

To  Germany,  and  highnesses  serene, 

Who  owe  us  millions — don't  we  owe  the  queen  ? 

To  Germany,  what  owe  we  not  besides  ? 

So  oft  bestowing  Brunswickers  and  brides  ; 

Who  paid  for  vulgar,  with  her  royal  blood, 

Drawn  from  the  stem  of  each  Teutonic  stud  : 

Who  sent  us — so  be  pardon'd  all  her  faults — 

A  dozc'i  dukes — some  kings — a  queen — and  Waltz. 

But  peace  to  her — her  emperor  and  diet. 
Though  now  ti-ansferr'd  to  Buonaparte's  "fiat;" 
Back  to  my  theme — O  Muse  of  motion !   say, 
How  first  to  Albion  found  thy  Waltz  her  way  ? 

Borne  on  the  breath  of  hyperborean  gales. 
From  Hamburg's  port  (while  Hamburg  yet  had  7?iails] 
Ere  yet  unlucky  fame — compell'd  to  creep 
To  snowy  Gottenburg — was  chill'd  to  sleep  ; 
Or   starting  from  her  slumbers,  deign'd  arise, 
Heligoland  !   to  stock  thy  mart  with  lies  ; 
Wh'rie  unburnt  Moscow  *  yet  had  news  to  send, 
Nor  owed  her  fiery  exit  to  a  friend. 
She  came — Waltz  came— and  with  her  certain  sets 
Of  true  despatches,  and  as  true  gazettes  ; 
Then  fiamed  of  Austerlitz  the  blest  despatch. 
Which  Monileur  nor  Morning  Post  can  match ; 
And — almost  crusti'd  beneath  the  glorious  news — 
Ten  plays,  and  forty  tales  of  Kotzebue's  ; 
One  envoy's  letters,  six  composers'  airs. 
And  loads  from  Frankfort  and  from  Leipsic  fairs  ; 
Meiners  four  volumes  upon  womankind. 
Like  Laj)land  witches  to  insure  a  wind  ; 
Brunck's  heaviest  tome  for  ballast,  and  to  back  it. 
Of  Heyne,  such  as  should  not  sink  the  packet. 
Fraught  with  this  cargo— and  her  fairest  freight. 
Delightful  Waltz,  on  tiptoe  for  a  mate. 
The  welcome  vessel  reach'd  the  genial  strand, 
And  round  her  flock'd  the  daughters  of  the  land. 
Not  decent  David,  when,  before  the  ark. 
His  grand  pas-seul  excited  some  remark ; 
Not  love-iorn  Quixote,  when  his  Sancho  thought 
The  knight's  fandango  friskier  than  it  ought 
Not  soft  Herodias,  when  with  winning  tread 
Her  nimble  feet  danced  otf  another's  head ; 
Not  Cleopatra  on  her  galley's  deck, 
Display'd  S3  much  of  If.g,  or  more  of  neck 


Than  thou,  ambrosial  Waltz,  when  f  rst  the  mooa 

Beheld  thee  twirling  to  a  Saxon  tune  ! 

To  you — ye  husbands  of  ten  years  !   whose  brows 

Ache  with  the  annual  tributes  of  a  spouse  ; 

To  you  of  nine  years  less — who  only  bear 

The  budding  sprouts  of  those  that  yci  shall  wear. 

With  adiled  ornaments  around  them  :oll'd, 

Of  native  brass,  or  law-awarded  gold  ; 

To  yon,  ye  matrons,  ever  on  the  watch 

To  mar  a  son's,  or  make  a  daughter's  match  ! 

To  you,  ye  children  of — whom  chance  accords- 

Alwdi^s  the  ladies,  and  sometimes  their  lords  ; 

To  you — ye  single  gentlemen  ;  who  seek 

Torments  for  life,  or  pleasures  for  a  week ; 

As  Love  or  Hymen  your  endeavours  guide. 

To  gain  your  own,  or  snatch  another's  bride ; 

To  one  and  all  the  lovely  stranger  came. 

And  every  ball-room  echoes  with  her  name. 

Endearing  Waltz — to  thy  more  melting  tune 
Bow,  Irish  jig,  and  ancient  rigadoon  ; 
Scotch  reels,  avaunt !   and  country-dance,  forego 
Your  future  claims  to  each  fantastic  toe ; 
Waltz — Waltz  alone — both  legs  and  arms  demands. 
Liberal  of  feet,  and  lavish  of  her  hands  ; 
Hands  which  may  freely  range  in  public  sight 
Where  ne'er  before — but — pray   "  put  out  the  light." 
Methinks  the  glare  of  yonder  chandelier 
Shines  much  too  far — or  I  am  much  too  near ; 
And  true,  though  strange — Waltz  whispers  this  remarks 
"  My  slippery  steps  are  safest  in  the  dark  !" 
But  here  the  muse  with  due  decorum  halts, 
And  lends  her  longest  petticoat  to  Waltz. 

Observant  travellers  !   of  every  time  ; 
Ye  quartos!   publish'd  upon  e\ery  clime; 
O  say,  shall  dull  Romaika's  heavy  round, 
Fandango's  wriggle,  or  Bolero's  bound  ; 
Can  Egvpt's  Almas'' — tantalizing  group — 
Columbia's  caperers  to  the  warlike  whoop — 
Can  aught  from  cold  Kamtschatka  to  Cape  Horn 
With  Waltz  compare,  or  after  Waltz  be  borne  ? 
Ah,  no !   from  Morier's  pages  down  to  Gait's, 
Each  tourist  pens  a  paragraph  for  "  Waltz." 

Shades  of  those  belles,  whose  reign  began  of  yore. 
With  George  the  Third's— and  ended  long  before— 
Though  in  your  daughters'  daughters  yet  you  thrive, 
Burst  from  your  lead,  and  be  yourselves  alive  ! 
Back  to  the  ball-room  speed  your  spectred  host : 
Fool's  Paradise  is  dull  to  that  you  lost. 
No  treacherous  powder  bids  conjecture  quake  ; 
No  stiff  starch'd  stays  make  meddling  fingers  ache ; 
(Transferr'd  to  those  ambiguous  things  that  ape 
Goats  in  their  visage,'  women  in  their  shape); 
No  damsel  faints  when  rather  closely  prcss'd, 
But  more  caressing  seems  when  most  caress'd  ; 
Superfluous  hartshorn,  and  reviving  salts, 
Both  banish'd  by  the  sovereign  cordial  "Waltz." 

Seductive  Waltz  !  —though  on  thy  native  shore 
Even  Werter's  self  proclaim'd  thee  half  a  whore,' 
Werier — to  decent  vice  though  much  inclined, 
Yet  warm,  not  wanton  ;   dazzled,  but  not  blind- 
Though  gentle  Genlis,  in  her  strife  with  Stael, 
Would  even  proscribe  thee  from  a  Paris  ball ; 
The  fashion  hails — from  countesses  to  queens. 
And  maids  and  valets  waltz  behind  the  scenes  , 
Wide  and  more  wide  thy  witching  circle  spreads. 
And  turns— if  nothing  else — at  least  our  hrarls  ; 
With  thee  even  clumsy  cits  attempt  to  bounce. 
And  cockneys  practise  what  they  can't  pronounce. 


86 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Gods  !  how  the  glorious  theme  my  strain  exalte, 
And  rhyme  finds  partner  rhyme  in  praise  of  "  Waltz." 

Blest  was  the  time  Waltz  chose  for  her  debut  / 

The  court,  the  R 1,  like  herself,  were  new  f 

New  face  for  friends,  for  foes  some  new  rewards, 
New  ornaments  for  black  and  royal  guards  ; 
New  laws  to  hang  the  rogues  that  roar'd  for  bread ; 
New  coins  (most  new^)  to  follow  those  that  fled  ; 
New  victories — nor  can  we  prize  them  less, 
Though  Jenky  wonders  at  his  own  success  ; 
New  wars,  because  the  old  succeed  so  well, 
That  most  survivors  envy  those  who  fell ; 
New  mistresses — no — old — and  yet  't  is  true. 
Though  they  be  old.,  the  thing  is  something  new  ; 
Each  new,  quite  new — (except  some  ancient  tricks  '°), 
New  white-sticks,  gold-sticks,  broom-sticks,  all  new 

sticks  ! 
With  vests  or  ribands — deck'd  alike  in  hue. 
New  troopers  strut,  new  turncoats  blush  in  blue  : 
So  saith  the  muse — my — ^',  what  say  you  ? 
Such  was  the  time  when  Waltz  might  best  maintain 
Her  new  preferments  in  this  novel  reign ; 
Such  was  the  time,  nor  ever  yet  was  such. 
Hoops  are  no  more,  and  petticoats  not  much; 
Morals  and  minuets,  virtue  and  her  stays, 
And  tell-tale  powder — all  have  had  their  days. 
The  ball  begins — the  honours  of  the  house 
First  duly  done  by  daughter  or  by  spouse, 
Some  potentate — or  royal  or  serene — 
With  K — t's  gay  grace,  or  sapient  G — st — r's  mien, 
Leads  forth  the  ready  dame,  whose  rising  flush 
Might  once  have  been  mistaken  for  a  blush. 
From  where  the  garb  just  leaves  the  bosom  free. 
That  spot  where  hearts  '^  were  once  supposed  to  be; 
Round  all  (he  confines  of  the  yielcfed  waist, 
The  strangest  hand  may  wander  undisplaced ; 
riie  lady's  in  return  may  grasp  as  much 
As  princely  paunches  offer  to  her  touch. 
Pleased  round  the  chalky  floor  how  well  they  trip, 
One  hand  reposing  on  the  royal  hip ; 
The  other  to  the  shoulder  no  less  royal 
Ascending  with  affection  truly  loyal : 
Thus  front  to  front  the  partners  move  or  stand, 
The  foot  may  rest,  but  none  withdraw  the  hand  j 
And  all  in  turn  may  follow  in  their  rank. 
The  Earl  of— Asterisk— and  Lady— Blank  ; 
Sir— such  a  one — with  those  of  fashion's  host, 
For  whose  blest  surnames— vide  "  Morning  Post ;" 
(Or  if  for  that  impartial  print  too  late. 
Search  Doctors'  Commons  six  months  from  my  date) — 
Thus  all  and  each,  in  movement  swift  or  slow, 
The  genial  contact  gently  undergo  ; 
Till  some  might  marvel,  with  the  modest  Turk, 
If  "nothing  follows  all  this  palming  work  ?"i3 
True,  honest  Mirza— you  may  trust  my  rhyme- 
Something  does  follow  at  a  fitter  time ; 
The  breast  thus  publicly  resign'd  to  man, 
n  private  may  resist  him if  it  can. 

O  ye  !   who  loved  our  grandmothers  of  yore, 
F-tz — t — k,  Sh-r-d-n.  and  many  more  ! 
And  thou,  my  prince,  whose  sovereign  taste  and  will 
It  is  to  love  the  lovely  beldames  still  ; 

Thou,  ghost  of  Q !   whose  judging  sprite 

Satan  may  spare  to  pee[)  a  single  night, 
Pronounce — if  ever  in  your  days  of  bliss — 
Asni(>d(;us  si-'uck  so  bright  a  stroke  as  this  ; 
Tc  leach  the  young  ideas  how  to  rise. 
Flash  in  the  cheek  and  languish  in  the  eyes; 


Rush  to  the  heart  and  lighten  through  the  framis. 
With  half-told  wish  and  ill-dissembled  flame  ; 
For  prurient  nature  still  will  slorm  the  breast — 
Who^  tempted  thus,  can  answer  for  the  rest  i 

But  ye — who  never  felt  a  single  thought 
For  what  our  morals  are  to  be,  or  ought ; 
Who  wisely  wish  the  charms  you  view  to  reap, 
Say — would  you  make  those  beauties  quite  so  cheap 
Hot  from  the  hands  promiscuously  applied. 
Round  the  shght  waist  ;   or  down  the  glowing  side ; 
Where  were  the  rapture  then  to  clasp  the  form, 
From  this  lewd  grasp,  and  lawless  contact  warm? 
At  once  love's  most  endearing  thought  resign. 
To  press  the  hand  so  press'd  by  none  but  thine  ; 
To  gaze  upon  that  eye  which  never  met 
Another's  ardent  look  without  regret  ; 
Approach  the  lip  which  all,  without  restraint, 
Come  near  enough — if  not  to  touch — to  taint; 
If  such  thou  lovest — love  her  then  no  more. 
Or  give — like  her — caresses  to  a  score  ; 
Her  mind  with  these  is  gone,  and  with  it  go 
The  little  left  behind  it  to  bestow. 

Voluptuous  Waltz  !  and  dare  I  thus  blaspheme  ' 
Thy  bard  forgot  thy  praises  were  his  theme. 
Terpsichore  forgive! — at  every  ball 
My  wife  now  waltzes — and  my  daughters  shall; 
My  son   (or  stop — 'tis  needless  to  inquire — 
These  little  accidents  should  ne'er  trans;)ire  ; 
Some  ages  hence  our  geneaiogic  tree 
Will  wear  as  green  a  bough  for  him  as  me), 
Waltzing  shall  rear,  to  make  our  name  amends. 
Grandsons  for  me — in  heirs  to  all  his  friends. 


NOTES. 


Note  \. 
State  of  the  poll  (last  day)  5. 

Note  2. 
My  Latin  is  all  forgotten,  if  a  man  can  be  said  to  have 
forgotten  what  he  never  remembered  ;  but  I  bought 
my  title-page  motto  of  a  Catholic  priest  for  a  three 
shilling  bank  token,  after  much  haggling  for  the  even 
sixpence.  I  grudged  the  money  to  a  Papist,  being  all 
for  the  memory  of  Perceval,  and  "  No  Popery  ;"  and 
quite  regretting  the  downfall  of  the  Pope,  because  we 
can't  burn  him  any  more. 

Note  3. 
"  Glance  thoir  many-twinkling  feet." — Oray. 
Note  4. 
To  rival  Lord  W.'s,  or  his  nephew's,  as  the  reader 
pleases: — the  one  gained  a  pretty  woman,  whom  he 
deserved,  by  fighting  for ;  and  the  other  has  been  fight- 
ing in  the  Peninsula  many  a  long  day,  "  by  Shrewsbury 
clock,"  without  gaining  any  thing  in  that  coimtry  but 
the  title  of  "  the  Great  Lord,"  and  "  the  Lord,"  whicn 
savours  of  profanation,  having  been  hith(;rto    applied 
only  to  that  Being,  to  whom  "  Te  Dcums'''  for  carnage 
are  the  rankest  blasphemy. — It  is  to  be  presumed  tht 
general  will  one  day  return  to  his  Sabine  farm,  there 
"To  tame  the  genius  of  the  stiihborn  plain, 
Jllmnst  as  quickly  as  he  coiiqvier'd  Spain  I" 

The  Lord  Peterborough  conquered  continents  in  a 
summer ;  we  do  more — we  contrive  both  to  concjuer 
and  lose  them  in  a  shorter  season.  If  the  "  g'-eat  Lord's'' 
Cincinnatian  progress  in  agriculture  be    no   speediei 


WALTZ. 


87 


Jiari  the  proportional  average  of  time  in  Pojie's  couplet, 
;i  will,  according  to  tiie  farmer's  proverb,  be  "  plough- 
inj  witii  dogs." 

Bv  the  bj- — one  of  this  illustrious  person's  new  titles 
is  forgotten — it  is,  however,  worth  remembering — '■'■Sul- 
VMlor  del  munilo  /"  credite,  pofttcri  /  If  this  be  the 
appellation  annexed  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  Peninsula 
o  the  name  of  a  jnnn  who  has  not  yet  saved  them — 
query — are  they  worth  saving  even  in  this  world  /  for, 
according  to  the  mildest  modifications  of  any  Christian 
creed,  those  three  words  make  the  odds  much  against 
them  in  the  next. — "  Saviour  of  the  world,"  quotha  ! — 
it  were  to  be  wished  that  he,  or  any  one  else,  could  save 
a  corner  of  it — his  country.  Yet  this  stupid  misnomer, 
although  it  shows  the  near  connexion  between  super- 
stition and  impiety,  so  far  has  its  use,  that  it  proves 
there  can  be  little  to  dread  from  those  Catholics  (in- 
quisitorial Catholics  too)  who  can  confer  such  an  ap- 
pellation on  a  Protestant.  I  sup])ose  next  year  he  will 
oe  entitled  the  "  Virgin  jNIary  :"  if  so.  Lord  George  Gor- 
don himself  would  have  nothing  to  object  to  such  liberal 
bastards  of  our  Lady  of  Babylon. 

Note  5. 

The  patriotic  arson  of  our  amiable  allies  cannot  be 
sufficiently  commended — nor  subscribed  for.  Amongst 
other  details  omitted  in  the  various  despatches  of  our 
eloquent  ambassador,  he  did  not  state  (being  too  much 
occupied  with  the  exploits  of  Colonel  C ,  m  swim- 
ming rivers  frozen,  and  galloping  over  roads  im|(as- 
sable),  that  one  entire  provmce  perished  by  famine  m 
the  most  melancholy  manner,  as  follows: — In  General 
Rostopchin's  consummate  conflagration,  the  consump- 
tion of  tallow  and  train  oil  was  so  great,  that  the  market 
was  inadequate  to  the  demand  :  and  thus  one  hundred 
and  thirty-three  thousand  persons  were  starved  to  death, 
by  being  reduced  to  wholesome  diet !  The  lamplighters 
of  London  have  since  subscribed  a  pint  (of  oil)  a-piece, 
and  the  tallow-chandlers  have  unanimously  voted  a 
quantity  of  best  moulds  (four  to  the  pound)  to  the  re- 
lief of  the  surviving  Scythians — the  scarcity  will  soon, 
by  such  exertions,  and  a  proper  attention  to  the  quality 
rs.ther  than  the  quantity  of  provision,  be  totally  alle- 
viated. It  is  said,  in  return,  that  the  untouched  Ukraine 
has  subscribed  sixty  thousand  beeves  for  a  day's  meal 
to  our  suffering  manufacturers. 
Note  6. 

Dancmg  girls — who  do  for  hire  what  Waltz  doth 
gratis. 

Note  7. 

It  cannot  be  complained  now,  as  in  the  Lady  Baus- 
siere's  time,  of  the  "  Sieur  de  la  Croix,"  that  there  be 
"no  whiskers;"  but  how  far  these  are  indications  of 
valour  in  the  field,  or  elsewhere,  may  still  be  question- 
able. Much  may  be  and  hath  been  avouched  on  both 
aides.  In  the  olden  time  philosophers  had  whiskers 
and  soldiers  none — Scipio  himself  was  shaven — Han- 
nibal thought  his  one  eye  handsome  enough  without 
a  beard;  but  Adrian,  the  Emperor,  wore  a  beard 
(having  warts  on  his  chin,  which  neither  the  Empress 
Sabina,  nor  even  the  courtiers,  could  abide) — Turenne 
had  whiskers,  Marlborough  none — Buonaparte   is  un- 

whiskered,  the  R whiskered  ;  "ar^o/"  greatness  of 

mind  and  whiskers  may  or  may  not  go  together :  but 
certainly  the  difTerent  occurrences,  since  the  growt'i  of 


the  last-menl.oned,  go  further  in  behalf  :f  tvniskera 
than  the  anathema  of  Anselm  did  against  long  hair  in 
the  reign  of  Henry  I. 

Formerly,  red  was  a  favourite  colour.  See  Ijodowick 
Barrev's  comedy  of  Ram  Alley,  1661,  act  I.  scene  1. 

"  Tiifleta.  Now,  for  a  wager — What  colour'd  beard 
comes  next  by  the  window  ? 

"  Adriana.    A  black  man's,  I  think. 

"  Tiiffeta.  I  think  not  so  :  I  think  a  »■«/,  for  that  is 
most  in  fdshii)n." 

There  is  "  nothing  new  under  the  sun  ;"  but  red^ 
then  a  favourite,  has  now  subsided  into  a  favourite't 
colour. 

Note  8. 

An  anachronism — Waltz,  and  the  battle  of  Austerlitz 
are  before  said  to  have  opened  the  ball  together  :  the 
bard  means  (if  he  means  any  thing),  Waltz  was  not  so 

much  in  vogue  till  the  R 1  attained  the  acme  of 

his  popularity.  Waltz,  the  comet,  whiskers,  and  the 
new  government,  illuminated  heaven  and  earth,  in  all 
their  glory,  much  about  the  same  time  ;  of  these  the 
comet  only  has  disappeared  ;  the  other  three  continue 
to  astonish  us  still. — Printer's  Devil. 
Note  9. 

Amongst  others,  a  new  nmepence — a  creditable  coin 
now  tbrthcoming,  worth  a  pound,  in  pape  ,  at  the  fairest 
calculation. 

Note  10. 

"  Oh  that  right  should  thus  overcome  might .'"  Who 
does  not  remember  the  "  delicate  investigation"  :n  *ii* 
"  ]Merry  Wives  of  Windsor?" 

"  Furd.  Pray  you  come  near :  if  I  suspect  without 
cause,  why  then  make  sport  at  me  ;  then  let  me  b« 
your  jest ;  I  deserve  it.  How  now  ?  whither  bear  you 
this  ? 

"  Mrs.  Ford.  What  have  you  to  do  whither  tney  bea 
it? — you  were  best  meddle  with  buck- washing." 
Note  11. 

The  gentle,  or  ferocious  reader,  may  fill  up  the  blank 
as  he  pleases — there  are  several  dissyllabic  names  at  hu 

service  (being  already  in  the  R t's)  :  it  would  not  be 

fair  to  back  any  peculiar  initial  against  the  alphabet, 
as  every  month  will  add  to  the  list  now  entered  for  the 
sweepstakes — a  distinguished  consonant  is  said  to  be 
the  favourite,  much  against  the  wishes  of  the  knowing 
ones. 

Note  12. 

"  We  have  changed  all  that,"  says  the  Mock  Doctor, 
"  't  is  all  gone — Asmodeus  knows  where.  After  all,  it 
is  of  no  great  importance  how  women's  hearts  are  dis- 
posed of;  they  have  nature's  privilege  to  distribute  them 
as  absurdly  as  possible.  But  there  are  also  some  men 
with  hearts  so  thoroughly  bad,  as  to  remind  us  of  those 
phenom.ena  often  mentioned  in  natural  history  ;  viz.  a 
mass  of  solid  stone — only  to  be  o[)ened  by  force — and 
when  divided,  you  discover  a  toad  in  the  centre,  lively, 
and  witn  the  reputation  of  being  venomous." 

Note  13. 
In  Turkey,  a  pertinent — here,  an  impertinent  and 
superfluous  question — literally  put,  as  in   the  text,  d> 
a  Persian  to  Moner,  on  seeing  a  waltz  m  Pera.  -  Vide 
Morier^s  Traves, 


BYRON'S  POETICAL  WORKS 


THE 


aatmcnt  of  Eumo. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


At  Ferrara  (in  tlie  library)  are  preserved  the  original 
MSS.  of  Tasso's  Gienisalemme  and  of  Guarini's  Pastor 
Fido,  with  letters  of  Tasso,  one  from  Titian  to  Ariosto  ; 
and  the  innstand  and  chair,  the  tomb  and  the  tioufce  of 
tne  latter.  But  as  nnsfortune  has  a  greater  interest  for 
Dostcnty,  and  little  or  none  for  the  contemporary,  the  cell 
where  Tasso  was  confined  in  the  hospital  of  St.  Anna 
attracts  a  more  fixed  attention  than  the  residence  or  the 
monument  of  Ariosto— at  least  it  had  this  effect  on  me. 
There  are  two  inscriptions,  one  on  the  outer  gate,  the 
second  over  the  cell  itself,  inviting,  unnecessarily,  the 
wonder  and  the  indignation  of  the  spectator.  Ferrara  is 
much  decaved  and  depopulated  ;  the  castle  still  exists  en- 
tire ;  and  I  saw  the  court  where  Parisina  and  Hugo  were 
beheaded,  according  to  the  annal  of  Gibbon. 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 

I. 

Long  years  ! — It  tries  the  thriUing  fi-ame  to  bear 

And  eagle-spirit  of  a  child  of  song — 

Long  years  of  outrage,  calumny,  and  wrong  • 

Imputed  madness,  prison'd  solitude. 

And  the  mind's  canker  in  its  savage  mood, 

When  the  impatient  thirst  of  light  and  air 

Parches  the  heart ;   and  i,he  abhorred  grate. 

Marring  the  sunbeams  with  its  hideous  shade, 

Works  through  the  throbbing  eye-ball  to  the  brain 

Witli  a  hot  sense  of  heaviness  and  pain  ; 

And  bare,  at  once,  captivity  display'd 

Stands  scoffina  through  the  never-open'd  gate, 

Which  nothing  through  its  bars  adm.its,  save  day 

And  tasteless  food,  which  I  have  eat  alone 

Till  its  unsocial  bitterness  is  gone ; 

And  I  can  banquet  like  a  beast  of  prey, 

Sullen  and  lonely,  couching  in  the  cave 

Which  is  my  lair,  and — it  may  be — my  grave. 

All  this  hath  somewhat  worn  me,  and  may  wear, 

Put  must  be  borne.     I  stoop  not  to  despair  ; 

For  I  have  battled  with  mine  agony. 

And  made  me  wings  wherewith  to  overfly 

The  narrow  circus  of  my  dungeon  wall, 

And  freed  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall ; 

And  revell'd  among  men  and  things  divine, 

And  pour'd  my  spirit  over  Palestine, 

In  honour  of  tlie  sacred  war  for  him, 

The  God  who  was  on  earth  and  is  in  heaven, 

For  he  haih  sirengthen'd  me  in  heart  and  limb. 

That  through  this  sufferance  I  might  be  forgiven, 

have  employ'd  my  penance  to  record 
How  Salem's  shrine  was  won,  and  how  adored. 

IL 

Hut  this  is  o'er — my  f)leasant  task  is  done: 
Mv  long-sustaining  fri(;ud  of  many  years  ! 
If  I  do  blot  thy  final  page  with  tears, 
Know  that  my  sorrows  hav  wrung  from  me  none. 
But  thou,  my  yomig  (Tcation  !   my  so.d's  child  I 
Which  <!ver  playing  round  me  came  and  smiled. 
And  woo'd  me  from  mys<'lf  with  thy  sweet  sight, 
Tliou  .00  art  gone — and  «o  is  my  delight : 


And  therefore  do  I  weep  and  inly  bleea 

With  this  last  bruise  upon  a  broken  reed. 

Thou  too  art  ended — what  is  left  me  now  ? 

For  I  have  anguish  yet  to  bear — and  how  ? 

I  know  not  that — but  in  the  innate  force 

Of  my  own  spirit  shall  be  found  resource. 

I  have  not  sunk,  for  I  had  no  remorse, 

Nor  cause  for  such  :   they  call'd  me  mad-  and  ^hy? 

Oh  Leonora  !   wilt  not  thou  reply  ? 

I  was  indeed  delirious  in  my  heart 

To  lift  my  love  so  lofty  as  thou  art ; 

But  siiU  my  frenzy  was  not  of  the  mind; 

I  knew  my  fault,  and  feel  my  punishment 

Not  less  because  I  suffer  it  unbent. 

That  thou  wert  beautiful,  and  I  not  blind, 

Hath  been  the  sin  which  shuts  me  from  mankind  , 

But  let  them  go,  or  torture  as  they  will, 

My  heart  can  multi[>ly  thine  image  still  j 

Successful  love  may  sate  itself  away. 

The  wretched  are  the  faithful ;   't  is  their  fate 

To  have  all  feeling  save  the  one  decay. 

And  every  passion  into  one  dilate, 

As  rapid  rivers  into  ocean  pour  ; 

But  ours  is  fathomless,  and  hath  no  shore. 

III. 

Above  me,  hark  !   the  long  and  maniac  cry 

Of  minds  and  bodies  in  captivity. 

And  hark  !   the  lash  and  the  increasing  howl. 

And  the  half-inarticulate  blasphemy  ! 

There  be  some  here  with  worse  than  frenz}  foul. 

Some  who  do  still  goad  on  the  o'er-labour'd  mind. 

And  dim  the  little  light  that 's  left  behind 

With  needless  torture,  as  their  tyrant  will 

Is  wound  up  to  the  lust  of  doing  ill  r 

With  these  and  with  their  victims  am  I  class'd, 

'Mid  sounds  and  sights  like  these  long  years  have  pasfl^A 

'Mid  sights  and  sounds  hke  these  my  life  may  close* 

So  let  It  be — for  then  I  shall  repose. 

IV. 

I  have  been  patient,  let  me  be  so  yet ; 
I  had  forgotten  half  I  would  fo^  get, 
But  it  revives — oh  !   would  it  were  my  lot 
To  be  forgetful  as  I  am  forgot ! — 
Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  bade  me  dwell 
In  this  vast  lazar-house  of  many  woes  ? 
Where  laughter  is  not  mirth,  nor  thought  the  mind. 
Nor  words  a  language,  nor  ev'n  men  mankind  ; 
Where  cries  re|)ly  to  curses,  shrieks  to  blows, 
And  each  is  tortured  in  his  separate  hell — 
For  we  are  crowded  in  our  solitudes- 
Many,  but  each  divided  by  the  wah. 
Which  echoes  Madness  in  her  babbling  moods; — 
While  all  can  hear,  none  heed  his  neighbour's  call- 
None  !   save  that  One,  the  veriest  wretch  of  all. 
Who  vas  not  made  to  be  the  mate  of  these, 
Nor  bound  between  distraction  and  disease. 
Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  placeu  nic  here? 
Who  have  debased  me  in  the  minds  of  men. 
Debarring  me  the  usage  of  my  own, 
Blighting  my  life  in  best  of  its  career, 
liranding  my  thoughts  as  things  to  shun  and  fea.'  ^ 
Would  I  not  pay  them  back  these  pangs   again. 
And  teach  them  inwartl  sorrow's  stifled  groan? 
The  strusigle  to  bo  calm,  and  cold  distress 
Which  undermines  oar  stoical  success  '! 
No  ! — still  too  proud  to  be  vindictive — I 
Have  pardon'd  princ«!s'  iusul!s,  and  would  die. 
Yes,  sister  of  my  sovereign  !  for  thy  sako 


THE    LAMENT    OF    TASSO. 


I  weed  all  bitterness  from  out  my  breast, 
It  hatli  no  business  where  thou  art  a  guest; 
Thy  brother  hates — but  I  can  not  detest, 
Thuu  pitiest  not — but  I  can  not  forsake. 

V. 

Look  on  a  love  which  knows  not  to  despair, 
But  all  unquench'd  is  still  my  belter  part, 
Dvvelling  deep  in  my  shut  and  silent  heart 
As  dwells  tlie  gather'd  Ughtning  in  its  cloud, 
EncoinpassM  with  its  dark  and  rolhng  shroud, 
Till  struck, — fortli  flies  the  all-etliereal  dart! 
And  thus  at  tlie  collision  of  thy  name 
The  vivid  thought  still  flashes  through  my  frame, 
\nd  for  a  moment  all  things  as  they  were 
Flit  by  me  ; — they  are  gone — I  am  the  same.      . 
And  yet  my  love  without  ambition  grew  ; 
I  knew  thy  state,  my  station,  and  I  knew 
A  princess  was  no  love-mate  for  a  bard  ; 
I  told  it  not,  I  breathed  it  not,  it  was 
Sufficient  to  itself,  its  own  reward  ; 
And  if  mv  eyes  reveal'd  it,  they,  alas  ! 
Were  pumsn'd  by  the  silentness  of  thine, 
And  yet  I  did  not  venture  to  repine, 
rhou  wert  to  me  a  crystal-girded  shrine, 
SVorsiiipp'd  at  holy  distance,  and  around 
£Iallow'cl  and  meekly  kiss'd  the  saintly  ground ; 
Not  for  thou  wert  a  princess,  but  that  love 
Had  roiled  thee  with  a  glory,  and  array'd 
Thy  lineaments  m  beauty  that  dismay'd — 
Oh  !   not  dismay'd — but  awed,  like  One  above ; 
And  m  that  sweet  severity  there  was 
A  somethnig  which  all  softness  did  surpass — 
f  know  not  how — thy  genius  master'd  mine 
My  star  stooa  still  before  thee : — if  it  were 
Presumptuous  thus  to  love  without  design. 
That  sad  fatality  hath  cost  me  dear  ; 
Sut  thou  art  dearest  still,  and  I  should  be 
Fit  for  this  cell,  which  wrongs   me,  but  for  thee. 
The  very  love  which  lock'd  me  to  my  chain 
Hath  lighten'd  half  its  weight ;   and  for  the  rest, 
Though  heavy,  lent  me  vigour  to  sustain. 
And  look  to  thee  with  undivided  breast, 
And  foil  the  ingenuity  of  pain.  * 

VI. 

It  is  no  marvel — from  my  very  birth 

My  soul  was  drunk  with  love,  which  did  pervade 

And  mingle  with  whate'er  I  saw  on  earth  ; 

Of  objects  all  inanimate  I  made 

Idols,  and  out  of  wild  and  lonely  flowers, 

And  rocks,  whereby  they  grew,  a  paradise, 

Where  I  did  lay  me  down  within  the  shade 

Of  wa\ing  trees,  and  dream'd  uncounted  hours. 

Though  I  was  chid  for  wandering  ;   and  the  wise 

Shook  their  white  aged  heads  o'er  me,  and  said 

Of  such  materials  wretched  men  were  made. 

And  such  a  truant  boy  would  end  in  woe, 

And  that  the  only  lesson  nas  a  blow  ; 

And  then  they  smote  me,  and  I  did  not  weep. 

But  cursed  them  in  my  heart,  and  to  my  haur 

Return'd  and  wept  alone,  and  dream'd  again 

The  visions  which  arise  without  a  sh^ep. 

And  with  my  years  my  soul  began  to  pant 

With  feelings  of  strange  tumult  and  soft  pain ; 

And  the  who.e  heart  exhaled  into  one  want, 

But  undefired,  and  wandering,  till  the  day 

I  found  the  thing  I  sought — and  that  was  thee  ; 

And  then  I  lost  my  being  all  to  be 

Absorb'd  in  thine — the  world  was  past  away — 

7'hou  didst  annihilate  the  earth  to  me  ! 


VII. 

I  loved  all  solitude — but  little  thought 
To  spend  I  know  not  what  of  life,  remote 
From  all  communion  with  existence,  save 
The  maniac  and  his  tyrant  ;   had  I  been 
Their  fellow,  many  years  ere  this  had  seen 
INIy  mind  like  theirs  corru[)ted  to  its  grave ; 
IJui  who  hatii  seen  me  writhe,  or  heard  me  rave  7 
P»rchance  in  such  a  cell  we  suffer  more 
Than  the  wreck'd  sailor  on  his  desert  shore  j 
Tiie  world  is  all  before  him — mine  is  here, 
Scarce  twice  the  space  they  must  accord  my  bier 
What  thougli  he  perish,  he  may  lift  his  eye 
And  with  a  dying  glance  upbraid  tne  sky — 
I  will  not  raise  my  own  in  such  reproof. 
Although  't  is  clouded  by  my  dungeon  roo*" 

VIII. 

Yet  do  I  feel  at  times  my  mind  decline. 
But  with  a  sense  of  its  decay  : — I  see 
Unwonted  lights  along  my  prison  shine. 
And  a  strange  demon,  who  is  vexing  me 
With  pilfering  pranks  and  petty  pains,  below 
The  feeling  of  the  healthful  and  the  free  ; 
But  much  to  one,  who  long  Iiath  suffer'd  so. 
Sickness  of  heart,  and  narrowness  of  place, 
And  all  that  may  be  borne,  or  can  debase. 
I  thought  mine  enemies  had  been  but  man. 
But  spirits  may  he  leagued  with  them — all  earth 
Abandons — Heaven  forgets  me  ; — in  the  detj-th 
Of  such  defence  the  powers  of  evil   can, 
It  mav  be,  tempt  me  further,  and  prevail 
Against  the  outworn  creature  they  assail. 
W^hy  in  this  furnace  is  my  spirit  proved 
Like  steel  in  tempering  fire  ?  because  I  loved  I 
Because  I  loved  what  not  to  love,  and  see. 
Was  more  or  less  than  mortal,  and  than  me. 

IX 

I  once  was  quick  in  feeling— that  is  o'er ; — 

INly  scars  are  callous,  or  I  should  have  dash'd 

Wy  brain  against  these  bars  as  the  sun  flash'ti 

In  mockery  through  them ;— if  I  bear  and  bore 

The  much  I  have  recounted,  and  the  more 

Which  hath  no  words,  't  is  that  I  would  not  die 

And  sanction  with  self-slaughter  the  dull  lie 

Which  snared  me  here,  and  with  the  brand  of  shairiG 

Stamp  madness  deep  into  my  memory, 

And  woo  compassion  to  a  blighted  name. 

Sealing  the  sentence  which  my  foes  proclaim. 

No — it  shall  be  immortal  ! — and  I  make 

A  future  temple  of  my  present  cell, 

Which  nations  yet  shall  visit  for  my  sake. 

While  ttiou,  Ferrara!   wnen  no  longer  dwell 

The  ducal  chiefs  witinn  thee,  shall  fall  down. 

And  crum tiling  piecemeai  view  thy  hearth  ess  hall*, 

A  poet's  wreath  snail  be  thine  only  crown, 

A  [)oet's  dungeon  thy  most  far  renown. 

While  strangers  wonder  o'er  thy  un()eopied  walls  ! 

And  tnou,  Leonora  !    th.)u — who  wert  ashamed 

That  sucn  as  I  coul<l  ove— wlio  nlusn'a  to  hear 

To  less  than  monarcns  that  thou  couldst  be  dear. 

Go  !   tell  thy  brother  that  my  heart,  untamea 

By  grief,  years,  weariness— and  it  may  be 

A  taint  of  that  he  v.-oiild  imjtute  to  me. 

From  long  infection  of  a  den  like  this. 

Where  the  mind  rots  congenial  with  the  abyss.— 

Adores  thee  still ;— and  add— that  when  the  towers 

And  battlements  which  guard  his  joyous  hours 

1    Of  banquet,  dance,  and  revel,  are  forgot, 

j    Or  left  untended  in  a  dull  repose, 


90 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


This — chis  shall  be  a  consecrated  spot! 

Hut  thou— when  all  that  birth  and  beauty  throws 

Of  niasic  round  thee  is  extinct — shalt  have 

One  half  the  laurel  which  o'ershadesmy  grave. 

No  power  in  death  can  tear  our  names  apart. 

As  none  in  life  could  rend  thee  from  my  heart. 

Ves,  Leonora  !   it  shall  be  our  fate 

T  J  be  entvined  for  ever— but  too  late  ! 


^ti^vfm  JHelotrtei^. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  subsequent  poems  were  written  at  the  request 
of  n^y  friend,  the  Hon,  D.  Kinnaird,  for  a  selection  of 
fiefirew  Melodies,  and  have  been  pubUshed,  with  tne 
music,  arranged  by  Mr.  Braham  and  Mr.  Nathan. 


HEBREW  MELODIES 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 

Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies ; 
And  all  that 's  best  of  dark  and  bright 

Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes  : 
Thus  inellow'd  to  that  tender  hght 

Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 
One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 

Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 
Whi«h  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 

Or  s'.^'ftly  lightens  o'er  her  face  ; 
Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 

How  pure,  how  dear  their  dweiling-piace. 
And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  ekxiuent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  pea^e  with  all  below, 

A  hear"  whose  love  is  inno<;ont ! 


THE  HARP  THE  MONARCH  MINSTREL 
SWEPT. 

T«E  harp  the  monarch  minstrel  swept, 

The  king  of  men,  the  lovyd  of  Heaven, 
Which  Music  hallow'd  w:hile  she  wept 

0"er  tones  her  heart  of  hearts  had  given. 

Redoubled  be  her  tears,  its  chords  are  rivea 
It  soften'd  men  of  iron  mould, 

It  gave  them  virtues  not  their  own  ; 
No  ear  so  dull,  no  soul  so  cold, 

That  felt  not,  fired  not  to  the  tone. 

Till  David's  lyre  grew  mightier  than  his  throit« 

Jt  told  the  triumphs  of  our  king. 

It  wafted  our  glory  to  our  God  ; 
It  made  our  gladden'd  valleys  ring. 

The  cedars  bow,  the  mountains  nod  ; 

Its  sound  aspired  to  heaven,  and  thtre  abode 
Since  then,  though  heard  on  earth  no  n  ore. 

Devotion  and  her  daughter  Love 
Still  bid  the  bursting  spirit  soar 

To  sounds  thai  seem  as  from  above. 

In  dreams  tliat  day's  broad  light  can  n  t  remjve 


IF  THAT  HIGH  WORLD. 

If  that  high  world,  wliich  lies  beyond 

Our  own,  surviving  love  endears; 
If  there  the  cherisli'd  heart  be  fond. 

The  eye  the  same,  except  in  tears — 
How  welcome  those  untrodden  spherei 

How  sweet  this  very  hour  to  die ! 
To  soar  from  earth,  and  find  all  feara 

Lost  in  thy  light— Eternity ! 

It  must  be  so :   't  is  not  for  self 

That  we  so  tremble  on  the  brink  ; 
And  striving  to  o'erleap  the  gulf, 

Yet  cling  to  being's  severing  link. 
Oh  !   in  that  future  let  us  think 

To  hold  each  heart  the  heart  that  shares 
With  them  the  immortal  waters  drink, 

And  soul  in  soul  srow  deathless  theirs. 


THE  WILD  GAZELLE. 

The  wild  gazelle  on  .ludah's  hills 

Exulting  yet  may  bound. 
And  drink  from  all  the  living  rills 

That  gush  on  holy  ground  ; 
Its  airy  step  and  glorious  eye 

May  glance  in  tameless  transport  oy  :  -• 
A  step  as  fleet,  an  eye  more  bright, 

Hath  Judah  witness'd  there  ; 
And  o'er  her  scenes  of    osl  delight 

Inhabitants  more  fair. 
The  ceda     wave  on  L<!banon, 
But  Judans  statelier  maids  are  gone  . 
More  blest  eacti  palm  that  shades  those  plaii 

Than  Israel's  scattei'd  ra(;e  ; 
For,  taking  root,  it  there  remains 

In  solitary  grace  : 
L  cannot  '\u     :ts  [>  ace  ct   birth, 
It  will  not  live  m  other  earth. 
But  we  must  wander  witherii 

In  other  lands  to  die  ; 
And  where  our  fathers'  ashes  be. 

Our  own  may  nev<!r  lie: 
Our  temple  hath  not  left  a  stone. 
And  M<jckery  sits  on  Salem's  throne. 


HEBREW    MELODIES. 


91 


OH!  WEEP  FOR  THOSE. 

On  !   weep  for  those  that  wept  by  Babel's  stream, 
Whose  shriiics  are  desolate,  whose  land  a  dream; 
Weep  for  the  harp  of  Jiulah's  broken  shell : 
Mourn— where  tlieir  God  hath  dwelt  the  godless  dwell ! 

And  where  shall  Israe  lave  her  bleeding  feet  ? 
And  when  shall  Zion's  songs  again  seem  sweet? 
And  Judah's  melody  once  more  rejoice 
The  hearts  that  leap'd  before  its  heaven.y  voice  i 

Tribes  of  the  wandering  foot  and  weary  breast, 
How  shal.  ye  flee  away  and  be  at  rest  ? 
llie  wild-dove  hath  ner  nest,  the  fox  nls  cave, 
Mankind  their  country — Israel  but  the  grave  ! 


ON  JORDAN'S  BANKS. 

O.v  Jordan's  banks  the  Arab  s  camels  stravi 

On  Sinn's  hill  the  Fa.se  One's  votaries  pray, 

l"he  Baa.-adorer  Dows  on  Sinai's  steep — 

i''et  there — even  there — Oh  God  !   thy  thunders  sleep  ; 

There — where  thy  finger  scorch'd  the  tablet  stone ! 
There — where  thy  shadow  to  thy  people  shone! 
Thy  glory  shrouded  in  its  garb  of  fire : 
rhyscli — none  .iving  see  and  not  expire ! 

Oh  I   in  the  lightning  let  tny  glance  appear ! 
Swe:-^p  from  his  shiver'd  hand  the  oppressor's  spear : 
How  long  by  tyrants  shall  thy  land  be  trod? 
Hi'.v  ling  thy  temple  worshipless.  Oh  God? 


JEPHTHA'S  DAUGHTER. 

Si-vcE  our  country,  our  God — Oh  !   my  sire  ! 
Demand  liiat  thy  daughter  expire  ; 
Since  thy  triumph  was  bought  by  thy  vow — 
Strike  the  bosom  that's  bared  for  thee  now  ! 

And  the  voice  of  my  mourning  is  o'er, 
And  the  mountains  behold  me  no  more  : 
If  the  hand  that  I  love  lay  me  low. 
There  cannot  be  pain  in  the  blow  ! 

And  of  this,  oh,  my  father!  oe  sure — 
That  the  blood  of  thy  child  is  as  pure 
As  the  blessing  I  beg  ere  it  flow. 
And  the  last  thought  that  soothes  me  below. 

Though  the  virgins  of  Sa.'em  lament. 
Be  the  judge  and  the  hero  unbent ! 
I  have  won  the  great  battle  for  thee. 
And  my  father  and  country  are  free  ! 

When  this  blood  of  thy  giving  hath  gush'd, 
When  the  voice  that  thou  lovest  is  hush'd, 
Let  mv  memory  still  be  thy  pride, 
Aiii  forget  not  I  smiled  as  1  died! 


OH 


SNATCH'D  AWAY  IN  BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM. 


Oh  !   snatch'd  away  m  beauty's  hiocm 
On  thee  shall  press  no  po  iderous  tcmb; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  '•oses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year  ; 
And  the  wild  cypress  »vave  in  tender  gloom  ; 


And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 

And  feed  deep  thought  wi;h  many  a  dream. 
And  Hngering  pause  and  lightly  tread: 
Fond  wretch!   as  if  her  step  disturb'd  the  dead! 

Away  !    we  know  that  tears  are  vain. 

That  d(;ath  nor  h<;eds  nor  hears  distress* 

W^ill  this  uiiteach  us  to  complain  ' 
Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less  S 

And  thou — who  tell'st  me  to  forget, 

Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 


MY  SOUL  IS  DARK. 

Mv  soul  is  dark. — Oh  !   quickly  string 

The  harp  I  yet  can  brook  to  hear ; 
And  let  thy  gentle  rtngers  fling 

Its  melting  murmurs  o'er  mine  ear. 
If  in  this  heart  a  hope  be  dear, 

That  sound  shall  charm  it  forth  again  j 
If  in  these  eyes  there  lurk  a  fear, 

'T  will  flow,  and  cease  to  burn  my  brain ' 

But  bid  the  strain  be  wild  and  dr»ep. 

Nor  let  thy  notes  of  joy  be  first : 
I  tell  thee,  minstrel,  I  must  weep. 

Or  else  this  heavy  heart  will  burst; 
For  it  hath  l)een  by  sorrow  nurst, 

And  acheil  in  sleepless  silence  long  ; 
And  now  'tis  doorn'd  to  know  the  worst, 

And  break  cl  once — or  yield  to  song. 


I  SAW  THEE   WEEP. 

I  SAW  thee  weep — the  bis  bright  tear 

Came  o'er  that  eye  of  blue  ; 
And  then  methought  it  did  appear 

A  violet  dropping  dew  ; 
I  saw  thee  smile — the  sapphire's  b'-aze 

Beside  thee  ceased  to  shine. 
It  could  not  match  the  living  rays 

That  fill'd  that  glance  of  thine. 

As  clouds  from  yonder  sun  receive 

A  deep  and  mellow-  die, 
Which  scarce  the  shade  of  coming  eve 

Can  banish  from  the  sky, 
Those  smiles  unto  the  moodiest  mind 

Their  own  pure  joy  impart ; 
Their  sunshine  leaves  a  glow  behind 

That  lightens  o'er  the  heart. 


THY  DAYS  ARE  DONE. 

Thv  days  are  done,  thy  fame  begun; 

Thv  country's  strains  record 
The  triuiiijihs  of  her  chosen  son. 

The  slaughters  of  his  sword  ! 
The  deeds  he  did,  the  fields  he  won, 

'I'he  freedom  he  restored  ! 

Though  thou  art  fall'n,  while  we  are  Irno 
Thou  shalt  not  taste  of  death  ! 

The  generous  blood  that  flow'd  from  U)oe 
Disdain'd  to  sink  beneath  : 

Within  our  veins  its  currents  be, 
Thy  spirit  on  our  breath  • 


92 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Thy  name,  our  charging  hosts  along, 

Shall  be  the  battle- word  ! 
Thy  fa'l,  the  theme  of  choral  song 

From  virgin  voices  pour'd  ! 
To  weep  would  do  thy  glory  wrong  ; 

Thou  shall  not  be  deplored. 


SONG  OF  SAUL  BEFORE  HIS  LAST 
BATTLE. 

Warrioks  and  chiefs  !  should  the  shaft  or  the  sword 
Fierce  me  in  leading  the  host  of  the  Lord, 
Heed  not  the  corse,  though  a  king's,  in  your  path  : 
Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of  Galh! 

Thou  who  art  bearing  my  buckler  and  bow, 
Should  the  soldiers  of  Saul  look  away  from  the  foe, 
Stretch  me  that  moment  in  blood  at  thy  feet ! 
Mine  be  the  doom  which  they  dared  not  to  meet. 

Farewell  to  others,  but  never  we  part. 
Heir  to  my  royalty,  son  of  my  heart ! 
Bright  is  the  diadem,  boundless  the  sway. 
Or  kingly  the  death,  which  awaits  us  to-day  ! 


SAUL. 

Thou  whose  spell  can  raise  the  dead, 
Bid  the  prophet's  form  appear. 

*'  Samuel,  raise  thy  buried  head  ! 
King,  behold  the  phantom  seer!" 

Earm  yawn'd  ;   he  stood  the  centre  of  a  cloud: 
Licfht  changed  its  hue,  retiring  from  his  shroud: 
Death  sti»od  all  glassy  in  his  fixed  eye ; 
His  hand  was  wither'd  and  his  veins  were  dry  ; 
His  foot,  in  bony  whiteness,  glitter'd  there. 
Shrunken  and  sinewless,  and  ghastly  bare : 
From  lips  that  moved  not  and  unbreathing  frame, 
Like  cavern'd  winds,  the  iiollow  accents  came. 
Saul  saw,  and  fell  to  earth,  as  falls  the  oak, 
At  once,  and  blasted  by  the  tliuncior-stroke. 

"Why  is  my  sleep  disquieted? 
Who  is  he  that  c-alls  the  dead  ? 
Is  it  thou,  oh  king?   Behold, 
Bloodless  are  these  limbs,  and  cold : 
Such  are  mine  ;   and  such  shall  be 
Thine,  to-morrow,  when  with  me : 
Ere  the  coming  day  is  done. 
Such  shalt  thou  be,  such  thy  son. 
Fare  thee  well,  but  for  a  day ; 
Then  we  mix  our  mouldering  clay. 
Thou,  thy  race,  lie  pale  and  low. 
Pierced  by  shafts  of  many  a  bow : 
And  the  falchion  by  thy  side 
To  thy  heart   thy  hand  shall  guide  : 
Crownless,  oreathless,  headless  fall, 
Son  and  sire,  the  house  of  Saul!" 


«ALL  IS  VANITY,  SAITH  THE  PREACHER. 

Fame,  wisdom,  love,  and  power  were  mine. 

And  heal!-',  and  youth  passoss'd  me; 
My  goblets  bhish'd  from  every  vine. 

And  lovfily  forms  caress'd  me  ; 
I  sunn'd  my  h(!arl  in  beauty's  eyes. 

And  fcii  my  soul  grow  tender  ; 
All  ear"  h  car.  give,  or  mortal  [irize, 

VVas  mine  of  regal  splendour. 


1  strive  to  number  o'er  n'hat  days 

Remembrance  can  discover. 
Which  all  that  life  or  earth  displays 

Would  lure  me  to  live  over. 
There  rose  no  day,  there  roll'd  no  h&ui 

Of  pleasure  unembitter'd  ; 
And  not  a  trapping  deck'd  my  power 

That  gall'd  not  while  it  glitter  J. 

The  serpent  of  the  field,  by  art 

And  spells,  is  won  from  harming ; 
But  that  whicn  coils  around  the  heart. 

Oh  !   who  hath  power  of  charming  ? 
It  will  not  list  to  wisdom's  lore. 

Nor  music's  voice  can  lure  it; 
But  there  it  stings  for  evermore 

The  soul  that  must  endure  it. 


WHEN  COLDNESS  WRAPS  THIS  Sl/FFEK- 
ING  CLAY. 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay, 

Ah,  whither  strays  the  immortal  mind  ? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stay. 

But  leaves  its  darkeu'd  dust  behind. 
Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 

By  steps  each  planet's  heavenly  way  1 
Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 

A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey  ? 

Eternal,  boundless,  undecay'd, 

A  thought  unseen,  but  seemg  all. 
All,  all  in  earth,  or  skies  display'd, 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall : 
Each  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds, 

So  darkly  of  departed  years. 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds. 

And  all,  that  was,  at  once  appears. 

Before  creation  peo[)led  earth, 

Its  eye  sliall  roll  through  chaos  bacK  ; 
And  where  the  furthest  heaven  had  birth. 

The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 
And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes. 

Its  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  be, 
While  sun  is  quench'd  or  system  breaks, 

Fix'd  in  its  own  eternity. 

Above  or  love,  hope,  hate,  or  fear, 

It  lives  all  passionless  and  pure  : 
An  age  shall  tieet  like  earthly  year ; 

Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 
Away,  away,  without  a  wing. 

O'er  all,  through  all,  its  thoughts  shaU  fly, 
A  nameless  and  eternal  thing. 

Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 


VISION  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 

The  king  was  on  his  throne, 

The  satraps  throng'd  the  hall ; 
A  thousand  bright  lamps  shone 

O'er  that  high  festival. 
A  thousand  cups  of  gold. 

In  Judah  deein'd  divine— 
Jehovali's  vessels  hold 

The  godless  heathen's  wine ! 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall. 
The  fingers  of  a  hand 

Came  forth  against  the  wall. 
And  wrote  as  if  on  sand  : 


HEBREW    MELODIES. 


93 


The  fingers  of  a  man  • — 

A  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran, 

And  traced  them  like  a  wand. 

The  monarch  saw,  and  shook, 

And  bade  no  more  rejoice  ; 
All  bloodless  wax'd  his  look, 

And  tremulous  his  voice. 
*'  Let  the  men  of  lore  appear, 

The  wisest  of  the  earth, 
And  expound  the  words  of  fear, 

Which  mar  our  royal  mirth." 

Chaldea's  seers  are  good, 

But  here  they  have  no  skill : 
And  the  unknown  letters  stood. 

Untold  and  awful  still. 
And  Babel's  men  of  age 

Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore ; 
But  now  (hey  were  not  sage, 

They  saw — but  knew  no  more. 

A  captive  in  the  land, 

A  stranger  and  a  youth, 
He  heard  the  king's  command. 

He  saw  that  writing's  truth. 
The  lamps  around  were  bright. 

The  prophecy  in  view  ; 
He  read  it  on  that  night, — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true. 

**  Belshazzar's  grave  is  made. 

His  kingdom  pass'd  away, 
He  in  the  balance  weigh'd, 

Is  light  and  worthless  clay. 
The  shroud,  his  robe  of  state, 

His  canopy,  the  stone  ; 
The  Mede  is  at  his  gate ! 

The  Persian  on  his  throne!" 


SUN  OF  THE  SLEEPLESS! 

Sun  of  the  sleepless !  melancholy  star  ! 

Whose  tearful  beam  glows  tremulously  far. 

That  show'st  the  darkness  thou  canst  not  dispel. 

How  like  art  thou  to  joy  remember'd  well! 

So  gleams  the  past,  the  light  of  other  days. 

Which  shines,  but  warms  not  with  its  powerless  rays  ; 

A  night-beam  sorrow  watcheth  to  behold. 

Distinct,  but  distant — clear — but,  oh  how  cold  ! 


WERE  MY  BOSOM  AS  FALSE  AS  THOU 
DEEM'ST  IT  TO  BE. 

Were  my  bosom  as  false  as  thou  deem'st  it  to  be, 

I  need  not  have  wander'd  from  far  Galilee ; 

It  was  but  al)juring  my  creed  to  efface 

The  curse  which,  thou  say'st,  is  the  crime  of  my  race. 

If  the  bad  never  triumph,  then  God  is  with  t>iee ! 
If  the  slave  only  sin,  thou  art  spotless  and  free ! 
If  the  exile  on  earth  is  an  outcast  on  high. 
Live  on  in  thy  faith,  but  in  mine  I  will  die. 

I  have  lost  for  that  faith  more  than  thou  canst  bestow. 
As  the  God  who  permits  thee  to  prosper  doth  know ; 
In  his  hand  is  my  h,eart  and  my  hope — and  in  thine 
The  land  and  the  Ufe  which  for  him  I  resign. 


HEROD'S  LAMENT  FOR  MARI^  MNE. 

Oh,  Mariamne  !   now  for  ihee 

The  heart  for  which  thou  bled'sl  is  bleeding ; 
Revenge  is  lost  in  agony, 

And  wild  remorse  to  rage  succeeding. 
Oh,  Mariamne  !   where  art  tbou  ? 

Thou  canst  not  hear  my  b'tter  pleading : 
Ah,  couldst  thou — thou  wouldst  pardon  now. 

Though  Heaven  were  to  my  prayer  urheed.ng 

And  is  she  dead  ? — and  did  they  dare 

Obey  my  frenzy's  jealous  raving? 
My  wrath  but  doom'd  my  own  despair: 

The  sword  that  smote  her  's  o'er  me  waving.— 
But  thou  art  cold,  my  murdcr'd  love  ! 

And  this  dark  heart  is  vainly  craving 
For  her  who  soars  alone  above, 

And  leaves  my  soul  unworthy  saving. 

She  's  gone,  who  shared  my  diadem  ! 

She  sunk,  with  her  my  joys  entombing ; 
I  swept  that  flower  from  Judah's  stem 

Whose  leaves  for  me  alone  were  blooming. 
And  mine  's  the  guilt,  and  mine  the  hell. 

This  bosom's  desolation  dooming  ; 
And  I  have  earn'd  those  iortures  well, 

Which  unconsumed  are  still  consuming! 


ON  THE  DAY  OF  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF 
JERUSALEM  BY  TITUS. 

From  the  last  hill  that  looks  on  thy  once  holy  dome 
I  beheld  thee,  oh  Sion  !   when  render'd  to  Rome: 
'T  was  thy  last  sun  went  down,  and  the  flames  of  thy  fail 
Flash'd  back  on  the  last  glance  I  gave  to  thy  wall, 
llook'd  for  thy  temple,  I  look'd  for  my  home. 
And  forgot  for  a  moment  my  bondage  to  come  ; 
I  beheld  but  the  death-fire  that  fed  on  thy  fane, 
And  thefast-fetter'd  hands  that  made  vengeance  in   am. 

On  many  an  eve,  the  high  spot  whence  I  gazed 
Had  reflected  the  last  beam  of  day  as  it  blazed  ; 
Wii.le  I  stood  on  the  height,  and  beheld  the  decline 
Of  the  rays  from  the  mountain  that  shone  on  thy  siiruie 

And  now  on  that  mountain  I  stood  on  that  day. 
But  I  mark'd  not  the  twilight  beam  melting  away  ; 
Oh  !   would  that  the  lightning  had  glared  in  its  stead, 
And  the  thunderbolt  burst  on  the  conqueror's  head ! 

But  the  gods  of  the  Pagan  snail  never  profane 
The  shrine  where  Jehovah  disdam'd  not  to  reign  ; 
And  scatter'd  and  scorn'd  as  thy  people  may  be, 
Our  worship,  oh  Father  !   is  only  for  thee. 


BY  THE  RIVERS  OF  BABYLON  WE  SAT 
DOWN  AND  WEPT. 

We  sat  down  and  wept  by  the  waters 
Of  Babel,  and  thought  of  the  day 

When  our  foe,  in  the  hue  of  his  slaughters 
Made  Salem's  high  places  his  prey  • 

And  ye,  oh  her  desolate  daui:hters  ! 
Were  scatter'd  all  weeuint'  away. 

While  sadly  we  gazed  on  the  river 
Which  roll'd  on  in  freedom  below, 

They  demanded  the  song  ;   but,  oh  never 
That  triumph  the  stranger  shall  know  . 

May  this  right  hand  be  vvith<r'd  for  ever. 
Fire  it  string  our  high  harp  for  the  foe! 


9^ 


BORON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


On  the  wiflow  that  harp  is  suspended, — 
Oh  Saiem  !   its  sound  should  be  free  ; 

And  the  hour  when  thy  glories  were  ended, 
But  left  mc  that  token  of  thee  : 

And  ne'er  shall  its  soft  tones  be  blended 
With  the  voice  of  the  spoiler  by  me  ! 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold  ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
That,  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen : 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hatn  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither'd  and  strown. 
For  the  angel  of  death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast. 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd  ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  ever  grew  still. 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  roll'd  not  the  breath  of  his  pride: 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf. 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale. 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
Ana  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone. 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  arc  loud  in  their  wail 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  hke  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord  ! 


iWC^cellaneon^  ^loemi^. 


FROM  JOB. 


A  SPIRIT  pass'd  before  me:  I  beheld 
The  face  of  immortality  unveil'd — 
Deep  sleep  cams  down  on  every  eye  save  mine— 
And  there  it  stood, — all  formless — but  divine. 
Along  my  bones  the  creeping  flesh  did  quake ; 
And  as  my  damp  hair  stifTen'd,  thus  it  spake  : 
"  Is  man  more  just  than  God  ?     Is  man  more  pure 
Than  he  who  deems^even  seraphs  insecure  1 
Creatureo  of  clay — vain  dwellers  in  the  dust! 
The  mo«l  survives  you,  and  are  ye  more  just  ? 
Thinj;s  of  a  (lay  !   you  wither  ere  the  night, 
Hi;edky?.i  and  blind  to  wisdom's  wasted  light!" 


ODE 


NJLTOT^BON  BUOITAPiLRTa. 


"Expende  Annibalem: — quot  libras  in  duce  surnmo 
Inveniesl"  JUVENAL,  Sat    \ 


"  The  Emperor  Nepos  was  acknowlcdfred  by  the  Senatt 
by  the  Italians,  and  by  the  provincials  of  (raid  ;  his  moral  vir 
tues  and  military  talents  were  loudly  celebrated  ;  and  those 
who  derived  any  private  benefit  from  his  government  an 
nounced  in  proplietic  strains  the  restoration  ot  public  felicity 


By  this  shameful  abdication,    he   protracted   his  life  a  few 
years,  in  a  very  ambiguous  state,  between  an  emperor  and 

an  exile,  till " 

GIBBON'S  Decline,  and  Fall,  vol.  vi.  p.  2-20 


ODE  TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE. 

'Tis  done — but  yesterday  a  king! 

And  arm'd  with  kings  to  strive — 
And  now  thou  art  a  nameless  thing, 

So  abject — yet  alive  ! 
Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones. 
Who  strew'd  our  earth  with  hostile  bones  ? 

And  can  he  thus  survive  ? 
Since  he,  miscall'd  the  morning  star, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 
Ill-minded  man  !   why  scourge  thy  kind, 

Who  bovv'd  so  low  the  knee  ? 
By  gazing  on  thyself  grown  bhnd, 

Thou  taught'st  the  rest  to  see. 
With  might  unquestion'd, — power  to  save— 
Thine  only  gift  hath  been  the  grave 

To  those  that  worshipp'd  thee  ; 
Nor,  till  thy  fall,  could  mortals  guess 
Ambition's  less  than  littleness  ! 

Thanks  for  that  lesson — it  will  teach 

To  after-warriors  more 
Than  high  philosophy  can  preach, 

And  vainly  preach'd  before. 
That  spell  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  paged  things  of  sabre-sway, 
W^ith  fronts  of  brass,  and  feet  of  clay. 

The  triumph  and  the  vanity, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife — ' 
The  earthquake  shout  of  Victory, 

To  thee  the  breath  of  life  ; 
The  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seem'd  made  but  to  obey, 

W'lierewith  renown  was  rife — 
All  quell'd  !— Dark  spirit !    what  must  be 
The  madness  of  thy  memory  . 

The  desolator  desolate  ' 

The  victor  overthrown ! 
The  arbiter  of  others'  fate 

A  suppliant  for  his  own  ! 


I  Certaniinis  gaudia,  the  oxprcssi^ui  of  Attiia,  in  h:«  ha 
rancue  to  his  army,  previous  to  tlie  battle  of  Ch-ilous,  givoo 
in  CassiodoruB. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


96 


Is  11  some  yet  iinnerial  hope 

'i'iiat  vvitli  such  chaui^e  can  cahnly  cope'? 

l»r  dread  of  deatli  alone/ 
To  die  a  prince — or  Uve  a  slave — 
Thy  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave  ! 

He '  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak 
Dream'd  not  of  the  rebound  ; 

Chaiu'd  by  the  trunk  he  vainly  broke, — 
Alone — how  look'd  he  round  ? — 

Thou,  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength, 

A  n  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length. 
And  darker  fate  hast  found  : 

He  fell,  the  forest-prowlers'  prey ; 

Bat  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away! 

The  Roman,^  when  his  burning  heart 

Was  slaked  with  blood  of  Rome, 
Threw  down  the  dagger — dared  depart, 

In  savage  grandeur,  home. 
He  dared  depart,  in  utter  scorn 
Of  men  that  such  a  yoke  had  borne, 

Yet  left  him  such  a  doom  ! 
His  only  glory  was  that  hour 
Of  self-upheld  abandon'd  power. 

The  Spaniard,'  when  the  lust  of  sway 
Had  lost  its  quickening  spell, 

Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away. 
An  empire  for  a  cell ; 

A  strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 

A  subtle  disputant  on  creeds, 
His  dotage  trifled  well : 

Vet  better  had  he  never  known 

A  bigot's  shrine,  nor  despot's  throne. 

But  thou — from  thy  reluctant  hand 

The  thunderbolt  is  wrung — 
Too  late  thou  leavest  the  high  command 

To  which  thy  weakness  clung  ; 
All  evil  spirit  as  thou  art. 
It  IS  enough  to  grieve  the  heart, 

To  see  thine  own  unstrung  ; 
To  think  that  God's  fair  world  hath  been 
The  footstool  of  a  tiling  so  mean  ; 

And  earth  hath  spilt  her  blood  for  him. 

Who  thus  can  hoard  his  own ! 
And  monarchs  bow'd  the  trembling  limb. 

And  thank'd  him  for  a  throne ! 
Fair  freedom !   we  may  hold  thee  dear, 
When  thus  thy  mightiest  foes  their  fear 

In  humblest  guise  have  shown. 
Oh  !   ne'er  may  tyrant  leave  behind 
A  brighter  name  to  lure  mankind  ! 

Thine  evil  deeds  are  writ  in  gore. 

Nor  written  thus  in  vain — 
Thy  triumphs  tell  of  fame  no  more, 

Or  deepen  every  stain. 
If  thou  hadst  died  as  honour  dies 
Some  new  Napoleon  might  arise. 

To  shame  the  world  again — 
But  who  would  soar  the  solar  height, 
To  set  in  such  a  starless  night? 

Weigh'd  in  the  balance,  hero  dust 

Is  vile  as  vulgar  clay  ; 
Thy  scales,  mortality  !   are  just 

To  all  that  pass  away  ; 
But  yet,  methought,  the  living  great 
Some  higher  sparks  should  animate 

To  dazzle  and  dismay  ; 


Nor  deem'd  contempt  could  thus  make  mirUfc 
Of  these,  the  conquerors  of  the  earth. 

And  she,  proud  Austria's  mournful  flower, 

Thy  still  imperial  bride  ; 
How  bears  her  breast  the  torturing  hour? 

Still  clings  she  to  thy  side  '/ 
Must  she  too  bend,  must  she  too  share 
Thy  late  re|)entance,  long  despair. 

Thou  throneless  homicide  ? 
If  still  she  loves  thee,  hoard  that  gem, 
'T  is  wortii  thy  vanish'd  diadem  ! 

Then  haste  thee  to  thy  sullen  isle. 

And  gaze  upon  the  sea; 
That  element  may  meet  thy  smile. 

It  ne'er  was  ruled  t)y  thee ! 
Or  trace  with  thine  all  idle  hand, 
In  loitering  mood,  upon  the  sand. 

That  earth  is  now  as  free  ! 
That  Corinth's  pedagogue  hath  now 
Transferr'd  his  by-word  to  thy  brow. 

Thou  Timor!  in  his  cai)tive's  cage' 
What  thoughts  will  there  be  thine. 

While  brooding  in  thv  prisun'd  ra^'e  ? 
But  one — "  The  world  wajs  mine  :" 

Unless,  like  he  of  Babylon, 

All  sense  is  with  thy  sceptre  gone. 
Life  will  not  long  confine 

That  spirit  pour'd  so  widely  forth — 

So  long  obey'd — so  little  worth  ! 

Or  like  the  thief  of  fire  from  heaven,* 

Wilt  thou  withstand  the  shock  ? 
And  share  with  him,  the  unforgiven. 

His  vulture  and  his  rock? 
Foredoom'd  by  God — by  man  accurst. 
And  tha*.  last  act.  though  not  thy  worst, 

The  very  fiend's  arch  mock  ;^ 
He  in  his  fall  preserved  nis  pride. 
And,  if  a  mortal,  had  as  proudly  died ! 


MONODY 

ON    THE 

DEATH  OF  THE  RIGHT  HON.  R.  B.  SHERfDAN 

SPOKE.N    AT    DRURY-LANE    THEATRE. 

When  the  last  sunshine  of  expiring  dzy 
In  summer's  twilight  weeps  itself  away. 
Who  hath  not  felt  the  softness  of  the  hour 
Sink  on  the  heart,  as  dew  along  the  flower? 
With  a  pure  feeling  which  absorbs  and  awes 
While  Nature  makes  that  melancholy  pause, 
Her  breathing  moment  on  the  bridge  where  Time. 
Of  light  an  I  darkness  forms  an  arch  sublime. 
Who  hath  not  shared  that  calm  so  still  and  deep, 
The  voiceless  thought  which  would  not  speak  but  weep 
A  holy  concord — and  a  bright  regret, 
A  glorious  sympathy  with  suns  that  set? 
'T  is  not  harsh  sorrow — but  a  tenderer  woe. 
Nameless,  but  dear  to  gentle  hearts  below. 
Felt  without  bitterness — but  full  and  clear, 
A  sweet  dejection — a  transparent  tear. 


2  Srlla 


3  Charles  V. 


1  The  cage  of  Bajazet,  by  order  of  Tamerlane- 
2  Prometheus. 

2  "The  fiend's  arch  mock- 
To  lip  a  wanton  and  suppose  her  chaste    ' 

Shakapeare 


96 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


fJnmix'd  with  worldly  grief  or  selfish  stain, 
Shed  without  shame — and  secret  without  pain. 

Even  as  the  tenderness  that  hour  instils 

Wheri  summer's  day  declines  along  the  hills, 

So  feels  the  fulness  of  our  heart  and  eyes 

When  all  of  genius  which  can  perish  dies. 

A  mighty  spirit  is  echpsed — a  power 

Hath  pass'd  from  day  to  darkness— to  whose  hour 

Of  hght  no  likeness  is  bequeath'd— no  name, 

Focus  at  once  of  all  the  rays  of  fame  ! 

The  flasli  of  wit— the  bright  intelligence, 

The  beam  of  song — the  blaze  of  eloquence, 

Set  with  their  sun— but  siill  have  left  behind 

The  enduring  produce  of  unmortal  Mind ; 

Fruits  of  a  genial  morn,  and  glorious  noon, 

A  deathless  part  of  him  who  died  too  soon. 

But  small  that  portion  of  the  wondrous  whole, 

These  sparkling  segments  of  that  circhng  soul, 

Which  all  embraced— and  lighten'd  over  all, 

To  cheer— to  pierce — to  please — or  to  appal. 

Fropi  the  charm'd  council  to  the  festive  board. 

Of  human  feelings  the  unbounded  lord  ; 

In  w'^cse  acclaim  the  loftiest  voices  vied, 

The  pr-i'sed,  the  proud,  who  made  his  jiraise  their  pride. 

W^hc--:  'he  loud  cry  of  trampled  Hindostan  ' 

Arose  to  Heaven  in  her  appeal  from  man, 

His  was  the  thunder — his  the  avenging  rod, 

The  wrath — the  delegated  voice  of  God  ! 

Which  r,hook  the  nations  through  his  lips — and  blazed 

Till  »anquish'd  senates  trembled  as  they  praised. 

And  iiere,  oh  !   here,  where,  yet  all  young  and  warm. 

The  gay  creations  of  his  spirit  charm, 

The  matchless  dialogue — the  deathless  wit. 

Which  knew  not  what  it  was  to  intermit ; 

The  glowing  portraits,  fresh  from  life  that  bring 

Home  to  our  hearts  the  truth  from  which  they  spring ; 

These  wondrous  beings  of  his  fancy,  wrought 

To  fulness  by  the  fiat  of  his  thought. 

Here  in  their  first  abode  you  still  may  meet. 

Bright  with  the  hues  of  his  Promethean  heat ; 

A  halo  of  the  light  of  other  days. 

Which  still  the  splendour  of  its  orb  betrays. 

But  should  there  be  to  whom  the  fatal  blight 
Of  failing  wisdom  yields  a  base  delight, 
Men  who  exult  when  minds  of  heavenly  tone 
Jar  in  the  music  which  was  born  their  own. 
Still  let  them  pause— Ah  !   little  do  they  know 
That  what  to  them  seem'd  vice  might  be  but  woe. 
Hard  is  his  fate  on  whom  the  public  gaze 
Is  fix'd  for  ever  to  detract  or  praise  ; 
Repose  denies  her  requiem  to  his  name, 
And  Folly  loves  the  martyrdom  of  Fame. 
Tlie  secret  enemy,  whose  sleepless  eye 
Stands  sentinel — accuser— judge— and  spy, 
fpiie  fo,. — the  fool— the  jealous — and  the  vain. 
The  envious  who  but  breathe  in  others'  pain — 
Behold  the  host !   delighting  to  deprave, 
WlK)  track  the  steps  of  glory  to  the  grave, 
W  atch  every  fault  that  daring  genius  owes 
Half  to  the  ardour  which  its  birth  bestows, 
Distort  the  truth,  accumulate  the  lie. 
And  pile  the  pyramid  of  calumny  ! 
These  are  his  portion — but  if  join'd  to  these 
Gaunt  Poverty  should  league  with  deep  Disease, 


If  the  high  spirit  must  forget  to  soar, 

And  stoop  to  strive  with  misery  at  the  door, 

To  soothe  indignity — and  face  to  face 

Meet  sordid  rage — and  wrestle  with  disgrace, 

To  find  in  hope  but  the  renew'd  caress. 

The  serpent-iold  of  further  faithlessness. 

If  such  may  be  the  ills  whicn  men  assail, 

What  marvel  if  at  last  the  mightiest  fail  ? 

Breasts  to  whom  all  the  strength  of  feeling  given 

Bear  hearts  electric — chargea  with  fire  from  heasen. 

Black  with  the  rude  collision,  inly  torn, 

By  clouds  surrounded,  and  on  whirlwinds  borne. 

Driven  o'er  the  louring  atmosphere  that  nurst 

Thoughts  which  have  turn'd  to  thunder— scorch-  -an 

burst. 
But  far  from  us  and  from  our  mimic  scene 
Such  th-ngs  should  be— if  such  have  ever  been; 
Ours  be  the  gentler  wish,  the  kinder  task. 
To  give  the  tribute  Glory  need  not  ask, 
To  mourn  the  vanish'd  beam— and  add  our  mite 
Of  praise  in  payment  of  a  long  delight. 
Ye  orators  !   whom  yet  our  council  yield, 
Mourn  for  the  veteran  hero  of  your  field ! 
The  worth V  rival  of  the  wondrous  Three  ." 
Whose  words  were  sparks  of  immortality  ! 
Ye  bards  !   to  whom  the  Drama's  Muse  is  dear, 
He  was  your  master— emulate  him  here  ! 
Ye  men  of  wit  and  social  eloquence ! 
He  was  your  brother— bear  Ins  ashes  hence ! 
While  powers  of  mind  almost  of  boundless  range. 
Complete  in  kind— as  various  in  their  change. 
While  eloquence— wit— poesy— and  mirth. 
That  humbler  harmonist  of  care  on  earth, 
Survive  within  our  souls— while  lives  our  sense 
Of  pride  in  merit's  proud  pre-eminence, 
Long  shall  we  seek  his  likeness— long  in  vain, 
And°turn  to  aU  of  him  which  may  remain, 
Sighing  that  Nature  form'd  but  one  such  man. 
And  broke  the  die— in  moulding  Sheridan ' 


I  S.'e  Fox  Rurko.  and  Pitt's  eulogy  on  Mr.  .Sheridan's  speech 
..n  the  churg.'s  exhibited  iisainst  Mr.  llastincs  in  th.>  House  of 
i.'ommons.  Mr.  PiU  entreiite<l  the  House  to  adjourn,  to  give 
time  for  a  calmer  conii.leralion  of  the  question  than  could 
then  orcu-  after  the  immediate  efTect  of  that  oration. 


THE  IRISH  AVATAR. 

Ere  the  Daughter  of  Brunswick  is  cold  in  her  grave. 
And  her  ashes  still  float  to  their  home  o'er  the  tide, 
Lo  !   George  the  triumphant  speeds  over  the  wave, 
To  the  long-cherish'd  Isle  which  he  loved  like  his— 
bride. 
True,  the  great  of  her  bright  and  brief  era  are  gone, 

The  rainbow-hke  epoch  where  Freedom  cou'd  pause 
For  the  few  little  years,  out  of  centuries  won. 

Which  betray'd'  not,  or  crush'd  not,  or  wept  not  her 
cause. 
True,  the  chains  of  the  Catholic  clank  o'er  his  rags. 
The  castle  still  stands,  and  the  senate  's  no  more. 
And  the  famine,  which  dwelt  on  her  freedomloss  crag» 

Is  extending  its  steps  to  her  desolate  shore. 
To  her  desolate  shore— where  the  emigrant   st.mds 

For  a  moment  to  gaze  ere  he  files  from  his  hearth" 
Tears  fall  on  his  chain,  though  it  drops  from  his  han.ls, 

For  the  dungeon  he  (puts  is  the  place  of  his  bu\n. 
But  he  comes  !  the  Messiah  of  royalty  (x.um^s  ! 

Like  a  goodly  Leviathan  roU'd  from  the  waves ! 

Then  receive  him  as  best  such  an  advei-t  becomes. 

With  a  legion  of  cooks,  ami  an  army  c.f  slaves  ! 

He  comes  m  the  promise  an.l  bloom  of  three-score. 

To  perform  in  the  pageant  the  sovereign's  part— 


1  Fox  Pitt.  Burke. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


97 


B'lt  lono  live  the  Shamrock  which  shadows  him  o'er! 
Could  the  Green  in  his  hnt  be  transferr'd  to  his  heart  > 

Could  that  lor.g-wither'd  spot  but  be  verdant  agam, 
And  a  new  spring  of  nojle  atrections  arise — 

Then  m'^ht  Freedom  forgive  thee  this  dance  in  thy  cham, 
And  his  shout  of  thy  slavery  which  saddens  the  skies. 

U  it  madness  or  meanness  which  clings  to  thee  now  ? 

Were  he  God — as  he  is  but  the  commonest  clav, 
With  scarce  fewer  wrinkles  than  sins  on  his  brow — 

Such  servile  devotion  might  shame  him  away. 

Ay,  roar  in  his  train  !  let  thine  orators  lash 
Their  fanciful  spirits  to  pamper  his  pride — 

Not  thus  did  thy  Gkattan  indignantly  flash 
His  soul  o'er  the  freedom  implored  and  denied. 

Ever  glorious  Grattax  !  the  best  of  the  good  ! 

So  simple  in  heart,  so  subUme  in  the  rest ! 
With  all  which  Demosthenes  wanted,  endued, 

And  his  rival  or  victor  in  all  he  possess'd. 

Ere  TuLLV  arose  in  the  zenith  of  Rome, 

Though  unequall'd,  preceded,  the  task  was  besun— 

But  Grattan  sprung  up  like  a  god  from  the  tomb 
Of  ages,  the  first,  last,  the  s:.viour,  the  One  ! 

With  the  skill  of  an  Orpheus  to  soften  the  brute ; 

With  the  fire  of  Prometheus  to  kindle  mankind  ; 
Even  Tyranny  listening  sate  melted  or  mute, 

And  corruption  shrunk  scorch'd  from  the  glance  of 
his  mind. 

But  back  to  our  theme  !   Back  to  despots  and  slaves  ! 

Feasts  furnish'd  by  Famine  !   rejoicings  bv  Pain  ! 
True  Freedom  but  tcelcomes,  while  slavery  still  raves. 

When  a  week's  Saturnalia  hath  loosen'd  her  chain. 

Let  the  poor  squalid  splendour  thy  wreck  can  afford 
(As  the  bankrupt's  profusion  his  ruin  would  hide) 

G-d  over  the  palace,  Lo  !   Erin,  thy  lord  ! 
Kiss  his  foot  with  thy  blessings  denied ! 

Or  if  freedom  past  hope  be  extorted  at  last, 
If  the  Idol  of  Brass  find  his  feet  are  of  clav. 

Must  what  terror  or  policy  wring  forth  be  class'd 
With  what  monarchs  ne'er  give,  but  as  wolves  yield 
their  prey  ? 

Each  brute  hath  its  nature,  a  king's  is  to  reign, — 
To  reign  >  in  that  word  see,  ye  ages,  comprised, 

The  cause  of  the  curses  all  annals  contain. 

From  C^SAR  the  dreaded,  to  George  the  despised  J 

Wear,  Fingal,  thy  trapping  !   O'Connell,  proclaim 
His    accomplishments  !     His  /  /  /   and   thy   country 
convmce 
Halt*  an  age's  contempt  was  an  error  of  Fame, 

And  that    "Hal  is  tne    rascahest    sweetest   young 
Prince!" 

Will  thy  yard  of  blue  riband,  poor  Fingal,  recall 
The  fetters  from  millions  of  Catholic  limbs? 

Or,  has  It  not  bound  thee  the  fastest  of  all 
The  slaves,  who  now  hail  their  betrayer  with  hymns  ? 

#-y  !  "  Build  him  a  dwelling  I"  let  each  give  his  mite  ! 

Till,  like  Babel,  the  new  royal  dome  hath  arisen ! 
1  et  thy  beggars  and  Helots  ttieir  pittance  unite — 

And  a  i)alac?  bestow  for  a  poor-house  and  prison  ! 

Spread — spread,  for  Vitellius,  the  roval  repast. 
Till  the  gluttonous  despot  be  stuff 'd  to  the  gorge ! 

And  the  roar  of  his  drunkards  proclaim  him  at  last 
The    Fourth   of  the   fools    and    oppressors    call'd 
"George!" 

7 


Let  the  tables  be  loaded  with  ft«tsis  till  the)  groan ! 

Till  they  groan  like  thy  people,  through  ages  of  u  oe  . 
Let  the  wine  flow  around  the  old  Bacchanal's  throne. 

Like  their  blood  which  has  flow'd,  and  whicn  yet  hag 
to  flow. 

But  let  not  his  name  be  thine  idol  alone — 

On  his  right  hand  behold  a  Sejanus  appears! 

Thine  own  Castle  re  AG  H  !  let  him  still  be  thine  own 
A  wretch,  never  named  but  with  curses  and  jeo^-s  ? 

Till  now,  when  the  Isle  which  should  blush  for  his  birth. 
Deep,  deep  as  the  gore  which  he  shed  on  her  soil, 

Seems  proud  of  the  reptile  which  crawl'd  from  her  earth. 
And  for  murder  repays  him  with  shouts  and  a  smile  ! 

Without  one  single  ray  of  her  genius,  without 
The  fancy,  the  manhood,  the  fire  of  her  race 

The  miscreant  who  well  might  plunge  Erin  in  doubt. 
If  she  ever  gave  birth  to  a  being  so  base. 

If  she  did— let  her  long-boasted  proverb  be  hush'd 
Which  proclaims  that   from   Erin   no   reptile  caj 
spring — 

See  the  cold-blooded  serpent,  with  venom  fiill  fiusn'd. 
Still  warming  its  folds. in  the  breast  of  a  King  ! 

Shout,  drink,  feast,  and  flatter  !  Oh  !  Erin,  how  low 
Wert  thou  sunk  by  misfortune  and  tyrannv,  till 

Thy  welcome  of  tyrants  hath  plunged  thee  below 
The  depth  of  thy  deep  in  a  deeper  gulf  still. 

My  voice,  though  but  humble,  was  raised  for  thvrignt, 
My  vote,  as  a  freeman's,  still  voted  thee  free. 

This  hand,  though  but  feeble,  would  arm,  in  thy  fight, 
And  this  heart,  though  outworn,  had  a  throb"  sf  1, 
for  tiee  ! 

Yes,  I  loved  thee  and  thine,  though  thou  art  not  my 
land, 

I  have  known  noble  hearts  and  great  souls  in  thy  3on3 
And  I  wept  with  the  world  o'er  the  patriot  band 

Who  are  gone,  but  I  weep  them  no  longer  as  once. 
For  happy  are  they  now  reposing  afar, — 

Thy  Grattan,  thy  Curran,  thy  Sheridan,  all 
Who,  for  years,  were  the  chiefs  in  the  eloqupnt  war. 

And  redeem'd,  if  they  have  not  retarded,  thy  fall. 
Yes,  happy  are  they  in  their  cold  English  graves  ! 

Their  shades  cannot  start  to  thy  shouts  of  to-dav,- 
Nor  the  steps  of  enslavers  and  chain-kissinjj  slaves 

Be  slamp'd  in  the  turf  o'er  their  fetterless  clay. 

Till  now  I  had  envied  thy  sons  and  their  shore, 

Though  their  virtues  were  hunted,  their  .-.berties  fled, 

There  was  something  so  warm  and  sublime  in  the  core 
Of  an  Irishman's  heart,  that  I  envy — thy  dead. 

Or,  if  aught  in  my  bosom  can  quench  for  an  hour 

My  contempt  for  a  nation  so  servile,  thoucrh  so*-- 
Which   though   trod  like  the  worm  will  not  turn  upo«. 
Power, 
'Tis  the  glory  of  Grattan,  and  genius  of  Moouk 
Sept.  I6th,  1821. 


THE  DREAM. 


Our  life  is  twofold  :  sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 
Death  and  existence  ;   sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality, 
And  dreams  in  their  developement  have  breath, 


98 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  tears,  and  toriures,  ana  me  touch  of  joy  ; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts, 
They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  waking  toils, 
They  do  divide  our  being  ;   they  oecome 
A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 
And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity : 
Tlwy  pass  like  spirits  of  the  oast,— they  speak 
Like  sibyls  of  the  future  ;   they  have  power— 
The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what  they  will^ 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that 's  gone  by. 
The  dread  of  vanish'd  shadows— Are  they  so  ? 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow  ?   What  are  they  ? 
Creations  of  the  mind? — The  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 
A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 
I  would  recall  a  vision  which  I  dream'd 
Perchance  in  sleep — for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 

II. 

I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 

Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill. 

Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 

As  't  were  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 

Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base. 

But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 

Of  woods  and  corn-fields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 

Scatter'd  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 

Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs  ;— the  hil' 

Was  crovvn'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 

Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fix'd. 

Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man: 

These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 

Gazing— the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 

Fair  as  herself— but  the  boy  gazed  on  her  ; 

And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful: 

And  both  were  young,  yet  not  alike  in  youth. 

As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge. 

The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood ; 

The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 

Had  far  outgrown  his  year^,  and  to  his  eye 

There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth. 

And  that  was  shining  on  him  ;   he  had  look'd 

Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away ; 

He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  her's  ; 

She  was  his  voice  ;   he  did  not  speak  to  her. 

But  trembled  on  her  words ;   she  was  his  sight. 

For  his  eye  foUow'd  hers,  and  saw  with  hers. 

Which  colour'd  all  his  objects  ;— he  had  ceased 

To  live  within  himself;   she  was  his  life. 

The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts. 

Which  terminated  all :   upon  a  tone, 

A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow. 

And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously — his  heart 

Unknowing  of  its  ca.ise  of  agony. 

Rut  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share  : 

Her  siglis  were  not  for  him ;   to  her  he  was 

Rven  as  a  brotlier- but  no  more  ;   't  was  much, 

p^or  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 

Her  iiifint  friendship  ha<l  bestow'd  on  him; 

Herself  the  solitary  scion  Icift 

Of  a  liriK-hotionr'd  race. — It  was  a  name 

Which  i)leased  liim,  and  yet  pleased  him  not— and  why? 

Time  taught  him  a  deep  answj^r — when  she  loved 

Another  ;   even  now  she  loved  another, 

Ai-d  on  th(!  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 

Looking  afir  if  y(!t  her  lover's  steed 

Kt'L.l  iircf  with  her  ex|)ectancy,  and  flew. 


in. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 

Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparisoi.'d. 

Within  an  antique  oratory  stood 

The  boy  of  whom  I  spake ; — he  was  alone. 

And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro  ;   anon 

He  sate  lum  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traccJ 

Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of:   then  he  lean'd 

His  liow'd  head  on  his  hands,  and  shojk  as  \  vvetc 

With  a  convulsion — then  arose  again. 

And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  teai 

What  he  had  written,  but  he  shed  no  tears. 

And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 

Into  a  kind  of  quiet :    as  he  paused. 

The  lady  of  his  love  re-enter'd  there  ; 

She  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 

She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved, — she  knew, 

For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his  heart 

Was  darken'd  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 

That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all. 

He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 

He  took  her  hand ;    a  moment  o'er  his  face 

A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded  as  it  came  ; 

He  dropp'd  tne  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 

Retired,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 

For  they  difl  part  with  mutual  smiles  .    he  pa^s'd 

From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  hall. 

And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  dis  wav. 

And  ne'er  repass'd  that  hoary  threshold  more. 

IV. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  boy  was  sprung  to  manhood  :    in  the  wild* 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home. 
And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams  ;    he  was  gir'. 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects  ;   he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been  ;   on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer. 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  tne,  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all ;    and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Re|K)slng  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couch'd  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruiif  d  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  rear'd  them  ;   by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fasten'd  near  a  fountain  ;   and  a  man 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb  did  waich  the  while. 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumber'd  around: 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky. 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful. 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  heaven. 

V. 
A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
I    The  lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  one 
Who  did  not  love  her  better:   in  her  home, 
A  thousand  leagues  from  his,— her  native  home, 
She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  infancy. 
Daughters  and  sons  of  beauty, — !>ut  bfihold  .' 
Upon  her  face  tln-re  was  the  tint  of  grief. 
The  settle.!  shadow  of  an  mward  strife. 
And  an  un(|uiet  drooping  of  the  eve, 
As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 
W'hat  could  her  irrief    !).■  ?— she  h;id  all  she  loved, 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  had  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 
Or  ill-repress'd  atiliction,  her  pure  thou-rhts. 
What  coul.l  h<"r  »ri(-f  h(!  ?— she  h;id  loved  him  nol. 
Nor  <;iven  hitn  cause  to  deem  himself  lieloved. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


90 


Nor  oouKi  he  Df  a  part  of  that  which  prey'd 
Upon  her  nwiul — a  spectre  of  the  past.. 

VL 
\  (,hange  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanaerer  was  return'd. — I  saw  him  stand 
Before  an  ahar — with  a  sjentle  bride  ; 
fler  tace  was  fair,  hut  was  not  that  which  made 
The  star-light  of  has  boyhood  ; — as  he  stood 
Even  at  the  ahar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 
The  self-same  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 
That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitude ;   and  then — 
As  in  ihat  hour — a  moment  o'er  his  fac\ 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced, — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came, 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 
The  fitting-vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words, 
And  all  things  reel'd  around  him ;   he  could  see 
Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have  been — 
But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustoni'd  hall. 
And  the  remember'd  chambers,  and  the  place, 
The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine  and  the  shade, 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny  came  back, 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light : 
What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time  ? 

Vll. 
A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  ladv  of  his  love  ; — oh !   she  was  changed 
As  bv  the  sickness  of  the  soul  ;   her  mind 
Had  wander'd  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes, 
Thev  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Wh.ch  's  not  of  the  earth ;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm  ;   her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things  ; 
And  forms,  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight,  famihar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy ;   but  the  wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift ; 
What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth  ? 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  phantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  feality  too  real ! 

VIIL 
A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  wa.s  alone  as  heretofore. 
The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone. 
Or  were  at  war  with  him  ;   he  was  a  tnark 
For  blight  ami  desolation,  compass'd  round 
With  hatred  and  contention;    pain  was  mix'd 
in  all  which  was  served  up  to  him,  until, 
Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  davs,' 
He  fed  on  ])oisons,  and  thev  had  no  j)ower. 
Hut  were  a  kind  of  nutriment ;   he  lived 
Through  that  wnich  had  been  death  to  many  men. 
And  made  him  friends  of  mountains  :    with  the  stars 
And  the  quick  spirit  ol  the  universe 
He  ne  d  his  dialogues  ;   and  they  did  teach 
To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries  ; 
To  mm  the  book  of  night  was  open'd  wide, 
And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  revea<'d 
A  marvel  and  a  secret — Be  it  so. 

IX. 
My  dream  was  past ;   it  had  no  further  change. 
It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 
Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 
Almost  like  a  reality — the  one 
To  end  in  madness — both  in  misery. 


1  Mithridates  of  Pontus. 


ODE. 
I. 

Oh  Venice!  Venice!   when  thy  marble  walla 

Are  level  with  the  waters,  there  shall  be 
A  cry  of  nations  o'er  thy  sunken  halls, 
A  loud  lament  along  the  swijeping  sea! 
If  I,  a  northern  wanderer,  weep  for  thee, 
What  should  thy  sons  do? — any  thing  but  weep; 
And  yet  they  only  murmur  in  their  sleep. 
Ill  contrast  with  their  fathers — as  the  siime, 
The  dull  green  ooze  of  the  receding  deep, 
Is  with  the  dashing  of  the  spring-tide  foam, 
That  drives  the  sailor  shipless  to  his  home, 
Aixi  they       'hose  that  were  ;   and  thus  they  rref'p. 
Crouching  and  crab-like,  through  their  sapping  street; 
Oh  !   agony — that  centuries  should  reap 
No  mellower  harvest !   Thirteen  hundred  years 
Of  weahh  and  glory  turn'd  to  dust  and  tears  ; 
And  every  monument  the  stranger  meets. 
Church,  palace,  pillar,  as  a  mourner  greets; 
And  even  the  Lion  all  subdued  appears, 
And  the  harsh  sound  of  the  barbarian  drum. 
With  dull  and  daily  dissonance,  repeats 
j   The  echo  of  thy  tyrant's  voice  along 
!   The  soft  waves,  once  all  musical  to  song, 
I   That  heaved  beneath  the  moonlight  with  the  throng 
'   Of  gondolas — and  to  the  busy  hum 
:   Of  cheerful  creatures,  whose  most  sinful  deeds 
j   Were  but  the  overheating  of  the  heart, 
j    And  flow  of  too  much  happiness,  which  needs 

The  aid  of  age  to  turn  its  course  apart 
j    From  the  luxuriant  and  voluptuous  flood 
i    Of  sweet  sensations  battling  with  the  blood. 
I    But  these  are  better  than  the  gloomy  errors. 
I   The  weeds  of  nations  in  their  last  decay, 
!    When  vice  walks  forth  with  her  unsoften'd  terrors. 
And  mirth  is  madness,  and  but  smiles  to  slay ; 
And  hope  is  nothing  but  a  false  delay. 
The  sick  man's  lightning  half  an  hour  ere  death. 
When  faintness,  the  last  mortal  birth  of  pain, 
And  apathy  of  liaib,  the  dull  beginning 
Of  the  cold  staggering  race  which  death  is  winning 
Steals  vein  by  vein  and  pulse  by  pulse  away  ; 
Yet  so  relieving  the  o'ertorlured  clay. 
To  him  appears  renewal  of  his  breath, 
And  freedom  the  mere  numbness  of  his  chain  ; — 
And  then  he  talks  of  life,  and  how  again 
He  feels  his  spirit  soaring— albeit  weak. 
And  of  the  fresher  air,  which  he  would  seek  ; 
And  as  he  whispers  knows  not  that  he  gasps. 
That  his  thin  finger  feels  not  what  it  clasps. 
And  so  the  film  comes  o'er  him — and  the  dizzy 
Chamber  swims  round  and  round — and  shadows  bu  y. 
At  which  he  vainly  catches,  flit  and  gleam, 
Till  the  last  rattle  chokes  the  strangled  scream. 
And  all  is  ice  and  blackness, — and  the  earth 
That  which  it  was  the  moment  ere  our  birth. 

II. 

There  is  no  hope  for  nations  !   Search  the  pago 

Of  many  thousand  years— the  daily  scene. 
The  flow  and  ebb  of  each  recurring  age, 
The  everlasting  to  be  which  hath  been. 
Hath  taught  us  nought  or  little  :   still  we  lean 
On  things  that  rot  beneath  our  weight,  and  wear 
Our  strength  away  in  wrestling  with  the  air , 
For  't  is  our  nature  strikes  us  down  :   the  beasts 
Slaughter'd  in  hourly  hecatombs  tor  feasts 
Are  of  as  high  an  order — tliey  must  go 
Even  where  their  driver  goads  tnem,  though  to  slaugh  er. 
Ye  men,  who  pour  your  blood  '>«•  king!  as  wvcu 


'9  v 


100 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


What  have  they  given  your  children  in  return  ? 

A  lieritage  of  servitude  and  woes, 

A  blindfold  bondage  where  your  hire  is  blows. 

What  ?   do  not  yet  the  red-hot  ploughshares  burn, 

O'er  which  you  stumble  in  a  false  ordeal, 

And  deem  this  proof  of  loyalty  the  real  ; 

Kissmg  the  hand  that  guides  you  to  your  scars, 

And  glorvnng  as  you  tread  the  glowing  bars  ? 

All  that  your  sires  have  left  you,  all  that  time 

Bequeaths  of  free,  and  history  of  sublime. 

Spring  from  a  different  theme! — Ye  see  and  read, 

Admire  and  sigh,  and  then  succumb  and  bleed! 

Save  the  few  spirits,  who,  despite  of  all, 

And  worse  than  all,  the  sudden  crimes  engender'd 

By  the  down-thundering  of  the  prison-wall. 

And  thirst  to  swallow  the  sweet  waters  tender'd, 

Gusliing  from  freedom's  fountains — when  the  crowd, 

Madden'd  with  centuries  of  drought,  are  loud, 

And  trample  on  each  other  to  obtain 

The  cu])  which  brings  oblivion  of  a  chain 

Heavy  and  sore, — in  which  long  yoked  they  plough'd 

The  sand, — or  if  there  sprung  the  yellow  grain 

'T  was  not  for  them,  their  necks  were  too  much  bow'd, 

And  their  dead  palates  chew'd  the  cud  of  pain: — 

Ves  !   the  few  spirits — who,  despite  of  deeds 

Which  they  abhor,  confound  not  with  the  cause 

Those  momentary  starts  from  Nature's  laws. 

Which,  like  the  pestilence  and  earthquake,  smile 

But  for  a  term,  then  pass,  and  leave  the  earth 

With  all  her  seasons  to  repair  the  blight 

With  a  few  summers,  and  again  put  forth 

Cities  and  generations — fair,  when  free — 

For,  tyranny,  there  blooms  no  bud  for  thee ! 

III. 

•51ory  and  empire  !  once  \ipon  these  towers 

With  freedom — godlike  triad  !   how  ye  sate ! 
l"he  league  of  mightiest  nations,  in  those  hours 
When  Venice  was  an  envy,  might  abate. 
But  did  not  quench,  her  spirit — in  her  fate 
Ail  were  enwrapp'd:   the  feasted  monarchs  knew 

And  loved  their  hostess,  nor  could  learn  to  hate, 
Although  they  humbled — with  the  kingly  few 
The  many  felt,  for  from  all  days  and  climes 
She  was  the  voyager's  worship  ; — even  her  crimes 
Were  of  the  softer  order — born  of  love. 
She  drank  no  blood,  nor  fatten'd  on  the  dead. 
But  gladden'd  where  her  harmless  conquests  spread; 
For  tiiese  restored  the  cross,  that  from  above 
Hallow'd  her  sheltering  banners,  wnich  incessant 
Flew  between  earth  and  the  unho'y  crescent, 
Which,  if  it  waned  and  dwindlec',  earth  may  thank 
The  city  it  has  clothed  in  chains,  which  clank 
Now,  creaking  in  the  ears  of  those  who  owe 
The  name  of  freedom  to  her  glorious  struggles  ; 
Yet  shf  but  shares  with  them  a  common  woe. 
And  call'd  the  "  kingdom"  of  a  conf|iienng  foe, — 
!iut  knows  what  all — and,  most  of  all,  we  know — 
With  what  set  gilded  terms  a  tyrant  juggles! 
IV. 
he  name  of  commonwealth  is  [)ast  and  gone 
O'er  the  three  fractions  of  the  groaning  globe  ; 
Venice  is  crush'd,  and  Holland  deigns  to  own 

A  sceptre,  and  endures  the  pur])le  robe  ; 
If  the  free  Swit/er  yet  bestrides  akme 
flis  chauiless  mountains,  't  is  but  for  a  time. 
For  tyranny  ul  late  is  cunnnig  grown. 
And  in  its  own  good  season  tramples  down 
The  sparkles  of  our  ashes.     One  great  clime, 


Whose  vigorous  offspring  by  dividing  ocean. 

Are  kept  apart  and  nursed  in  the  devotion 

Of  freedom,  which  their  fathers  fought  for,  and 

Bequeath'd — a  heritage  of  heart  and  hand. 

And  proud  distinction  from  each  other  land. 

Whose  sons  must  bow  them  at  a  monarch's  motion, 

As  if  his  senseless  sceptre  were  a  wan 

Full  of  the  magic  of  exploded  science — 

Still  one  great  clime,  hi  full  and  free  defiance, 

Yet  rears  her  crest,  unconquer'd  and  sublime, 

Above  the  far  Atlantic  ! — She  has  taught 

Her  Esau-brethren  that  the  haughty  flag. 

The  floating  fence  of  Albion's  feebler  crag, 

May  strike  to  those  whose  red  right  hands  have  bough 

Rights  cheaply  earn'd  with  blood.   Still,  still,  for  ever 

Better,  though  each  man's  life-blood  were  a  river. 

That  it  should  flow,  and  overflow,  than  creep 

Through  thousand  lazy  channels  in  our  veins, 

Damm'd  like  the  dull  canal  with  locks  and  chains. 

And  moving,  as  a  sick  man  in  his  sleep. 

Three  paces,  and  then  faltering: — better  be 

Where  the  extinguish'd  Spartans  still  are  free, 

In  their  proud  charnel  of  Thermopylae, 

Than  stagnate  in  our  marsh, — or  o'er  the  deep 

Fly,  and  one  current  to  the  ocean  add. 

One  spirit  to  the  souls  our  fathers  had. 

One  freeman  more,  America,  to  thee ! 


WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM. 

As  o'er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone 
Some  name  aiTests  the  passer-by  ; 

Thus,  when  thou  view'st  this  page  alone, 
May  mine  attract  thy  pensive  eye ! 

And  when  by  thee  that  name  is  read. 

Perchance  in  some  succeeding  year. 
Reflect  on  me  as  on  the  dead. 

And  think  my  heart  is  buried  here. 
September  Ulh,  1809. 


ROMANCE  MUY  DOLOROSO 

DEL 

SITIO  Y  TOMA  DE  ALHAMA, 
EL  CUAL  DECIA  EN  ARABIGO  ASI 

Paseabase  el  Rey  moro 
Por  la  ciudad  de  Granada, 
Desde  la  puerta  de  Elvira 
Hasta  la  de  Bivarambla. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 

Cartas  le  fueron  venidas 
Que  Alhama  era  ganada. 
Las  cartas  ech6  en  el  fuego, 

Y  al  mensagoro  matara. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Descavalga  de  una  mula, 

Y  en  un  caballo  cavalga. 
Po?  el  Zacatin  arriba 
Subido  se  habia  al  Alhambra. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 

Como  en  el  Alhambra  estuvo, 
Al  mismo  punto  mandaba 
Que  se  toqucn  las  trompetas 
Con  anafiles  de  pi  at  a. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POLM^. 


101 


V  que  atambores  de  guerra 
Apriesa  toquen  alarma  ; 
Por  que  lo  origan  sus  JMoros, 
Los  de  la  Vega  y  Granada. 
Ay  de  mi,  Albania ! 

Los  Mores  que  el  son  oyeron, 
Que  al  sangnento  Marie  llama, 
Uno  a  uno,  y  dos  d  dos, 
Un  gran  escuadron  formaban. 
Ay  de  mi,  Albania ! 

AUi  hablo  un  More  viejo  ; 
De  esta  manera  hablaba  : — 
"  I  Para  (;ue  nos  llamas,  Rey  ? 
I  Para  que  es  esta  Uainada  ?" 
Ay  de  mi,  Albama  ! 

"  Habeis  de  saber,  amigos, 
Una  nueva  desdicbada: 
Que  cristianos,  con  braveza, 
Ya.  nos  ban  lomado  Albama." 
Ay  de  mi,  Albama ! 

Alii  hablo  un  viejo  Alfaqui, 
De  barba  crecida  y  cana  : — 
"  Bien  se  te  emplea,  buen  Rey; 
Buen  Rey,  bien  se  te  empleaba. 
Ay  de  mi,  Albania ! 

"  Mataste  los  Bencerrages, 
Que  eran  la  flor  de  Granada ; 
Cogiste  los  tornadizos 
De  Cordova  la  nombrada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albama  ! 

Por  eso  mereces,  Rey, 
Una  pena  bien  doblada; 
Que  te  pierdas  tii  y  el  reino, 

Y  que  se  pierda  Granada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albama! 

Si  no  se  respetan  leyes, 
Es  ley  que  todo  se  pierda; 

Y  que  se  pierda  Granada, 

Y  que  te  pierdas  en  ella. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albama! 

Fuego  por  los  ojos  vierte, 
El  Rey  que  esto  oyera, 

Y  como  el  otro  de  leyes 
De  ieyes  tambien  babiaba. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albama  ! 

Sabe  un  Rey  que  no  bay  leyes 
De  darle  a  Reyes  disgusto. — 
Eso  dice  el  Rey  moro 
Relincbando  de  colera. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Moro  Alfaqui,  Moro  Alfaqui, 
El  de  la  vellida  barba. 
El  Rey  te  manda  prender, 
Por  la  perdida  de  Albama. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albama ! 

Y  cortarte  la  cabeza, 

Y  ponerla  en  el  x\lbambra, 
Por  que  a  ti  castigo  sea, 

Y  otros  tiemblen  en  miralla. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albama ! 


Caballeros,  hombres  buenos, 
Decid  de  mi  parte  al  Rey, 
Al  Rey  moro  de  Granada, 
Como  no  le  devo  nada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

De  aberse  Alhama  perdids 
A  mi  me  pesa  en  el  alma ; 
Que  si  el  Rey  perdi6  su  tierra 
Otro  mucho  mas  perdiera. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Perdieran  hijos  padres, 

Y  casados  las  casadas : 
Las  cosas  que  mas  amara 
PerdiO  uno  y  otro  fama. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Perdi  una  hija  doncella 
Que  era  la  flor  d'  esta  tierra ; 
Cien  doblas  daba  por  ella. 
No  me  las  estimo  en  nada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Diciendo  asi  al  hacen  Alfaqui, 
Le  cortaron  la  cabeza, 

Y  la  elevan  al  Alhambra, 
Asi  como  el  Rey  lo  manda. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Hombres,  ninos  y  mugeres, 
Lloran  tan  grande  perdida. 
Lloraban  todas  las  damas 
Cuantas  en  Granada  habia. 
Ay  de  mi,  Alhama . 

Por  las  calies  y  ventanas 
Mucbo  luto  pared  a ; 
Llora  el  Rey  como  fembra, 
Qu'  es  mucbo  lo  que  perdia. 
Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

A  VERY  MOURNFUL  BALLAD 

ON    THE 

SIEGE  AND  CONQUEST  OF  ALHAMA, 

IVhich^   in  the  Arabic  language^  is  to  the  following 

purport. 

[The  effect  of  the  original  ballad  (which  existed  both  in 
Spanish  and  Arabic)  was  such  that  it  was  forbidden  to  be 
sung  by  the  Moors,  on  pain  of  death,  within  Granada.J 

The  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down 
Through  Granada's  royal  town  ; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 
Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Albania's  city  fell ; 
In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 
And  the  messenger  be  slew. 

Woe  is  me,  Albama : 
He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  borsf?. 
And  through  the  street  directs  bis  course  ; 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 
When  the  Alliambra  walls  he  gain'd 
On  the  moment  he  ordain'd 
That  the  trumpet  straight  shoula  sound 
With  the  silver  clarion  round. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ' 


102 


BYRi:)NS    POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 
That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain, 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 
Tnat  bloody  Mars  recall'd  them  there, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two. 
To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 

\Voe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before, 
*'  Wherefore  call  on  us,  oh  king  ? 
What  may  mean  this  gathering?" 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  Friends  !  ye  have,  alas !  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow. 
That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold. 
Have  obtain'd  Alhama's  hold." 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 
With  his  beard  so  white  to  see, 
*'  Good  king,  thou  art  justly  served, 
Good  king,  this  thou  hast  deserved. 
Woe  IS  me,  Alhama! 

•*  By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour. 
The  Abencerrage,  Granada's  flower ; 
And  strangers  were  received  by  thee 
Of  Cordova  the  chivalry. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  And  for  this,  oh  king  !   is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement. 
Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm, 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhehn. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  lie  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe. 
He  must  perish  by  the  law  ; 
And  Granada  must  be  won, 
And  thyself  with  her  undone." 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Fire  flash'd  from  out  the  old  Moor's  eyes, 
The  monarch's  wrath  began  to  rise. 
Because  he  answer'd,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings  :" — 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
Die  Moorish  king,  and  doom'd  him  dead. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

Moor  Alfatjui !    Moor  Alfliqui  ! 
Thougli  thy  beard  so  hoary  be, 
Thi-  king  hath  sent  to  have  thee  seized, 
For  Alhama's  loss  displeased. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  to  fix  thy  head  upon 
High  Alliainbra's  loftiest  stone  ; 
That  this  for  thee  should  be  the  law. 
And  others  tremble  when  they  saw. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 


"  Cavalier  !   and  man  of  wonn! 
Let  these  words  of  mine  go  forth  j 
Let  the  Moorish  monarch  know, 
That  to  him  I  nothing  owe  : 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  But  on  my  soul  Alhama  weighs. 
And  on  my  inmost  S[)irit  preys  ; 
And  if  the  king  his  land  hatii  lost. 
Yet  others  may  have  lost  the  most. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  Sires  have  lost  their  children,  wives 
Their  lords,  and  valiant  men  their  lives  j 
One  what  best  his  love  might  claim 
Hath  lost,  another  wealth  or  fame. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"I  lost  a  damsel  in  that  hour, 
Of  all  the  land  the  loveliest  llower  ; 
Doubloons  a  hunlred  I  wt)uld  pay, 
And  think  her  ransom  cheap  that  day." 
Woe  IS  me,  Alhama  ! 

And  as  these  tilings  the  old  Moor  said. 
They  sever'd  from  the  trunk  his  head  ; 
And  to  the  Alhambra's  wall  with  speed 
'T  was  carried,  as  the  king  decreed. 
Woe  is  me,  Albania  I 

And  men  and  infants  therein  weep 
Their  loss,  so  heavy  and  so  deep  ; 
Granada's  ladies,  all  siie  rears 
Within  her  walls,  burst  into  tears. 
Woe  is  me,  Albania  ! 

And  from  the  windows  o'er  the  walU 
The  sable  web  of  mourning  falls  ! 
Tlie  king  weeps  as  a  woman  o'er 
His  loss,  for  it  is  much  and  sore. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 


SOXETTO  Dl  VITTORELLl. 

PEK  xMONACA. 
Sonetto  composto  in  notno   di  un  geiiitore,  a  cui  er%  «K>t9 
poco  intmnzi  una  tiglia  appena  maiitata;  e  dirutto  al  r^m 
tore  df  lla  sacra  sposa. 

Dl  due  vaghe  donzelle,  oneste,  accorte 

Lieti  e  miseri  padri  il  ciel  ne  feo  ; 

II  ciel,  die  degne  di  piu  nobil  sorte, 

L'  una  e  1'  altra  veggendo,  ambo  chiedo 
La  niia  fii  tolta  da  velocc   morte 

A  le  fumanti  tede  d'  luieneo: 

La  tua,  Francesco,  in  siigellate  porte 

F.terna  prigioniera  or  si  rendeo. 
Ma  tu  alnieno  [lotrai  de  la  jjelosa 

Irremeabil  soglia,  ove  s'  asconde 

La  sua  tenera  udir  voce  pielosa. 
lo  verso  un  fiume  d'  amarissim'  onda, 

Corro  a  quel  marmo  in  cui  la  figlia  or  posM^ 

Batto  e  ribatto,  ma  nessun  risponde. 

TRANSLATION  FROM  VITTORELLl. 

ON  A  NUN. 
Sonnot  coinposod  in   the  naiiii!  of  a  father,  whose  diuiehier 
had  recciiily  died  shortly  after  licr  iiiarria{;(; ;  and  addressed 
to  tiie  father  of  her  wiio  had  lately  taken  the  veil. 

Of  two  fair  virgins,  modest  though  admired. 

Heaven  made  us  happy,  and  now,  wretched  sires. 
Heaven  for  a  nobler  doom  their  wortli  desires. 

And  gazing  upon  til/ur,  both  required. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


108 


Vliiic,  Willie  the  lorcn  ot'  Hymen  newly  fired 
Becomes  extinguish'd,  soon — too  soon  expires  : 
But  thine,  wuhm  the  closing  grate  retu-ed, 
Eternal  captive,  to  her  God  aspires. 
ut  thou  at  least  from  out  the  jealous  door, 
Which  shuts  between  your  never-meeting  eyes, 
May'st  hear  her  sweet  and  pious  voice  once  more  : 
to  the  marble,  where  my  daughter  lies. 
Rush, — the  swoln  flood  of  bitterness  I  pour. 
And  knock,  and  knock,  and  knock — but  none  replies. 


STANZAS, 


WRITTEN    IN    PASSING    THE    AMBRACIAN    GULF, 
NOVEMBER     14,    1809. 

Through  cloudless  skies,  in  silvery  sheen, 
Full  beams  the  moon  on  Actium's  coast, 

And  on  these  waves,  for  Egypt's  queen. 
The  ancient  world  was  won  and  lost. 

And  now  upon  the  scene  I  look. 

The  azure  grave  of  many  a  Roman  ; 

Where  stern  Ambition  once  forsook 
His  wavering  crown  to  follow  woman. 

Florence  !  whom  I  will  love  as  well 

As  ever  yet  was  said  or  sung 
(Since  Orpheus  sang  his  spouse  from  hell), 

Whilst  thou  art  fair  and  I  am  young ; 

Sweet  Florence  !   those  were  pleasant  times, 
W'hen  worlds  were  staked  for  ladies'  eyes  : 

Had  bards  as  many  realms  !is  rhymes. 
Thy  charms  might  raise  new  Anionics. 

Though  Fate  forl)ids  such  things  to  be. 
Yet,  by  thine  eyes  and  ringlets  curl'd  ! 

I  cannot  lose  a  world  for  thee. 

But  would  not  lose  thee  for  a  world. 


STANZAS, 

Composed  October  11th,  1F>09,  during  tiie  night,  in  a  thunder- 
storm, when  the  guides  had  lost  the  road  to  Ziiza,  near  the 
range  of  mountains  formerly  called  Pinduo,  in  Albania. 

Chill  and  mirk  is  the  nightly  blast. 

Where  Pindus'  mountains  rise. 
And  angry  clouds  are  pouring  fast 

The  vengeance  of  the  skies. 

Our  guides  are  gone,  our  hope  is  lost, 

And  lightnings,  as  they  play. 
But  show  where  rocks  our  path  have  crost. 

Or  gild  the  torrent's  spray. 

Is  yon  a  cot  I  saw,  though  low  ? 

When  lightning  broke  the  gloom — 
How  welcome  were  its  shade  I — ah  !   no  ! 

'T  J,-  but  a  Turkish  tomb. 

riirough  sounds  of  foaming  w^ater-falls, 

I  hear  a  voice  exclaim — 
My  way-worn  countrvman,  who  ca'ls 

On  distant  England's  name. 

A  shot  is  fired — by  fof  or  friend  ? 

Another — 't  is  to  tell 
The  mountain  peasants  to  descend. 

And  lead  us  where  they  dwell. 


Oh !   who  in  such  a  night  will  daio 

To  tem|)t  the  wilderness  ? 
And  wiio  'mid  thunder-peals  can  hear 

Our  signal  of  distress  / 

And  who  that  heard  our  shouts  would  rise 

To  try  the  dubious  road? 
Nor  rather  deem  from  nightly  cries 

Taat  outlaws  were  abroad. 

Clouds  burst,  skies  flash,  oh,  dreadtui  hour! 

More  fiercely  pours  the  storm  ! 
Vet  here  one  thought  has  still  the  power 

To  keep  my  bosom  warm. 

While  wandering  through  each  broken  path, 

O'er  brake  and  craggy  brow  : 
While  elements  exhaust  their  wrath. 

Sweet  Florence,  where  art  thou? 

Not  on  the  sea,  not  on  the  sea, — 

Thy  bark  hath  long  been  gone : 
Oh,  may  the  storm  that  pours  on  me 

Bow  down  my  head  alone ! 

Full  swiftly  blew  the  swift  Siroc 

When  last  I  press'd  thy  lip ; 
And  long  ere  now,  with  foaming  shock, 

ImpelPd  thy  gallant  ship. 

Now  thou  art  safe  ;   nay,  long  ere  now 

Hast  trod  the  shore  of  Spain  : 
'T  were  hard  if  aught  so  fair  as  thou 

Should  linger  on  the  main. 

And  since  I  now  remember  thee 

In  darkness  and  in  dread. 
As  in  those  hours  of  revelry 

Which  mirth  and  music  sped  ; 

Do  thou  amidst  the  fair  white  wall«, 

If  Cadiz  yet  be  free, 
At  times  from  out  her  latticed  halls 

Look  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea  ; 

Then  think  upon  Calypso's  isles, 

Endear'd  by  days  gone  by  ; 
To  others  give  a  thousand  smiles, 

To  me  a  single  sigh. 

And  when  the  admiring  circle  mark 

The  paleness  of  thy  face, 
A  half-form'd  tear,  a  transient  spark 

Of  melancholy  grace. 

Again  thou  'It  smile,  and  blushing  shun 

Some  coxcomb's  raillery  ; 
Nor  own  for  once  thou  thought'st  of  onu 

Who  ever  thinks  on  thee. 

Though  smile  and  sigh  alike  are  vain, 

When  sever'd  hearts  repine  ; 
Mv  spirit  flies  o'er  mount  and  main, 

And  mourns  in  search  of  thine. 


TO  *  +  * 

0  H  Ladv  !  when  I  left  the  shore. 

The  distant  shore  which  gave  me  birth, 

1  hardlv  thouirht  to  grieve  once  more, 

To  (piit  another  spot  on  earth  : 
Yet  here,  amidst  th.s  barren  isle. 

Where  panting  nature  droops  the  head, 
Where  only  thou  ait  seen  to  smile, 

I  view  mv  parting  hour  with  dread. 


104 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


TTiough  far  from  Albin's  craggy  shore, 

Divided  by  the  dark-bhie  puiin  ; 
A  few,  brief,  roUing  seasons  o'er, 

Perchance  I  view  her  chfis  again 
But  wheresoe'er  1  now  tuay  roam. 

Through  scorching  chine  and  varied  sea, 
Though  tune  resloie  me  t^  m^  home, 

I  ne'er  shall  bend  mine  eyes  or  thcp  : 
On  thee,  m  whom  at  once  conspire 

All  charms  which  heedless  hearts  can  move, 
Whom  but  to  see  is  to  admire. 

And,  oh  !   forgive  the  word — to  love. 
Forgive  the  word,  in  one  who  ne'er 

VVith  such  a  word  can  more  otfend  j 
And  since  thy  heart  I  cannot  share, 

Believe  me,  what  I  am,  thy  friend. 
And  who  so  cold  as  look  on  thee, 

Thou  lovely  wanderer,  and  be  less? 
Nor  be,  what  man  should  ever  be, 

Tlie  friend  of  beauty  in  distress  ? 
A.h  I   who  would  think  that  form  had  past 

Through  danger's  most  destructive  path, 
Had  braved  the  death- wing'd  tempest's  blast, 

And  'scaped  a  tyrant's  fiercer  wrath  ? 
Lady !   when  I  shall  view  the  walls 

Where  free  Byzantium  once  arose  ; 
And  Stamboul's  oriental  halls 

The  Turkish  tyrants  now  enclose  ; 
Though  mightiest  in  the  lists  of  fame, 

That  glorious  city  still  shall  be  ; 
On  me  't  will  hold  a  dearer  claim 

As  spot  of  thy  naMvity  : 
Ard  though  I  bid  thee  now  farewell. 

When  1  behold  that  wondrous  scene, 
Since  where  thou  art  I  may  not  dwell, 

'T  will  soothe  to  be  where  thou  hast  been. 
September,  1809. 


WRITTEN  AT  ATHENS, 

JANUARY    16,  1810. 

The  spell  is  broke,  the  charm  is  flown  ! 

Thus  is  it  vviih  life's  fitful  fever  ! 
We  madly  smile  when  we  should  g'oan ; 

Delirium  is  our  best  deceiver. 

Eai'h  lucid  interval  of  thought 

Recalls  the  woes  of  Nature's  charter. 

And  he  that  acts  as  wise  men  ought. 

But  hves,  as  saints  have  died,  a  martyr. 


WllITTEN  BENEATH  A  PICTURE. 

Dear  object  of  defeated  care! 

Though  now  of  love  and  thee  bereft, 
To  reconcile  me  with  despair 

Thine  image  and  my  tears  are  left. 

•T  IS  said  with  sorrow  time  can  cope ; 

But  this,  I  fe(;l,  can  ne'er  be  true: 
For  bv  the  death-blow  of  my  hope, 

My  iFcmory  immortal  grew. 


WRITTEN    AFTER   SWI.MMLXG    EROM   S.OSTOS 
TO   A  BY  DOS,'   MAY  9,  1810. 

If,  in  the,  month  of  dark  December, 

Leander,  who  was  nightly  wont 
(What  maid  will  not  the  tale  reinembrr'') 

To  cross  thy  stream,  broad  Hellespont ! 

If,  when  the  wintry  tempest  roar'd. 

He  sped  to  Hero,  nothing  loth. 
And  thus  of  old  thy  current  poui'd. 

Fair  Venus  !   how  I  pity  both ! 

For  me,  degenerate  modern  wretch. 
Though  in  the  genial  month  of  May, 

My  dripping  limbs  I  faintly  stretch, 
And  think  I  've  done  a  feat  to-day. 

But  since  he  cross'd  the  rapid  tide. 

According  to  the  doubtful  story. 
To  woo, — and — Lord  knows  wha*.  t>e?id«^. 

And  swam  for  love,  as  I  for  glorv  ; 

'Twere  hard  to  say  who  fared  the  jest: 

Sad  mortals !   thus  the  gods  still  plague  fou 

He  lost  his  labour,  I  my  jest. 
For  he  was  drown'd,  and  I  've  the  ague. 


Z(orj  fjiov,  ads  ayii—Ho,'^ 
ATHENS,   1810. 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part. 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart.' 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 
Zwrj  fjLOtJ,  cas  ayuTTcS. 


1  On  the  3ii  of  May.  1810,  while  the  Salsetto  (Captain  Bat}iu><) 
was  iyiDs  in  the  Dardanelles,  Lieutenant  Ekeiiheud  of  thut 
frigate  and  the  writer  of  these  rhymes  swam  troin  the  Euro- 
pean shore  to  the  Asiatic — hy-the-by,  from  Abydos  to  Sestorf 
would  have  been  more  correct.  The  whole  distance  froni  tlui 
place  wh(!nce  we  started  to  our  landing  on  the  other  side,  in- 
cludi:ig  the  length  we  were  carried  by  the  current,  was  coin- 
peicd  by  those  on  board  the  frigaie  at  upwards  of  four  Eng- 
lish miles;  thouL'h  the  actual  breadth  is  barely  one.  'i'he 
rapidity  of  the  current  is  such  that  no  boat  can  row  directly 
across,  and  it  may  in  some  measure  be  estimated  from  tlie  cir- 
cumstance of  the  whole  distance  bt;ing  accomplished  by  one 
of  the  parties  in  an  hour  ans!  five,  and  by  the  other  in  an  hour 
and  ten  minutes.  The  water  was  extremely  cold  iVom  the 
n;elting  of  the  niountain-snows.  Ab(jut  three  weeks  before, 
in  April,  we  had  made  an  attempt,  but  having  ridden  all  the 
way  froiTi  the  Troad  the  same  morning,  and  the  water  being 
of  an  icy  cliillness,  we  found  it  necessary  to  postpone  the 
completion  till  the  frit;ate  anchored  t)clow  the  castles,  when 
we  swam  the  straits,  as  just  stated,  entering  a  considcrabki 
way  above  the  Europeim,  and  landing  below  the  Asmtic  fort 
Chevalier  says  that  a  young  Jew  swam  the  same  distaiic(!  foi 
his  mistress;  and  Oliver  mentions  itfl  having  been  done  by  i, 
Neapolitan;  hut  our  consul,  Tarragona,  remembered  miilie 
of  these  circumstances,  and  tried  to  dissuade  us  t'rotii  the  at 
tempt.  A  number  of  the  Salsette's  crew  were  known  to  havf 
accomplished  a  greater  di.stance;  and  the  oniy  thing  that  sur 
prised  me  was,  that,  as  doubts  had  been  entertained  of  the  truiL 
of  Leander's  story,  no  traveller  had  everendeav*  ured  to  ascer- 
tain its  practicability. 

2  Zoe  viou,  sun  asavo,  or  Zw??  /JOti,  cif  ayanuty  a  RomiK' 
expression  of  tenderness  :  if  I  translate  it  I  shall  aflront  the 
gentlemen,  as  it  may  seem  that  I  supposed  they  could  not  ;  and 
if  I  do  not,  I  may  affront  th((  ladies.  Fi.r  fear  of  any  miscoti- 
struftion  on  the  part  of  the  latter,  I  shall  do  so,  bes-'giiig 
pardon  of  tht;  learned.  It  means,  "My  life,  I  love  you  I" 
which  sounds  very  prettily  in  all  latiLMiaires,  and  is  as  much 
in  fashion  in  Greece  at  this  day  as,  .hivenal  tells  us,  the  ?wi' 
first  words  were  amongst  the  Rotnai>  ladies,  wh<)se  erolx:  a\- 
pressions  were  all  Helienizcd. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


10£ 


By  thosr  iressfes  unconfined, 
Woo'd  by  each  ^gean  wind  ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  tliy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge, 
Bv  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
Z'i)»7  {iov,  aai  ayuTiu).     , 
^■''' - .  \  ^  •  -     .-■ 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste  ;  ^ 

By  that  zono-encircled  waist : 
By  all  the  token-flowers'  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 
Bv  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
Zwr]  liov,  (xdi  dyairrj. 

Maid  of  Athens  !  I  am  gone  : 
Think  of  me,  sweet !   when  alone. — 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol,^ 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul : 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  7    No  ! 
Zdt]  ncrv,  cai  aya-d. 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  FAMOUS  GREEK 
WAR-SONG, 

AevTE  TraT^ES  rajv  'K\Xrjvu)v, 

Written  by  Riga,  who  perished  in  the  attempt  to  revolutionize 
Greece.  The  following  translation  is  as  literal  as  the  author 
could  make  it  in  verse ;  it  is  of  the  same  measure  as  that  of 
the  original. 

Sons  of  the  Greeks,  arise  ! 

The  glorious  hour-'s  gone  forth, 
And,  worthy  of  such  ties. 

Display  who  gave  us  birth. 

CHORUS. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  let  us  go  / 

In  arms  against  the  foe, 
Till  their  hated  blood  shall  flow 

In  a  river  past  ou-  fe^*, 
Then  manfully  despising 

The  Turkish  tyrant's  yoke, 
Let  your  country  see  you  rising, 

And  all  her  chains  are  broke. 
Brave  shades  of  chiefs  and  sages. 

Behold  the  coming  strife  ! 
Hellenes  of  past  ages, 

Oh,  start  again  to  life  ! 
At  the  sound  of  my  trumpet,  breaking 

Your  sleep,  oh,  join  with  me  ! 
And  the  seven-hill'd^  city  seeking, 

Fight,  conquer,  till  we  're  free. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  etc 
Sparta,  Sparta,  why  in  slumbers 

Lethargic  dost  thou  he  ? 
\wake,  and  join  thy  numbers 

With  Athens,  old  ally  ! 


1  Ih  *hp  East  (where  lar'ies  are  not  taught  to  write,  lest  they 
ihould  scribJ.e  assignations)  flowers,  cinders,  pebbles,  etc., 
convey  the  sentiments  of  the  parties  by  that  universal  deputy 
of  Mercury — an  old  woman.  A  i-inder  says,  "  I  burn  for  thee:" 
a  bunch  of  flowers  tied  with  hair,  "  Take  me  and  fly  ;"  but  a 
pebble  declares — what  nothing  else  can 

2  Constantinople. 

2  Conatantinople.    "  'Err?  jXo</,oj." 


Leonidas  recalUng, 

That  chief  of  ancient  song. 
Who  saved  ye  once  from  falling. 

The  tarrible,  the  strong! 
Who  made  that  bold  diversiDn 

In  old  Therinopyhis, 
And  warring  with  the  Persian 

To  keep  his  country  free ; 
With  his  three  hundred  waging 

The  battle,  long  he  stood. 
And,  like  a  lion  raging, 

E.xpired  in  seas  of  blood. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  etc 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ROMAIC  SONG, 

^ SlpaioTaTt]  Xar/3j),"  etc. 

The  son;.'  from  which  this  is  taken  is  a  great  favourite  with  the 
young  girls  of  Athens  of  all  classes.    Tneir  manner  of  sing- 
ing it  is  by  verses  in  rotation,  the  whole  number  present  join^ 
ing  in  the  chorus.  I  have  hfiinl  it  frequently  at  our  "  X''^i'°'- 
in  the  winter  of  1810-11.    The  air  is  plaintive  and  pretty. 

I  ENTER  thv  garden  of  roses, 

Beloved  and  fair  Haidee, 
Each  morning  when  Flora  reposes, 

For  surely  I  see  her  in  thee. 
Oh,  lovely!   thus  low  I  implore  thee. 

Receive  this  fond  truth  from  my  tongue. 
Which  utters  its  song  to  adore  thee, 

Yet  tren.bles  for  what  it  has  sung : 
As  the  branch,  at  the  bidding  of  nature, 

Adds  fragrance  and  fruit  to  the  tree, 
Through  her  eyes,  through  her  every  feature. 

Shines  the  soul  of  the  young  Haidee. 

But  the  loveliest  garden  grows  hateful. 

When  love  has  abandon'd  the  bowers  ; 
Bring  me  hemlock — since  mine  is  ungrateful, 

That  herb  is  more  fragrant  than  flowers. 
The  poison,  when  pour'd  from  the  chalice, 

Will  deeply  embitter  the  bowl ; 
But  when  drunk  to  escape  from  thy  malice. 

The  draught  shall  be  sweet  to  my  soul. 
Too  cruel !   in  vain  I  i.niplore  thee 

My  heart  from  these  horrors  to  save  : 
Will  nought  to  my  bosom  restore  thee? 

Then  open  the  gates  of  the  grave. 

As  the  chief  who  to  combat  advances. 

Secure  of  his  conquest  before. 
Thus  thou,  with  those  eyes  for  thy  lances. 

Hast  pierced  through  my  heart  to  its  core 
Ah,  tell  me,  my  soul !   must  I  perish 

By  pangs  which  a  smile  would  dispel  ? 
Woultl  the  hope,  which  thou  once  bad's*,  me  cherish 

For  torture  repay  me  too  well  ? 
Now  sad  is  the  garden  of  roses. 

Beloved  but  false  Haidee! 
There  Flora  all  wither'd  rejtoses, 

And  mourns  o'er  thine  absence  with  n»e. 


ON  PARTING. 

FriE  kiss,  dear  maid  !   thy  lip  has  left. 

Shall  never  part  from  mine, 
Til!  happier  hours  restore  the  gift 

Untainted  back  to  thine. 
Thy  parting  glance,  which  fondly  beams. 

An  equal  love  may  see : 
The  tear  that  from  thine  eyelid  stroara 

Can  weep  no  change  in  me. 


106 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


I  ask  no  pledge  to  make  me  blest. 

In  gazing  when  alone  ; 
Nor  (^ne  memorial  for  a  breast, 

Whose  thoughts  are  all  thine  own. 

Nor  need  I  write — to  tell  the  tale 
My  pen  were  doubly  weak  : 

Oh  '   what  can  idle  words  avail, 
Unless  th"  heart  could  speak? 

By  day  or  night,  in  weal  or  woe, 
That  heart,  no  longer  free, 

Must  bear  the  love  it  cannot  show, 
And  silent  ache  for  thee. 


TO  THYRZA. 

Without  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot. 

And  say,  what  truth  might  well  have  said, 
By  all,  save  one,  perchance  forgot. 

Ah,  wherefore  art  thou  lowly  laid  ? 
Bv  manv  a  shore  and  many  a  sea 

Divided,  yet  beloved  in  vain  ; 
The  past,  the  future  fled  to  thee 

To  bid  us  meet — no— ne'er  again! 
Could  this  have  been— a  word,  a  look. 

That  softly  said,  "  We  part  in  peace," 
Had  taught  my  bosom  how  to  brook, 

With  fainter  sighs,  thy  soul's  release. 
And  didst  thou  not,  since  death  for  thee 

Piepared  a  light  and  j^angless  dart, 
Once  long  for  hmi  thou  ne'er  shalt  see, 

Who  hold,  and  holds  thee  in  his  heart? 
Oh  !   who  like  him  had  watch'd  thee  here  ? 

Or  sadly  mi^rkM  thy  glazing  eye. 

In  that  dread  hour  ere  death  appear, 

When  silent  sorrow  fears  to  sigh. 

Till  all  was  past?   But  when  no  more 

T  was  thine  to  reck  of  human  woe, 

AfTection's  heart-drops,  gushmg  o'er, 

Had  flow'd  as  fast— as  now  they  flow. 
Shall  they  not  flow,  when  many  a  day 

In  these,  to  me,  deserted  towers, 
Ere  call'd  but  for  a  time  away, 

Affection's  mingling  tears  were  ours  ? 
Ours  too  the  glance  none  saw  beside  ; 

The  smile  none  else  might  understand; 
The  whisper'd  though"  of  hearts  allied, 

The  pressure  of  the  thrilling  hand; 
The  kiss  so  guiUless  and  refined. 

That  love  each  warmer  wish  forbore  ; 
Those  eves  proclaiin'd  so  pure  a  mind, 

Even  passion  blush'd  to  plead  for  more. 
The  tone,  that  taught  me  to  rejoice. 

When  prone,  unlike  thee,  to  repine  ; 
The  song  celestia'  from  thy  voice. 

But  sweet  to  me  from  none  but  thine ; 
The  pledge  we  wore — I  wear  it  still, 

But  where  is  thine? — >ih,  where  art  th<!U? 
Oft  have  I  lK>rne  the  weight  of  ill. 

But  never  bent  beneath  'ill  now  ! 
Well  hast  thou  left  in  life's  best  bloom 

The  cup  of  woe  for  me  to  drain. 
II  rest  alone  be  in  th(i  tomb, 

I  would  not  wish  thee  here  agam  ; 
But  if  in  worlds  more  blest  than  this 

Thy  virtues  seek  a  filter  sphere, 
Impart  some  portion  c)f  thy  bliss, 

To  wean  me  from  mine  anguish  liere. 


Teach  me — too  early  taught  by  thee  • 
To  bear,  forgiving  and  forgiven. 

On  earth  thy  love  was  such  to  me, 
It  fain  would  form  my  hope  in  heaven 


STANZAS. 


AwAV,  awav,  ye  notes  of  woe! 

Be  silent,  thou  once  soothing  strain. 
Or  I  must  flee  from  hence,  for,  oh ! 

I  dare  not  trust  those  sounds  again. 
To  me  they  s{)eak  of  brighter  days — 

But  lull  the  chords,  for  now,  alas! 
I  must  not  think,  I  may  not  gaze 

On  what  I  am,  on  what  I  was. 

The  voice  that  made  those  sounds  more  sweet, 

Is  hush'd,  and  all  their  charms  are  fled  ; 
And  now  thi;ir  softest  notes  repeat 

A  uirge,  an  anthem  o'er  the  dead! 
Yes,  Thyr/.a !   ves,  they  breathe  of  thee. 

Beloved  dust!   .-.ince  dust  thou  art; 
And  all  that  once  was  harmony 

Is  worse  than  discord  to  my  heart ! 

'T  is  si'ent  all  ! — l)ut  on  my  ear 

The  well-remember'd  echoes  thrill ; 
I  hear  a  voice  I  would  not  hear, 

A  voice  that  now  might  well  be  still  ; 
Yet  oft  my  doubting  soul  'twill  shake: 

Even  slumber  owns  its  gentle  tone, 
Till  consciousnoi^s  will  vainly  wake 

To  listen,  though  the  dream  be  flown. 

Sweet  Thyr/.a!    waking  as  in  sleep. 

Thou  art  but  now  a  lovely  dream  ; 
A  star  that  trembled  o'er  the  deep. 

Then  turn'd  from  earth  its  tender  beam. 
But  he  who  through  life's  dreary  way 

Must  pass,  when  heaven  is  veil'd  in  wrath 
Will  long  lament  the  vanished  ray 

That  scatter'd  gladness  o'er  his  path. 


TO   THYRZA. 

Onk  struggle  more,  and  I  am  free 

From  pangs  that  rend  my  heart  in  twain. 
One  last  long  sigh  to  love  and  thee, 

Then  back  to  busy  life  aijain. 
It  suits  me  well  to  mingle  now 

With  things  that  never  pleased  before : 
Though  every  joy  is  fled  below. 

What  future  grief  can  touch  me  more? 

Then  brills  me  wine,  the  banquet  bring; 

Man  was  not  fonn'd  to  live  alone : 
I'll  be  that  light  unmeaning  thing 

That  smiles  with  all  and  weeps  with  nonf 
It  was  not  thus  in  days  more  dear. 

It  never  would  have  been,  but  thou 
Hast  fled,  and  left  me  lonely  Iktc  ; 

Thou  'rt  nothing,  all  are  nothing  now. 

In  vnin  my  Ivre  would  lightly  breathe  ! 

The  smile  timt  sorrow  fain  would  wea» 
But  nio(!ks  the  woe  that  lurks  beneath. 

Like  roses  o'er  a  sepulchre. 


MISCELLANEOUS    P  0  E  >[  S. 


103 


rhi-vign  gay  tumpanions  o'ei  the  bowl 
Dispel  a  while  the  sense  of  ill  ; 

rhoii^h  pleasure  fires  the  madd»>nin2  soul, 
The  heart — the  heart  is  loneh    still ! 

On  many  a  lone  and  lovely  night 

It  soolned  to  gaze  upon  the  sky  ; 
For  then  I  deem'd  the  heavenly  light 

Shono  sweetlv  on  thy  pensive  eye; 
And  oft  1  thought  at  Cynthia's  noon, 

When  sailing  o'er  the  .^gean  wave, 
*  Now  Tliyrza  gazes  on  that  moon — " 

Alas,  it  gleaiir  d  upon  her  grave ! 

When  stretrh'd  on  fever's  sleepless  bed, 

And  sickness  shrunk  my  throbbing  veins, 
*''T  is  comfort  still,"  I  faintly  said, 

"That  Thyrza  cannot  know  my  pains:" 
Like  frtedoin  to  the  time-worn  slave, 

A  boon  't  is  idle  then  to  give, 
Relentiiii:  Nature  vainly  gave 

My  life  when  Thyrza  ceased  to  live  ! 

I\Iv  Thvrza's  pledge  in  better  days. 

When  love  and  life  alike  were  new. 
How  diderent  now  thou  meet'st  my  gaze ! 

How  tinged  bv  time  with  sorrow's  hue! 
The  heart  that  gave  itself  with  thee 

Is  silent — ah,  were  mine  as  stiil ! 
Though  cold  as  even  the  dead  can  be. 

It  feels,  a  sickens  with  tne  chill. 

Thou  bitter  pledge  !    thou  mournful  token  ! 

Though  painful,  welcome  to  my  breast ! 
Still,  still,  preserve  that  love  unbroken, 

Or  break  the  heart  to  which  thou  'rt  prest. 

I'ime  tempers  love,  but  not  removes. 
More  hailow'd  when  its  hope  is  fled: 

Oh  !  what  are  thousand  living  loves 
I'o  that  which  cannot  quit  the  dead  ? 


EUTHANASIA. 

When  time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring 
The  dreandess  sleep  that  lulls  the  dead, 

Oblivion  !    may  thy  languid  wing 
Wave  gently  o'er  my  dying  bed! 

No  band  of  friends  or  heirs  be  there. 
To  weep  or  wish  the  coming  blow; 

No  maiden,  with  dishevell'd  hair. 
To  feel,  or  feign,  decorous  woe. 

But  silent  let  me  sink  to  earth. 
With  no  otTicious  mourners  near : 

I  would  not  mar  one  hour  of  mirth. 
Nor  startle  friendship  with  a  fear. 

Yet  Love,  if  Love  in  such  an  hour 
Could  nobly  check  its  useless  sighs, 

Might  then  exert  its  latest  power 
Ir  ho'  who  lives  and  him  who  dies. 

T  were  iweet,  my  Psyche,  to  the  last 
Thy  features  still  serene  to  see  : 

Forgetful  of  its  struggles  past, 

Kven  Pain  itself  should  smile  on  thee. 

But  \ain  tha  wish — for  Beauty  still 

Will  shrink,  as  shrinks  the  ebbing  breath 

And  woman's  tears,  produced  at  will. 
Deceive  in  life,  unman  in  death. 


Then  lonely  be  my  lat(>^t   hnur.\ 
Withi)ut  regret,  wiiliou    a  gro.un  ! 

For  thousands  death  hath  ceased  to  lour. 
And  pain  been  transient  or  imknown. 

'*  Ay,  bir  to  die,  and   go,"  alas  !• 

Where  all  have  gono,  and  all  must  go! 

To  be  the  nothing  that  I  was 
Ere  born  to  life  and  living  woe! 

Count  o'er  the  jovs  thine  hours  have  seen. 
Count  o'er  thy  days  from  anguish  free, 

And  know,  whatever  thou  iiast  been, 
'T  '5  something  better  not  to  be. 


STANZAS. 

•Uiv !  q'i^ntn  mir.i;s  est  cum  re'.iquis  versari  quam  tui  iiiemi 

A.*ir;  vbou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth  ; 
And  form  so  soil,  and  charms  so  rare. 

Too  soon  return'd  to  earth  ! 
Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed. 
And  o'er  the  sjwt  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth. 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  mi  that  grave  to  look. 

I  win  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low, 

Njr  g;ize  upon  the  snot  ; 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  mav  grow 

So  I  behold  them  iiu'  : 
It  is  enough  u,i  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved,  and  !ni;g  must  love. 

Like  rii'innoM  (Mv'b  '■■;!!  --Mt  ; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  telL, 
'T  is  nothing  that  I  lo\ed  so  well. 

Yet  did  1  love  thee  to  the  last 

As  fervently  as  thou, 
Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 
The  love  where  death  has  set  his  seal. 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal. 

Nor  falsehood  disavow  : 
And  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours  ; 

The  wo4-st  can  be  but  mine  ; 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lours. 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep  ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away, 
I  might  have  watch'd  through  long  decay. 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

INIust  fall  the  earliest  [irey  ; 
Though  bv  no  hand  untimely  snatch'd. 

The  leaves  must  drop  away : 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf. 

Than  see  it  ()luck'd  to-day  ; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thv  beauties  fade  ; 
The  night  that  follow'd  such  a  mom 

Had  worn  a  d«>eper  shade : 


108 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Tny  day  without  a  cloud  hath  past, 
And  tliou  wert  lovely  to  the  last ; 

Extinguish'd,  not  decay'd ; 
As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed, 
To  think  I  was  not  near  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed  ; 
To  gaze,  how  fondly !   on  thy  face, 
To  fold  thee  ui  a  faint  embrace. 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head  ; 
And  show  that  love,  however  vain. 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain. 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free, 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain, 

Than  thus  remember  thee  ! 
The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  eternity. 

Returns  again  to  me. 
And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught,  except  its  living  years. 


STANZAS. 

If  sometimes  in  the  haunts  of  men 

Thine  image  from  my  breast  may  fade. 
The  lonely  hour  presents  again 

The  semblance  of  thy  gentle  shade: 
And  now  that  sad  and  silent  hour 

Thus  much  of  thee  can  still  restore. 
And  sorrow  unobserved  may  pour 

The  plaint  she  dare  not  speak  before. 

Oh,  pardon  that  in  crowds  awhile, 

I  waste  one  thought  I  owe  to  thee. 
And,  self-condemn'd,  aj)pear  to  smile. 

Unfaithful  to  thy  memory  ! 
Noi  deem  that  memory  less  dear. 

That  then  I  seem  not  to  repuie ; 
I  would  not  fools  should  overhear 

One  sigh  that  should  be  wholly  thine. 

If  not  the  goblet  pass  unquafT'd, 

It  is  not  drain'd  to  banish  care, 
The  cup  must  hold  a  deadlier  draught 

That  brings  a  Lethe  for  despair. 
And  could  oblivion  set  my  soul 

From  all  her  troubled  visions  free, 
I  'd  dash  to  earth  the  sweetest  bowl 

That  drown'd  a  single  thought  of  thee. 

For  wert  thou  banish'd  from  my  mind, 

Where  could  my  vacant  bosom  turn  ? 
And  who  would  then  remain  behind 

To  honour  thine  abandon'd  urn  ? 
No,  no — it  is  my  sorrow's  pride 

That  last  dear  duty  to  fulfil  ; 
Though  all  the  world  forget  beside, 

'T  is  meet  that  I  remember  still. 

For  well  I  know,  that  such  had  been 

Thy  gentle  care  for  him,  who  now 
Unmoiirn'd  shall  (]iiit  this  mortal  scene, 

Where  none  r<!gardcd  him,  but  thou: 
And,  oh  !    I  feel  in  that  was  given 

A  blessing  never  meant  for  me  ; 
Thou  wert  too  like  a  dream  of  lieaven. 

For  earthly  love  to  merit  thee. 
March  ]4fh,  1812. 


ON  A  CORNELL\N  HEART  WHICH  WAS 
BROKEN. 

Ill-fated  heart!   and  can  it  be 

That  thou  shouldst  thus  be  rent  in  twain? 

Have  years  of  care  for  thine  and  thee 
Alike  been  all  employ'd  in  vain  ? 

Yet  precious  seems  each  shatter'd  part. 
And  every  fragment  dearer  grown. 

Since  he  who  wears  thee  feels  thou  art 
A  filter  emblem  of  his  own. 


TO  A  YOUTHFUL  FRIEND. 

[This  poem  and  the  following  wore  written  some  years  ago.] 
Few  years  have  pass'd  since  thou  and  I 

Were  firmest  friends,  at  least  in  name. 
And  childhood's  gay  sincerity 

Preserved  our  feelings  long  the  same. 

But  now,  like  me,  too  well  thou  know'st 

What  trifles  oft  the  heart  recall ; 
And  those  who  once  have  loved  the  most 

Too  soon  forget  they  oved  at  all. 

And  such  the  change  the  heart  displays, 
So  frail  is  early  friendship's  reign, 

A  month's  brief  lapse,  perhaps  a  day's. 
Will  view  thy  mind  estranged  again. 

If  so,  it  never  shall  be  mine 

To  mourn  the  loss  of  such  a  heart ; 

The  fault  was  Nature's  fault,  not  thine. 
Which  made  thee  fickle  as  thou  art. 

As  rolls  the  ocean's  changing  tide. 

So  human  feeling?  ebb  and  flow  ; 
And  who  would  in  a  breast  confide 

VVhere  stormy  passions  ever  glow  ? 

It  boots  not  that,  together  bred. 

Our  childish  days  were  days  of  joy, 

My  spring  of  life  has  quickly  fled  ; 
Thou,  too,  hast  ceased  to  be  a  boy. 

And  when  we  bid  adieu  to  youth, 

Slaves  to  the  specious  world's  control, 

We  sigh  a  long  farewell  to  twith  ; 

That  world  corrupts  the  noblest  soul. 

Ah,  joyous  season  !   when  the  mind 
Dares  all  things  boldly  but  to  lie  ; 

When  thought,  ere  spoke,  is  unconfined. 
And  sparkles  in  the  placid  eye. 

Not  <•>  in  man's  maturer  years, 

Wiicn  man  himself  is  but  a  tool; 
When  interest  swavs  our  hopes  and  fears, 

And  all  must  love  or  hate  by  rule. 

With  fools  in  kindred  vice  the  same. 
We  learn  at  length  our  faults  to  blend. 

And  those,  and  those  alone,  may  claim 
The  prostituted  name  of  friend. 

Such  is  the  common  lot  of  man  : 
Can  we  then  'scape  from  fi^lly  free? 

Can  wo  reverse  the  general  plan. 
Nor  be  what  all  in  turn  must  be  ? 

No,  for  myself,  so  dark  my  fate 

Through  every  turn  of  life  hath  been; 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


ion 


Man  and  the  world  V  so  much  hale, 
I  care  not  when  I  quit  the  scene. 

But  Uiou,  with  spirit  frail  and  light. 
Will  shine  awhile,  and  pass  away; 

As  glow-worms  sparkle  through  the  night. 
But  dare  not   land  the  test  of  day. 

Alas  !   whenever  folly  calls 

Where  parasites  and  princes  meet, 

(For  chensh'd  tirst  in  royal  halls, 
The  welcome  vices  kindly  greet). 

Even  now  thou  'rt  nightly  seen  to  add 
One  insect  to  the  Huilering  crowd  j 

And  still  thy  trilling  heart  is  glad, 
T   join  the  vain  and  court  the  proud. 

There  dost  thou  glide  from  fair  to  fair. 
Still  simpering  on  with  eager  haste. 

As  flies  along  the  gay  parterre, 

That  taint  the  flowers  they  scarcely  taste. 

But  say,  what  nymph  will  prize  the  flame 
Which  seems,  as  marshy  vapours  move, 

To  flit  along  from  dame  to  dame. 
An  ignis-fatuus  gleam  of  love  ? 

What  friend  for  thee,  howe'er  inclined, 
Will  deign  to  own  a  kindred  care  ? 

Who  svill  debase  his  manly  mind. 
For  friendship  every  fool  may  share  ? 

In  time  forbear ;  amidst  the  throng 
No  more  so  base  a  thing  be  seen ; 

No  more  so  idly  pass  along : 

Be  Bomething,  any  thing,  but — mean. 


TO  ****** 


Well  S  thou  art  happy,  arnl  I  feel 
That  I  should  thus  be  happy  too ; 

For  still  my  heart  regards  thy  weal 
Warmly,  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 

Thy  husband  's  blest — and  't  will  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot : 

But  let  them  pass — Oh  !  how  my  heart 
Would  hate  him,  if  he  loved  thee  not  ! 

When  late  I  saw  thy  favourite  child, 

I  thought  my  jealoas  heart  would  break  ; 

But  when  the  unconscious  infant  smiled, 
I  kiss'd  it,  for  its  mother's  sake. 

I  kiss'd  it,  and  repress'd  my  sighs. 

Its  father  in  its  face  to  see  ; 
But  then  it  had  its  mother's  eyes. 

And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me. 

Mary,  adieu !  I  must  away  : 

While  thou  art  blest,  I  '11  not  repine ; 

But  near  thee  I  can  never  stay  ; 
My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 

I  deem'd  that  time,  I  deem'd  that  pride 
Had  quencli'd  at  length  my  boyish  flamo ; 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side. 
My  heart  in  all,  save  hope,  the  same. 

Yet  was  I  calm  :  I  knew  the  time 

My  breast  would  thrill  before  thy  look  ; 

But  now  to  tremble  were  a  crime — 
We  met,  and  not  a  nerve  was  shook. 


I  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  fa  e. 

Yet  meet  with  no  confusion  there : 

One  only  feeling  couldst  thou  trace— 
The  sullen  calmness  of  despair. 

Away!   away  !   my  early  dream 
Remembrance  never  must  awake : 

Oh  !   where  is  Lethe's  fabled  stream  ? 
My  foolish  heart   be  still,  or  break. 


FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE. 

In  moments  to  delight  devoted, 

"My  life!"  with  tenderest  tone,  you  try \ 
Dear  words  on  which  my  heart  had  doted. 

If  youth  could  neither  fade  nor  die. 
To  death  even  hours  like  these  must  roll ; 

Ah  !   then  repeat  those  accents  never; 
Or  change  "  my  life  "   into  "  mv  soul  !" 

Which,  like  my  love,  exists  for  ever. 


IMPROMPTU,  IN  REPLY  TO  A  FRIEND 

When  from  the  heart  where  Sorrow  sits. 

Her  dusky  shadow  mounts  too  high. 
And  o'er  the  changing  aspect  flits, 

And  clouds  the  brow,  or  fills  the  eve  ; 
Heed  not  that  gloom,  which  soon  shall  sink. 

My  thoughts  their  dungeon  know  too  well ; 
Back  to  my  breast  the  wanderers  shrink. 

And  droop  within  their  silent  cell. 


ADDRESS, 


SPOKEN     AT    TKK     OPENING     OF     DRITRY  LANE 
THEATRE,  SATURDAY,  OCTOBER   10,   1812. 

In  one  dread  night  our  city  saw,  and  sigh'd, 
Bow'd  to  the  dust,  the  Drama's  tower  of  pride: 
In  one  short  hour  beheld  the  blazing  fane, 
Apollo  sink,  and  Shakspeare  cease  to  reign. 
Ye  who  beheld,  (oh!   sight  admired  and  mourp'd 
Whose  radiance  mock'd  the  ruin  it  adorn'u  !) 
Through  clouds  of  fire,  the  massy  fragments  rivea 
Like  Israel's  pillar,  chase  the  night  from  heaven  ; 
Saw  the  long  column  of  revolving  flames 
Shake  its  red  shadow  o'er  the  startled  Ttiames, 
While  thousands,  throng'd  around  the  burning  dome 
Shrank  back  appall'd,  and  trembled  for  their  home. 
As  glared  the  volumed  blaze,  and  ghastly  shone 
The  skies  with  lightnings  awful  as  their  own. 
Till  blackenins  ashes  and  the  lonely  wall 
Usurp'd  the  Muse's  realm,  and  mnrk'd  her  fall  , 
Say — shall  this  new,  nor  less  aspiring  pile, 
Rear'd  where  once  rose  the  mighti>'st  in  our  isle, 
Know  the  same  favour  which  the  !  >rrner  knew, 
A  shrine  for  Shakspeare — worthy  I'im  and  you  ? 

Yes — it  shall  be — the  magic  of  th'l  name 
Defies  the  scythe  of  time,  the  tor.li  of  flame ; 
On  the  same  spot  still  consecrates  the  scene. 
And  bids  the  Drama  he  where  she  hath  been. 
This  fabric's  birth  attests  the  potent  spell — 
Indulge  our  honest  pride,  and  say,  Hoiv  Wf'.l  ' 

As  soars  this  fane  to  emulate  the  last, 
Oh!   might  we  draw  our  omens  fri>m  the  past, 
Some  hour  propitious  to  our  prayers  may  boasi 
Names  such  as  hallow  still  the  dome  we  losU 


no 


EYEON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


On  Di  an  first  your  Siddons'  thrilling  art 

O'erwhelrn'd  the  gentlest,  storm'd  the.  sternest  heart. 

On  Drury,  Garrick's  latest  laurels  grew  ; 

Here  your  last  tears  retiring  Roscius  drew, 

Sigh'd  his  last  thanks,  and  wept  his  last  adieu  : 

But  still  for  living  wit  the  wreaths  may  bloom 

That  only  waste  their  odours  o'er  the  tomb. 

feuch  Drury  daim'd  and  claims — nor  you  refuse 

One  tribute  to  revive  his  slumbering  muse  ; 

Wit  1  garlands  deck  your  own  Menander's  head ! 

Nor  hoard  your  honours  idly  for  the  dead  ! 

Dear  are  the  days  which  made  our  annals  bright, 

Ere  Garrick  fled,  or  Brinsley  ceased  to  write. 

Heirs  to  their  labours,  like  all  high-born  heirs, 

Vain  of  our  ancestry,  as  they  of  theirs  ; 

U'hile  thus  remembrance  borrows   Banquo's  glass, 

To  claim  the  sceptred  shadows  as  they  pass, 

And  we  the  mirror  hold,  where  imaged  shine 

[mmortal  names,  emblazon'd  on  our  line. 

Pause — ere  their  feebler  offspring  you  condemn. 

Reflect  how  hard  the  task  to  rival  them  ! 

Friends  of  the  stage !  to  whom  both  players  and  plays 

Must  sue  alike  for  f)ardon  or  for  praise, 

Whose  judging  voice  and  eye  alone  direct 

The  boiuifUess  power  to  cherish  or  reject; 

If  e'er  frivolity  has  led  to  fame. 

And  made  us  blush  that  you  forbore  to  blame; 

If  e'er  the  shiking  stage  could  condescend 

To  soothe  the  sickly  taste  it  dare  not  mend. 

All  past  reproach  may  present  scenes  refute, 

And  censure,  wisely  loud,  be  justly  mute  ! 

Oh  !   since  your  fiat  stamj)s  the  drama's  laws, 

Forbear  to  mock  us  with  misplaced  applause  ; 

So  pride  shall  doubly  nerve  the  actor's  powers, 

And  reason's  voice  be  echo'd  back  by  ours ! 

Tins  greeting  o'er,  the  ancient  rule  obey'd, 

The  Drama's  homage  by  her  herald  paid, 

Receive  our  welcome  too,  whose  every  tone 

Springs  from  our  hearts,  and  fain  would  win  your  own. 

The  curtain  rises — may  our  stage  unfold 

Scenes  not  imworthy  Drury's  days  of  old ! 

Britons  our  judges,  Nature  for  our  guide, 

Sli'J  may  we  please — long,  long  may  you  preside  ! 


TO  TIME. 


Time  !   on  whose  arbitrary  wing 

The  varying  hours  must  flag  or  fly, 
Whose  tardy  winter,  fleeting  spring. 

But  drag  or  drive  us  on  to  die — 
Hail  thou  !   who  on  my  birth  bestow'd 

Those  boons  to  all  tliat  know  thee  known ; 
Yet  better  I  sustain  thy  load, 

For  now  I  bear  the  weight  alone. 
I  would  not  one  fond  heart  should  share 

The  bitter  moments  thou  hast  given  ; 
And  pardon  the(;,  since  thou  couldst  span 

All  that  I  love<i,  to  pt!ace  or  heaven. 
To  them  be  joy  or  rest,  on  inc 

Thy  fiiture  ills  shall  press  m  vain  ; 
I  nothing  owe  but  years  to  meu, 

A  debt  already  |)aid  m  pam. 
Yet  e'en  that  [)ain  was  some  relief; 

It  felt,  but  still  forgot  thy  power; 
The  active  agony  of  grief 

Retards,  but  never  counts  the  hour. 
In  joy  I  've  sigh'd  to  think  thy  flight 

Would  soon  subside  from  swift  to  slow 
Tiiy  cloud  could  overcast  the  light. 

But  could  not  add  a  nigiii  to  woe; 


For  then,  however  drear  and  dark, 

My  soul  was  suited  to  thy  sky  ; 
One  star  alone  shot  forth  a  spark 

To  prove  thee — not.  i^llernity. 
That  beam  hath  sunk ;   and  now  thou  art 

A  blank  ;   a  thing  to  count  and  curse 
Through  each  dull,  tedious  trilling  part. 

Which  all  regret,  yet  all  rehearse. 
One  scene  even  thou  canst  not  deform ; 

The  limit  of  thy  sloth  or  speed, 
Wiien  future  wanderers  bear  the  storm 

Which  we  shall  sleep  too  sound  to  heed 
And  I  can  smile  to  think  how  weal. 

Thine  efforts  shortly  shall  be  shown, 
When  all    "^e  vengeance  thou  canst  wreak 

Must  fal    ipon — a  nameless  slone! 


TRANSLATION  OF  A  ROMAIC  LOVE  SONG. 

Ah  !   Love  was  never  yet  without 
The  pang,  the  agony,  the  doubt, 
Which  rends  my  heart  with  ceaseless  sigh, 
While  day  and  night  roll  darklinp  by. 

Without  one  friend  to  he."    my  woe, 
I  faint,  I  die  beneath  the 
That  Love  had  arrows,  well  1  knew ; 
Alas  !  I  find  them  poison'd  too. 

Birds,  yet  in  freedom,  shun  the  net, 
Which  Love  around  your  haunts  hath  set; 
Or,  circled  by  his  fatal  fire, 
Your  hearts  shall  burn,  your  hopes  expire. 

A  bird  oC  free  and  careless  wing 
Was  I,  throuoli  many  a  stniliiiff  spring; 
But  caught  within  the  subtle  snare, 
I  burn,  and  feebly  flutter  there. 

Who  ne'er  have  loved,  and  loved  in  vain. 
Can  neither  feel  nor  pity  pain, 
The  cold  repulse,  the  look  askance, 
The  lightning  of  love's  angry  glanco. 

In  flattering  dreams  I  deem'd  thee  mme  ; 
Now  hope,  and  he  who  hoj)ed,  decline; 
Like  melting  wa.\,  or  withering  flower, 
I  feel  my  passion,  and  thy  power. 

My  light  of  life !   ah,  tell  me  why 
That  pouting  lip,  and  alter'd  eye? 
My  bird  of  love  !   my  beauteous  mate ! 
And  art  thou  :;hauged,  and  canst  thou  hate  ' 

Mine  eyes  like  wintry  streams  o'erflow  : 
What  wretch  with  me  would  barter  woe  7 
My  bird  !   relent  :   one  note  could  give 
A  charm,  to  bid  thy  lover  live. 

My  curdling  blood,  my  maddening  brain. 
In  silent  anguish  I  sustain! 
And  still  thy  heart,  without  partaking 
One  pang,  exults — while  mine  is  breakany 

Pour  me  the  poison  ;   fear  not  thou  ! 
Thou  canst  not  murder  more  than  now: 
I  've  lived  to  curse  my  natal  day, 
And  love,  that  thus  can  lingering  slay. 

Mv  wounded  soul,  my  b  reding  breast. 
Can  patience  preach  thee  into  rest  ? 
Alas  !    too  late  I  dearly  know. 
That  joy  is  tiarbinger  of  woe. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


11 


A  SONG. 
f  u  >u  art  not  fiilse,  but  thou  art  ficK.e, 

i'  1  ihest;  tliysoll"  so  t'ondly  sought ; 
ri»^  'ears  tliat  ttiou  hast  forced  lo  trickle 

4r6  doubly  bitter  from  that  thought : 
*Tis  this  which  breaks  the  heart  thou  grievest, 
Too  well  thou  lov  st — too  soon  thou  leavest. 

riie  wholly  false  the  heart  despises, 

And  spurns  deceiver  and  deceit ; 
But  she  who  not  a  thought  disguises,. 

Whose  love  is  as  sincere  as  sweet, — 
When  she  can  change  who  loved  so  truly, 
It  feels  what  mine  has  felt  so  newly. 

To  dream  of  joy  and  wake  to  sorrow 
Is  dooin'd  to  all  who  love  or  live  ; 

And  if,  when  conscious  on  the  morrow, 
We  scarce  our  fancy  can  forgive. 

That  cheated  us  in  slumber  only. 

To  leave  the  waking  soul  more  lonely. 

What  must  they  feel  whom  no  false  vision, 
But  truest,  tenderest  passion  warm'd  ? 

Sincere,  but  swift  in  sad  transition, 
As  if  a  dream  alone  had  charm'd? 

Ah  !   sure  such  grief  is  fancy's  scheming, 

And  all  thy  change  can  be  but  dreaming  ! 


ON  BEING  ASKED  WHAT  WAS  THE 
"ORIGIN  OF  LOVE?" 

The  "Origin  of  Love  !" — Ah,  why 

That  cruel  question  ask  of  me, 
When  thou  may'st  read  in  many  an  eye 

He  starts  to  life  on  seeing  thee? 
-Mid  shouldst  thou  seek  his  end  to  know: 
My  heart  forebodes,  my  fears  foresee, 
He  'il  linger  long  in  silent  woe  ; 
But  live — until  I  cease  to  be. 


REMEMBER  HIM,  etc. 
Remember  him,  whom  passion's  power 

Severely,  dee[)iv,  vainly  proved  : 
Remember  thou  that  dangerous  hour 

When  neither  fell,  though  both  were  loved. 

That  yielding  breast,  that  melting  eye, 

Too  much  invited  to  be  blest: 
That  gentle  prayer,  that  pleaoing  sigh, 

The  wilder  wish  reproved,  represt. 

Oh  !   let  me  feci  that  all  I  lost. 

But  saved  ihee  all  that  conscience  fears ; 
And  blush  for  every  pang  it  cost 

To  spare  the  vain  remorse  of  years. 

Fct  think  of  this  when  many  a  tongue. 
Whose  busy  accents  whisper  blame. 

Would  do  the  heart  that  loved  thee  wrong. 
And  brand  a  nearly  blighted  name. 

Think  that,  whate'er  to  others,  thou 

H-acit  seen  each  selfish  thought  subdued  : 

I  bless  thy  purer  soul  even  now. 
Even  now,  in  midnight  solitude. 

Oh,  God  !  that  we  had  met  in  time. 

Our  hearts  as  fond,  thy  hand  more  free ; 

When  thou  hadst  loved  without  a  crime. 
And  I  been  less  unworthy  thee! 


Fur  may  thy  days,  as  heretofore. 
From  this  (  jr  gaudy  world  be  past  I 

Anil,  that  too  bider  inomei.'t  o'er. 
Oh!    may  such  trial  be  thy  last ' 

This  heart,  alas  !    perverted  long. 

Itself  destroy'd  might  liiere  destroy  ; 

To  meet  thee  in  the  glittering  throng. 

Would  wake  presumption  s  hope  of  joy. 

Then  to  the  things  whose  bliss  or  woe, 
Like  mine,  is  wild  and  worthless  all, 

That  worlil  resign — such  scenes  forego, 
Wiiere  those  wlu)  feel  must  surely  fall. 

Thy  youth,  thy  charms,  thy  tenderness, 
Tiiy  soul  from  long  seclusion  pure. 

From  what  even  here  hath  past,  may  guesa, 
What  there  thy  bosom  must  endure. 

Oh  !  pardon  that  imploring  tear. 
Since  not  by  virtue  shed  in  vain. 

My  Irenzy  drew  from  eyes  so  dear ; 
For  tne  they  shall  not  weep  again. 

Thf)ugh  long  and  mournful  must  it  be, 
The  thought  thai  we  no  more  may  meet* 

Yet  I  deserve  the  stern  decree. 

And  almost  deem  the  sentence  sweet. 

Still,  had  I  loved  thee  less,  my  heart 
Had  then  less  sacrificed  to  tiiine; 

It  felt  not  half  so  much  to  part. 

As  if  its  guilt  had  made  thee  mine. 


LINES 

INSCRIBED    UPOX    A    CUP     FORMED    FROM     \    SKT'LL 

Start  not — nor  deem  my  spirit  fled: 

In  me  behold  the  only  skull 
From  which,  unlike  a  living  head. 

Whatever  Hows  is  never  dull. 

I  lived,  I  loved,  I  quaff'd,  like  thee  ; 

I  died ;   let  earth  my  bones  resign : 
Fill  up — thou  canst  not  injure  me  ; 

The  worm  hath  fouler  lips  than  thine. 

Better  to  hold  the  sparkling  grape, 

'llian  nurse  the  earth-worm's  slimy  brood ; 

And  circle  in  the  goblet's  shape 

I'he  drink  of  gods,  than  reptiles'  food. 

Where  once  my  wit,  perchance,  hath  shone. 

In  aid  of  others'  let  me  shine  ; 
And  wh<'n,  alas  !   our  brains  are  gone, 

What  nobler  substitute  than  wine? 

Quaff  %vhile  thou  canst — another  race, 
WIkjii  thou  and  thine  like  ine  are  sped, 

Mav  rescue  thee  from  earth's  embrace, 
And  rhyme  and  revel  with  the  dead. 

Why  not  ?  since  through  life's  little  day 
Our  heads  such  sad  effects  produce; 

Redeem'd  from  worms  an<l  wasting  clay, 
This  chance  is  theirs,  to  be  of  use. 


Newstead  Abbey, 


112 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


ON  THE   DEATH  OF  SIR  PETER  PARKER, 
BART. 

There  is  a  tear  for  all  that  die, 
A  mourner  o'er  the  humblest  grave ; 

But  nations  swell  the  funeral  cry, 
And  triumph  weeps  above  the  brave. 

For  them  is  sorrow's  purest  sigh 

O'er  ocean's  heaving  bosom  sent: 
In  vain  their  bones  unburied  lie, 

AU  earth  becomes  their  monument! 

A  tomb  is  theirs  on  every  page, 

An  epitaph  on  every  tongue. 
The  present  hours,  the  future  age. 

For  them  bewail,  to  them  belong. 

For  them  the  voice  of  festal  mirth 

Grows  hush'd,  their  name  the  only  sound 

While  deep  remembrance  pours  to  worth 
The  goblet's  tributary  round. 

A  theme  to  crowds  that  knew  them  not, 

Lamented  by  admiring  foes, 
Who  would  not  share  their  glorious  lot? 

Who  would  not  die  the  death  they  chose  ? 

And,  gallant  Parker  !  thus  enshrined 
Thy  life,  thy  fall,  thy  fame  shall  be ; 

And  early  valour,  glowing,  find 
A  model  in  thy  memory. 

But  there  are  breasts  that  bleed  with  thee 

In  woe,  that  glory  cannot  quell ; 
And  shuddering  hear  of  victory. 

Where  one  so  dear,  so  dauntless,  fell. 

Where  shall  they  turn  to  mourn  thee  less  ? 

When  cease  to  hear  thy  cherish'd  name? 
Time  cannot  tench  T&rgetfulness, 

While  grief's  full  heart  is  fed  by  fai.ie. 

Alas  !  for  them,  though  not  for  thee. 
They  cannot  choose  but  weep  the  more ; 

Deep  for  the  dead  the  grief  must  be 
Who  ne'er  gave  cause  to  mourn  befrre. 


TO  A  LADY  WEEPLNG. 

Weep,  daughter  of  a  royal  line, 

A  sire's  disgrace,  a  realm's  decay  ; 
\h,  happy  !   if  each  tear  of  thuie 

Could  wash  a  father's  fault  away  ! 
Weep — for  thy  tears  are  virtue's  tears — 

Auspicious  to  these  suffering  isles  ; 
And  be  each  drop,  in  future  years, 

Repaid  thee  by  thy  people's  smiles ! 
March,  1812. 


FROM  THE  TURKISH. 

The  chain  I  gave  was  fair  to  view, 
The  lute  I  added  sweet  in  sound. 

The  heart  that  offer'd  both  was  true, 
And  ill  d'iserved  the  fate  it  found. 

These  gifts  were  charm'd  by  secret  spell 
Thy  truth  in  absence  to  divine  ; 

And  they  have  done  their  duty  well, 
Alas  !   they  could  not  teach  thee  thine. 

That  chain  was  firm  in  every  link, 
But  not  to  bear  a  stranger's  touch  ; 

That  lute  was  sweet — till  thou  couldst  think 
In  other  hands  its  notes  were  such. 


Let  him,  who  from  thy  necK  unbound 
The  chain  which  shiver'd  in  his  grasp. 

Who  saw  that  lute  refuse  to  sound, 
Restring  the  chords,  renew  the  clasp. 

When  thou  wert  changed,  they  alter'd  too , 
The  chain  is  broke,  the  music  mute : 

'T  is  past — to  them  and  thee  adieu — 
False  heart,  frail  chain,  and  silent  lute. 


SONNET. 

TO    GENEVRA. 

Thine  eyes'  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fair  hair, 
And  the  wan  lustre  of  thy  features — caught 
From  contemplation — where  serenely  wrought. 

Seems  sorrow's  softness  charm'd  from  its  despair  - 

Have  thrown  such  speaking  sadness  in  thine  air. 
That — but  I  know  thy  blessed  bosom  fraught 
With  mines  of  unalloy'd  and  stainless  though 

I  should  have  deem'd  thee  doom'd  to  earthly  cara 

With  such  an  aspect,  by  his  colours  blent, 
When  from  his  beauty-breathing  pencil  born, 

(Except  that  thou  hast  nothing  to  repent) 
The  Magdalen  of  Guido  saw  the  morn — 

Such  seem'st  thou— but  how  much  more  excellent 
With  nought  remorse  can  claim — nor  virtue  scorn. 


SONNET. 

TO     GENEVRA. 

Thy  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  from  voe. 
And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  mirth  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blusn 

My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glo^v   — 

And  dazzle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes — b  it  oh  J 
While  gazing  on  llieiri  sterner  eyes  will  gush, 
And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush, 

Soft  as  the  last  drops  round  heaven's  airy  bow. 

For,  through  thy  long  dark  lashes  low  depending, 
The  soul  of  melancholy  gentleness 

Gleams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending, 
Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress  ; 

At  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending^ 
I  worship  more,  but  cannot  love  thee  less. 


INSCRIPTION 

ON    THE    >f0NUMENT    OF.^A    NEWFOUNDLAND    D<»a 

When  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth,"; 

Unknown  to  glory,  but  upheld  by  birth, 

The  sculptor's  art  exhausts  the  pomp  of  woe, 

And  storied  urns  record  who  rests  belftw ; 

When  all  is  done,  upon  the  toiivl>  is  seen. 

Not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  should  have  been : 

But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  firmtst  friend, 

The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  I'efend, 

Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  ma.-ter*s  own, 

Who  labours,  fights,  lives,  hrouthes  for  him  alone, 

Unhonour'd  falls,  unnoticed  all  his  worth, 

Denied  in  heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth  •. 

While  man,  vain  insect !   hopes  to  be  forgiven, 

And  claims  himself  a  sole  exclusive  heaven. 

Oh  man  !   thou  feeble  tenant  of  an  hour, 

Debased  by  slavery,  or  corru|)t  by  power, 

Who  knows  thee  well  must  qnii  thee  with   lisgust. 

Degraded  mass  of  animated  dust! 

Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a  cheat. 

Thy  smiles  hypocrisy,  thy  words  deceit! 

By  nature  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name. 

Each  kindred  brute  might  bid  thee  blusn  {or  s}jan<e. 


MTSCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


115 


ODE. 

fFH.OM  THE   FRENCH.] 

We  do  not  curse  thee,  VV^aterloo  ! 

Thotigli  frcecloin's  blood  thy  plain  bedew ; 

There  't  was  sited,  but  is  not  sunk — 

RHing  ficiu  eacli  gory  trunk, 

l/ike  tiie  WHter-spoul  tVoni  ocean, 

Willi  a  strong  and  grownig  motion — 

It  soars  and  :ningles  in  the  air, 

With  that  of  lost  Labedovere — 

With  that  of  him  whose  honour'd  grave 

Contauis  the  "  bravest  of  the  brave." 

A  c  imson  cloud  it  si)reads  and  glows, 

liut  shall  return  to  whence  it  rose ; 

When  'tis  full,  't  will  burst  asunder — 

Never  yet  was  heard  such  thunder 

As  then  shall  shake  the  world  with  wonder — 

Never  yet  was  seen  such  lightning. 

As  o'er  heaven  shall  then  be  bright'ning ! 

Like  the  Wormwood  star,  foretold 

By  the  sainted  seer  of  old, 

Showering  down  a  fiery  Hood, 

Turning  rivers  into  blood.' 

The  chief  has  fallen,  but  not  by  you, 

Vanquishers  if  Waterloo  ! 

When  the  soldier  citizen 

Sway'd  not  o'er  his  fellow-men — 

Save  in  deeds  that  led  them  on 

Where  glory  smiled  on  freedom's  son — 

Who,  of  all  the  despots  banded, 

VVith  that  youthful  chief  competed? 

Who  could  boast  o'er  France  defeated, 
Till  lone  tyranny  commanded  ? 
Till,  goaded  by  ambition's  sting, 
The  hero  sunk  into  the  king? 
Then  he  fell ; — so  perish  all. 
Who  would  men  by  man  enthral ! 

And  thou  too  of  the  snow-white  plume! 

Whose  realm  refused  thee  even  a  tomb ;  ^ 

Better  hadst  thou  still  been  leading 

France  o'er  hosts  of  hirelings  bleeding 

Than  sold  thyself  to  death  and  shame 

For  a  meanly  royal  name  ; 

Such  as  he  of  Na|>les  wears*,    .^ 

Who  thy  blood-bought  title  bdars. 

Little  dirist  thou  deem,  when  dashing 
On  thy  war-horse  through  the  ranks, 
Like  a  stream  which  burst  its  banks, 

While  htlmets  cleft,  and  sabres  clashing. 

Shone  and  shiver'd  fast  around  thee — 

Of  the  fate  at  last  w  hich  found  thee : 

Was  that  haughty  plume  laid  low 

By  a  slave's  dishonest  blow  ? 

Once  as  the  moon  sways  o'er  the  tide. 

It  roii'd  in  air,  the  warrior's  guide ; 

1  See,  Rev.  chap.  viii.  verse  7,  etc.  "  The  first  ansrel  sounded, 
sni!  liiere  followed  hiiil  iiiui  tire  mingled  with  blood,"  etc. 

Verse  8.  "And  the  second  anu'el  sounded,  and  ;is  it  were  a 
freit  mountain  burning  with  fire  was  cast  into  tlie  sea;  and 
the  third  part  of  the  sea  became  blood,"  etc. 

Verse  10.  "And  the  third  anjiei  sounded  and  there  fell  a 
rfreat  star  •Voni  heaven,  hurnine  as  it  were  a  lamp  ;  and  U  tel. 
upon  a  third  part  of  the  rivers,  and  upon  the  founiams  of 
waters." 

Ve.'se  11.  "And  the  name  of  the  star  is  called  IVnrmicnnd; 
and  tlie  third  p;irt  of  the  waters  became  wnrmwiKnl ;  and 
many  men  died  of  the  waters,  because  they  were  made 
bitter  " 

'2  Murat's  remains  are  a%id  to  have  been  turu  i  om  ihe  grave 
and  burp* 


Through  the  smoke-created  night 

Of  the  black  and  sulphurous  tight, 

The  soldier  raised  his  seeking  eye 

To  catch  that  crest's  ascendency, — 

And  as  it  onward  rolling  rose 

So  moved  his  heart  upon  our  foes. 

There,  where  death's  brief  pang  was  quickest, 

And  the  battle's  wreck  lay  thickest, 

Sirew'd  beneath  the  advancing  banner 

Of  the  eagle's  burning  crest — 
(There,  with  thunder-clouds  to  fan  her, 

IVIio  could  then  her  wing  arrest — 

Victory  beaming  from  her  breast  ?) 
While  the  broken  line  enlarging 

Fell,  or  Hed  along  the  plain  : 
There  be  sure  was  Murat  charging! 

There  he  ne'er  shall  charge  again  ! 
O'er  glories  gone  the  invaders  march, 
Weeps  triumph  o'er  each  levell'd  arch- 
But  let  Freedom  rejoice. 
With  her  heart  in  her  voice  ; 
Put  her  hand  on  her  sword. 
Doubly  shall  she  be  adored  ; 
France  hath  twice  too  well  been  taught 
The  "  moral  lesson  "  dearly  bought — 
Her  safety  sits  not  on  a  throne, 
With  Capet  or  Napoleon! 
But  in  equal  rights  and  laws, 
Hearts  and  hands  in  one  great  cause — 
Freedom,  such  as  God  hath  given 
Unto  all  beneath  his  heaven. 
With  their  breath,  and  from  their  birth. 
Though  guilt  would  sweep  it  from  the  earth  J 
With  a  fierce  and  lavish  hand 
Scattering  nations'  wealth  like  sand  j 
Pouring  nations'  blood  like  w^ater, 
In  imperial  seas  of  slaughter! 

But  the  heart  and  the  mind,  . ' 
And  the  voice  of  mankind, 
Shall  arise  in  communioni— 
And  who  shall  resist  that  |roud  union? 
The  time  is  past  when  swords  subdued- 
Man  may  die — the  soul 's  renew'd  : 
Even  in  this  low  world  of  care. 
Freedom  ne'er  shall  want  an  heir ; 
Millions  breathe  but  to  inherit 
Her  fur-ever  bounding  spirit — 
When  once  more  her  hosts  assemble. 
Tyrants  shall  believe  and  tremble — 
Smile  they  at  this  idle  tnreat  ? 
Crimson  tears  will  follow  yet. 


[from  the   FRENCH.] 

All  wept,  but  particularly  Savary,  and  a  Polish  officer  wro 
had  been  exaitcKl  from  the  ranks  by  Buonaparte.  H«\  clun*^ 
to  his  master's  knees;  wrote  a  letter  to  Lord  Keith. entreat 
in^  permission  to  accompany  him,  even  in  the  most  lueuial 
capacity,  which  cou'd  not  he  admitted." 

Mt-'sT  thou  go,  m)'  glorious  chief, 
Sever'fl  from  thy  faithful  few  ? 

Who  can  tell  thy  warrior's  grief. 
Maddening  o'er  t4iat  long  adieu? 

Woman's  love  and  friendship's  zeal- 
Dear  as  both  have  been  to  me — 

<That  are  they  to  all  I  feel. 
With  a  soldier's  faith,  for  thee? 


116 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Idol  of  the  soldier's  soul ! 

First  in  fight,  but  mightiest  now : 
Many  could  a  world  control  : 

Thee  alone  no  doom  can  bow. 
By  thy  si  ie  for  years  I  dared 

Death,  and  envied  those  who  fell, 
When  their  dying  shout  was  heard 

Blessing  him  they  served  so  well.' 

Would  that  I  were  cold  with  those, 

Since  this  hour  I  live  to  see  ; 
When  the  doubts  of  coward  foes 

Scarce  dare  trust  a  man  with  thee, 
Dreading  each  should  set  thee  free. 

Oh  !   although  in  dungeons  pent. 
All  their  chains  were  hght  to  me. 

Gazing  on  thy  soul  unbent. 

Would  the  sycophants  of  him 

Now  so  deaf  to  duty's  pr<ayer. 
Were  his  borrow'd  glories  dim, 

In  his  native  darkness  share  ? 
Were  that  world  this  hour  his  own. 

All  thou  calmly  dost  resign, 
Could  he  purchase  with  that  throne 

Hearts  like  those  which  still  are  thine  ? 

My  chief,  my  king,  my  friend,  adieu ! 

Never  did  I  droop  before  ; 
Never  to  my  sovereign  sue. 

As  his  foes  I  now  implore, 
All  I  ask  is  to  divide 

Every  peril  he  must  brave. 
Sharing  by  the  hero's  side 

His  tall,  his  exile,  and  his  grave. 


ON  THE  STAR  OF  "  THE  LEGIOX  OF  HONOUR. 

[from  the   FRENCH.] 

Star  of  the  brave! — whose  beam  hath  shed 

Such  glory  o'er  the  guick  and  dead — 

Thou  radiant  and  aaored  deceit ! 

Winch  millions  rush'd  in  arms  to  greet, — 

Wild  meteor  of  immortal  birth  ! 

Why  rise  in  heaven  to  set  on  earth  ? 

Souls  of  slain  heroes  form'd  thy  rays  ; 
Eternity  flash'd  through  thy  blaze ! 
The  music  of  thy  martial  sphere 
Was  fame  on  high  and  honour  here  ; 
And  thy  light  broke  on  human  eyes 
Like  a  volcano  of  the  skies. 

Like  lava  roU'd  thy  stream  of  blood. 
And  swept  down  empires  with  its  flood  ; 
Earth  rock'd  beneath  thee  to  her  base, 
As  thou  didst  lighten  through  all  space ; 
And  the  shorn  srn  grew  dim  in  air, 
And  set  while  thou  wert  dv/elling  there. 

Before  ihee  rose,  and  with  thee  grew, 

A  rainbow  of  the  loveliest  hue, 

Of  three  bright  colours, "»  eacli  divine. 

And  fit  for  that  celestial  sign  ; 

For  freedom's  hand  had  blended  tliem 

Like  tints  in  an  immortal  gem. 


One  tint  was  of  the  sunbeam's  dyes ; 
One,  the  blue  depth  of  seraphs'  eyea , 
One,  the  pure  spirit's  veil  of  white 
Had  robed  in  radiance  of  its  light ; 
The  three  so  mingled  did  beseem 
The  texture  of  a  heavenly  dream. 

Star  of  the  brave !  thy  ray  is  pale,^ 
And  darkness  must  again  prevail ! 
But,  oh  thou  rainbow  of  the  free  ! 
Our  tears  and  blood  must  flow  for  ihee. 
When  thy  bright  promise  fades  away. 
Our  life  is  but  a  load  of  clay. 

And  freedom  hallows  with  her  tread 
The  silent  cities  of  the  dead  ; 
For  beautiful  in  death  are  they 
Who  proudly  fall  in  her  array  ; 
And  soon,  oh  goddess !   may  we  be 
For  evermore  with  them  or  thee ! 


1  '""At  Watprioo,  one  man  wns seen,  whostiloft  artn  wasshat 
lert-d  hy  a  cannon-bull,  to  wrench  it  olf  with  the  oilier,  hiuI 
ihr'.svins  il  "P  i"  ll>e  nir,  exrliiimi'd  to  his  couinuies,  '  Vive 

Einpereur  jusqn'il  la  mort.'  There  were  msiny  other  in- 
«.inces  of  the  like  ■,  tliis  you  may,  however,  dfjpend  on  aa 
tnie   '  -^  private  Letter  from  IirusscL< 

2  The  tri-colour 


NAPOLEON'S  FAREWELL. 

[from    the    FRENCH.] 

Farewell  to  the  land  where  the  gloom  of  mv  g  ory 

Arose  and  o'ershadow'd  the  earth  with  her  name — 

She  abandons  me  now, — but  the  >?age  of  Rer  story. 

The  brightest  or  black-est,  is  fiU'd  with  my  flime. 

I  have  warr'd  with  a  world  which  vanquish'd  me  on  / 

When  the  meteor  of  conauest  allured  me  too  far  ; 

I  have  coped  with  the  nations  wnich  dread  me  thtia 

lonely. 
The  last  single  captive  to  millions  in  war ! 
Farewell  to  thee,  France!  when  thy  diadem  err  wn'd  me, 
I  made  thee  the  gem  and  the  wonder  of  earth, — 
But  thy  weakness  decrees  I  should  leave  as  I  found  thee, 
Decay'd  in  thy  glory  and  sunk  in  thy  worth. 
Oh  !  "for  the  veteran  hearts  that  were  wasted 
In  strife  with  the  storm,  when  their  battles  were  won — 
Tlien  the  eagle,  whose  gaze  in  that  moment  was  blasted, 
Had  still  soar'd  with  eyes  fix'd  on  Victory's  sun ! 

Farewell  to  thee,  France  ! — but  when  liberty  rallies 
Once  more  in  thy  regions,  remen)ber  me  then — 
The  violet  still  grows  in  the  depth  of  thy  valleys ; 
Though  wither'd,  thy  tears  will  unfold  it  again: 
Yet,  yet  I  may  baffle  the  hosts  that  surround  us. 
And  yet  may  thy  heart  leap  auake  to  my  voice — 
There  are  links  which  must  break  in  the  chain  that  has 

bound  us. 
Then  turn  thee,  and  call  on  the  chief  of  thy  choice ! 


SONNET. 

Rousseau — Voltaire — our  Gibbon — and  de  Stael 
Leman  ! '  these  names  are  worthy  of  thy  shore, 
Thy  shore  of  names  like  these  ;   wert  thou  no  more 

Their  memory  thy  remembrance  would  recall : 

To  them  thy  banks  were  lovely  as  to  all  ; 

But  they  have  made  them  lovehcr,  for  the  lore 
Of  mighty  minds  doth  hallow  in  the  core 

Of  human  hearts  the  ruin  of  a  wall 

Where  dwelt  the  wise  and  wondVous ,   out  by  tneo 

How  much  more.  Lake  of  Beauty !   do  we  feel, 
In  sweetly  gliding  o'er  thy  civstal  sea, 

The  wild  glow  of  that  not  ungenl  e  zeal, 
Which  of  the  heirs  of  immortality 

Is  proud,  and  makes  the  breath  of  glory  reai! 

1  Geneva,  Ferney,  Copiiet,  Lausanne. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


117 


.VKITTEM  ON  A  BLATs^K   LEAF  OF  "THE 
PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY." 

Absknt  or  present,  still  to  iliee, 

My  frieiul,  what  magic  s|)olls  belong! 
As  all  can  tell,  wdo  shure,  like  me, 

In  turn,  thy  converse  and  thy  song. 
Bill  when  the  dreaded  hour  shall  come, 

By  friendship  ever  deem'd  too  nigii. 
And  "Me.morv"  o'er  her  Druid's  lomb 

Shall  \^ee\}  that  aught  of  thee  can  die, 
Hou  foiic'ly  will  she  then  repay 

Tliy  homage  otfer'd  at  her  shrine. 
And  blend,  while  ages  roll  away, 

Her  name  immortally  w  ith  tfiine  ! 
dprU  19,  1S12. 


STANZAS  TO  *  +  * 
Though  the  day  of  my  destmv's  over, 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined. 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find  ; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted. 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 

Then  when  nature  aroimd  me  is  smiling 

The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine, 
1  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine ; 
And  when  winds  arc  at  war  with  the  ocean, 

As  the  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me. 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion. 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  shiver'd. 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  deliver'd 

To  pain — it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me : 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn — 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me — 

'T  is  of  thee  that  I  think — not  of  them. 

Though  human,  tliou  didst  not  deceive  me. 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake, 
Though  loved,  thou  forboresl  to  grieve  me. 

Though  slander'd,  thou  never  couldst  shake, — 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim,  me. 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  flv. 
Though  watchful,  't  was  not  to  defame  me. 

Nor  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 

Vet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one — 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'T  was  folly  not  sooner  to  shun. 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me. 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  havs  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me. 

It  Gould  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 

From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  perish'd. 

Thus  inuch  I  at  least  may  recall, 
It  hath  taught  me  that  what  I  most  chensh'd 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all  : 
In  the  d(!sert  a  fountain  is  sprinsins. 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  sincrmg. 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 


DARKNESS. 

[  HAD  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream. 

The  bright  sun  was  extinguish'd,  and  the  stars 

Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 

Rayless,  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 

Swung  blind  ami  blackening  in  the  moonless  air ; 

Morn  came,  and  went — and  came,  and  brought  no  day, 

And  men  forgot  their  passions  ia  the  dread 

Of  this  their  desolation  ;   and  all  hearts 

Were  chili'd  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  light : 

And  they  did  live  by  watch-fires — and  the  thrones, 

The  palaces  of  crowned  kings — the  huts. 

The  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 

W  ere  burnt  for  beacons  ;   cities  were  consumed. 

And  men  were  gather'd  round  their  blazing  homes 

To  look  once  more  into  each  other's  face : 

Hap[)y  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 

Of  the  volcanos  and  their  mountain-torch : 

A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contain'd  ; 

Forests  were  set  on  fire — but  hour  bv  hour 

They  fell  and  faded — and  the  crackling  trunks 

Extinguish'd  with  a  crash — and  all  was  black. 

The  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 

Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 

The  flashes  fell  upon  them  ;   some  lay  down 

And  hid  their  eyes  and  wept ;   and  some  did  rest 

Their  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands,  and  smiled  ; 

And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 

Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  look'd  up 

With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  skv. 

The  pall  of  a  past  world  ;   and  then  again 

With  curses  cast  them  down  up.n  the  dust. 

And  giiash'd  their  teeth  and  howl'd:  the  wild  birds 

shriek'd, 
And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground. 
And  flap  their  useless  wings  ;   the  wildest  brutes 
Came  tame  and  tremulous  ;   and  vipers  crawl'd 
And  tvvined  themselves  among  the  multituae, 
Hissing,  but  stingless — they  were  slain  for  food  : 
And  war,  which  for  a  moment  was  no  more. 
Did  glut  himself  again — a  meal  was  bought 
With  blood,  and  each  sate  sullenly  apart. 
Gorging  himself  in  gloom :  no  love  was  left  ; 
All  earth  was  but  one  thought — and  that  was  death, 
Immediate  and  inglorious  ;   and  the  pang 
Of  famine  fed  upon  all  entrails — men 
Died,  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  their  flesh ; 
The  meagre  by  the  meagre  were  devour'd. 
Even  dogs  assail'd  their  masters,  all  save  one, 
And  he  was  faithful  to  a  corse  and  kept 
The  birds  and  beasts  and  famish'd  men  at  bay. 
Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  dropping  dead 
Lured  their  lank  jaws  ;   himself  sought  out  no  food. 
But  with  a  piteous  and  perpetual  moan 
And  a  quick  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 
Which  answer'd  not  with  a  caress — ho  died. 
The  crowd  was  famish'd  by  degrees  ;   but  two 
Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive. 
And  they  were  enemies ;   they  met  beside 
The  dyiiig  embers  of  an  altar-place. 
Where  had  been  heap'd  a  mass  of  holy  things 
For  an  unholy  usage  ;  they  raked  up. 
And  shivering  scraped  with  their  cold  skeleton  handd 
The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 
Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 
Which  was  a  mockery;   then  they  lifted  up 
Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 
Each  others'  aspects — saw,  and  shriek'd,  and  tluHt 
Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 
Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 


118 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WOE, AS. 


Famine  had  written  fiend.     The  world  was  void, 

The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump, 

Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless — 

A  lump  of  death  — a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 

The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean,  all  stood  still, 

And  nothing  stirr'd  wiihin  their  silent  depths ; 

Ships  sailorless  lay  rotting  on  the  sea. 

And  their  masts  fell  down  piscemeal ;  as  they  dropp'd, 

They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge — 

The  waves  were  dead.;   the  tides  were  in  their  grave 

The  moon  their  mistress  had   expired  before  ; 

The  winds  were  wither'd   in  the  stagnant  air, 

And  the  clouds  perish'd ;   darkness  had  no  need 

Of  aid  from  them — she  was  the  universe. 


CHURCHILL'S  GRAVE. 

A.    FACT    LITERALLY    REJJDEKED. 

I  STOOD  beside  the  grave  of  him  who  blazed 
The  comet  of  a  season,  and  I  saw 
The  humblest  of  all  sepulchres,  and  gazed 
With  not  the   less  of  sorrow  than  of  awe 
On  that  neglected  turf  and  quiet  stone, 
With  name  no  clearer  than  the  names   unknown, 
Which  lay  unread  around   it ;   and  I   ask'd 
The  gardener  of  that  ground,  why  it  might  be 
That  for  this   plant   strangers   his  memory  task'd 
Through  the  thick   deaths  of  half  a  century  ; 
And  thus   he  answer'd — "  Well,  1  do  not   know 
Why  frequent   travellers  turn  to  pilgrims  so  ; 
He  died   H^fore  my  day  of  sextonship. 
And  1  had  not  the  digging  of  this  grave." 
And  is  this  all  ?    I  thought, — and  do  we   rip 
rhe  veil  of  immortality,  and  crave 
f  kn?vv   not  what  of  honour  and  of  light 
llirough  unborn   ages,    to  endure  this  blight? 
So  soon   and   so  successless  ?    As  I  said. 
The  architect  of  all  on   which  we   tread. 
For  earth  is   but  a  tombstone,  did   essay 
To  extricate  remembrance  from  the  clay, 
Whose  minglings  might  confuse   a  Nesvton's  thought. 
Were  it  not  that  all  life  must  end  in  one, 
Of  which  we  are  but  dreamers ; — as  he  caught 
As  't  w(!re  the  twilight  of  a   former  sun. 
Thus  s|)oke   he, — "I   believe  the  man  of  whom 
You   wot,  who  lies  in  this   selected  tomb, 
Was  a   most  famous   writer   in  his  day. 
And  therefore  travellers  step  from  out  their  way 
To  j)ay  him  honour, — and  myself  whate'er 
Your  honour  pleases" — then  most  pleased  I  shook 
From  out  mv  pocket's  avaricious  nook 
Some  certain  coins  of  silver,  which  as  't  were 
Perforce  I   gave  this  man,  though  I  could  spare 
So  much  but  inconveniently  ; — ye  smile, 
I  sec  ye,  ye   profane  ones  I   all    (he  while, 
Because  my  homely  plirase  the  truth  would  tell. 
You  are  the  fools,  not  I — for  I  did  dwell 
With  a  deep  thought,  and  with  a  soften'd  eye. 
On  tnat  old  sexion's  natural  homily, 
Ir  which  thi;re  was  obscurity  and  fame, 
1\'  g  kJr^  and  the  nothing  of  a  name. 


PROMETHEUS. 

"I  I  FA  N  .  lo  whose  immortal  eyes 
The  sufferings  of  mortality. 
Seen  m  their  sad  reality, 

Were  not  as  things  that  gods  despise ; 


What  was  thy  pity's  recompense  f 
A  silent  suffering,  and  intense  ; 
The  rock,  the  vulture,  and  the  chain. 
All  that  the  proud  can  feel  of  pain. 
The  agony  they  do  not  show. 
The  suffocating  sense  of  woe. 

Which  speaks  hut  in  its  lonelinesa 
And  then  is  jealous  lest  the  sky 
Should  have  a  listener,  nor  will  sigh 

Until  its  voice  is  echoless. 

Titan  !   to  thee  the  strife  was  given 

Between  the  suffering  and  the  wii!, 

Which  torture  where  they  cannol  loll, 
And  the  inexorable  heaven, 
And  the  deaf  tyranny  of  fate, 
The  ruling  principle  of  hale. 
Which  for  its  pleasure  doth  create 
The  things  it  may  annihilate. 
Refused  thee  even  tSe  boon  to  die : 
The  wretched  gift  eternity 

Was  thine — and  thou  hast  borne  h  well. 
All   that  the  Thunderer  wrung  ti-oni  thee 
Was  but  the  menace  which  flung  back 
On  him  the  torments  of  t!jy  rack  ; 
The  fate  thou  didst  so  ueil  foresee, 

But  would  not  to  appease  him  teH : 
And  in  thy  silence  was  liis  sentence. 
And  in  his  soul   a  vain   repentance. 
And  evil   dread   so  ill  dissembled 
That  in  his  hand  the  lightnings   trembled. 

Thy  godlike  crime  was  to  be  kind. 

To  render  with  thy  precepts  less 

The  sum  of  human   wretchedness. 
And  strengthen   man   with  his  own  mind  j 
But   baffled   as  tliou  wert   from   high, 
Siill  in  thy   patient  energy, 

In  tlie  endurance,  and  repulse 
Of  thine  impenetrable  spirit, 

Which  earth   anil   heaven   could   noi  convulse, 
A  mighty  lesson  we  inherit: 

Thou  an  a  symbol  and  a  sign 
To  mortals  of  their  fate  and  force  ; 

Like  thee,  man  is   in   part  divine, 
A  troubled  stream  from  a  pure  source  ; 
And  man  in  portions  can  foresee 
His  own  funereal  destinv  ; 
His  wretchedness,  and   his  resistance, 
And  his  sad  unallied  existence  : 
To  which  his  spirit   may  oppose 
Itself — an  equal  to  all   woes, 
And  a  firm  will,  and  a  deep  sense. 

Which  even   in  torture   can   descry 
Its  own   concentred  recompense, 

Trium|)hant  where  it  dares  defy, 

And  making  death  a  victory. 


ODE. 

Oh  shame  to  thee,  land  of  the  Gaul! 

Oh  shame  to  thy  children  and  thee  ! 
Unwise  in  thy  glory,  and   base  in   thy  tall. 

How  wretched  thy   portion   sliall   be  ! 
Derision  shall  strike   thee   forlorn, 

A  mockery  that  never  shall   die  ; 
The  curses  of  hate,  and  the  hisses  of  scorr, 

Shall  burden  the  winds   of  thy  sky  ; 
And   proud  o'er  thy  ruin   for  ever   be  hurl'd 
The  laught3r  of  triumph,  the  jeers  of  the  wur.d 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


119 


Oh,  where  is  thy  spirit  of  yore, 

The  spirit   that   breathed   in  thy  dead, 
When  gallantrv's  star  was  the  beacon   before, 

And   honour  the   passion  that   led  ? 
Thv  storms  have  awaken'd  their  sleep, 

Thev  groan  from  the  place   of  their  rest, 
And  wrathfully  murmur,  and  sullenly  weep. 

To  see  the  foul  stain  on  thy  breast  ; 
For  where  is  the   glory  they  left  thee  in  trust  ? 
'T  is  scatter'd  in  darkness,  't  is  trampled  in  dust ! 

Go,  look  to  the  kingdoms  of  earth. 

From  Indus   all  round   to  the  pole. 
And  something  of  goodness,  of  honour,  and  worth. 

Shall  brighten  the  sins  of  the  soul. 
But  thou  art  alone  in  thy   shame. 

The  world  cannot  liken  thee  there  ; 
Abhorrence  and  vice  have  disfigured  thy  name 

Beyond  the  low  reach  of  compare  ; 
Stupendous  in  gmlt,  thou  shalt  lend  us  through  time 
A  proverb,  a  by-word,  for  treachery  and  crime  ! 

While  conquest  illumined  his  sword. 

While  yet  in  his   prowess  he  stood, 
rhy  praises  still  follow'd  the  steps  of  thy  lord, 

And  welcomed  the  torrent  of  blood  : 
Though  tyranny  sat  on,  his  crown, 

And  withered  the  nations   afar, 
Yet  bright  in   thy  view  was  that  despot's  renown, 

Till  fortune  deserted   his  car  ; 
riien  back  from  the  chieftain  thou  slunkest  away, 
The  foremost  to  insult,  the  first  to  betray  ! 

Forgot  were  the   feats  he  had  done. 
The  toils  he  had  borne  in  thy  cause  ; 
Thou  turned'st  to  worship  a  new  rising  sun, 
And  waft  other  songs  of  applause. 
Put  the  storm  was  beginning  to  lour. 
Adversity  clouded  his  beam  ; 
And  honour  and  faith   were  the  brag  of  an  hour. 

And  loyalty's  self  but  a  dream:  — 
To  him  thou  hadst  banish'd  thy  vows  Vvcre  restored. 
And  the  first  that  had  scofT'd  were  the  first  that  adored. 

What  tumult  thus  burthens  the  air  ? 
What  throng  thus  encircles  his  throne  ? 
T  is  the  shout  of  delight,  't  is  the  millions  that  swear 
His  sceptre  shall  rule  them  alone. 
Reverses  shall  brighten  their  zeal, 
Misfortune  shall  hallow  his  name. 
And  the  world  that  pursues  him  shall  mournfully  feel 

How  quenchless  the  spirit  and   flame 
Thai  Frenchmen  will    breathe,  when   their  hearts 

are  on  fire. 
For  the  hero  they  love,  and  the  chief  they  admire ! 

Their  hero  has  rush'd  to  the  field  ; 

His  laurels  are  cover'd  with  shade — 
But  where  is  the  spirit  that  never  should  yield. 

The  loyalty  never  to  fade  ? 
In  a  moment  desertion  and  guile 

Abandon'd  him  up  to  the  foe  ; 
Tfce  dastards  that  flourish'd  and  grew  in  his  smile 

J^'orsook  and    renounced   him  in  woe  ; 
And  'he  millions  that  swore  they  would  perish  to  save. 
Beheld  him  a  fugitive,  captive,  and  slave  ! 

The  savage,  all  wild  in  his  glen, 
Is  nobler  and  better  than  thou  ; 
Thou  standest  a  wonder,  a  marvel  to  men, 
Such  perfidy  blackens  thy  brow! 
If  thou  wert  the  place  of  my  birth. 

At  once  from   thy  arms  would  I  sever  ; 
I  'd  fly  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  eart  i, 
And  quit  thee  for  ever  and  ever; 


And  thinking  of  thee  m  inj    long  after-years. 
Should  but  kindle  my  blusnes  and  waken  mv  teara 

Oh,  shame  to  thee,  land  of  the  Gaul! 

Oh,   shame  to  thy  children   and  thee  . 
Unwise  in   thy  glory,  and  base  in  thy  fall, 

How  wretched  thy  portion  shall   be  ! 
Derision  shall  strike  thee  forlorn, 

And   mockery  that  never  shall  die  ; 
The  curses  of  hate,  and  the  hisses  of  scorn. 

Shall   burthen   the  winds  of  thy  sky  ; 
And   proud  o'er  thy  ruin  for  ever  be   hurl'd 
The  laughter  of  triumph,  the  jeers  of  the  world ! 


WINDSOR  POETICS. 

Lines  composed   on   the  occasion   of  H,  R.  H.   the  P fl 

R-iT — t  being  seen  staiuliii^  beiwixt  the  coffins  of  Henry 
Vlil.  and  Charles  I.  in  the  royal  vault  at  Windsor. 

Famed  for  contemptuous  breach  of  sacred  ties, 
By   headless   Charles,  see   heartless  Henry  lies  ; 
Between  them  stands  another  sceptred  thing — 
It  moves,  it  reigns — in  all  but  name,  a  king  : 
Charles  to  his  people,   Henry  to   his   wife — 
In   him   the  double  tyrant  starts  to  life: 
Justice   and  death   have  mix'd  their  dust  in  vain, 
Each  royal  vampyre  wakes  to  fife  again : 
Ah  !    what  can   tombs  avail — since  these   disgorge 

The  blood  and  dust  of  both to  mould  a  G...ge. 

1813. 


A  SKETCH  FROM  PRIVATE  LIFE 

Honest — honest  lago  ! 

If  that  thou  be'st  a  devil,  I  cannot  kill  thee  ! 

SHAKSPEARE 

RoRX  in  the  garret,  in  the  kitchen  bred. 

Promoted  thence  to  deck  her  mistress'  head ; 

Next — for  some  gracious  service  unexprest, 

And  from  its  wages  only  to  be  gtiess'd — 

Raised  from  the   toilet  to  the  table,  where 

Her  wondering  betters  wait  behind  her  chair : 

With  eye  unmoved,  and  forehead  unabash'd, 

She  dines  from  off  the  plate  she  lately   wash' J. 

Quick  with  the  tale,  and  ready  with  the  lie. 

The  genial  confidante   and  general  s{)y  ; 

Who  could,  ye  gods !    her  next  employment  guess " 

An  only  infant's  earliest  governess  ! 

She  taught  the  child  to  read,   and  taught   so   weii, 

That  she  herself,  by  teaching,  learn'd   to  spell. 

An  adept  next  in  penmanship  she  grows. 

As  manv  a  nameless   slander  deftly  shows  • 

What  she  had  made  the  pupil  of  her  ai-f, 

None  know — i)ut  that  high  soul  secured   tno  lieart, 

And  panted  for  the  truth  it  could  not  hcvu, 

VVith  longing  breast  and  undeluded   ear. 

Foil'd  was   perversion  by  that  youtiiril    .nind. 
Which  flattery  fool'd  not,  baseness  could   not  biin<t 
Deceit  infect  not,  near  contagion  S'>il, 
Indulgence  weaken,  nor  example  r^poi', 
Nor  master'd  science  tempt   her  to  h^jlf   down 
On  humbler  talents   with   a  pitying  f.own, 
Nor  genius  swell,  nor  beauty  renucr  vain. 
Nor  envy  ruffle  to  retaliate  pain. 
Nor  fortune  change,  pride  raise,  nor  passion  bow 
Nor  virtue  teach  austerity — ti..  now. 


120 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Serenely  purest  of  her  sex  that  live, 
But   wanting  one  sweet  weakness — to  forgive  ; 
Too  shock'd  at   faults   her  soul   can  never  know, 
She  deems  that  all  could   be  like  her  below  : 
Foe  to  all  vice,  yet  hardly  virtue's  friend — 
For  virtue  pardons  those  she  would  amend. 

But  to  the  theme — now  laid  aside  too  long, 
The  baleful  burthen  of  this  honest  song — 
Though  all  her  former  functions   are  no  more, 
She  rules  the  circle  which  she  served  before. 
If  mothers — none  know  why — before  her  quake, 
If  daughters  dread   her  for  the  motiier's   sa..e ; 
If  early  habits — those  false   hiiks  which  bind, 
At  times,  the  loftiest  to  the  meanest  mind — 
Have  given  her  power  too  deeply  to  instil 
The  angry  essence  of  her  deadly  vvill  ; 
If  like  a  snake  she  steal  within  your  walls. 
Till  the  black   slime  betray  her  as  she  crawls  ; 
If  like   a  viper  to  the  heart  she  win<1. 
And  leave  the  venom  there  she   did   not  find  ; 
What  marvel   that  this  hag  of  haired  works 
Eternal   evil  latent   as  she  lurks, 
To  make  a  Pandemonium  where  she  dwells, 
And  reign  the  Hecate  of  domestic  hells  ! 

Skill'd  by  a  touch  to  deepen  scandal's  tints, 
With  all  the  kind  mendacity  of  hints, 
While  mingling  truth  with  falsehood,  sneers  with  smiles, 
A  thread   of  candour  with  a  web  of  wiles  ; 
A   plain  l>lunt  sJiow  of  briefly-sjjoken  seeming^ 
To  hide  her  bloodless  heart's  soul-harden'd  scheming; 
X  lip  of  lies,  a  face   form'd  to  conceal, 
And,  without  feeling,  mock  at  all   who  feel  ; 
With  a  vile  mask  the  Gorgon  would  disown, 
A  cheek  of  parchment,  and  an  eye  of  stone. 

Mark  how  the  channels  of  her  yellow  blood 
Ooze  to  her  skin,  and  stagnate  there  to  mud, 
Cased   like  the  centipede  in  saffron  mail. 
Or  darker  greenness  of  the  scorpion's  scale, 
jFor  drawn  from  reptiles  only  may  we  trace 
Congenial  colours  in  that  soul  or  face). 
Look  on  her  features !    and  behold  her  mind, 
As  in  the  mirror  of  itseJ  defined : 
Look  on  the  picture !    deem  it  not  o'ercharged — 
There  is  no  trait  which  might  not  be  enlarged ; 
Yet  true  to  "  Nature's  journeymen,"  who  made ' 
This  monster  when  their  mistress  left  off  trade,-- 
This  female  dog-star  of  her  little  sky. 
Where  all  beneath  her  influence  droop  or  die. 

Oh !    wretch  without  a  tear — without  a  thought. 
Save  joy  above  the  ruin  thou   hast   wrought — 
The  time  shall  come,  nor  long  remote,  when  thou 
Shall  feel  far  more   than   thou   infliclest  now  ; 
Feel  for  thy  vile  self-loving  self  in  vain. 
And  turn  thee  howling  in  unpitied  pain. 
May  the  strong  curse  of  crush'd  aflections  light 
Back  on  thy  bosom   with   reflected   blight ! 
And   make  ihce,  in   thy   leprosy  of  mind, 
As  loathsome  to  thyself  as    to  mankind! 
rill   all   liiy   self-thoughts  curdle   into  hate, 
r^lack  as  thy  u  ill   for  otluirs   would  create  : 
Fill  thj    hard   hf^tirt  be  calcined   into  dust. 
And  thy  soul  wckcr   in   its  hideous  crust. 
Oh,  may  tl.y  grav-   lie  sleepless  as  the  bed, 
riie  widovv'd  c()U(  li  of  lire,  that  lliou  hast  spread! 
Tlum,wh(',n  thou  faiii  w midst  weary  Heaven  with  prayer, 
Look  on   thine    (Nirihly   victims — and   despair! 
D'inu  u>  the   du-:'  ! — and,  as  thou   rolt'st  away, 
Even  worins  shall   perish  on  thy  0(/isonous  ciay. 


But    for  the  love  I  bore,  and  ooll   -nus     beai, 
To  her  thy  malice  from  all   ties   would   tear, 
Thy  name — thy  human  name — to  every  eye 
The  climax  of  all  scorn,  should  hang  on  high. 
Exalted  o'er  thy  less  abhorr'd  conij)eers. 
And  festering  in  the  infamy  of  years. 
March  30,  1816. 


CARMINA   BYROMS    IN  C.   ELGIN. 

AspicE,  quos   Scoto  Pallas   concedit  honores, 

Subter  stat  nomen,  facta  superque  vide. 
Scote  miser  !    quamvis  nocuisti  Palladis  ?edi. 


Inf'andum  facinus   vindicat 


ipsa 


Pygmahon  statuam  pro  sponsa  arsisse  refertur 
In  statuam  rapias,  Scote,  sed  uxor  abest. 


LINES  TO  MR.  MOORE. 

I  rhofollovvintr  lines  wore  adAxPssa]  eitcinpnrn  hy  J.ou]  Byron 
to  his  friend  Mr.  Moore,  on  the  laUer's  lust  visit  to  Italy 

My  boat  is  on   the  shore, 

And   my  bark   is  on  the  sea; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom   Mooke, 

Here  's  a  double   health   to  thee. 

Here  's  a  sigh  to  those  v.ho  love  me. 
And  a  smile  to  those  v.ho  hate  ; 

And,  whatever  sky  's  above  me, 
Here 's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  arouml  me. 

Yet  it  still  shall  l.-ear  me  on  ; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  my. 

It  hath  springs  that  niav  be  won 

Wer't  the  last  drop  in  the  well. 

And  I  'gasping  on   the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'T  is  to  thee  thai  I   would  drink. 

In  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation   I   would   pour 
Should  be — Peace  to  thine  and  mine. 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Mooke  ! 


ON  THIS  DAY  I  COMPLE'l^E  MY  THIRTY- 
SIXTH  YEAH." 

January  22,  1824,  JMissobnahi 
'T  IS  time  this  heart  shoukl   be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased   to   move; 
Yet  though  I   cannot  be  beloved. 
Still  let  me  love. 

Mv  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone ; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief. 
Are  mine  alone ! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is   lone   as  some  volcanic   isle; 
No  torch   is  kindled  at  its  blaze — 
A  funeral   pile  ! 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care. 

The  e.valtcd   portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I   cannot   share. 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But  't  is  not  </i«.«,  and  't  is  not  here 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul  ;  nor  runo 
^^■here  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


121 


rhe  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  fiela, 
Glory  and  Greece  around  me  see  ! 
The   Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake!    (not  Greece, — she  is  a-wake!) 

Awake,  my  spirit !    think  through  whom 
1  by  hte-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home  ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 

Unworthy  manhood  !    Unto  thee. 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regrett'st  thy  youth,  why  live  ? 

The   land  of  honourable  death 
Is  here — up  to  the  held,   and  give 
Away  thy  breath  ! 

Seek  out,  less  often  sought  than  found, 
A  soldier's  grave — for  thee  the   best , 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  resU 


THE 

THIRD  ACT  OF  MANFRED, 

IN   ITS   ORIGINAL,   SHAPE, 

AS  FIRST  SENT  TO  THE   PUBLISHER. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.—j1  Hall  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred. 

Manfred  and  Herman. 

Man.  What  is  the  hour  ? 

■Wer.  It  wants  but  one  till  sunset. 

And  promises  a  lovely  twilight. 

Jilan.  Say, 

Are  all  things  so  disposed  of  in  the  tower 
As  I  directed  ? 

Her.  All,  my  lord,  are  ready: 

Here  is  the  key  and  casket. 

Man.  It  IS  well ; 

Thou  mayest  retire.  [Exit  Herman. 

Man.    (alone.)  There  is  a  calm  upon  me — 

Ir.explicable  stillness!  which  till  now 
D.d  not  belong  to  what  I  knew  of  life. 
If  that  I  did  not  know  philosophy 
To  be  of  all  our  vanities  the  motliest. 
The  merest  word  that  ever  fool'd  the  ear 
Prom  out  the  schoolman's  jarjron,  I  should  deem 
The  golden  secret,  the  sought  "  Kalou"  fiund, 
'^ud  seated  in  ni)  soul      It  will  not  last, 


But  it  is  well  to  have  known  it,  though  but  once 
It  hath  enlarged  my  tluiaghts  with  a  new  sense, 
And  I  within  my  table. s  would  note  down 
That  there  is  such  a  feeling.     Who  is  there  3 

Re-enter  Hkr.man. 
Her.  My  loid,  the  Abbot  of  St.  Maurice  crave* 
To  greet  your  presence. 

'  Enter  the  Abbot  of  St.  Maurice. 

.Bbbot.  Peace  be  with  Count  Manfred 

Man.  Thanks,  holy  father!  welcome  to  these  walls; 
Thy  presence  honours  them,  and  blesses  those 
Who  dwell  within  them. 

Mhhot.  Would  it  were  so.  Count; 

But  I  would  fain  confer  wfth  thee  alone. 

Man.     Herman,  retire.     What    would    my    reverend 
?nest  ?  [Exit  Herman. 

Abbot.  Thus,  without  prelude; — Age   and   zeal,    my 
otiice, 
And  good  intent,  must  plead  my  privilege  ; 
Our  n(!ar,  though  not  acquainted,  neighbourhood, 
May  also  be  my  herald.     Rumours  strange, 
And  of  unholy  nature,  are  abroad. 
And  busy  with  thy  name— a  noble  name 
For  centuries;  may  he  wiio  bears  it  now 
Transmit  it  unimpair'd  ! 

Man.  Proceed,— I  listen. 

^bbot.  'Tis  said  thou  boldest  converse  witli  the  things 
Which  are  forlddden  to  the  search  of  man  ; 
That  with  the  dwellers  of  the  dark  abodes, 
The  many  evil  and  unhea\  <  nly  spirits 
Whirl)  walk  the  valley  of  it/e  shade  of  death, 
Thou  communest.     I  know  that  with  mankind, 
Thy  fellows  in  creation,  tliou  dost  rarelj 
Exchange  thy  thoughts,  and  that  thy  solitude 
Is  as  an  anchorite's,  were  it  but  holy. 

Man.  An»!  what  are  iliey  v.'lio  do  avouch  these  thinly  1 

Abbot.  Mf  pious  brethren — the  scared  peasantry — 
Even  thy  own  vassals— who  do  look  on  thee 
With  m().<t  unquiet  eyes.     Thy  lite's  ir  ^eril. 

Man    Take  it. 

Abbot.  I  come  to  save,  .Tid  no*  destroy- - 

I  would  not  pry  into  thy  seciot  ioul ; 
But  if  these  things  he  sooth,  there  still  is  time 
For  penitence  and  pity  :  reconcile  thee 
With  the  true  church,  und  through  the  church  tn  heaven 

Jlan.  I  hear  thee.     This  is  my  rejjly  :  whate'er 
I  may  have  been,  or  am,  doth  rest  between 
Heaven  and  myself. — I  shall  not  choose  a  mortal 
To  be  my  mediator.     Have  I  sinn'd 
Against  your  ordinances?  prove  and  punish  1^ 

Abbot.  Then,  hear  and  tremble!   For  the  headstrong 
wretch 
Who  in  the  mail  of  innate  hardihood 
Would  shield  himself,  and  battle  for  his  sins 
There  is  the  stake  on  earth,  and  beyond  earth  eternal — • 

Man.  Charity,  most  reverend  lather. 
Becomes  thy  lips  so  much  more  than  this  menace 
That  I  would  call  thee  back  to  it ;  but  say. 
What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 

Abbot.  ft  may  be  tliert-.  are 

Things  that  would  shake  thee— but  I  keej)  them  back. 
And  give  thee  till  to-morrow  to  repent. 
Then  if  thou  dost  not  all  devote  thyself 
To  penance,  and  with  ;rift  of  a.i  thy  lands 
To  the  monastery • 

1  It  will  bn  iwrceived  that,  as  far  as  this,  the  original  mattei 
of  the  Third  Act  has  been  retained 


122 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Man.  I  understand  tliee,  well 

Abbol.  Expect  no  mercy ;  •!  have  vvarn'd  thee, 
Man.,  {opening  the  casket.)  Stop — 

There  is  a  gift  tor  thee  within  this  casket. 

[Manfred  opens  the  casket,  strikes  a  light,  and 
burns  ^oiiie  incense. 
Ho  I  Ashlaroth! 

The  Demon  Ashtaroth  appears,  singing  as  follows: 
The  raven  sits 

On  the  raven  stone, 
And  his  black  wing  flits 

O'er  the  milk-white  bone; 
To  and  fro,  as  the  nij,'ht  winds  blow, 

Tlie  carcass  of  the  assassin  swings; 
And  tli(!re  alone,  on  the  raven  ptone,^ 

The  raven  flaps  his  dusky  wings. 
The  fetters  creak— and  his  ebon  beak 

Croaks  to  the  close  of  the  hollow  sound; 
And  ihis  is  the  tune  by  the  light  of  the  moon 

To  which  the  witches  dance  their  round, 
Merrily,  merrily,  cheerily,  cheerily, 

Merrily,  merrily,  speeds  the  ball  : 
The  dead  in  their  shrouds,  and  the  demons  in  clouds, 

Flock  to  the  witches'  carnival. 

Mbot.  I  fear  thee  not — hence — hence — 
Avaunt  thee,  evil  one  !— help,  ho  !  without  there  ! 

Man.  Convey  this  man   to   the   Shreckhorn  — to   its 
peak  — 
To  its  extreuiest  peak — watch  with  him  tliere 
From  now  till  sunrise;  let  him  gaze,  and  know 
'le  ne'er  again  will  be  so  near  to  heaven. 
But  harm  him  not;  and,  when  the  morrow  breaks. 
Ret  him  down  safe  in  his  cell — away  with  him  I 

4sA.  Had  I  not  better  bring  his  brethren  too, 
Convent  and  all,  to  bear  him  company? 

JWan.  No,  this  will  serve  for  the  present.    Take  him  up 

6lsh.  Come,  friar!  now  an  exorcism  or  two, 
And  we  shall  fly  the  lighter. 

Ashtaroth  disappears  with  the  Abbot,  singing  as 
follows : 
A  prodigal  son  and  a  maid  undone. 

And  a  widow  re-wedded  within  the  year ; 
And  a  worldly  monk  and  a  pregnant  nun. 
Are  things  which  every  day  appear. 

Manfred  alone. 
Man.  Why  w-^'ld  this  fool  break  jn  on  me,  and  force 
My  art  to  pranks  fantastical  ? — no  matter. 
It  was  not  of  my  seeking.     My  heart  sickens 
And  weighs  a  fix'd  foreboding  on  my  soul ; 
But  it  is  calm — calm  as  a  sullen  sea 
After  the  hurricane  :  the  winds  are  still, 
But  the  cold  waves  swell  high  and  heavily. 
And  there  is  danger  in  them.     Such  a  rest 
}i  no  repose.     My  life  hath  been  a  combat. 
Ana  every  thouuht  a  wound,  till  I  am  scarr'd 
In  the  immorta«l  part  of  me. — What  now? 

Reenter  Herman. 

Her.  My  lord,  you  bade  me  wait  on  you  at  sunset : 
He  sinks  behind  the  mountain. 

Man  Doth  he  so  ? 

I  will  tx)k  on  him. 


1  "  Ravon-stono,  (Rabenstein,)  a  translation  of  the  Gernia 
word  for  the  gibbet,  which  in  Gerinanjr  and  Switzerland 
periudDent,  and  made  of  stone." 


[Manfred  advances  to  thewindoi'j  oj  the  \aL 
Glorious  orb  !i  the  idol 
Of  early  nature,  and  the  vigorous  race 
Of  undiseased  mankind,  the  giant  sons 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a  sex 
More  beautiful  than  they,  which  did  draw  down 
The  erring  spirits  >  ho  can  ne'er  return. — 
Most  glorious  orb  !  that  wert  a  worship,  ere 
The  mystery  of  thy  making  was  reveal'd! 
TIkmi  earliest  niisiister  of  the  Alaiiiihty, 
Which  gladden'd,  on  their  mountain  tops,  the  hearts 
Of  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  till  they  pour'd 
Themselves  in  orisons  !  thou  material  God! 
And  representative  of  the  Unknown— 
Who  chose  thee  for  his  shadow  !  thou  chief  sth    ' 
Centre  of  many  stars!  which  niak'st  our  earth 
Endurable,  and  temperest  the  hues 
And  hearts  of  all  who  walk  within  thy  rays! 
Sire  of  tiie  seasons  !  Monarch  of  the  climes. 
And  those  who  dwell  in  iheni  I  for,  near  or  far. 
Our  inborn  spirits  have  a  tint  of  thee, 
Even  as  our  outward  aspects  ;— thou  dost  rise. 
And  shine,  and  set  in  glory.     Fare  tiiee  well  ! 
1  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more.     As  my  first  glance 
Of  love  and  wonder  was  for  thee,  then  take 
My  latest  look,  thou  wilt  not  beam  on  one 
To  whom  the  gifts  of  life  and  wannth  have  been 
Of  a  more  fatal  nature.     He  is  gone  : 
I  follow:  [Exit  Manfred 

ScenrH.—  The  Monntnivs—  The  Cajt/.^  of  Manfred  at 

some  distance — j3  Terrace  before  a  Toicei  — lime.  Tw, 

light. 
Herman,  Manuel,  and  other  Dependants  o/MAN>REr. 

Ijer.  'Tis  strange  enough  ;  night  after  night,  foryii.u's, 
He  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower. 
Without  a  witness.     1  have  been  within  it,— 
So  have  we  all  been  oft-tiines;  bu',  from  it, 
Or  its  contents,  it  were  impossible 
To  draw  conclusions  ab.-^oliiie  of  aught 
His  studies  tend  to.     To  be  sure,  there  is 
One  chamber  where  none  enter;  I  would  give 
The  fee  of  what  I  have  to  come  these  three  yeara, 
To  pore  upon  its  mysteries. 

Manuel.  'T  were  dangerous: 

Content  thyself  with  what  thr)u  know"st  aln;ady. 

Her.  Ah!  Manuel  !  thou  art  eUhirly  and  uise. 
And  couldst   say   much  ;    thou    hast  dwelt  within  tre 

castle — 
How  many  years  is  't  ? 

Manuel.  Ere  Count  Manfred's  birth 

I  served  his  father,  whom  he  nau^'ht  resembles. 

Her.  There  be  more  sons  in  like  predicament. 
But  wherein  do  they  ditier  ? 

Manuel.  I  speak  not 

Of  features  or  of  form,  bat  mind  and  hal)ita  : 
Count  Sigisinuini  was  proud,— but  gay  and  free — 
A  warrior  and  a  n.'veller ;  he  dwelt  not 
With  books  and  solitude,  nor  made  the  night 
A  gloomy  vigil,  but  a  festal  time, 
Merrier  than  day  ;  he  did  not  walk  the  rocks 
And  forests  like  a  wolf,  nor  turn  aside 
From  men  and  their  delights^. 

Her.  Bcshrew  the  hour. 

But  those  were  jocund  times!  1  would  that  such 
Would  visit  lh(!  (dd  walls  aijain  ;  Ihey  loo« 
As  if  they  had  forgotten  them. 

1  This  soliloquy,  and  a  groat  part  of  the  Hub-ieiiue  it  sceut 
have  been  retained  in  liie  present  fo^m  of  the  drama 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


123 


.VanuA .  These  walls 

Musi  cliaiisc  their  chieftain  first.     Oh  !  I  have  seen 
Borne  strange  things  in  these  (aw  years.' 

Her.  Come,  be  friendly. 

Relate  me  some,  to  while  away  our  watch  : 
I've  heard  thee  darkly  speak  of  an  event 
Which  happen'd  in'rcahoiits,  by  this  same  tower. 

Manuel.  Tliat  was  a  niu'lit  indeed  !  I  do  remember 
Twas  tiviliglit,  as  it  may  be  now,  and  such 
Another  eveiiin;: :— v.mi  red  cloud,  whicli  rests 
On  Eiiiher'p  pinnacle,  so  rested  tlien, — 
So  like  it  that  it  niiizht  be  the  same;  the  wind 
Was  faint  and  eusty,  and  the  mountain  snows 
Began  to  flitter  with  tlie  cliinhini:  moon  ; 
Count  Manfred  was,  as  now,  w  itiiiii  his  tower, — 
How  occupied,  we  knew  not,  bet  with  him 
The  sole  conipaninn  df  his  wauderiiiirs 
And  watchiuL's— her,  whom  of  all  earthly  things 
Tiiat  lived,  the  only  thiim  he  seemM  to  love. 
As  he,  indeed,  by  blood  was  bound  to  do. 
The  Lady  Astarte,  his 

Her.  Look— look— the  tower — 

The  tower's  on  fire.  Oh,  heavens  and  earth  I  what  sound, 
What  dreadful  sound  is  tliat  ?  \A  crash  like  thunder. 

J\lanuel.    Help,    help,   there! — to    the   rescue   of  the 
Count  — 
The  Count's  in  danger,— what  hoi  there  !  apjiroach  ! 

[The  Serranfs.  yassa/s.  and  Peasantry  approach 
stupijied  irith  terror. 
If  there  he  any  of  you  who  have  heart 
And  love  of  human  kind,  and  will  to  aid 
rho3e  in  distress— pause  not— but  follow  me — 
rhe  portal's  open,  follow.  [Max  ;el  goes  in. 

Her.  Come— who  follows  ? 

What,  none  of  y»,>  ?— ye  recreatits  !  shiver  then 
Without.     I  will  not  see  old  Manuel  risk 
His  few  remaining  years  unaided.         [Herman  goes  in. 

Vassal.  Hark  ! — 

No— all  is  silent — not  a  breath— the  flame 
Which  shot  forth  such  a  blaze  is  also  gone ; 
What  may  this  mean  ?  let's  enter? 

Peasant.  Faith,  not  I,— 

Not  that,  if  one,  or  two,  or  more,  will  join, 
I  then  will  stay  behind  ;  but,  for  my  part, 
I  do  not  see  precisely  to  what  end. 

Vassal.  Cease  your  vain  prating— come. 

Manuel,  {speaking  within.)  'Tis  all  in  vain — 

He  's  dead. 

Her.  (icithin.)  Not  so— even  now  methought  he  mov3d. 
But  it  is  dark — so  bear  him  gently  out— 
Softly— how  cold  he  is  !  take  care  of  his  temples 
In  winding  down  the  staircase. 

Re-enter  Manuel  and  Her. man,  bearing  Manfred  in 
their  arms. 

Manvel.  Hie  to  the  cattle,  some  of  ye,  and  bring 
What  aid  you  can.     Saddle  the  barb,  and  speed 
For  the  leech  to  the  city— quick  !  some  water  there! 

Hir.  His  cheek  is  black— but  there  is  a  faint  beat 
Still  lingering  about  the  heart.     Some  water. 

\^They  fprinkle  Manfred  TKitk  water ;  after  a  pause 
he  gives  some  sirrns  of  life. 

Manuel.  He  seems  to  strive  to  speak — come — cheerly, 
Count ! 
He  moves  iiis  lips— canst  hear  him  ?  I  am  old 
And  cannot  catch  faint  sounds. 


1  Altered,  m  tSe  r^esent  form,  to 
Ibdoi.  Ueriv  a. 


Some  ^'rangc  things  in 


[Herman  inclining  his  he  id  and  listening 
Her.  I  hear  a  word 

Or  two — but  indistinctly — what  is  next? 
What  "s  to  be  done  ?  let  's  bear  liim  to  the  castle. 

(.^^vNKRE»  motions  with  his  hand  not  to  remove  Mm 
Manuel.  He  disapproves— and  'I  were  of  no  avail — 
He  changes  rapidly. 
Her.  'T  will  soon  be  over. 

Manuel.  Oh  !  what  a  death  is  this!  that  I  should  live 
To  shake  my  gray  hairs  over  the  last  chief 
Of  the  house  of  Sigismund — .\nd  such  a  death  ! 
A!one — we  know  not  how — unslirived— untended — 
With  strange  accompaniments  and  fearful  siirns — 
I  shudder  at  the  sight  — but  must  not  leave  him. 
Manfred,  [speaking  faintly  and  slowly.)  Old  man  1 
'T  is  not  so  difficult  to  die. 

[Manfred,  having  said  this,  expires 
,Her.  His  eyes  are  fix'd  and  lifeless. — He  is  gone. 
Manuel.  Close  them. — My  old  hand  quivers. — He  de- 
parts— 
Whither?  1  dread  to  think— But  he  is  gone  I 


TO  MY  DEAR  MARY  ANNE. 

[the  following  lines  are  the  earlifst  written  b^ 
lord  bvron.     they  were  addressed  to  miss  cha 

worth,    afterwards    MRS.    MUSTERS,    IN    1804,    AB0U1 
▲   YEAR    BEFORE    HER    MARRIAGE.] 

Adieu  to  sweet  Mary  for  ever  ! 

From  her  I  must  quickly  depart: 
Though  the  fates  us  trom  each  other  sever. 

Still  her  image  will  dwell  in  my  heart 

The  flame  that  within  my  heart  biirriS 
If  unlike  what  in  lovers'  hearts  glows 

The  love  which  for  xMary  I  feel 
Is  far  purer  than  Cupid  bestows. 

I  \^•ish  not  your  peace  to  disturb, 

I  wish  not  your  joys  to  molest; 
Mistake  not  my  passion  for  love, 

'Tis  your  friendship  alone  I  request. 

Not  ten  thousand  lovers  could  feel 
The  friendship  my  bosom  contains; 

It  will  ever  within  my  heart  dwell. 

While  the  warm  blood  flows  through  my  veina 

May  the  Ruler  of  Heaven  look  down, 

And  my  Mary  from  evil  defend  ! 
May  she  ne'er  knovv  adversity's  frown. 

May  her  happiness  ne'er  have  an  end  ! 

Once  more,  my  sweet  Mary,  adieu 

Farewell !  I  with  anguish  repeat, 
For  ever  I  '11  think  upon  you. 

While  this  heart  in  my  bosom  shall  beat 


TO  MISS  CHA  WORTH. 

Oh  memory,  torture  me  no  mere. 

The  present's  all  o'ercast; 
My  hopes  of  future  bliss  are  e'er. 

In  mercy  veil  the  past. 
Why  bring  those  images  to  view 

I  henceforth  must  resign  ? 
Ah!  why  those  happy  hours  renew 

That  never  can  be  mine"? 


124 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Past  pleasi    e  doubles  present  pain. 

To  sorrow  ailiis  reg^ret. 
Regret  and  hope  are  both  in  vain, 

I  ask  but  to— forget. 


FRAGIVIENT. 
1. 
Hills  of  Annesley,  bleak  and  barren, 

Where  my  thoughtless  childhood  stray'd, 
How  the  nortnern  tempests  warring. 
Howl  above  thy  tufted  shade ! 

2. 
Now  no  more    the  hours  beguiling 

Former  favourite  haunts  I  see; 
Now  no  more  my  Mary  smiling 

Makes  ye  seem  a  heaven  to  me. 


1804. 


1805. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  NATURE, 
Father  of  Light !  great  God  of  Heaven ! 

Hear'st  thou  the  accents  of  despair? 
Can  guilt  like  man's  be  e'er  forgiven  ? 

Can  vice  atone  for  crimes  by  prayer? 
Father  of  Light,  on  thee  I  call ! 

Thou  see'st  my  soul  is  d;irk  within  ; 
Thou  who  can'st  mark  the  sparrow's  fall. 

Avert  from  me  the  death  of  sin. 
No  shrine  I  seek  to  sects  unknown  ; 

Oh  point  to  me  the  path  of  truth  ! 
Thy  dread  omnipotence  I  own  ; 

Spare,  yet  amend,  the  faults  of  youth 
Let  bigots  rear  a  gloomy  fane, 

Let  superstition  hail  the  pile, 
Let  priests,  to  spread  their  sable  reign, 

With  tales  of  mystic  rites  beguile. 
Shall  man  confine  his  Maker's  sway 

To  Gothic  domes  of  mouldering  stone? 
Thy  temple  is  the  face  of  day  ; 

Earth,  ocean,  heaven  thy  boundless  throne. 
Shall  man  condemn  his  race  to  hell 

Unless  they  bend  in  pompous  form? 
Tell  us  that  all,  for  one  who  fell. 

Must  perish  in  the  mingling  storm? 
Shall  each  pretend  to  reach  the  skies, 

Yet  doom  his  brother  to  expire, 
Whose  soul  a  different  hope  supplies. 

Or  doctrines  less  severe  insjjire  ? 
ishall  these,  by  creeds  they  can't  expound, 

Prepare  a  fancied  bliss  or  woe  ? 
Shall  reptiles,  grovelling  on  the  ground, 

Their  great  Creator's  purpose  know? 
Shall  those,  who  live  for  self  alone, 

Whose  years  float  on  in  daily  crime — 
Shall  they  by  Faith  for  guilt  atone. 

And  live  beyond  th(;  bounds  of  Time? 
Father!  no  pro|)het's  laws  I  seek, — 

Thy  laws  in  Nature's  works  appear; — 
I  own  myself  corru|)t  and  weak. 

Yet  will  I  pray,  for  thou  wilt  h(!ar  ! 
Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  vvand(!ring  star 

ThrouL'li  tracklfiss  realms  of  ether's  space; 
Who  calm'st  tht;  elemental  war. 

Whose  hand  from  pole  to  pole  I  trace ; — 
Fhou,  wlir.  in  wisdom  placed  me  here, 

Who,  when  thou  wilt,  can  fake  mc  henc«, 


Ah  !  whilst  t  ireart  this  eartniy  b-pnere, 

Extend  to  me  thy  wide  defence. 
To  Thee,  my  God,  to  Thee  I  call ! 

Whatever  weal  or  woe  betide. 
By  thy  command  I  rise  or  fall. 

In  thy  protection  I  confide. 
If,  when  this  dust  to  dust  restored. 
My  soul  shall  float  on  airy  wing, 
How  shall  thy  glorious  name  adored 

Inspire  her  feeble  voice  to  sing  I 
But,  if  this  fleeting  spirit  share 

With  clay  the  grave's  eternal  bed, 
Vhile  life  yet  throbs  I  raise  my  piayer. 
Though  doom'd  no  more  to  quit  the  dti^d 
To  Tliee  I  breathe  my  humble  strain, 

Grateful  for  all  Ihy  mercies  past. 
And  hope,  my  God,  to  thee  again 
This  erring  life  may  fly  at  last 


y9f  A  Dec.  1806. 


ON  REVISITING  HARROW. 

[Some  years  ago,  when  at  Harrow,  a  friend  of  the  autb<  i 
engraved  on  a  paiticuliir  spot  'he  name  of  both,  with  a  fe,v 
additional  words,  as  a  inemorinj.  Afterward?,  on  receiving 
some  real  or  imaeined  injury,  the  author  dfstroyed  the  frail 
record  bcCore  he  left  Harrow.  On  revi.^itin«  the  place  in  1807 
he  wrote  under  it  the  following  stanzas.] 

1. 

Here  once  en<:aged  the  stranger's  view 
Young  Friendship's  recorrl,  simply  traced; 

Few  were  her  words,— but  yet,  though  few, 
Resentment's  hand  the  line  defaced. 

2. 
Deeply  she  cut — but,  not  erased. 

The  characters  were  still  so  plain, 
That  Friendship  once  return'd  and  gazed,- 

Till  memory  hail'd  the  words  again. 
3. 
Repentance  placed  them  as  before; 

Foririveness  join'd  her  gentle  name; 
So  fair  the  inscription  seem'd  once  more, 

That  F"riendsliip  thought  it  still  the  same. 
4. 
Thus  might  the  Record  now  have  been ; 

But,  ah,  111  spite  of  Hope's  endeavour. 
Or  Friendship's  tears.  Pride  rush'd  between 

And  blotted  out  tlie  line  for  ever! 


L'AMITIE  EST  L'AMOUR  SANS  AILE3. 
1. 

Why  should  my  anxious  breast  repine, 

Because  my  youth  is  fled? 
Days  of  delight  may  still  be  mine; 

Alf.etion  is  not  dead. 
In  tracing  back  the  years  of  youth. 
One  firm  recf)r(l,  one  lasting  truth 

Celestial  consolation  brings: 
Bear  it,  ye  breezes,  to  the  seat, 
Where  first  my  heart  responsive  oeat,— 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  hts  wings  I 

Though  few,  but  deejily  che(iuer'd  years, 
What  moments  have  been  mine! 

Now,  half  obscured  by  clouds  of  teara. 
Now,  bright  in  rays  divine; 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


125 


flowe'er  my  future  doom  be  cast. 
My  soul,  enraptiired  with  tlie  past, 

To  cue  idea  fondly  clings  ; 
Friendship  !  that  thought  is  all  thine  own, 
Worth  worlds  of  bliss,  thiit  thouirht  alone, 

'  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings!* 
3. 
Where  yonder  yew-trees  lightly  wave 

Their  branches  on  the  ^n\e, 
Unlieeded  heaves  a  sinijle  grave, 

Which  tells  the  common  tale  ; 
Roun.d  this  unconscious  schoolboys  stray 
Till  the  dull  knell  of  childish  play 

From  yonder  studious  mansion  rings; 
But  here  whene'er  my  footsteps  move. 
My  silent  tears  too  plainly  prove 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings!" 
4. 
Oh  Love     before  thy  glowing  shrine 

My  early  vows  were  paid; 
My  hopes,  my  dreams,  my  heart  was  thine, 

But  these  are  now  decay'd  ; 
For  thine  are  pinions  like  the  wind. 

No  trace  of  thee  remains  behind, 
Except,  alas  I  thy  jealous  stings. 
Away,  away!  delusive  power. 
Thou  Shalt  not  haunt  my  coming  hour; 

"  Unless,  indeed,  without  *liy  wings!" 
5. 
Seal  of  my  youth!  thy  distant  spire 

R(  calls  each  scene  of  joy  ; 
My  l»osom  glows  with  former  nre^  — 

In  mind  again  a  boy. 
Thj  grove  of  elms,  thy  verdant  hill, 
Th}  every  path  delights  me  still, 

Each  flower  a  double  fragrance  flings; 
Again,  as  once,  in  converse  gay, 
Each  dear  associate  seems  to  say 

"  Friendship  is  love  without  his  wings!" 

C. 

My  Lycus  I  wherefore  dost  thou  weep? 

Thy  falling  tears  restrain  ; 
Affection  for  a  'ime  may  sleep. 

But,  oh,  'I  will  wake  again. 
Think,  think,  my  friend,  when  next  we  meet 
Our  long-wish'd  interview,  how  sweet ! 

From  this  my  hope  of  rapture  springs ; 
While  youthful  hearts  thus  fondly  swell, 
Absence,  my  friend,  can  only  tell, 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  1" 

7. 
In  one,  and  one  alone  deceived. 

Did  I  my  error  mourn  ? 
No— from  oppressive  bonds  relieved, 

I  left  the  wretch  to  scorn. 
I  turn'd  to  those  my  childhood  knew. 
With  feelings  warm,  with  bosoms  true. 

Twined  with  my  heart's  according  strings; 
And  till  those  vital  chords  shall  break. 
For  none  but  thee  my  breast  shall  wake, 

"  Friendship,  the  power  defirived  of  wings!' 
8. 
Ye  few  !  my  soul,  my  life  is  yours, 

My  memory  and  my  hope  ; 
Your  worth  a  lasting  love  insures, 

Unfetter'd  in  its  scope  ; 


From  smooth  deceit  and  terror  sprung. 
With  aspect  fair  and  honey'd  tongue. 

Let  adulation  wail  on  kings. 
With  joy  elate,  by  snares  beset. 
We,  we,  my  friends,  can  ne'er  forget 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings." 

9. 

Fictions  and  dreams  inspire  the  bard 

Wiio  rolls  the  epic  song ; 
Friendship  and  truth  be  my  reward. 

To  me  no  hays  belong  ; 
If  laurell'd  Fame  but  dwells  with  lies. 
Me  the  enchantress  ever  flies. 

Whose  heart  and  not  whose  fancy  sings: 
Simple  and  young,  I  dare  not  feign. 
Mine  be  the  rude  yet  heartfelt  strain, 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings!" 

December,  I30C 


TO  MY  SON. 
1. 

Those  flaxen  locks,  those  eyes  of  blue. 
Bright  as  thy  mother's  in  their  hue; 
Those  rosy  lips,  whose  dimples  play. 
And  smile  to  steal  the  heart  away. 
Recall  a  scene  of  former  joy, 
And  touch  thy  Father's  heart,  my  Boy! 

2. 

And  thou  canst  lisp  a  father's  name— 
Ah,  William,  were  thine  own  the  same, 
No  self-reproach--but,  let  me  cease— 
My  care  for  thee  shall  purchase  pi';ice  ; 
Thy  mother's  shade  shall  smile  in  joy, 
And  pardon  all  the  past,  my  Boy. 


Her  lowly  grave  the  turf  has  prest, 

And  thou  hast  known  a  stranger's  breast. 

Derision  sneers  upon  thy  birth. 

And  yields  thee  scarce  a  name  on  earth; 

Yet  shall  not  these  one  hope  destroy,— 

A  Father's  heart  is  thine,  my  Boy  ! 

4. 
Why,  let  the  world  unfeeling  frown. 
Must  I  fond  Nature's  claim  disown  1 
Ah,  no— though  moralists  reprove, 
I  hail  thee,  dearest  child  of  love. 
Fair  cherub,  pledge  of  youth  and  joy— 
A  father  guards  thy  birth,  my  Boy  ! 

5. 

Oh,  't  will  be  sweet  in  thee  to  trace 
Ere  age  has  wrinkled  o'er  my  face. 
Ere  half  my  glass  of  life  is  run. 
At  once  a  brother  and  a  son  : 
And  all  my  wane  of  years  eroploy 
In  justice  done  to  thee,  my  Loy  I 


Although  so  young  thy  heedless  sire, 
Youth  will  not  damp  parental  fire; 
Ami,  wert  thou  still  less  dear  to  me. 
W^hile  Helen's  form  revives  in  thee. 
The  breast,  which  beat  to  former  joy. 
Will  ne'er  desert  its  pledge,  my  Boy  I 

1807 


lt?6 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


EP:T  VPH  ON  JOHN  ADAMS,  OF  SOUTHWELL, 

A    CxRRIEiU    WHO    DIED    OF    DRUNKENNESS. 

John  Adamb  iies-  here,  of  the  parish  of  Southwell, 
A  Cairtrr,  who  canned  his  can  to  his  mouth  well ; 
He  carried  so  much,  and  he  carried  so  fast. 
He  could  carry  no  more— so  was  carried  at  last ; 
For  the  liquor  he  drank,  being  too  much  for  one, 
He  could  not  carry  off,— «o  he  's  now  carri-on. 

Sept.  1807. 

FRAGMENT. 


iThe  following  lines  form  the  conclusion  of  a  poem  written 
by  Lord  Byron  under  the  melancholy  impression  that  he 
should  soon  die.] 

FoROET  this  world,  my  restless  sprite, 

Turn,  turn  thy  thoughts  to  heaven  : 
There  must  thou  soon  direct  thy  flight. 

If  errors  are  forgiven. 
To  bigots  and  to  sects  unknown. 
Bow  down  heneath  th'  Almighty's  Throne,— 

To  him  address  thy  trembling  prayer: 
He,  who  is  merciful  and  just. 
Will  not  reject  a  child  of  dust, 

Although  his  meanest  care. 

Father  of  Light !  to  thee  I  call, 

My  soul  is  dark  within  ; 
Thou,  who  canst  mark  the  sparrow  fall, 

Avert  the  death  of  sin. 
Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star. 
Who  calm'st  the  elemental  war, 

Whose  mantle  is  yon  boundless  sky, 

My  thoughts,  my  words,  my  crimes  forgive; 

And,  since  I  soon  must  cease  to  live, 

Instruct  me  how  to  die. 

1807. 


TO  MRS.  *  *  *, 

OP    BEING    ASKED    MY    REASON    FOR    QHITTING    ENGLAND 
IN    THE    SPRING. 

When  man,  expell'd  from  Eden's  bowers, 

A  moment  linger'd  near  tlie  gate. 
Each  scene  recall'd  the  vaiiish'd  hours. 

And  bade  him  curse  his  future  fate. 

But  wandering  on  tlirough  distant  climes. 
He  learnt  to  hear  his  load  of  grief; 

Just  gave  a  sigh  to  other  times. 
And  found  in  busier  scenes  relief. 

Thus,  Mary,  will  it  be  with  me, 

And  I  must  view  thy  charms  no  more; 

For,  while  I  linger  near  to  thee, 
I  sigh  for  all  I  knew  before. 

In  flight  I  shall  be  surely  wise, 
Escaping  from  temptation's  snare  ; 

I  cannot  view  my  parailise 
Witliout  the  wish  of  dwelling  there. 


Dec  a  i80a 


A  LOVE-SONG. 

TO    ^  '*f  *  ''^, 

Remind  me  not,  remind  me  not, 
Of  tho«e  beloved,  those  vatiish'd  hours 
When  all  my  soul  was  given  to  thee', 


Hours  that  may  never  be  forgot. 
Till  time  unnerves  our  vital  powers. 
And  thou  and  I  shall  cease  to  be. 

Can  I  forget— canst  thou  forget. 

When  playing  with  thy  golden  hair. 

How  quick  thy  fluttering  heart  did  move? 
Oh,  by  my  soul,  I  see  thee  yet. 
With  eyes  so  languid,  breast  so  fair, 
And  lips,  though  silent,  breathing  love. 

When  thus  reclining  on  my  breast. 
Those  eyes  threw  back  a  glance  so  sweet, 
As  half  reproach'd  yet  raised  desire, 
And  still  we  near  and  nearer  prest. 
And  still  our  glowing  lips  would  meet, 
As  if  in  kisses  to  expire. 

And  then  those  pensive  eyes  would  close 
And  bid  their  lids  each  other  seek. 
Veiling  the  azure  orbs  below  ; 
While  their  long  lashes'  darkening  gloss 
Seem'd  stealing  o'er  thy  brilliant  cheek, 
Like  raven's  plumage  smooth'd  on  snow 

I  dreamt  last  night  our  love  return'd. 
And,  sooth  to  say,  that  very  dream 
Was  sweeter  in  its  phantasy 
Than  if  for  other  hearts  I  burn'd, 
For  eyes  that  ne'er  like  thine  could  beam 
In  rapture's  wild  reality. 

Then  tell  ine  not,  remind  me  not. 

Of  hours  which,  though  for  ever  gone, 
Can  still  a  pleasing  dream  restore. 
Till  thou  and  I  shall  be  forgot. 

And  senseless  as  the  mouldering  stono 
Which  tells  that  we  shall  be  no  moie, 


STANZAS 

There  was  a  time,  I  need  not  name, 
Since  it  will  ne'er  forgotten  he, 

When  all  our  feelings  were  the  same 
As  still  my  soul  hath  been  to  thee. 

And  from  that  hour  when  first  thy  tongue 
Conf(!Ss'd  a  love  which  equall'd  mine, 

Though  many  a  grief  my  heart  hath  wrung 
Unknown  and  tlius  iiufelt  by  thine, 

None,  none  hath  sunk  so  deep  as  this — 
To  think  how  all  that  love  hath  flowu; 

Transi(!nl  as  every  faithless  kiss, 
But  transient  in  thy  breast  alone. 

And  yet  my  heart  some  solace  knew, 
When  late  I  heard  thy  lips  declare. 

In  accents  once  imagined  true. 
Remembrance  of  the  days  that  were. 

Yes  !  my  adored,  yet  most  unkind  ! 

Though  thou  wilt  never  love  again, 
To  me  'tis  doubly/weet  to  find 

Remembrance  of  that  love  remain. 

Yes!  'tis  a  glorious  thought  to  me, 
Nor  longer  shall  my  soul  repine, 

VVIiate'er  thnu  art  or  e'er  shalt  be, 
Thou  hast  been  dearly,  solely  mino' 


MISCELLANEOUS    P  C  E  M  S. 


127 


TO  •♦*♦*. 

A.VB  wilt  thou  weep  when  1  am  low? 

ywt"H  laily!  spoak  those  words  again! 
Vet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so— 

1  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 

Mv  heart  is  sad,  my  hopes  are  gone, 
My  blood  runs  coldly  through  my  breast ; 

And  when  I  perish,  thou  alone 
Wilt  sigh  above  my  place  of  rest. 

And  yet,  methinks,  a  gleam  of  peace 
Doth  throiiirh  my  cloud  of  anguish  shine; 

And  for  awhile  my  sorrows  cease, 
To  know  thy  heart  hath  felt  for  mine. 

Oh  lady  !  blessed  be  that  tear- 
It  falls  for  one  who  cannot  weep: 

Such  precious  drops  are  doubly  dear 
To  those  whose  eyes  no  tear  can  steep. 

Sweet  lady  !  once  my  heart  was  warm 
With  every  feeling  soft  as  thine ; 

But  beauty's  self  hath  ceased  to  charm 
A  wretch  created  to  repine. 

Fet  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low  ? 

Sweet  lady !  speak  those  words  again 
Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so— 

I  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 


SONG. 


Fill  the  goblet  again,  for  I  never  before 

Felt  the  glow  which  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  ito  core; 

Let  us  drink  !— who  would  not?— since,  through  life's 

varied  round. 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 

I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply; 
I  have  bask'd  in  the  beam  of  a  dark-rolling  eye; 
I  have  loved  !— who  has  not  ?— but  what  heart  can  de- 
clare 
That  pleasure  existed  while  passion  was  there  ? 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  when  the  heart 's  in  its  spring. 

And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, 

I   had  friends?— \\  ho  has  not?— but  what  tongue  will 

avow 
That  friends,  rosy  wine  !  are  so  faithful  as  thou  ? 

Tlie  heart  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange. 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sunbeam— thou  never  canst 

change : 
Thou  grow'st  old— who  does  not  ?— but  on  earth  what 

appears. 
Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  still  increase  with  its  years  ? 

Ya  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow. 
Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below. 
We  are  jealous!— who's  not  ?— thou  hast  no  such  alloy, 
For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  we  enjoy. 

Then  the  season  of  youth  and  its  vanities  past. 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last ; 
There  we  find— do  we  not  ?— in  the  flow  of  the  soul. 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowl. 


When  the  box  of  Pandora  was  open'd  on  earth, 
And  Misery's  triumph  commenced  over  Mirth, 
Hope  was  left,  was  she  not  ? — but  ihe  goblet  we  kiss. 
And  care  not  for  hope,  who  are  certain  of  bliss. 

Long  life  to  the  grape  !  for  when  summer  is  flowE, 
'I'he  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  our  own: 
We  nuist  (lie — who  shall  not? — May  our  si na  bo  for- 
given. 
And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  heaven. 


STANZAS 

TO    *  *  *,    ON    LEAVING    ENGLAND. 

'Tip  done— and  shivering  in  the  gale 
The  bark  unfurls  her  snowy  sail; 
And  whistling  o'er  the  bending  mast. 
Loud  siiig<  on  high  the  fresh'ning  blast; 
And  I  nmst  from  this  land  be  gone. 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

But  could  I  be  what  I  have  been. 
And  could  I  see  what  I  have  seen— 
Could  I  repose  upon  the  breast 
Which  once  my  warmest  wishes  blesl— 
I  should  not  seek  another  zone, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

'Tis  long  since  I  beheld  that  eye 
Which  gave  me  bliss  or  misery ; 
And  I  have  striven,  but  in  vain, 
Never  to  think  of  it  again  ; 
For  though  I  fly  from  Albion, 
I  still  can  only  love  but  one. 
As  some  lone  bird,  without  a  mate, 
My  weary  heart  is  desolate  ; 
I  look  around,  and  cannot  trace 
One  friendly  smile  or  welcome  face. 
And  even  in  crowds  am  still  alone, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one.  . 

And  I  will  cross  the  whitening  foam. 
And  I  will  seek  a  foreign  home ; 
Till  I  forget  a  false  fair  face, 
t  ne'er  shall  find  a  resting-place ; 
My  own  dark  thoughts  I  cannot  shun. 
But  ever  love,  and  love  but  one. 

The  poorest  veriest  wretch  on  earth 
Still  finds  some  hospitable  hearth. 
Where  friendship's  or  love's  softer  glow 
May  ~mile  in  joy  or  soothe  in  woe; 
But  friend  or  leman  I  have  none. 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

I  go— but  wheresoe'er  I  flee, 
There's  not  an  eye  will  weep  for  me; 
There's  not  a  kind  congenial  heart, 
Wh-re  I  can  claim  the  meanest  part; 
Nor  thou,  who  hast  my  hopes  undone. 
Wilt  sigh,  although  I  love  but  one. 

To  think  of  every  early  scene. 

Of  what  we  are,  and  what  we  've  been. 

Wo. I  Id  whelm  some  softer  hearts  with  woe- 

But  mine,  alas!   has  stood  the  blow, 

Yet  still  beats  on  as  it  begun 

And  never  truly  loves  but  one. 


128 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORIC?^ 


And  who  that  dear  loved  one  may  be, 
Is  not  for  vulgar  eyes  to  see, 
And  why  that  early  love  was  crost, 
Thou  know'st  the  best,  I  feel  the  most; 
But  few  that  dwell  beneath  the  sun 
Have  loved  so  long,  and  loved  but  one. 

I've  tried  another's  fetters  too. 
With  charms  perchance  as  fair  to  view; 
And  I  would  fain  have  loved  as  well, 
But  some  unconquerable  spell 
Forbade  my  bleeding  breast  to  own 
A  kindred  care  for  aught  but  one. 

T  would  soothe  to  take  one  lingering  view. 
And  bless  thee  in  my  last  adieu ; 
Yet  wish  I  not  those  eyes  to  weep 
For  him  that  wanders  o'er  the  deep; 
His  home,  his  hope,  his  youth  are  gone, 
Ye'  still  he  loves,  and  loves  but  one. 


LINES  TO  MR.  HODGSON. 

Falmouth  Roads,  June  30th,  1809, 
1. 
Huzza!   Hodgson  we  are  going. 

Our  embargo's  off  at  last. 
Favourable  breezes  blowing 

Bend  the  canvas  o'er  the  mast. 
From  aloft  the  signal  's  fetreaming. 
Hark!   the  farewell  gun  is  fired: 
Women  screeching,  tars  blaspheming 
Tell  us  that  our  time's  expired. 
Here  's  a  rascal 
Come  to  task  all. 
Prying  from  the  custom-house ; 
Trunks  unpacking, 
Cases  cracking. 
Not  a  corner  for  a  mouse 
'Scapes  unsearch'd  amid  the  racket. 
Ere  we  sail  on  board  the  Packet. 


Now  our  boatmen  quit  their  mooring, 

And  all  hands  must  ply  the  oar  ; 
Baggage  from  the  quay  is  lowering, 

We  're  impatient — push  from  shore. 
"  Have  a  care  1  that  case  holds  liquor- 
Slop  the  boat — I  'm  sick — oh  Lord  !" 
*'  Sick,  ma'am,  damme,  you  '11  be  sicker 
Ere  you  've  been  an  hour  on  board." 
Thus  are  screaming 
Men  and  women, 
Gemmen,  ladies,  servants,  Jacks  ; 
Here  entangling. 
All  are  wrangling. 
Stuck  together  close  as  wax. — 
Such  the  general  noise  a-^d  racket, 
Ere  we  roach  the  Lisbon  Packet. 


JJow  we've  reach'd  her,  lo  !  the  captain. 
Gallant  Kidd,  commands  the  crew  , 

Passengers  their  berths  are  clapt  in, 
Some  to  grumble,  some  to  spew. 


"  Heyday  !  call  you  that  a  cabin  ? 

Why,  'i  is  hardly  three  feel  square' 
Not  enough  to  stov/  queen  Mab  in — 
Who  the  deuce  can  harbour  there  7*" 
"  Who,  sir?   plenty- 
Nobles  twenty 
Did  at  once  my  vessel  fill." — 
"  Did  they  ?      Jesus, 
How  you  squeeze  us! 
Would  to  God  they  did  so  still : 
Then  I  'd  'scape  the  heat  and  racket 
Of  tlie  good  ship  Lisbon  Packet." 

4. 
Fletcher  !  Murray  !  Boh  !  w^here  are  ye 

Stretch'd  along  the  deck  like  logs- 
Bear  a  hand,  you  jolly  tar,  you  ! 

Here  's  a  rope's-end  for  the  dogs. 
Hobliouse  muttering  fearful  curses, 

As  the  hatchway  down  he  rolls. 
Now  his  breakfast,  now  his  verses, 
Vomits  forth — and  damns  our  soula, 
Here  's  a  stanza 
On  Braganza — 
•'  Help  !" — "  a  couplet  ?" — "  No,  a  cu>< 
Of  warm  water — " 
"  What's  the  matter? 
"  Zounds  !  my  liver  's  coming  up  ; 
I  shall  not  survive  the  racket 
Of  this  brutal  Lisbon  Packet." 

5. 
Now  at  length  we  're  off  for  Turkey, 

Lord  knows  when  we  shall  come  bacfl 
Breezes  foul  and  tcni])Cf;t.s  murky 

May  unship  iis  in  a  cr;irk. 
But,  since  life  at  most  a  jest  is 

As  philosophers  allow, 
Still  to  laugh  by  far  the  best  is : 
Then  laugh  on — as  I  do  now 
Laugh  at  all  things. 
Great  and  small  things. 
Sick  or  well,  at  sea  or  shore  ; 
While  we're  quatling, 
Let's  have  laughing — 
Who  the  devil  cares  for  more? 
Some  good  wine!  anrl  who  would  lack  it. 
Even  on  board  the  Lisbon  Packet  ? 


LINES  IN  THE  TRAVELLERS'  BOOK  AT  OR 
CHOMENUS. 


IN    THIS    BOOK 


TRAVELLER    HAD    WRITTEN! — 


■  Fair  Albion,  smiling,  sees  her  son  depart 
To  trace  the  birth  and  nursery  of  art: 
Noble  his  object,  glorious  is  his  aim: 
He  comes  to  Athens,  and  ho  writes  his  name. 


BEN'KATII    WHICH    tORD    BTKON    I>fSERTED    THE    FOLLOWISfl 
REl'LY. 

Thr  modest  bard,  like  many  a  bard  nnivnown, 
llliymcs  on  our  names,  but  wisely  hides  his  own,    , 
But  yet  whoe'er  he  be,  to  say  no  worse. 
His  name  would  bring  more  credit  than  his  verse. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


129 


ON  MOORE'S  LAST  OPERATIC  FARCE. 

A    FARCICAL    EPIGRAM. 

Sept.  14,  1811. 
Good  plays  are  scarce, 
So  IMoore  writes  farce  : 
The  poet's  fame  grows  brittle — 
We  knew  before 
Tliat  Little's  Moore, 
But  now  't  is  jMoore  that  's  Itttle. 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  HODGSON, 

tM   4KSWER    TO    SOME    LINES    EXHORTING   HIM    TO    BE 
CHEERFUL   AND    TO    "  BANISH    CARE." 

Newstead  Abbey,  Oct.  11,  1811 

•  Oh  !  banish  care"— such  ever  be 
The  motto  of  thy  revelry  ! 
Perchance  of  mine,  when  wassail  nights 
Renew  those  riotous  liolishts. 
Wherewith  the  children  of  Despair, 
Lull  the  lone  heart,  and  "  banish  care." 
But  not  in  morn's  reflecting  hour, 
When  present,  past,  and  future  lower. 
When  all  I  loved  is  changed  or  gone. 
Mock  with  such  taunts  the  woes  of  one. 
Whose  every  thought— but  let  them  pass, 
Thou  know'st  I  am  not  what  I  was. 
But,  above  all,  if  thou  wouldst  hold 
Place  in  a  heart  that  ne'er  was  cold. 
By  all  the  powers  that  men  revere, 
By  all  unto  thy  bosom  dear. 
Thy  joys  below,  thy  hopes  above, 
Speak— speak  of  anything  hut  love. 

'T  were  long  to  tell,  and  vain  to  hear, 
The  tale  of  one  who  scorns  a  tear; 
And  there  is  little  in  that  tale 
Which  better  bosoms  would  bewail. 
But  mine  has  suti'er'd  more  than  well 
'T  would  surt  philosophy  to  tell. 
I've  seen  my  bride  another's  bride,— 
Have  seen  her  seated  by  his  side, — 
Have  seen  the  infant,  which  she  bore, 
Wear  the  sweet  smile  the  mother  wore 
When  she  and  I  in  youth  have  smiled 
As  fond  and  faultless  as  her  child  ; — 
Have  seen  her  eyes,  in  cold  disdain, 
Ask  if  I  felt  no  secret  pain. 
And  /  have  acted  well  my  part. 
And  made  my  cheek  belie  my  heart, 
Return'd  the  freezin<r  glance  she  gave. 
Yet  felt  the  while  that  woman's  slave  ;— 
Have  kiss'd,  as  if  without  design. 
The  babe  which  ought  to  have  been  mine. 
And  show'd,  alas  !  in  each  caress. 
Time  had  not  made  me  love  the  less. 

But  let  this  pass— I  '11  whine  no  more. 
Nor  seek  again  an  eastern  shore; 
The  world  befits  a  busy  brain,— 
I'll  hie  me  to  its  haunts  again. 
But  if,  in  some  succeeding  year. 
When   Britain's  "  May  is  in  the  sere," 


TI:ou  hear'st  of  one,  whose  deep'ning  rnmos 

Suit  with  the  sa blest  of  the  times. 

Of  one,  whom  love  nor  pity  sways, 

Nor  hope  of  fame,  nor  good  men's  praise  i 

One,  who  in  stern  ambition's  pride. 

Perchance  not  blood  shall  turn  aside. 

Oiip  raiik'd  in  some  recording  page 

With  the  worst  anarchs  of  the  age. 

Him  wilt  thou  know— arni  kvowinff  pause. 

Nor  with  the  effect  forget  the  cause. 


ON  LORD  THURLOW'S  POEMS. 

DEDICATED    TO    .MR.    ROGERS. 

May,  -.eii 

When  Thurlow  this  damn'd  nonsense  sent, 

(I  hope  I  am  not  violent,) 

Nor  men  nor  gods  knew  what  he  meant. 

2. 
And  since  not  ev'n  our  Rogers'  praise 
To  common  sense  his  thoughts  could  raise- 
Why  would  they  let  him  print  his  lays? 

3. 


To  me,  divine  Apollo,  grant — O! 
Hermilda's  first  and  second  canto, 
I'm  fitting  up  a  new  portmanteau; 

6. 
And  thus  to  furnish  decent  lining. 
My  own  and  others'  bays  I'm  twining- 
So,  gentle  Thurlow,  throw  me  thine  in. 


7'0  LORD  THURLOW. 


"  I  lay  my  branch  of  laurel  down. 
Then  thus  to  form  Apollo's  crown 
Let  every  t)thpr  brins  his  own." 

Lord  Thuvlow's  Lines  to  Mr.  Rotors 


"  /  lay  my  branch  of  laurel  down." 
Thou  "  lay  thy  branch  of  laurel  down  !" 

Why,  what  thou  'st  stole  is  not  enow; 
And,  were  it  lawfully  thine  own. 

Does  Rogers  want  il  most,  or  thou? 
Keep  to  thyself  thy  wither'd  bough. 

Or  send  it  back  to  Doctor  Donne — 
Were  justice  done  to  both,  I  trow. 

He'd  have  but  little,  and  thou— none. 
2. 
"Then  thus  to  farm  Apollo's  crown.' 
A  crown  !  why,  twist  it  how  you  will. 
Thy  chaplel  must  be  foolscap  still. 
When  next  you  visit  Delphi's  town. 

Inquire  among  your  fellow-lodgers. 


130 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


They'll  tell  you  Phoebus  gave  his  crown, 

Some  years  before  your  birth,  to  Rogers. 
3. 
"  Let  every  other  bring  his  own." 
When  coals  to  Newcastle  are  carried. 

And  owls  sent  to  Athens  as  wonders. 
From  his  spouse  when  the  RegeTit 's  unmarried, 

Or  Liverpool  weeps  o'er  his  blunders; 
When  Tories  and  Whigs  cease  to  quarrel, 

When  Castlereagh's  wife  has  an  heir. 
Then  Rogers  shall  ask  us  for  laurel, 

And  thou  shalt  have  plenty  to  spare. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE, 

VRITTEN  THE  EVENING  BEFORE  HIS  VISIT,  IN  COMPANY 
WITH  LORD  BYRON.  TO  MR.  LEIGH  HUNT,  IN  COLD 
Bath    FIELDS    PRISON,    MAY    19,    1813. 

Oh  you,  who  in  all  names  can  tickle  the  town, 
Anacreon,  Toui  Little,  Toiu  Moore,  or  Tom  Brown, — 
For  hang  me  if  I  know  of  which  you  may  most  brag. 
Your  Quarto  two-pounds,  or  your  Two-penny  Post  Bag. 
****** 

But  now  to  my  letter— to  yoxirs  't  is  an  answer — 

To-morrow  be  with  me,  as  soon  as  you  can,  sir. 

All  ready  and  dress'd  for  proceeding  to  spunge  on 

(Arcf)r(ling  to  compact)  the  wit  in  the  dungeon — 

Pray  Piioebus  at  length  our  political  malice 

May  not  get  us  lorlgings  within  the  same  palace! 

I   suppose   that    to-night   you  're    engaged   with    some 

codgers. 
And  for  Sotheby's  Blues  have  deserted  Sam  Rogers; 
And  I,  though  with  cold  I  have  nearly  my  death  got, 
Musi  put  on  my  breeclies,  and  wait  on  the  Heathcote, 
But  lo-morrow,  at  four,  we  will  both  play  the  Scurra, 
And  you  '11  be  Catullus,  the  Regent  Mamurra. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  EPISTLE  TO  THOMAS 
MOORE. 

June   1814. 
1. 
"What  say  /•.?"— not  a  syllable  further  in  prose  ; 
[  'm  your  man  "  of  all  measures,"  dear  Tom,— so.  here 

goes  I 
Here  goes,  for  a  swim  on  the  stream  of  old  Time, 
On  those  buoyant  supporters,  the  bladders  of  rhyme, 
[f  nur  weight  breaks   them  down,  and  we  sink  in  the 

flood. 
We  are  smother'd,  at  least,  in  respectable  mud. 
Where  the  Divers  of  Batlios  lie  drown'd  in  a  heap. 
And  Southey's  last  Paian  has  pillow'd  his  sleep; — 
That  "  Felo  de  se"  who,  half  drunk  with  his  malmsey, 
Walk'd  out  of  his  deptii  and  was  lost  in  a  calm  sea. 
Singing  "  (;i()ry  to  God"  in  a  spick  and.  span  stanza. 
The  like  (since  Tom  Sternhold  was  choked)  never  man 

paw. 

2. 
The  papers  have  told  you,  no  doubt,  of  the  fusses. 
The  fetes,  and  the  gapings  to  gel  at  these  Russes,— 
Of  his  Majesty's  suite,  up  from  coachman  to  Heimaii,— 
Aiirl  wliat  dignity  decks  the  (lat  face  of  the  great  man. 
I  saw  him,  I'asl  week,  at  two  balls  and  a  party,— 
For  a  prince,  his  demeanour  was  rather  too  hearty. 
Von  hnow,  we  are  used  to  quite  different  graces, 


The  Czar's  look,  I  own,  was  much  brighter  and  briaheY 

But  then  he  is  sadly  deficient  in  whisker; 

And  wore  but  a  starless  blue  coat,  and  in  kersey- 

-mere  breeches  whisk'd  round,  in  a  waltz  with  the  Jer 

sey, 
Who,  lovely  as  ever,  seem'd  just  as  delighted 
With  majesty's  presence  as  those  she  invited 


THE  DEVIL'S  DRIVE. 

[Of  this  strange,  wild  poem,  which  extends  to  about  i,wo  iiua 
dred  and  tifiy  lines,  the  only  copy  that  Lord  Byron,  I  believe 
ever  wrote,  he  presented  to  Lord  Holland.  Thougn  with  3 
good  deal  of  vigour  and  imagination,  it  is,  for  the  mos' 
part,  ratiier  clumsily  executed,  wanting  the  point  and  con 
densation  of  tho^^e  clever  verses  of  Mr.  Coleridgs  wind 
Lord  Byron,  adopting  a  notion  long  prevalent  has  aitri 
buted  to  I'rofe^'sor  Porson.  There  ar(!,  however,  sfime  of  tU 
8t«nzas  of  "Tiie  Devil's  Drive"  well  worth  pre-serving."- 
Moo?'e 

1. 

The  Devil  return'd  to  hell  by  two. 

And  he  staid  at  home  till  five  ; 
Where  he  dined  on  some  homicides  done  in  ragout. 

And  a  rebel  or  so  in  an  Irish  stew. 
And  sausages  made  of  a  self-slain  Jew, 
Ard  betliouglit  iiimself  what  next  to  do  ; 

"  And,"  quoth  he,  "  I  "11  take  a  drive. 
I  walk'd  ill  the  morning,  I  '!1  ride  to-night ; 
III  darkness  my  children  take  most  delight. 

And  I'll  see  how  my  favourites  thrive. 
2. 
"  And  what  shall  I  ride  in  ?"  quoth  I  ucifer,  the  :— 

"  If  I  follow'd  my  taste,  indeed, 
I  should  mount  in  a  wagon  of  wounded  men, 

And  smile  to  see  them  bleed. 
But  these  will  be  furnish'd  again  and  again. 

And  at  present  my  purpose  is  speed  ; 
'I'o  s:^e  my  manor  as  much  as  I  may, 
And  watch  tliat.no  souls  shall  be  poach'd  away. 


"  1  have  a  state-coach  at  Carlton  House, 

.-\  chariot  in  S(;ymour-place; 
i?iit  they  're  lent  to  two  friends,  who  make  me  amends 

By  driving  my  favourite  pace: 
,\nd  they  handle  tli(;ir  reins  with  such  a  grace, 
I  have  something  for  botli  at  the  end  of  their  rac«. 


•'  So  now  for  the  earth  to  take  my  chance." 
Then  up  to  the  earth  sprung  he; 

And  making  a  jump  from  Moscow  to  France, 
He  stepji'd  across  the  sea. 

And  rested  his  hoof  on  a  turnpike  road. 

No  very  great  way  from  a  bishop's  abode. 


But  first  as  he  flew,  I  forgot  to  say. 
That  he  hover'd  a  moment  ui)on  his  way 

To  look  upon  Leipsic  plain; 
And  so  sweet  to  his  eye  was  its  siilidiury  {rlare 
And  so  soil  to  his  ear  was  the  cry  of  despair. 

That  h(!  perch'd  on  a  mountain  of  slain  : 
And  hi;  gazed  witli  deligiit  troin  its  growing  height 
Nor  ollen  on  earth  had  he  seen  such  a  siglil 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


131 


Noi  his  work  done  halt  so  well : 
For  ilu  fii'ld  ran  so  red  with  the  Mood  of  the  dead. 

That  it  hliish'd  like  the  waves  of  hell! 
Chen  lotidly,  and  wildly,  and  Ion<;  laujih'd  he  : 

Wuthiiiks  they  have  iiere  little  need  of  met" 


But  the  Softest  note  that  soothed  his  ear 

Was  till'  sound  of  a  widow  siu;liinn;; 
And  tin  sweetest  si^'ht  was  the  icy  t(!ar, 
VV'  li  !i  .lorror  iVoze  in  the  hlue  eye  clear 

0(  a  maid  hy  her  lover  lyin;: — 
As  round  her  fell  her  loiifr  fair  hair: 
Aiul  she  look'd  to  heaven  with  that  frenzied  air 
VVhirh  seein'd  to  ask  if  a  God  were  there! 
And,  stretch'd  by  the  wall  of  a  rnin'd  hut. 
With  its  hollow  cheek,  and  eyes  lialf  shut, 

A  child  of  famine  dyin;,': 
And  the  carnajie  bej^un,  when  resistance  is  done, 

And  the  fall  of  the  vainly  flying! 


10. 
But  the  Devil  has  reach'd  our  cliffs  so  white; 

And  what  did  he  there,  I  pray? 
If  his  eyes  were  good,  he  but  saw  by  night 

What  we  see  every  day  ; 
But  he  I'lade  a  tour,  and  kept  a  journal 
Of  all  the  wondrous  sights  nocturnal, 
Aiul  he  sold  it  in  shares  to  the  JJ/e«  of  the  Rote, 
Who  bid  pretty  well— but  they  cheated  him,  though! 

11. 
The  Devil  first  saw,  as  he  thought,  the  Mail, 

lib  ^..jachman  and  his  coat ; 
So  instead  of  a  pistol  he  cock'd  his  tail, 

And  seized  him  by  the  throat  ; 
"  Aha,"  quoth  he,  "  what  have  we  here  ? 
'T  IS  a  new  barouche,  and  an  ancient  peer!" 
So  he  sal  him  on  his  box  again, 

And  bade  him  have  no  fear. 
But  be  true  to  his  club,  and  staunch  to  his  rein, 

His  broihel,  and  his  beer; 
"Next  to  seeing  a  lord  at  the  council  board, 

I  would  rather  see  him  here." 
*  *  *  *  *  It 

17. 

The  Devil  gat  next  to  Westminster, 

And  he  turn'd  "  to  the  room"  of  the  Couimoiis; 
But  he  heard,  as  he  purposini  to  enter  in  there. 

That  "  the  Lords"  had  received  a  summons; 
And  he  thought  as  a  "  quondam  aristocrat," 
H'!  might  peep  at  the  peers,  though  to  hear  them  were 

•      tiat ; 
And  he  walk'd  up  the  house  so  like  one  of  our  own. 
That  they  say  that  he  stood  pretty  near  the  throne. 

18. 

He  saw  the  Lord  Liverpool  seemingly  wise, 
The  Lord  Westmoreland  certainly  silly, 

And  Johnny  of  Norfolk — a  man  of  some  size — 
And  Chatham,  so  like  his  friend  Billy  ; 

And  he  saw  the  tears  in  Lord  Eldon's  eyes, 
Because  the  Catholics  would  not  rise. 
In  spite  of  his  prayers  and  his  prophecies; 

And  he  heard— v\hich  set  batan  himself  a  staring— 

\  certain  chief  j  is. ice  say  something  like  srccaring. 


And  the  Devil  was  shock'd — and  quoth  he  "  I  inuat 

go. 
For  I  find  we  have  much  better  manners  behtw. 
If  thus  he  harangues  when  he  passes  my  border, 
I  shall  hint  to  friend  Moloch  to  call  him  to  order  " 
December.  1&13 


ADDITIONAL  STANZAS,  TO  THE  ODE  TO 
NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE. 

17. 

There  was  a  day — there  was  an  hour. 

While  earth  was  Gaul's— Gaul  thine — 
When  that  immeasurable  power 

Unsated  to  resign 
Had  been  an  act  of  purer  fame 
Than  gathers  round  Marengo's  name 

And  silded  thy  decline, 
Through  the  long  twilight  of  all  time. 
Despite  some  passing  clouds  of  crime. 

18. 
But  thou  forsooth  must  be  a  king 

And  don  the  purple  vest, 
As  if  that  foolish  robe  could  wring 

Remembrance  from  thy  breast. 
Where  is  that  faded  garment  ?  where 
The  gewgaws  thou  wert  fond  to  wear. 

The  star— the  string — the  crest? 
Vain  froward  child  of  empire  !  say, 
Are  all  thy  playthings  snatch'd  away  7 

19. 
Where  may  the  weariea  eye  repose. 

When  gazing  on  the  great ; 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows. 

Nor  despicable  state  ? 
Yes— one— the  first — the  last — the  best— 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate, 
Bequeath'd  the  name  of  Washington, 

To  make  man  blush  there  was  but  one ! 

jlpHl,  1614 


TO  LADY  CAROLINE  LAMB. 

And  say'st  thou  that  I  have  not  felt. 

Whilst  thou  wert  thus  estranged  from  mo  ? 
Nor  know'st  how  dearly  I  have  dwelt 

On  one  unbroken  dream  of  thee? 
But  love  like  ours  must  never  be, 

And  I  will  learn  to  prize  thee  less; 
As  thou  hast  fled,  so  let  me  flee. 

And  change  the  heart  thou  may'st  not  hkaa 

They  '11  tell  thee,  Clara  !  I  have  seem'd. 

Of  late,  another's  chaims  tc  woo. 
Nor  sigh'd,  nor  frown'd,  as  li  I  deem'd 

That  thou  wert  banish'd  from  my  view. 
Clara  !  this  struggle— to  undo 

What  thou  hast  done  too  well,  for  me ; 
This  mask  before  the  babbling  crew — 

This  treachery— was  trutli  to  theel 


132 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


I  have  not  wept  while  thou  wert  gone, 

Noj  worn  one  look  of  sullen  woe  ; 
But  sought,  in  many,  all  that  one 

(Ah  !  need  I  name  her  ?)  could  bestow. 
ft  is  a  duty  wliich  I  owe 

To  thine— to  thee — to  man — to  God, 
To  crush,  to  quench  this  guilty  glow, 

Ere  yet  the  path  of  crime  be  trod. 

But  since  my  breast  is  not  so  pure, 

Since  still  the  vulture  tears  my  heart, 
Let  me  this  agony  endure. 

Not  thee — oh  !  dearest  as  thou  art ! 
In  mercy,  Clara  !  let  us  part, 

And  I  will  seek,  yet  know  not  how, 
To  shun,  in  time,  the  threatening  dart; 

Guilt  must  not  aim  at  such  as  thou. 

But  thou  must  aid  me  in  the  task, 

And  nobly  thus  exert  thy  power ; 
Then  spurn  me  hence — 't  is  all  1  ask — 

Ere  time  mature  a  guiltier  hour; 
Ere  wrath's  impending  vials  shower 

Remorse  redoubled  on  my  head ; 
Ere  fires  unquenchably  devour 

A  heart,  whose  hope  has  long  been  dead. 

Deceive  no  more  thyself  and  me, 

Deceive  not  better  hearts  than  mine  ; 
Ah  !  shouldst  thou,  whither  vvouldst  thou  flee, 

From  woe  like  ours— from  shame  like  thine  ? 
And,  if  there  be  a  wratli  divine, 

A  pang  beyond  this  fleeting  breath. 
E'en  now  all  future  hopes  resign. 

Such  thoughts  are  guilt — such  guilt  is  death. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 


1  8PEAK  not,  I  trace  not,  I  breathe  not  thy  name, 
There  is  grief  in  the  sound,  there  is  guilt  in  the  fame ; 
But  tlie  tear  which  now  burns  on  my  cheek  may  impart 
The  deep  thoughts  that  dwell  in  that  silence  of  heart. 


Too  brief  for  our  passion,  too  long  for  our  peace. 

Were  those  hours  —  cau  their  joy  or  their  bitterness 

cease  ? 
We  repent— we  abjure — we  will  break  from  our  chain,— 
We  will  part,— we  will  fly  to— unite  it  again! 

3. 
Oh!  thine  be  the  gladness,  and  mine  be  the  guilt! 
Forgi-e  mt>,  adored  one  !— forsake,  if  thou  wilt;— 
But  the  heart  which  is  thine  shall  expire  undebased, 
And  vian  sJiali  not  break  it— whatever  thou  mayest. 

4. 

And  stern  to  the  haughty,  but  humble  to  thee, 

This  scil,  iuitsbilterost  blackness,  shall  be  ; 

And  ovir  days  seem  as  swift,  and  our  moments  more 

sweet, 
With  ties  by  my  side,  than  with  worlds  at  oar  feet. 


One  High  of  thy  sorrow,  one  look  of  thy  love, 
Shall  turn  aw.  or  fix   shall  reward  or  reprove  ; 
A:id  the  lieaillcss  may  wonder  at  all  I  resign— 
rijy  liD  shall  n  ply   not  to  them,  but  to  Tnj»e. 

May,  1814. 


ADDRESS   INTENDED  TO  BE  RECITED  .Vr  rilB 
CALEDONIAN  MEETING. 

Who  hath  not  glow'd  above  the  page  where  fame 
Hath  tix'd  high  Caledon's  unconquer'd  name  ; 
The  mountain-land  which  spurn'd  the  Roman  cLcAn 
And  baffled  back  the  fiery-ciejted  Dane, 
Whose  bright  claymore  and  hardihood  of  hand 
No  foe  could  tame — no  tyrant  could  command? 
That  race  is  gone — but  still  their  children  breathe. 
And  glory  crowns  them  with  redoubled  wreath: 
O'er  Gael  and  Saxon  mingling  banners  shine, 
And,  England  !  add  their  stubborn  strength  to  thi» 
The  blood  which  flow'd  with  Wallace  flows  as  fret 
But  now  't  is  only  shed  for  fame  and  thee  ! 
Oh!  pass  not  by  the  northern  veteran's  claim, 
But  give  support — the  world  hath  given  him  fame  I 

The  humbler  ranks,  the  lowly  brave,  who  bled 

While  cheerly  following  where  the  mighty  led, 

Who  sleep  beneath  the  undistinguish'd  sod 

Where  happier  comrades  in  their  triumpli  trod, 

To  us  bequeath— 't  is  all  their  fate  allows — 

The  sireless  offspring  and  the  lonely  spouse: 

She  on  high  Albyn's  dusky  hills  may  raise 

The  tearful  eye  in  melancltoly  gaze. 

Or  view,  while  shadowy  auguries  disclose 

The  Highland  seer's  anticipated  woes. 

The  bleeding  phantom  of  each  martial  form 

Dim  in  the  cloud,  or  darkling  in  the  storm; 

While  sad, -she  chants  the  solitary  song, 

Tiie  soft  lament  for  him  who  tarries  long — 

For  him,  whose  distant  relics  vainly  crave 

The  Coronach's  wild  requiem  to  the  brave. 

'T  is  Heaven— not  man—  must  charm  away  the  woe 

Which  bursts  when  Nature's  feelings  newly  flow; 

Yet  tenderness  and  time  may  rob  the  tear 

Of  half  its  bitterness  for  one  so  dear; 

A  nation's  gratitude  perchance  may  spread 

A  thortiless  pillow  for  the  widow'd  head  ; 

May  lighten  well  her  heart's  maternal  care, 

And  wean  from  penury  the  soldier's  heir. 

May,  1814. 


ON  THE  PRINCE  REGENT'S  RETURNING  'I'tlE 
PICTURE  OF  SARAH,  COUNTESS  OF  JEIISKV 
TO   MRS.  MEE. 

When  the  vain  triumph  of  the  imperial  lord, 
Whom  servile  Rome  obey'd,  and  yet  abhorr'd, 
Gave  to  the  vulgar  gaze  each  glorious  bu.«t. 
That  left  a  likeness  of  the  brave  or  just ; 
What  most  admired  each  scrutinizing  eye 
Of  all  that  deck'd  that  passing  pageantry  ? 
What  spread  from  face  to  face  that  wondering  air? 
The  thought  of  Brutus— for  his  was  not  tliere! 
That  absence  proved  his  worth, — that  absence  fix'd 
His  memory  on  the  longing  mind,  unmix'd; 
And  more  decreed  his  glory  to  endure. 
Than  all  a  gold  Colossus  could  secure. 

If  thus,  fair  Jersey,  our  desiring  gaze 
Search  for  thy  form,  in  vain  and  mute  amaze, 
Amid  those  pictured  charms,  whose  I>)velines9, 
Hright  though  they  be,  thine  own  had  reiider'd  loss, 
If  he,  that  vain  ^Id  man,  whom  truth  admits 
Heir  of  his  Vtl<*i     'hroue  and  shatter'd  wits, 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


133 


if  his  corrupie'l  py^  and  withor'd  heart 
Cciuld  with  thy  jfoiitle  iniaire  boar  dtipart, 
That  tasteless  shame  he  hh,  and  ours  the  grief, 
To  ija/x'  on  IJeauty's  hand  without  its  cliief: 
Yei  comfort  still  one  sellish  thought  imparts, 
A'^e  lose  tlie  piirtrait,  hut  preserve  our  hearts. 

WliPt  can  Iiis  \aiilted  gallery  now  disclose? 
A  wardfMi  with  all  flowers— e.vcept  the  rose  ; — 
A  fount  that  only  wants  its  living  stream  ; 
And  night,  with  every  star,  save  Dian's  heam. 
Lost  to  our  eyes  the  [)n'sent  forms  shall  be, 
That  turn  frcwn  tracing  them  to  dream  of  thee; 
And  more  on  that  recall'd  resemblance  pause. 
Than  all  he  sha/l  not  force  on  our  applause. 

Long  may  thy  yet  meridian  lustre  shine, 
With  all  that  Virtue  asks  of  Homage  thine: 
The  symmt'try  of  youth— the  grace  of  mien — 
The  eye  that  gladdens— and  the  brow  serene  ; 
The  glossy  darkness  of  that  clustering  hair, 
VVIiich  shades,  yet  shows  that  forehead  m'ore  than  fair! 
Each  glance  that  wins  us,  and  the  life  that  throvva 
A  spell  which  will  not  let  our  looks  r(;pose. 
But  turn  to  naze  a<.'ain,  and  find  anew 
Borne  charm  that  well  rewards  anotfier  view. 
These  are  not  lessen'd,  these  are  still  as  bright, 
Albeit  too  dazzling  for  a  dotard's  sight; 
\m\  these  must  wait  till  every  charm  is  gone 
To  please  the  paltry  heart  that  pleases  none. 
That  dull  cold  sensualist,  whose  sickly  eye 
In  envious  dimness  pass'd  thy  portrait  by; 
Who  rack'd  his  little  spirit  to  combine 
Its  hate  of  Freedom's  loveliness,  and  thine. 

July,  1814. 


TO  BELSHAZZAR. 

1. 

Belsiiazzar  !  from  the  banquet  turn, 

Nor  in  thy  sensual  fullness  fall : 
Behold  !  while  yet  boibre  thee  burn 

The  graven  words,  the  glowing  walL 
Many  a  despot  men  miscall, 

Crown'ri  and  anointed  from  on  high; 
But  thor»,  the  w  eakest,  w  orst  of  all— 

Is  it  not  written,  thou  must  die  1 

2. 

Go  !  dash  the  roses  from  thy  brow- 
Gray  hairs  but  poorly  wreathe  with  them; 

Youth's  garlands  misbecome  thee  now, 
More  than  thy  very  diadem. 

Where  thou  hast  tarnish'd  every  gem  :— 
Then  throw  the  wortliless  bauble  by. 

Which,  worn  by  thee,  ev'u  slaves  contemn  ; 
And  learn  like  belter  njen  to  die. 


Oh!  early  in  the  balance  weigh'd, 

And  ever  light  of  word  and  worth. 
Whose  soul  expired  ere  youth  decay'd. 

Aid  left  thee  but  a  mass  of  earth. 
To  see  thee  moves  a  scorner's  mirth: 

But  tears  in  [iope's  averted  eye 
Lament  that  even  thou  hadst  birth — 

Until  to  (f  )vern,  live,  or  die. 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 

In  the  valley  of  waters  we  wept  o'er  the  day 
When  the  host  of  the  stranger  made  Sak-rn  his  prey 
And  our  heads  on  our  bosoms  all  droopingly  lay. 
And  our  hearts  were  so  full  of  the  land  far  away. 

The  song  they  demanded  in  vain— it  lay  still 
In  our  souls  as  the  wind  that  hath  died  on  the  hil', 
They  call'd  for  the  harp,  but  our  blood  they  shall  spill. 
Ere  our  riirht  hand  shall  teach  them  one  tone  of  thou 

skill. 
All  stringlessly  hung  on  the  willow's  sad  tree. 
As  dead  as  her  dead  leaf  those  mute  harps  must  be; 
Our  hands  may  be  fetter'd,  our  tears  still  are  free. 
For  our  God  and  our  glory,  and  Siou  !  for  thee. 

October,  1814. 


They  say  that  Hope  is  happiness, 

But  genuine  Love  must  prize  the  past ; 

And  Memory  wakes  the  thoughts  that  bless — 
They  rose  the  lirst,  they  set  the  last. 

And  all  that  Memory  loves  the  most 

Was  once  our  only  hope  to  be; 
And  all  that  hope  adored  and  lost 

Hath  melted  into  memory. 

Alas!  it  is  delusion  all, 

The  future  cheats  us  from  afar. 
Nor  can  we  be  what  we  recall, 

Nor  dare  we  think  on  what  we  are. 

October,  1814 

LINES  INTENDED  FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  "T 
SIEGE  OF  CORINTH." 

In  the  year  since  Jesus  died  for  men. 

Eighteen  hutulred  years  and  ten. 

We  were  a  gallant  company. 

Riding  o'er  land,  and  sailing  o'er  sea 

Oh  !  but  we  went  merrily! 

We  forded  the  river  and  clomb  the  high  hill, 

Never  our  steeds  for  a  day  stood  still ; 

Whether  we  lay  in  the  cave  or  the  shed. 

Our  sleep  fell  soft  on  the  hardest  bed; 

Whether  we  couch'd  in  our  rough  capote, 

On  the  rougher  plank  of  our  gliding  boat. 

Or  stretch'd  on  the  beach,  or  our  saddles  spread 

As  a  pillow  beneath  the  resting  head. 

Fresh  we  woke  upon  tiie  morrow : 

All  our  thoughts  and  words  had  scope. 

We  had  health,  and  we  had  hope. 
Toil  and  travel,  but  no  sorrow. 
We  were  of  all  tongues  and  creeds  ; — 
Some  were  those  who  counted  beads. 
Some  of  mosque,  and  some  of  church, 

And  some,  or  I  mis-say,  of  neither; 
Yet  through  the  wide  world  might  ye  search, 

Nor  find  a  motlier  crew  nor  blither. 

But  some  are  dead,  and  some  are  ^one. 
And  some  are  scatter'd  and  alone. 
And  some  are  rebels  on  the  hillsi 


1  The  last  tidinRs  recently  heard  of  Dervish  /'ore  of  the  It 
naouts  who  foilov.'ed  ms)  eiale  him  to  be  in  revolt  upor.  th« 
nuiuiitiiins,  at  the  besd  of  some  of  thfc  oandfi  Cominoii  in  tbs 
country  in  times  of  trou'iie. 


184 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


That  look  along  Epiriis'  valleys, 

Where  freedom  still  at  moiueiits  rallies, 
And  pays  in  blood  oppression's  ills; 

And  some  are  in  a  far  country, 
And  some  all  restlessly  at  home ; 

But  never  more,  oh  !  never  we 
Shall  meet  to  revel  and  to  roam. 

Bi;^  those  hardy  days  flew  cheerily, 

And  w  hen  they  now  fall  drearily. 

My  thoughts,  like  swallows,  skim  the  main, 

And  bear  my  spirit  back  again 

Over  vhe  earth,  and  through  the  air, 

A  wild  bird,  and  a  wanderer. 

'T  is. this  that  ever  wakes  my  strain, 

And  oft   too  oft,  implores  again 

The  few  who  may  endure  my  lay, 

To  follo\f^  me  so  far  away. 

Stranger— wilt  thou  follow  now. 

And  sit  with  me  on  Acro-Corinth's  brow? 

December,  1815. 


EXTRACT  FROM  AN  UNPUBLISHED  POEM. 

Could  I  remount  the  river  of  my  years, 
To  the  first  fountain  of  our  smiles  and  tears, 
I  would  not  trace  again  the  stream  of  hours 
Between  their  outworn  banks  of  wit her'd  fiowera, 
But  bid  it  flow  as  now— until  it  glides 
Into  the  number  of  the  nameless  tides. 
***** 
What  is  this  death?— a  quiet  of  the  heart  1 
The  whole  cf  that  of  which  we  are  a  part  ? 
For  life  is  but  a  vision — what  I  see 
Of  all  which  lives  alone  is  life  to  me. 
And  being  so — the  absent  are  the  dead, 
Who  haunt  us  from  tranquillity,  and  spread 
A  dreary  shroud  around  us,  and  invest 
With  sad  remembrancers  our  hours  of  rest. 

The  absent  are  the  dead — for  they  are  cold, 
And  ne'er  can  be  what  once  we  did  behold  ; 
And  they  are  changed,  and  cheerless,— or  if  yet 
The  unforgotten  do  not  all  forget. 
Since  thus  divided— equal  must  it  be 
If  the  deep  barrier  be  of  earth,  or  sea ; 
It  may  be  both— but  one  day  end  it  nmst 
In  the  dark  union  of  insensate  dust. 

The  iinder-earth  inhabitants— are  they 
But  mingled  millions  decomposed  to  clay? 
The  ashes  of  a  thousand  ages  spread 
Wherever  man  has  trodden  or  shall  tread? 
Or  do  they  in  their  silent  cities  dwell 
Each  in  his  incommunicative  cell? 
Or  have  they  their  own  language  ?  and  a  sense 
Of  breathless  being?  darken'd  and  intense 
As  midnight  in  her  solitude  ?— Oh  Earth! 
Where  are  the  past  ? — and  wherefore  had  they  birth  ? 
The  dead  are  thy  inheritors— and  we 
But  bubbles  on  thy  surface;  ami  the  key 
Of  thy  profundity  is  in  the  grave. 
The  ebjn  portal  of  thy  peopled  cave, 
Where  I  would  walk  in  spirit,  and  behold 
Our  elements  resolved  to  things  untf)ld, 
4nd  fathom-hidden  vvonrlers,  and  explore 
The  essence  of  great  Dosoms  now  no  more. 
*  ***** 

October,  1816. 


TO  AUGUS'i'A. 

I. 
My  sister  !  my  sweet  sister  !  if  a  name 
Dearer  and  purer  were,  it  should  be  thine. 
Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  I  claim 
No  tears,  but  tenderness  to  answer  mine. 
Go  where  I  will,  to  me  thou  art  the  same— 
A  loved  regret  which  I  would  not  resign. 
There  yet  are  two  things  in  my  destiny,— 
A  world  to  roam  through,  and  a  home  with  thee. 
II. 
The  first  were  nothing— had  I  still  the  last. 
It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness; 
But  other  claims  and  other  ties  thou  hast. 
And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make  fheni  less. 
A  strange  doom  is  thy  father's  son's,  and  past 
Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress; 
Reversed  for  him  our  irranflsire's'  fate  of  yore- 
He  had  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore, 
in. 
If  my  inheritance  of  storms  hath  been 
In  other  elements,  and  on  the  rocks 
Of  perils,  overlook'd  or  unforeseen, 
I  have  sustain'<l  my  share  of  worMlv  shocks. 
The  fault  was  mine  ;  nor  do  I  seek  to  screen 
My  errors  with  defensive  paradox  ; 
I  have  been  cunning  in  mine  overthrow, 
The  careful  pilot  of  my  proper  woe. 


Mine  were  my  faults,  and  mine  be  their  reward 
My  whole  life  was  a  contest  since  the  day 
That  gave  me  being,  gave  me  that  which  marr'd 
The  gift,— a  fate,  or  will,  that  walk'd  astray; 
And  I  at  times  have  found  the  struggle  hard, 
i        And  thought  of  shaking  off  my  bonds  of  clay. 
But  now  I  fain  would  for  a  time  survive, 
If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  arrive. 


Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little  day 
I  have  outlived,  and  yet  1  am  not  old  ; 
And  when  I  look  on  this  the  petty  spray  i 

Of  my  own  years  of  trouble,  whit  h  have  roll'd 
Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts  away: 
Something — I  know  not  what — does  still  upho«l 
A  spirit  of  slight  patience  ;— not  in  vain. 
Even  for  its  own  sake,  do  we  purchase  pain. 


Perhaps  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 
Within  me,— or  perhaps  a  cold  (lt!spair, 
Brou<:hl  on  when  ills  haliitually  recur, —     ' 
Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  purer  air, 
(For  even  to  this  may  change  of  soul  refer, 
And  with  light  armour  we  may  learn  to  bear,) 
■  Have  taught  me  a  strange  <jui(!t,  which  was  not 
Tfhe  chief  companion  of  a  calmer  lot. 


1  Admiral  Byron  wiis  remarkable  for  never  making  RVtj 
aae  without  a  tein|)est.  He  was  known  to  the  sailors  by  the 
facetious  name  uf  "  Foul-wealher  .lack." 

•'  llul  thiunrb  it  were  leinp(>st  lost, 

Still  Ins  bark  could  not  be  lost  " 

He  returned  safely  froin  the  wreck  of  tlie  Wacer,  (in  Ansun  8 

voyaye,)  and  snlisfcint-nlly  circuiniiavi'rnted  the  world,  mans 

years  after,  as  connnander  of  a  sniiilar  e.Ki>editi(  i 


'^ 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


135 


I  foel  almost  at  times  is  I  have  felt 

(n  liappy  childhood  ;  Ueos,  and  flowers,  and  brooks 

Which  do  reniL'n:h«!r  Mie  of  where  I  dwelt 

fcre  my  yoiin<r  mind  was  sacrificed  to  hooks, 

%rome  ."^E  of  yore  u|)on  me,  and  can  melt 

My  heart  vvith  recojinition  of  their  looks; 

And  even  at  moments  I  conW  think  I  see 

me  living  thing  to  love — but  none  like  thee. 

VIII. 

Here  are  the  Alpine  landscaoes  which  create 
A  fund  for  contem{ilatioK;— to  admire 
Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  date ; 
But  something  worthier  do  such  scenes  inspire: 
Here  to  be  lonely  is  not  desolate, 
For  much  I  view  which  I  could  most  desire. 
And,  above  all,  a  lake  I  can  behold 
lovelier,  not  dearer,  than  our  own  of  old. 

IX. 

Oh  that  thou  wert  but  with  me  !— hut  I  grow 
The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 
The  solitude  which  I  have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  regret; 
There  may  be  others  which  I  less  may  show; — 
I  am  not  of  the  plaintive  mood,  and  yet 
I  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy, 
Atd  the  tide  rising  in  my  alter'd  eye. 

X. 

1  did  remind  thee  of  our  owr  dct:  lake," 
By  the  old  hall  which  may  be  mine  n«  more. 
Leman's  is  fair;  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore : 
Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make 
Er'  *Jat  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before  ; 
Tl.ough,  like  all  things  which  I  have  loved,  they  are 
Resign'd  for  ever,  or  divided  far. 


The  world  is  all  before  me  ;  but  I  ask 
Of  Nature  that  with  which  she  will  comply — 
It  is  but  in  her  summer's  sun  to  bask, 
To  mingle  with  tlie  quiet  of  her  sky, 
To  see  her  gentle  face  without  a' mask, 
And  never  gaze  on  it  with  apathy. 
She  was  my  early  friend,  and  now  shall  be 
My  sister — till  I  look  again  on  thee. 


I  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one: 
And  that  I  would  not;— for  at  lenath  I  see 
feuch  scenes  as  those  wherein  my  life  begun, 
The  earliest — oven  the  only  paths  for  me — 
Had  I  but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to  shun, 
I  had  been  better  than  I  now  can  be ; 
The  passions  which  have  torn  me  would  have  slept; 
«  had  not  sulTerd,  and  thou  hadst  not  wept. 


With  false  ambition  what  had  I  to  do  ? 
Little  with  love,  and  least  of  all  with  fame; 
And  yet  they  came  unsought,  and  with  me  grew, 
And  made  m^  all  u  hirli  they  can  make— a  name. 
Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I  did  pursue; 
Surely  I  once  beheld  a  nobler  aim. 
But  all  is  over— I  am  one  the  more 
To  ballled  mil.'ions  wliich  have  ^one  before. 

1  The  lake  of  Newstead  Abbey 


And  for  the  future,  this  world's  future  m»f 
From  me  demand  but  little  of  my  care  , 
I  have  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day  ; 
Having  survived  so  many  things  that  were; 
My  years  have  been  no  slumber,  but  the  prey 
Of  ceaseless  vigils;   for  I  had  the  share 
Of  lite  which  might  have  fili'd  a  century. 
Before  its  fourth  in  time  had  pass'd  me  by. 


XV. 


And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be  tj  come 
I  am  content;    and -for  the  past  I  feel 
Not  thankless,— for  within  the  crowded  sum 
Of  struggles,  happiness  at  times  would  steal. 
And  for  the  present  I  would  not  benumb 
My  feelings  farther.— Nor  shall  I  conceal 
That  with  all  this  I  still  can  look  around 
And  worship  Nature  with  a  thought  profound. 


For  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy  heart 
I  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine; 
We  were  and  are— 1  am,  even  as  thou  art — 
Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  resign; 
It  is  the  same,  together  or  apart. 
From  life's  commencement  to  its  slow  dtcline 
We  are  entwined— let  death  come  slow  jr  fast 
The  tie  which  bound  the  first  endures  the  last  i 

October,  1£H 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

1. 

Mv  boat  is  on  the  shore. 
And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 

But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here's  a  double  health  to  thee! 


Here  's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me. 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 

And,  whatever  sky  's  above  me, 
Here  's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

3. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me. 
Yet  It  still  shall  bear  me  on; 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me. 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 


Were  't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasp'd   upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell. 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

5. 

With  that  water  as  this  wine. 

The  libati(ui  I  would  pour 
Should  be— peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 

July.  1SI7 


i36 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


STANZAS  TO  THE  RIVER  PO. 


River,  that  rollost  by  the  ancient  walls 
Where  dwells  the  lady  of  my  love,  when  she 

Walks  by  the  brink,  and  there  perchance  recalls 
A  faint  and  fleeting  memory  of  me ; 


VVhat  if  thy  deep  and  ample  stream  should  be 
A  mirror  of  my  heart,  where  she  may  read 

The  thousand  thoughts  I  now  betray  to  thee. 
Wild  as  thy  wave,  and   headlong  as  thy  speed ! 


What  do  I  say  ? — a  mirror  of  my  heart ! 

Are  not  thy  waters  sweeping,  dark  and  strong? 
Such  as  my  feelings  were  and  are,  thou  art; 

And  such  as  thou  art  were  my  passion?  long. 


Time  may  have  somewhat  tamed  them, — not  for  ever 
Thou  overflow'st  thy  banks,  and  not  for  aye 

Thy  bosom  overboils,  congenial  river! 
Thy  floods  subside,  and  mine  have  sunk  away, 

5. 

Cut  left  long  wrecks  behind,  and  now  again. 
Borne  in  our  old  unchanged  career,  we  move; 

Tiiou  lendest  wildly  onwards  to  the  main, 
And  I — to  loving  one  I  should  not  love. 


The  current  I  behold  will  sweep  beneath 
1  li'jr  native  walls,  and  murmur  at  her  feet ; 

Iler  ejes  will  look  on  thee,  when  she  shall  breathe 
The  twilight  air,  unharm'd  by  summer's  heat. 

7. 
She  will  look  on  thee,— I  have  look'd  on  thee. 

Full  of  that  thought ;  and,  from  that  moment,  ne'er 
Thy  waters  could  I  dream  of,  name,  or  see, 

Without  the  inseparable  sigh  for  her! 

8. 
Her  bright  eyes  will  be  imaged  in  thy  stream,— 

Yes  !  they  will  meet  the  wave  I  gaze  on  now  ; 
Mine  cannot  witness,  even  in  a  dream. 

That  happy  wave  repass  me  in  its  flow ! 

9. 
The  wave  that  bears  my  tears  returns  no  more: 

Will  she  return  by  whom  that  wave  shall  sweep?— 
Both  tread  thy  banks,  both  wander  on  thy  shore, 

1  by  thy  source,  she  by  the  dark-blue  deep. 

•      10. 
But  that  which  keepeth  us  apart  is  not 

Distance,  nor  depth  of  wave,  nor  space  of  earth; 
But  the  disiractiim  of  a  various  lot. 

As  vai  ous  as  the  cliuiat(!s  of  our  birth. 

11. 
A  stranger  loves  the  lady  of  the  Und, 

Boyi  far  beyond  the  mountains   but  his  blood 
Is  all  meridian,  as  if  never  fann'd 

By  the  bleak  wiml  that  chills  the  polar  flood. 

1  Ti)'j  Cuuiiiess  Guicrioli. 


12. 

My  mood  is  all  meridian  ;  were  it  not. 

I  had  not  left  my  clime,  nor  should  I  be. 
In  spite  of  tortures  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 

A  slave  again  of  love, — at  least  of  thee. 

13. 

'Tis  vain  to  struggle— l*t  ine  perish  young — 
Live  as  I  lived,  and  love  as  I  have  loved; 

To  dust  if  1  return,  from  dust  I  sprung. 
And  then,  at  least,  my  heart  can  ne'er  be  moved. 

June,  1819 


SONNET  TO  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH, 

ON    THE    REPEAL    OF    LORD    EDWARD    FXTZGERALD'S 

FORFEITURE. 

To  be  the  father  of  the  fatherless. 

To  stretch  the  hand  from  the  throne's  height,  and 
raise 

His  offspring,  who  expired  in  other  days 
To  make  thy  sire's  sway  by  a  kii>gdom  less, — 
Tliis  is  to  be  a  monarch,  and  repress 

Envy  into  unutterable  praise. 

Dismiss  thy  guard,  and  trust  thee  to  such  traits, 
For  who  would  lift  a  hand,  except  to  bless? 

Were  it  not  easy,  sire  ?  and  is  't  not  sweet 

To  make  thyself  beloved,  and  to  be 
Omnipotent  by  mercy's  means?  for  thus 

Thy  sovereignty  would  grow  but  more  complete; 
A  despot  thou,  and  yet  thy  people  ir(te. 

And  by  the  heart,  not  hand,  enslaving  us. 

■  August,  IE  19 

FRANCESCA  OF  RIMINI. 

TRANSLATION    FROM    THE    INFERNO    OF   DANTE, 
CANI'O    FIFTH. 

"The  land  where  I  was  born  sits  by  the  seas. 

Upon  that  shore  to  which  the  Po  descends. 

With  all  his  followers,  in  search  of  peace. 
Love,  which  the  gentle  heart  soon  api)rehends. 

Seized  him  for  the  fair  person  which  was  ta'en 

From  me,  and  me  even  yet  the  mode  offends. 
Love,  who  to  none  beloved  to  love  again 

Remits,  seized  me  with  wish  to  i)lease,  so  strong. 

That,  as  thou  seest,  yet,  yet  it  doth  remain. 
Love  to  one  death  corulucted  us  along. 

But  Caina  waits  for  him  our  life  who  ended:" 

These  were  the  accents  utter'd  by  her  tongue.— 
Since  first  I  listen'd  to  these  souls  offended, 

I  bow'd  my  visage  and  so  kept  it  till — 

"What  think'st  thou?"  said  the  bard;   when  I  tii: 
bended. 
And  recommenced:  "Alas!  unto  such  ill 

How  many  .sweet  thoughts,  what  strange  ecstasic. 

Led  these  their  evil  fortune  to  fulfil!" 
And  then  I  turn'd  unto  their  side  my  eyes, 

And  said,  "  Francosca,  thy  sad  destinies 

Have  made  me  sorrow  till  the  tears  arise. 
But  tell  me,  in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs, 

By  what  anil  how  thy  love  to  passion  rose, 

So  as  his  dim  desires  to  recognize  ?" 
Till'!)  she  to  me  :  "  The  greatest  of  all  woes 

Is  to  remind  us  of  our  happy  days 

In  misery,  and  that  thy  teacher  knows. 
But  if  to  learn  our  passion's  first  root  preys 

Upon  thy  s'^-'it  with  such  sympathy, 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Vir 


I  will  do*  even  as  he  who  weeps  and  says.— 
Wn  rtad  one  day  for  pastime,  seated  nigh, 

Of  Laiicilot,  how  love  enchain'd  him  too. 

We  were  alone,  quite  unsuspiciously. 
Hut  oft  our  eyes  met,  and  our  cheeks  in  hue 

All  o'er  discolour'd  by  that  reading  were  ; 

Hut  one  point  only  wholly  us  o'erthrew  ; 
When  we  read  tli^;  long-sigh'd  for  smile  of  her. 

To  1)(!  thus  kiss'd  by  such  devoted  lover. 

Fie  who  from  nie  can  be  divided  ne'er 
Kiss'd  my  month,  trembling  in  the  act  all  over. 

Accursed  was  tht;  book  and  he  who  wrote  ! 

That  day  we  di<i  no  turlher  leaf  uncover. 

While  thus  one  spirit  told  us  of  their  lot. 

The  other  wept,  so  thai  with  pity's  thralls 

I  swoon'd  as  if  by  death  I  had  been  smote. 
And  fell  down  even  as  a  dead  body  falls." 

March, 


STANZAS, 

TO    HER    WHO    BEST   CAN    UNDERSTAND   THEM. 

Be  it  so  !  we  part  for  ever  ! 

Let  the  past  as  nothing  be  ; — 
Had  1  only  loved  thee,  never 

Hadst  thou  been  thus  dear  to  me. 

Had  I  loved  and  thus  been  slighted, 

That  I  better  could  have  borne; — 
Love  is  quell'd,  when  unrequited, 

By  the  rising  [)ulse  of  scorn. 
Pride  may  cool  what  passion  heated. 

Time  will  tame  the  wayward  will; 
But  the  heart  in  friendship  cheated 

Throbs  with  woe's  most  maddening  thrill. 

Had  I  loved,  I  now  might  hate  thee, 

In  that  hatred  solace  seek. 
Might  exult  to  execrate  thee. 

And   in  words,  my  vengeance  wreak. 

But  there  is  a  silent  sorrow. 

Which  can  find  no  vent  in  speech. 

Which  disdains  relief  to  borrow 

From  the  heights  that  song  can  reach. 

Like  a  clankless  chain  enthralling, — 
Like  the  sleepless  dreams  that  mock,— 

Like  the  frigid  ice-drops  falling 
From  the  surf-surrounded  rock. 

Such  the  cold  and  sickening  feeling 
Thou  hast  caused  this  heart  to  know, 

Stabb'd  the  deeper  by  concealing 
From  the  world  its  bitter  woe. 

Once  it  fondly,  proudly,  deem'd  thee 
All  that  fancy's  self  could  paint, 

Once  it  honour'd  and  esteem'd  thee. 
As  its  idol  and  its  saint  1 

More  than  woman  thou  wast  to  nae; 

Not  as  man  I  look'd  on  thee ; — 
Why  like  woman  then  undo  me! 

Why  "  heap  man's  worst  curse  on  me?" 


*  In  some  of  the  editions,  it  is  "  diro," 
an  e«semial  ditfereiK-e  be'ween  "sayins?" 

know  not  how  to  decide.  Ask  loscoio 
drive  me  mad 


in  others  "  furo  ;" — 

and  "  doinp,"  which 

Tl».  d— d  editiona 


Wast  thou  but  a  fiend,  assuming 
Friendship's  smile,  and  woman's  ait. 

And  in  borrow'd  beauty  bloommg 
Trilling  with  a  trusted  heart! 

By  that  eye  which  once  could  glisten 

Witu  opposing  glance  to  me  ; 
By  that  ear  which  once  could  listen 

To  each  tale  I  told  to  thee  :— 

By  that  lip,  its  smile  nestovving. 

Which  could  soften  sorrow's  gush; — 

By  that  cheek,  ouce  brightly  Kh'wing 

With  pure  friendship's  well-fuign'd  blush! 

By  all  those  false  charms  united, — 
Thou  hast  wrought  thy  wanton  will. 

And,  without  compunction,  bliiihted 
What  "  thou  wouldst  not  kindly  kill." 

Yet  I  curse  thee  not  in  sadness, 
Still,  i  feel  how  dear  thou  wert ; 

Oh!  I  could  not — e'en  in  madness — 
Doom  thee  to  thy  just  desert  I 

Live  !  and  when  my  life  is  over. 
Should  thine  own  be  leiiglhen'd  long 

Thou  niay'st  then,  too  late,  discover 
By  thy  feelings,  all  my  wrong. 

When  thy  beauties  all  are  faded, — 
When  thy  flatterers  tawn  no  more, — 

Er<.'  the  solemn  shroud  h'alh  shaded 
Some  regardless  tejitile's  store, — 

Ere  that  hour,  false  syren,  hear  me  ! 

Thou  may'st  feel  what  f  do  now. 
While  my  spirit,  hovering  near  thee, 

Whispers  friendship's  brt)ken  vow. 

But  't  is  useless  to  upbraid  thee 
With  thy  past  or  present  state; 

What  thou  wast,  my  fancy  made  thee, 
What  thou  art,  I  know  too  late. 


TO  THE  COUNTESS  OF  BLESSINGTON 


You  have  ask'd  for  a  verse:— the  reqtiest 
In  a  rhymer  'twere  strange  to  deny; 

But  my  llippocrene  was  but  my  breast. 
And  my  feelings  (its  fountain)  are  dry. 


Were  I  now  as  I  was,  I  had  sung 
Wliat  Lawrence  has  painted  so  well; 

But  the  strain  would  expire  on  my  tongue, 
And  the  theme  is  too  soft  for  mv  shell. 


I  am  ashes  where  once  I  was  fire 
And  the  bard  in  my  bosom  -s  dead; 

What  I  loved- 1  vow  merely  a(i\tiire. 
And  my  heart  is  as  gray  t.s  mv  head 


138 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


4. 

My  life  is  not  dated  by  years- 
There  are  moments  which  act  as  a  plough, 

And  Uiere  is  not  a  furrow  appears 
But  is  deep  in  my  soul  as  my  brow. 


/.et  the  yojng  and  the  brilliant  aspire 

To  sing  what   I  gaze  on  in  vain  : 
For  sonow  has  torn  from  my  lyre 

The  string  which  was  worthy  the  strain 

Jlpril,  1823. 


STANZAS 

RRnXEN    ON    THE    ROAD     BETWEEN    FLORENCE   AND    PISA. 


On,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story; 
The  (lays  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory ; 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and-twenty 
Are  wortJi  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty 

2. 
What   are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the  brow  that  is 

wrinkled  1 
'Tis  but  as  a  dead  flower  with  May-dew  besprinkled. 
Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is  hoary  ! 
What  care  1  for  the  wreaths  that  can  only  give  glory  ? 

3. 
Oh  Fame  !  if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 
Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding  phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one  discover 
File  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

4. 
r/iere  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I  found  thee  ; 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround  thee  ; 
When   it   sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in  my 

story, 
I  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory. 

December,  1821. 


IMPROMPTU 

dN    LADY    BLESSINGTON    EXPRESSING    HER    INTENTION  OF 

TAKING    THE    VILLA    CALLED    "  IL   PARADISO," 

NEAR    GENOA. 

Beneath  Blessington's  eyes 

The  reclaim'd  Paradise 
Sliould  be  free  as  the  former  from  evil ; 

Hut  if  the  new  Eve 

For  an  apple  should  grieve, 
What  mortal  would  not  play  tlie  Devil?* 

Jlpril,  J,-J3. 


TO  A  VAIIV  LADY. 

Ah,  heedless  girl !  why  thus  disclose 
What  ne'er  was  meant   for  other  ears  1 

/iJhy  thus  destroy  thine  own  repose. 
And  dig  the  source  of  future  tears? 


•The  Genoese  wits  had  already  a[)plied  this  tliroadhare  jest 
lo  hiinBclf.  Takuif?  it  niU)  tluir  heads  that  tins  vdla  had  ttui'O 
^xed  on  for  his  own  residfiK;!',  ihoy  said,  "  Jl  Diavolo  e  un- 
Bjra  CDtrato  in  Paradiso."— jWoore 


Oh,  thou  wilt  weep,  impruoent  maid, 
While  lurking  envies  foes  will  smile. 

For  all  the  follies  thou  L.ist  said 
Of  those  who  spoke  but  to  beguile. 

Vain  girl!  thy  ling'ring  woes  are  nigh 
If  thou  believ'st  what  striplings  say: 

Oh,  from  the  deep  tenii)tation  fly. 
Nor  fall  the  specious  spoiler's  prey. 

Dost  thou  repeat,  in  childish  boast, 
The  words  man  utters  to  deceive? 

Thy  peace,  thy  hope,  thy  all  is  lost, 
If  thou  can'si  venture  to  believe. 

\Vhile  now  amongst  thy  female  peers 
Thou  tell'st  again  the  soothing  tale. 

Canst  thou  not  mark  the  rising  sneerf 
Duplicity  in  vain  would  veil? 

These  tales  in  secret  si'ence  hush. 
Nor  make  thyself  the  public  gaze: 

W^hat  ;nodesl  maid  without  a  blush 

Recounts  a  flattering  coxcomb's  pn     w' 

Will  not  the  laughing  hoy  despise 
Her  who  r-lates  each  fond  concei*.— 

Who,  thinking  Heaven  is  in  her  ej  ,  ■, 
Yet  cainiot  see  the  slight  deceit  ? 

For  she  who  takes  a  soft  delight 

These  amorous  nothings  in  rev   ding, 

Must  credit  all  we  say  or  write. 
While  vanity  prevents  cf)ncpal;    g. 

Cease,  if  you  prize  your  bea^ty'r  reign  ! 

No  jealousy  bids  me  reprove: 
One,  who  is  tiius  from  nature  v-    n, 

I  pity,  but  I  cannot  love. 

J»  ,uary  15,  /807- 


FAREWELL  TO  THE   MUSE. 

Thou  Power!  who  hast  ruled  me  through  infancy? 
days, 

Young  offspring  of  Fancy,  'tis  time  we  should  part; 
Then  rise  on  the  gale  this  the  last  of  my  lays. 

The  coldest  eflasion  which  springs  from  my  heart. 

This  bosom,  responsive  to  rapture  no  more. 

Shall  hush  thy  wild  notes,  nor  implore  thee  to  sing; 

The  feelings  of  childhood,  which  taught  thee  lo  soar, 
Are  wafted  far  distant  on  Apathy's  wing. 

Though  simple  the  themes  of  my  rude  flowinc  Lyre, 
Yet  even  these  themes  are  departed  for  ever; 

No  more  beam  the  eyes  which  my  dream  could  inspire, 
My  visions  are  flown,  to  return, — alas,  never  ! 

When  drain'd  is  the  nectar  which  gladdens  the  bowl. 
How  vain  is  the  ellort  deliL'hl  to  prolong  ! 

When  cold  is  the  beauty  which  dwelt  in  my  suul. 
What  magic  of  Fancy  can  lengtlien  my  son?? 

Can  the  lips  sing  of  Love  in  the  desert  alone, 

Of  kisses  and  smiles  which  they  now  must  resign  t 

Or  (hvfdl  with  delight  on  the  iioiirs  that  are  flown  ? 
Ah.  no  !  for  those  hours  can  no  longer  be  name. 


MISCELLANEOUS    P0E:\[S. 


1  P.['- 


Can  niey  speaK  of  the  frienf.s  that  I  lived  but  to  love? 

Ah.  siiruly  atlectioii  eiiiiohles  the  strain  ! 
Hut  how  can  my  nuiiihers  in  sympathy  move, 

VV'hen  I  scarcely  can  hope  to  behold  tliem  agiin? 

Can  I  jiniT  of  ihe  deeds  which  my  Fathers  have  done, 
And  raise  my  Iouh  harp  to  tlie  fame  of  my  sires? 

For  glories  like  thi-irs,  oh,  lunv  faint  is  my  tone  ! 
For  Heroes"  exploits  how  nnecpial  my  tires! 

(7nt(nicird,  then,  my  Lyre  shall  reply  to  the  blast — 

'Tis  hush  d  ;  and  my  feeble  endeavours  are  o'er; 
And  those  who  have  heard  it  will  pardon  the  past, 

When  they  know  that  its  nnirmurs  shall  vibrate  no 
more. 
And  soon  shall  its  wild  errini;  notes  be  forgot, 

Since  early  atrrctmn  and  love  is  o'crcast  : 
Oh  !  blest  had  my  fate  Iieen.  and  happy  my  lot, 

Had  the  first  strain  of  love  been  the  dearest,  the  last 

Farewell,  my  young   Muse!   since  we   now  can    ne'er 

meet  ; 
If  our  sonars  have  been  lancnid,  they  surely  are  few: 
Let  us  hope  that  the  present  at  least  will  be  sweel- 
The  present— which  seals  our  eternal  Adieu. 

1^07. 


TO  AWE! 

Oh'  Anne,  your  offences  to  me  have  been  srievnus; 

I   thoucht  from  my  wrath  no  atonement  could  save 
you  ; 
But  woman  is  made  tc  command  and  deceive  us— 

1  loi.k'd  in  your  face,  and  I  almost  forirave  you. 
l'A)V/'d  I  could  ne'er  for  a  moment  respect  you, 

Y«  t  thouirht  that  a  ilay's  separation  was  long: 
^Vhen  we  met,  I  determin'd  again  to  suspect  you— 

Your  smile  soon  convinced  me  suspicion  was  wrong. 

I  swire,  in  •-:  vr  ..sport  of  younir  indiiination, 
With  fervent  contempt  evermore  to  disdain  you: 

I  saw  you— my  anger  became  admiration; 
And  now,  all  my  wish,  all  my  hojie  's  to  regain  you. 

With  beautj  like  yours,  oh,  how  vain  the  contention; 

'I'hus  lowly  I  sue  for  forgiveness  before  you  ; — 
At  once  to  conclude  such  a  fruitless  dissension, 

Be  false,  my  sweet  Anne,  when  I  ceas  •  to  adore  you. 
Jan%.^ry  lo.  It07. 


TO  THE  SAME 

Oh  say  not.  sweet  Anne,  that  the  Fates  have  decreed, 
The  heart  which  adores  you  should  svish  to  dissever: 

Such  Fates  were  to  me  most  unkind  ones  indeed,— 
']'o  bear  me  from  love  and  from  beauty  for  ever. 

V^our  trowiis,  lovely  girl,  are  the  Fates  which  alone 

Could  bid  me  from  fond  admiration  refrain  ; 
By  these,  every  hope,  every  wish  were  o'erthrown, 

Till  smiles  should  restore  me  to  rapture  again. 
As  the  ivy  and  oak,  in  the  forest  entwined. 

The  rage  of  the  tempest  united  must  weather, 
My  love  and  my  life  were  by  nature  design'd 

To  flourish  alike,  or  to  perish  together. 
Then  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  that  thj  Fates  have  decreed 

Your  lover  should  bid  you  a  lasting  adieu  ; 

nil  Fate  can  ordain  that  his  bosom  shall  bleed. 

His  boul,  his  existence,  are  centred  in  you. 

1807 


TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  A  S'.  XXEl    HEGLN  VIXG. 
''SAD  IS    .MY  vl:rse,'  yoc  say,    'and  yi:t   no  tears.' 

Thy  verse  is  "  s:id"  enouizh,  no  doubt  : 
A  devilish  deal  more  s.ni  than  witty! 

Why  we  should  weep  I  can't  tind  out. 
Unless  for  t/iee  we  weep  in  pity. 

Yet  there  is  one  I  pity  more ; 

And  much,  alas!  I  think  he  needs  it 
For  he,  I  'm  sure,  will  suffer  sore, 

Who,  to  his  own  misfortune,  reads  it. 

The  rhymes,  without  the  aid  of  magic, 
^lay  once  be  read— but  never  after; 

Yet  their  eifect 's  by  no  means  tragic, 
Although  by  far  too  dull  for  laughter. 

But  would  you  make  our  bosoms  bleed, 
And  of  no  common  pang  complain — 

If  you  would  make  us  weep  indeed. 
Tell  us,  you  '11  read  them  o'er  again. 

March  6,  19<r 


ON  FINDING  A  FAN. 

In  one  who  felt  as  once  he  felt, 

This  might,  perhaps,  have  fann'd  the  flama 
But  now  his  heart  no  more  will  melt. 

Because  that  heart  is  not  the  same. 

As  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low. 

The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light. 

Ami  bade  them  burn  with  fiercer  glow, 
Now  quenches  all  their  blaze  in  night. 

Thus  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires— 
As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remember*— 

While  every  hope  of  love  expires, 
Extinguish'd  with  the  dying  embers. 

The  first,  though  not  a  spark  survive. 
Some  careful  hand  may  teacdi  to  burn; 

The  last,  alas  !  can  ne'er  survive  ; 
No  touch  can  bid  its  warmth  return. 

Or,  if  it  chance  to  wake  again, 
Not  always  doom'd  its  heat  to  smother. 

It  sheds  (SO  wayward  fates  ordain) 
Its  former  warmth  around  another. 


1807. 


TO  AN  OAK  AT  NEWSTEAIM 

Young  Oak  !  when  I  planted  thee  deep  in  the  ground 
I  hoped  that  thy  days  would  be  longer  than  mine ; 

That  thy  dark-waving  branches  would  flourish  around   • 
Aiictivy  thy  trunk  with  its  mantle  entwine. 

1  Lord  Byron,  on  his  first  arrival  at  Newstead,  in  17i« 
planted  an  oak  in  tlie  garden,  and  nourished  the  fancy,  thai 
us  the  tree  fluurisbed  so  should  he.  On  revisiting  the  abbey 
durins  Lord  Grey  de  Rutliven's  residence  tbere,  he  found  the 
oak  choked  up  by  weeds,  and  almost  destroyed  ;— hence  these 
lines.  Shortly  after  Colonel  WUdman,  the  present  proprietor, 
took  possession,  he  one  day  noticed  it,  and  said  to  theservan 
who  was  with  him,  "  Here  is  a  fine  young  oak  ;  but  it  must  bfl 
cut  down,  as  it  grows  in  an  improper  place." — "I  hope  not, 
sir."  replied  the  man ;  "  for  it  's  the  one  that  my  lord  was  so 
fond  of,  because  he  set  it  himself."  The  Colonel  has.  .1 
course,  taken  every  possible  care  of  it.  'l  is  already  inquire* 
after,  by  stranKers,  as  "The  Byrun  Onk,"  and  promises  tc 
share,  in  after  times,  the  celebrity  of  Shakspeaie's  inulberrv 
and  Fope's  wMow.—jMuore 


]  40 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Such,  sue}'  was  my  hope,  when  in  infancy's  years, 
On  tlie  hind  of  my  fathers  I  rear"d  thee  witli  i)ride; 

'l!\iv\  are  iiast,  and  I  water  thy    stem  witli  my  tears, — 
I'hy  decay  not  the  weeds  that  surround  thee  can  hide« 

I  left  thee,  m]'  Oak,  and,  since  tliat  fatal  hour, 
A  stranger  has  dwelt  in  the  hall  of  my  sire  ; 

Till  rnantiood  shall  crown  me,  not  mine  is  the  pow'er. 
But  his,  whoae  neglect  may  have  bade  thee  expire. 

Oh!  hardy  thoi<  wert— even  now  little  care 
Might  revive  thy  young  liead  and  thy  wounds  gently 
heal ; 

But  thou  wert  not  fated  affection  to  share — 
For  who  could  suppose  that  a  stranger  would  feel  ? 

Ah,  droop  not.  my  Oak!  lift  thy  head  for  awhile; 

Ere  twice  round  yon  Glory  this  planet  shall  run, 
The  hand  of  thy  Master  will  teach  thee  to  smile, 

When  Infancy's  years  of  probation  are  done. 

Oh,  live  then,  my  Oak  !  tow'r  aloii  irom  tne  weeds, 
That  clog  thy  young  growth,  and  assist  thy  decay. 

For  still  in  thy  bosom  are  life's  early  seeds. 
And  still  may  thy  branches  their  beauty  display. 

Oh!  yet,  if  maturity's  years  may  he  thine, 
Though  /  shall  lie  low  in  the  cavern  of  death. 

On  thy  leaves  yet  the  day-beam  of  ages  may  shine, 
Uninjured  by  time,  or  the  rude  winter's  breath. 

For  centuries  still  may  thy  boughs  liirhtly  wave 

O'er  the  corse  of  thy  lord  in  thy  canopy  laid  ; 
While  the  branches  thus  gratefully  shelter  his  grave. 

The  chief  who  survives  may  recline  in  thy  shade. 
And  as  he,  with  his  boys,  shall  revisit  this  spot. 

He  will  tell  them  in  whispers  more  softly  to  tread; 
Oh!  surely,  by  these  I  shall  ne'er  be  forgot: 

Remembrance  still  hallows  the  dust  of  the  dead. 

And  here,  will  they  say,  when  in  life's  glowing  prime, 
Perhaps  he  has  pour'd  forth  his  young  simple  lay. 

And  here  must  he  sleep,  till  the  moments  of  time 
Are  lost  in  the  hours  of  Eternity's  day. 

1807. 


DEDICATION  TO  DON  JUAN.^ 


Bob  SouTflEY  !  you  're  a  poet — Poet-laureate, 
And  representative  of  all  tha  race. 

Although  't  is  true  that  you  turn'd  out  a  Tory  at 
Last, — yours  has  lately  been  a  common  case. — 

And  now,  my  Epic  Renegade!  what  are  ye  at? 
With  all  the  Lakers,  in  and  out  of  place  .' 

A  nest  of  tuneful  pi.'rsons,  to  my  eye 

Like  "  four  and  twenty  blackbirds  in  a  pye  ; 

H. 

Which  pye  being  open'd,  they  began  to  sing," 
(This  old  song  and  new  simile  holds  good,) 
A  dainty  dish  to  set  before  the  King," 
Or  Regent,  who  adinircjs  such  kind  of  food  ;— 


1  This  "  Dedicalion"  was  suppres.sod,  in  I8IP,  with  Lord 
Byron  9  reluctant  consent  ;  but,  shortly  af'er  his  death,  iisex- 
gtence  becanu-  notorious,  in  cons(;(iueri(;e  of  an  article  in  the 
kVe^trniiiBtiir  Review,  generally  ascribi'd  to  Sir  .lohn  Mob- 
noiise  ;  and.  for  t^everil  years,  the  verses  have  t)een  sellinii  in 
ine  streets  as  a  broadside.  It  could,  therefore,  serve  no  pur- 
«08u  tc  exclude  them  on  the  present  occasion. -Jt/t;orc. 


And  Coleridge,  too,  has  lately  taken  wing. 

But  like  a  hawk  encumber'd  with  his  hood. 
Explaining  metaphysics  to  the  nation  — 
I  wish  he  would  explain  his  explanation. 


You,  Bob  !  are  rather  insolent,  you  know, 
At  being  disappointed  in  your  wish 

To  supersede  all  warblers  here  below. 
And  he  the  only  Blackbird  in  the  dish  i 

And  then  you  overstrain  yourself,  or  so. 
And  tumble  downward  like  the  flying  fish 

Gasping  on  deck,  because  you  soar  too  hi<jh. 

And  fall,  for  lack  of  moisture  quite  a-dry,  Bo 


And  Wordsworth,  in  a  rather  long  "  Excursion," 
(I  think  the  (piarto  holds  live  hundred  iiages,) 

Has  given  a  saini)ie  from  the  vasty  version 
Of  his  new  system  to  perplex  the  sages; 

"T  is  poetry— at  least  by  his  assertion. 

Ami  may  appear  so  when  the  dog-star  rages— 

And  he  who  understands  it  would  be  able 

To  add  a  story  to  the  Tower  of  Babel. 


You— Gerflemen  !  by  dint  of  long  seclusion 
Frotn  better  company,  have  kept  your  own 

At  K(!SwicK,  and,  through  still  continued  fusion 
Of  one  another's  minds,  at  last  have  grown 

To  deem  as  a  must  logical  conclusion. 
That  Poesy  has  wreaths  for  you  alone  : 

There  is  a  narrowness  in  such  a  notion, 

VV^hich  makes  me  wish  you  'd  change  your  lakes  for 
ocean. 

VI. 

1  would  not  imitate  the  petty  thought. 

Nor  coin  my  self-love  to  so  base  a  vice. 
For  all  the  glory  your  conversion  brought. 

Since  gold  alone  should  not  have  been  its  price. 
You  have  your  salary  ;  was  't  for  that  you  wrought  ? 

And  Wordsworth  has  his  ()lace  in  the  Excise.* 
You  're  shabby  fellows — true— but  poets  still. 
And  duly  seated  on  the  immortal  hill. 

VII 

Your  bays  may  hide  the  boldness  of  your  brows— 
Perhaps  some  virtuous  blushes  ;— let  them  go- 
To  you  I  envy  lu'ither  fruit  nor  boughs — 

And  for  the  tame  you  would  engross  below, 
The  field  is  universal,  and  allows 

Scope  to  ail  such  as  feel  the  inherent  glow  : 
Scott,  Rogers,  Campbell,  Moore,  and  Crabbe,  will  try 
'Gainst  you  the  question  with  posterity. 

VIII. 

For  me,  who,  wandering  with  pedestrian  Muses, 
Contend  not  with  you  on  the  winged  steed, 

I  wish  your  fate  may  yield  ye,  when  she  chooses,  ' 

The  fame  you  envy,  and  the. skill  you  need; 

And  recollect  a  |)oet  notiung  loses 

In  uiviiig  to  his  brethren   their  full  meed 

Of  merit,  and  complaint  of  present  days 

Is  not  the  certain  path  to  future  praise. 

*  Wordsworth's  place  nniy  be  in  thi^  Customs— it  is,  1  think 
111  that  or  the  Excise— besides  another  at  Lord  Lonsdale's  ta- 
ble, where  this  poetical  charlatan  and  pcditical  parasite  licki 
lip  the  erundib  with  a  hardened  alacrity;  the  converted  Ja- 
coliin  havini;  Ions  subsided  into  the  clownish  sycophant  of  lh% 
worst  prejudices  of  the  aristocracy. 


^rISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


HI 


Ho  that  ro)erves  his  laiirels  for  posterity 
(Who  (loos  not  often  cUiiii  tlif  bright  reversion) 

Has  jreiicrally  no  iircat  crop  to  s|)are  it,  he 
UchiL'  only  injured  hy  his  own  assertion  ; 

And  aitiiiiiii:li  here  am!  there  some  irhirious  rarity 
Arise  hke  Titan  from  the  sea's  immersion, 

The  major  part  of  swell  api)enants  tro 

To— God  knows  where — for  no  one  else  can  know. 


If,  fallen  in  evil  days  on  evil  tongues, 

Milton  appeal'd  to  the  Avenjjcr,  Time, 
If  Time,  the  Avenger,  execrates  his  wrongs. 

And  makes  the  word  "  Miltonic"  mean  "  sublime," 
He  deign'd  not  to  belie  his  soul  in  songs, 

Nor  turn  his  very  talent  to  a  crime; 
He  did  not  lothe  the  Sire  to  laud  the  Son, 
But  closed  the  tyrant-hater  he  begun. 

XI. 

Think'st  thou,  could  he— the  blind  Old  Man— arise 
Like  Sanniel  from  the  grave,  to  freeze  once  more 

The  blood  of  nionarchs  with  his  prophecies, 
Or  be  aiive  again— again  all  lioar  » 

With  time  and  trials,  and  those  helpless  eyes. 
And  heartless  daughters  —  worn  —  and  pale  —  *  and 
poor ; 

Would  he  adore  a  sultan  ?  he  obey 

The  intellectual  eunuch  Castlereagh?t 

xti. 
Cold-Mooded,  smooth-faced,  placid  miscreant ! 

Dabbling  its  sleek  young  hands  in  Erin's  gore, 
And  thus  for  wider  carnage  taught  to  pant, 

fransferr'd  to  gorge  upon  a  sister  shore, 
riie  vulgarest  tool  that  tyranny  could  want, 

With  just  enough  of  talent,  and  no  more. 
To  lengthen  fetters  by  another  fix'd, 
And  offer  poison  long  already  mix'd. 

XIII. 

An  orator  of  such  set  trash  of  phrase 

Iiie!iah!y— legitimately  vile. 
That  even  its  grossest  flatterers  dare  not  praise. 

Nor  foes— all  nations— condescend  to  smile, — 
Not  even  a  sprightly  blunder's  spark  can  blaze 

From  that  Ixion  grindstone's  ceaseless  toil. 
That  turns  and  turns  to  give  the  world  a  notion 
Of  endless  torments  and  perpetual  motion. 

XIV. 

A  bunglei  even  in  its  disgusting  trade. 
And  botching,  patching,  leaving  still  behind 

*  "Pale,  bu'  not  cadaverous;" — Milton's  two  elder  dan^h- 
tpis  are  i=ai(l  lo  have  robbed  liirn  of  his  hooks,  besides  cheat- 
ing Hnd  plaL'umpr  him  in  ihe  economy  of  his  house,  &c.  &c. 
His  r'relinifs  on  such  an  outraee,  boih  as  a  parent  and  a  scho- 
lar, must  have  beeu  siiio:ularly  painful.  Hayley  compares  him 
lo  f.eai  See  part  third,  Life  of  IVlilion,  by  W.  Hayiey  ''or 
ll.iiiey  as  .-pelt  in  'Ive  edition  before  nie.) 
■'Or.- 

WoulH  he  sul  side  into  a  hackney  Laureate— 
A  scribbling,  self  sold,  soul-hired,  scoru'd  l.scariot  I*"' 
doukl  if  •'Laurnale"  and  "  iscarioi"  be  good  rhymes,  but 
must  say.   as  Ben  Junson  did  to  Sylvester,   who  challenged 
\\\n  to  rhyme  wth— 

"  i,  John  Sylvester, 
Lay  with  your  siskt?" 
.Jonson    answered,--"  1,  Ben  Jonson.   lay  with  your  wife." — 
■^ylvesici    ariswered.- "That    is  not  rhyme."— "  No,"    said 
Ben  J<m3  )n     "  but  ii  is  true  " 


Something  of  which  its  masters  are  afraid. 
States  to  be  ciirb'd,  and  thoughts  to  be  confine 

Conspiracy  or  Congress  to  be  made- 
Cobbling  at  manacles  for  all  mankind — 

A  tinkering  slave-maker,  «ho  inen<is  old  chains, 

With  God  and  man's  abhorrence  *'or  its  gains. 


If  we  may  judge  of  matter  hy  the  mind, 

Emasculated  to  the  marrow  It 
Hath  but  two  objects,  how  lo  serve,  and  bind, 

Deeming  the  chain  it  wears  even  men  may  fit, 
Eutropius  of  its  many  masters,— blind 

To  worth  as  freedom,  wisdom  as  to  wit, 
Fearless — because  710  feeling  dwells  in  ice, 
Its  very  courage  stagnates  to  a  vice. 


Where  shall  I  turn  me  not  to  view  its  bonds. 

For  I  will  never  feel  them  ;— Italy  ! 
Thy  late  reviving  Roman  soul  desponds 

Beneath  the  lie  this  State-thing  breathed  o'er  tliee- 
Thy  clanking  chain,  and  Erin's  yet  green  wounds, 

Have  voices — tongues  to  cry  aloud  for  me. 
Europe  has  slaves — allies — kings — armies  still, 
And  Southey  lives  to  sing  them  very  ill. 


Meantime — Sir  Laureate — I  proceed  to  dedicate, 
In  honest  simple  verse,  this  song  to  you, 

And,  if  in  flattering  strains  I  do  not  predicate, 
'Tis  that  I  still  retain  my  "  buff  and  blue;" 

My  politics  as  yet  are  all  to  educate : 
Apostasy's  so  fashionable,  too. 

To  keep  one  creed  's  a  task  grown  quite  Herculean; 

Is  it  not  so,  my  T(.ry,  ultra  Julian  ?* 
fenice,  September  16,  1818. 


FRAGMENT 

ON  THE  BACK  OF  THE  POKT's  MS.  OF  CANTO  I. 
OF  DON  JL'AN. 

I  WOULD  to  heaven  that  I  were  so  much  clay. 
As  I  am  blood,  bone,  marrow,  passion,  feeling — 

Because  at  least  the  past  were  pass'd  away — 
And  for  the  future— (but  I  write  this  reeling. 

Having  got  drunk  exceedingly  to-day, 
So  that  I  seem  to  stand  upon  the  ceiling) 

I  say — the  future  is  a  serious  matter — 

And  so— for  God's  sake— hock  and  soda-water. 


PARENTHETICAL  ADDRESS,! 

BY    DR.    PLAGIARY. 

Half  Stolen,  with  acknowledgments,  'o  be  spoken  in  an  inai» 
ticulate  voice  by  .Master  P.  at  the  opening  of  the  next  nev« 
tlieatrt'.— Stolen  parts  marked  with  ;he  inver'"''  '"r\mas  o 
Quotation — thus  " ". 

"When  energizing  objects  men  jvirsue," 

Then  Lord  knows  what  is  writ  b\   Lord  knows  wiio. 


*  I  allude  not  to  our  friend  Lander's  hero,  the  traitor  Cnui 
Julian,  but  to  Gibbon's  hero  vulgaiiy  yclept  "  The  ApcE 
tate." 

t  Among  the  addresses  sent  in  to  tK"  Drury  Lare  Comn^it- 
tee,  N\  as  one  by  Dr.  Busby,  entitlcu  "  A  Monologue,"  Oi 
which  the  above  is  a  paiody. — .Moore 


142 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


'  A  modest  nionuiogiio  you  here  survey," 
Miss'd  from  the  theatre  the  "other  day," 
.•\s  if  Sir  Fretful  wrote  "  the  shiinberous"  verse 
And  gave  his  son  "  the  rubbish"  to  rehearse. 
"  Yet  at  the  thing  you'd  never  be  amazed," 
Knev  you  tlie  rumpus  v^hicli  the  author  raised; 
"  Nor  even  here  your  smiles  would  be  represl," 
Knew  you  these  lines— the  badness  of  the  best. 
•Flame!  fire!  and  flame  !!"  (words  borrowed  from  Lu 
cretins,) 
Dread  metaphors  which  open  wounds"  like  issues 
And  sleeping  pangs  awake— and— but  away" 
(Confound  me  if  I  know  what  next  to  say,) 
"Lo!  Hope  reviving  re-expands  her  wings," 
And  Master  G—  recites  what  Doctor  Bushy  sings  !— 
"  ]f  mighty  things  with  small  we  may  compare," 
(Translated  from  the  grammar  for  the  fair!) 
Dramatic  "  spirit  drives  a  conquering  car," 
And  burn'd  poor  Moscow  like  a  tuh  of  "  tar." 
"This  spirit  Wellington  has  shown  in  Spain," 
To  furnish  melodraines  for  Drury  Lane." 
"Another  Marlborough  points  to  Blenheim's  story," 
And  George  and  I  will  dramatize  it  for  ye. 
"  In  arts  and  sciences  our  isle  liath  shone" 
(This  <leep  discovery  is  mine  alone.) 
"  Oh  British  poesy,  whose  powers  inspire" 
My  verse— or  I'm  a  fool— and  Fame  's  a  liar, 
"  Thee  we  invoke,  your  sister  arts  implore" 
With  "  smiles,"  and  "  lyres,"  and  "  pencils,"  and  much 

more. 
These,  if  we  win  the  Graces,  too,  we  gain 
Disgraces,  too  !  "  inseparable  train  1" 
•^  Three  who  have  stolen  their  witching  airs  from  Cu- 
pid" 
(You  all  know  what  I  mean,  unless  you  're  stupid:) 
'  Harmonious  throng"  that  I  have  kept  in  petto, 
Now  to  produce  in  a  "  divine  sc.it.etto"  ! ! 
•While  Poesy,"  with  these  delightful  doxies, 
"Siistains  her  part"  in  all  the  "  upper"  boxes! 
"  Thus  lifted  gloriously,  you  '11  soar  along," 
Borne  in  the  vast  balloon  of  Busby's  song ; 
"  Shini!  in  your  farce,  masque,  scenery,  and  play" 
(For  this  last  line  George  had  a  holiday.) 
"  Old  Drury  never,  never  soar'd  so  high," 
8o  says  the  manager,  and  so  says  I. 
'  But  hold,  you  say,  this  self-complacent  boast;" 
Is  this  the  poem  wOiich  the  public  lost? 
.'  True— true— that  lowers  at  once  our  mounting  pride;" 
But  lo!— the  papers  print  what  you  deride. 
"  'Tis  ours  to  look  on  you— you  hold  the  prize," 
'Tis  twenty  guineas,  as  tlu;y  advirtisc  ! 
"  A  double  blessing  your  rewards  impart"— 
I  wish  I  had  them,  then,  with  all  my  heart. 
"  Our  twofold  feeling  owns  its  twofold  cause," 
Why  son  and  I  both  beg  for  your  ap|tlause. 
"  When  in  your  fostering  beams  you  bid  us  live," 
My  next  subscription  list  shall  say  how  much  you  give. 

October,  1«12. 


Instead  of  the  linns  to  Inez,  whifli  now  stiind  in  the  First 
Canto  of  Childo  Iliirold,  Lord  Byron  bud  origiiiiilly  written 
the  following  .] 

1. 
Oh  never  talk  again  to  me 

Of  nort.iern  climes  and  British  ladies; 
It  lias  la    jeen  your  lot  to  see, 
Like  me,  the  lovely  gir   of  Cadiz. 


Althoiigh  her  eye  be  not  of  blue. 

Nor  fair  her  locks,  like  English  lasses, 

How  far  its  ,  wn  expressive  hue 
The  langu-d  azure  eye  surpasses! 


Prometheus-like,  from  heaven  she  stole 

The  fire,  that  through  those  silken  lashea 
In  darkest  glances  seems  to  roll, 

From  eyes  that  cannot  hide  their  flashes 
And  as  alonn;  her  bosom  steal 

In  lengthen'd  flow^er  raven  tresses, 
You'd  swear  each  clustering  lock  could  feel, 

And  curl'd  to  give  her  neck  caresses.  ■ 

3. 
Our  English  maids  are  long  to  woo, 

And  frigid  even  in  possession  ; 
And  if  their  charms  befairTO;  view. 

Their  lips  are  slow  at  Love's  confessioni 
But  born  beneath  a  brighter  sun, 

For  love  ordain'd  the  Spanish  maid  is. 
And  who,— when  fondly,  fairly  won,— 

Enchants  you  like  the  Girl  of  Cadiz? 

4.        . 
The  Spanish  maid  is  no  coquette. 

Nor  joys  to  see  a  lover  tremble. 
And  if  she  love,  or  if  she  hate. 

Alike  she  knows  not  to  dissemble. 
Her  heart  can  ne'er  be  bought  or  sold— 

Howe'er  it  beats,  it  beats  sincerely  ; 
And,  though  it  will  not  bend  to  gold, 

'Twill  love  you  long  and  love  you  dearly 

5. 

The  Spanish  girl  that  meets  your  love 

Ne'er  taunts  you  with  a  mock  denial. 
For  every  thought  is  bent  to  prove 

Her  passion  in  the  hour  of  trial. 
When  thronging  foemen  menace  Spain, 

She  dares  the  deed  and  shares  the  danger 
And  should  her  lover  press  the  plain, 

She  hurls  the  spear,  her  love's  avenger. 
6. 
And  when,  beneath  the  evening  star. 

She  mingles  in  the  gay  Bolero, 
Or  sings  to  her  attuned  guitar 

Of  Christian  knight  or  Moorish  hero. 
Or  counts  lier  beads  with  fairy  hand 

Beneath  the  twinkling  rays  of  Hesper, 
Or  joins  devotion's  choral  band. 

To  chaunt  the  sweet  and  hallow'd  vesper; 
7. 
[n  each  her  charms  the  heart  must  move 

Of  all  who  viMiture  to  behold  her; 
Then  let  not  maids  less  fair  reprove 

Becaust!  her  bosom  is  not  colder: 
Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  roam. 

Where  many  a  soft  and  melting  maid  ia. 
But  none  abroad,  and  few  at  home. 

May  match  the  dark  eyed  girl  of  Cadiz. 


FAREWELL  TO  MALTA. 
AniKU,  ye  joys  of  La  Valette  ! 
Adieu,  sirocco,  sun.  and  sweat ! 
Adieu,  thou  palace  rarely  enter'd  I 
Adieu,  ye  mansions  where  — I  've  venluredl 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


148 


AcLeii,  ye  cursed  streets  of  stairs  ! 

I  How  surely  he  wlio  mounts  you  swears  } 

Adieu,  ye  merchants  often  failing! 

Adieu,  thou  mob  for  ever  railing! 

Adieu   ye  packets— without  letters! 

Adieu  ye  fools— who  ape  your  betters  1 

Adieu,  thou  danined'st  quarantine, 

Th-it  gave  me  fever,  and  the  spleen  ! 

Adieu  that  stage  which  makes  us  yawn,  Sirs. 

Adieu  his  Excellency's  dancers! 

Adieu  to  Peter — whom  no  fault 's  in. 

But  could  not  teach  a  colonel  waltzing; 

Adieu,  ye  females  fraught  with  graces! 

Adieu  red  coats,  and  redder  faces  ! 

Adieu  the  supercilious  air 

Of  all  that  strut  "  en  militaire  !" 

I  go— but  God  knows  when,  or  why, 

To  smoky  towns  and  cloudy  sky, 

To  things  (the  honest  truth  to  say) 

As  bad— but  in  a  ditierent  way.— 

Farewell  to  these,  but  not  adieu, 
Triumphant  sons  of  truest  blue! 
While  either  Adriatic  shore, 
And  fallen  chiefs,  and  tleets  no  more, 
And  nightly  smiles,  and  daily  dinners. 
Proclaim  you  war  and  women's  winners. 
Pardon  my  Mnse,  who  apt  to  prate  is, 
And  take  my  rhyme — because  't  is  "  gratis." 

And  now  I  've  got  to  Mrs.  Fraser, 
Perhaps  you  think  I  mean  to  praise  her— 
And  were  I  vain  enou<rh  to  tliink 
My  praise  was  worth  this  drop  of  ink, 
A  iine — or  two- were  no  hard  matter. 
As  here,  indeed,  I  need  not  Hatter: 
But  she  must  be  content  to  shine 
In  better  praises  than  in  mine. 
With  lively  air,  and  open  heart, 
And  fashion's  ease,  without  its  art; 
Her  hours  can  gaily  glide  along. 
Nor  ask  the  aid  of  idle  song. — 

And  now,  O  Malta  !  since  thou  'st  got  us, 
Thou  little  military  hothouse! 
I'll  not  otfend  with  words  uncivil. 
And  wish  thee  rudely  at  the  Devil, 
But  only  stare  from  out  my  casement. 
And  ai?k,  for  what  is  such  a  place  meant? 
Then,  in  my  solitary  nook, 
Return  to  scribbling,  or  a  book. 
Or  take  my  physic  wiiile  I  'm  able, 
(Two  spoonfuls  hourly  by  the  label,) 
Prefer  my  nightcap  to  my  beaver. 
And  bless  the  gods — I  've  got  a  fever! 

J^Iay  26,  1811. 


ENDORSEMENT  TO  THE  DEED  OF  SEPARA- 
TION, IN  THE  APRIL  OF  1816. 

A  YEAR  ago  you  swore    fond  she ! 

'To  love,  to  honour,    and  so  forth: 
Such  was  th»-  vow  you  pledged  to  me, 

And  here  's  exactly  what  't  is  worth. 


TO  PENELOPE.  JANUARY  2,  182L 

This  day,  of  all  our  days,  has  done 
Tiki  worst  for  me  and  you: — 

'T  is  just  six  years  since  we  were  om 
And  Jive  since  we  were  two. 


Who  kiird  John  Keats? 
'  I,'  says  the  Quarterly, 
So  t^avage  and  Tartarly ; 

'  'T  was  one  of  my  feats.' 

Who  shot  the  arrow  ? 
The  poet-priest  Milman 
(So  ready  to  kill  man,) 

Or  Sdutliey  or  Barrow. 


SONG  FOR  THE  LUDDITES. 

As  the  Liberty  lads  o'er  the  sea 
Bought  their  freedom,  and  cheaply,  with  Mood, 
S(.  we,  boys,  we 
Will  die  fighting,  or  lii^e  free — 
And  down  with  all  kings  but  King  Ludd 

II. 
When  the  web  that  we  weave  is  complete, 
And  the  shuttle  exchanged  for  the  ^-^niX 
We  will  fling  the  winding-sheet 
O'er  the  despot  ai  our  feet, 
And  dye  it  deep  in  the  gore  he  has  pouT'J. 

III. 
Though  black  as  his  heart  its  hue. 
Since  his  veins  are  corrupted  to  mud. 
Yet  this  is  tlie  dew 
Which  the  tree  shall  renew 
Of  Liberty,  planted  by  Ludd  ! 


THE  CHAIN  I  GAVE. 

(From  the  Turkish.; 

The  chain  I  gave  was  fair  to  vio.w. 
The  lute  I  added  sweet  in  sound; 

The  heart  that  offer'd  both  was  true. 
And  ill  deserved  the  fate  it  found. 

Those  iiifts  were  charm'd  by  secret  spell 
Thy  truth  in  absence  to  divine; 

\nd  they  have  done  their  duty  well, — 
Alas!  they  could  not  teach  thee  thine. 

That  I  hain  was  firm  in  every  link. 
Hut  not  to  bear  a  stranger's  touch; 

Tliat  lute  was  sweet— till  thou  couldst  thiuk 
In  other  hands  its  notes  were  such. 

Let  him  who  from  thy  neck  unbound 
The  chain  which  shiver'd  in  his  grasp 

Who  saw  that  lute  refuse  to  sound. 
Rest  ring  the  chords,  renew  the  ciasp. 

When  thou  wcrt  changed,  they  alter'd  too' 
The  chain  is  broke,  the  niiisic  mute. 

'T  is  past— to  them  and  thee  adieu- 
False  heart,  frail  ch?in,  and  silent  lute 


144 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  AN  EPITAPH 

KiNP  Reader !  take  your  choice  to  cry  or  laugh ; 
Here  Harold  lies— but  where 's  his  Epitaph? 
[f  such  you  seek,  try  Westminster,  and  view 
Ten  thousand  just  as  fit  for  him  as  you. 


EPITAPH  FOR  JOSEPH  BLACKETT,  LATE  POET 
AND  SHOEMAKER. 

Stranger!   behold,  interr'd  together, 

The  souls  of  learning  and  of  leather. 

Poor  .Toe  is  gone,  but  left  his  all: 

You  '11  find  his  relics  in  a  stall. 

His  works  were  neat,  and  often  found 

Well  stitch'd,  and  with  morocco  bound. 

Tread  lightly— where  the  bard  is  laid 

He  cannot  mend  the  shoe  he  made; 

Vet  is  he  happy  in  his  hole, 

With  verse  immortal  as  his  sole. 

But  still  to  business  he  held  fast, 

And  stuck  to  Phoebus  to  the  last. 

Then  who  shall  say  so  good  a  fellow 

Was  on_ly  "  leather  and  prunella  ?" 

For  character— he  did  not  lack  it; 

Anc  if  he  did,  'twere  shame  to  "  Black-it." 

Malta,  May  16,  1811 


\   SO  WE  'LL  GO  NO  MORE  A  ROVING 

\  ^• 

\so  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 

\     So  late  into  the  night, 

iThough  the  heart  be  still  as  loving. 

'    And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 

f  II. 

•For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath, 
;     And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast, 
And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe. 
And  love  itself  have  rest. 

i  ni. 

jl  hough  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 
-      And  the  day  returns  too  soon, 
i    Yet  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 
By  the  light  of  the  moon. 


LINES, 

ON    HEARING    THAT    LADY    BYRON    WAS    ILL. 

And  thou  wert  sad— yet  I  was  not  with  thee; 

And  thnu  wert  sick,  and  yet  I  was  not  near  ; 
M-'thought  that  joy  and  healtb  alone  could  be 

Where  I  was  not— and  pain  and  sorrow  here  I 
AikI  is  it  thus?— it  is  as  I  forjitold, 

And  sna;j  oc  more  so  ;  for  the  mind  recoils 
tJpoM  itsplf.  and  the  wreck'd  heart  lies  cold, 

While  heaviness  colh-cts  the  shatter'd  spoilH 


It  is  not  in  the  storm  nor  in  the  strife 
We  feel  benumb'd,  and  wish  to  be  no  mora. 
But  in  the  after-silence  on  the  shore, 

When  all  is  lost,  except  a  little  life. 

I  am  too  well  avenged!— but  'twas  my  right; 

VVMiate'er  my  sins  might  be,  tliou  wert  not  sent 
To  be  the  Nemesis  who  should  requite— 

Nor  did  Heaven  choose  so  near  an  instrument 
Mercy  is  for  the  merciful !— if  thou 
Hast  been  of  such,  'i  will  be  accorded  now. 
Thy  nights  are  banish'd  from  iht^  realms  of  sleep! -• 

Yes!  they  may  flatter  thee,  but  thou  shalt  feel 

A  hollow  agony  which  will  not  heal. 
For  thou  art  pillow'd  on  a  curse  too  deep  ; 
Thou  hast  sown  in  my  sorrow,  and  nmst  reap 

The  bitter  harvest  in  a  woe  as  real ! 

I  have  had  many  foes,  but  none  like  thee ; 
For  'gainst  the  rest  myself  I  could  defend, 
And  be  avenged,  or  turn  them  into  friend ; 
But  thou  in  safe  implacability 

Hadst  naught  to  dread— in  thy  own  weakness  shielded 
And  in  my  love,  which  hath  but  too  much  yielded. 

And  spared,  for  thy  sake,  some  I  should  not  spare— 
And  thus  upon  the  world— trust  in  thy  truth— 
And  the  wild  fame  of  my  ungovern'd  youth— 

On  things  that  were  not,  and  on  things  that  are — 
Even  upon  such  a  basis  hast  thou  built 
A  monument,  whose  cement  hath  been  guilt ! 

The  moral  Clytemnestra  of  thy  lord, 
And  hew'd  down,  with  an  unsus|)ected  sword. 
Fame,  peace,  and  hope— and  all  the  better  life 

Which,  but  for  this  cold  treason  of  thy  heart. 
Might  still  have  risen  from  out  the  grave  of  strife, 
And  found  a  nobler  duty  than  to  part. 
But  of  thy  virtues  didst  thou  make  a  vice, 
Trafficking  with  them  in  a  purpose  cold. 
For  present  anger,  and  for  future  gold— 
And  buying  others'  grief  at  any  price. 
And  thus  once  enter'd  into  crooked  ways, 
The  early  truth,  which  was  thy  proper  praise. 
Did  not  still  walk  beside  thee— but  at  times. 
And  with  a  breast  unknowing  its  own  crimes 
Deceit,  averments  incompatible, 
Equivocations,  and  the  thoughts  which  dwell 

In  Janus-spirits— the  significant  eye 
Which  learns  to  lie  with  silence— the  pretex.1 
Of  Prudence,  with  advantages  annex'd— 
The  acquiescence  in  ail  things  which  tend, 
No  matter  how,  to  the  desired  end— 

All  found  a  place  in  thy  philosophy. 
The  means  were  worthy,  and  the  end  is  won— 
I  would  not  do  by  thee  as  thou  hast  done  ! 

Sej>teynb(yr   1816 


TO   ***. 
But  once  I  dared  to  lift  my  eyes— 

To  lift  my  ey^s  to  thee  ; 
And  since  that  day,  beneath  the  skies 

No  other  sights  they  see. 

In  vain  sleep  shuts  them  in  the  nighl- 
The  night  grows  day  to  me  ; 

Presenting  idly  to  my  sight 
What  still  a  dream  must  be. 

A  fatal  dream— for  many  a  bar 
Divides  thy  fate  from  mine: 

And  still  my  passions  wake  and  war, 
But  peace  be  still  with  ih<ne 


MISCELLANEOl  3    T  0  E  M  S. 


145 


MARTIAL,  IiB.  I.  Epia.  I. 

Uic  est,  quern  lesis,  ille,  quemre  quiris, 
Tota  notus  in  orhe  Murtialis,  &.c. 


He  unto  wiioin  tliou  art  so  partial, 
0\\    rp,T<l(!r!  is  the  woll-known  Martial. 
TJic  EiiiL'rniiimu  ist :  while  liviuc, 
Give  liiiii  tlie  taii.e  thou  wouttlst  be  giving 
'So  sJinll  he  lu'ar,  and  feel,  and  know  it— 
Posi-ohits  rarely  reach  a  poet. 


EPIGRAM. 


In  diimnig  up  your  bones,  Tom  Paine, 
Will.  Cchbett  has  done  well: 

You  visit  him  on  earth  again,         ' 
He  '11  visit  you  in  hell. 


TO    DIVES. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

(Tnhappy  Dives!  in  an  evil  hour 
Gniiist  Nature's  voice  seduced  to  deeds  accurst! 
C>nre  Fnrf line's  minion,  now  thou  feel'st  her  power; 
Wrath's  via!  on  thy  lofty  head  hath  burst. 
t-i  Wit,  i  1  Genius,  as  in  Wealth  the  first, 
[{o\v  wond'rnus  bright  tliy  blooming  morn  arose! 
iiul  ihou  wert  sniitren  u  ith  th'  unhallow'd  thirst 
0<  Crime  uniiamer!.  and  thy  sad  noon  must  close 
I"i  scorn,  and  solitude  unsought,  the  worst  of  woes. 
^  1811. 

VERSES  FObND  IN  A  SUMMER-HOUSE  AT 
HALES-OWEN, 
vVhes  Dryden's  fool,  "  unknowing  what  he  sought  " 
H:.s  hours  in  \sliistling  spent,  "for  want  of  tiiought," 
1  his  LMiiltless  oaf  his  vacancy  of  sense 
S  ipplied.  and  amply  too,  by  innocence; 
Did  modern  swains,  possess'd  of  Cynion's  powers, 
la  Cymon's  manner  waste  their  leisure  hours, 
rir  otr.;ii(Ii;d  uucsts  would  not,  with  blushing,  see 
Tiinse  fair  'jn-i'W  walks  disgracf.'d  by  infamy. 
Sr\ere  th."  fate  of  modern  fools,  alas! 
WluMi  vice  and  fidly  mark  them  as  they  pass. 
r.ike  UDxious  r(;ptiles  o'er  the  whiten'd  wall, 
Ttie  filth  they  leave  still  points  out  wliere  they  crawl. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH. 
.■EoLE,  beauty  and  poet,  has  two  little  crimes; 
6lie  niakes  her  own  face,  and  does  not  make  her  rhymes. 


NEW  DUET. 
lo  the  tune  of  "  \\'hy,  bow  now,  saucy  jade  7" 
Why,  how  now,  saucy  Tom  ? 

If  you  thus  must  ramble, 
I  will  publish  ?ome 

Remark"  on   Mister  Campbell. 

ANSWER. 
Why.  now  now.  Parson   Howies  ? 

Sure  the  priest  is  maudlin  ! 
^To  the  public)  How  can  you,  d — n  your  aouls. 

Listen  to  his  twaddliuL'  ? 

10 


EPIGRAMS. 

Oh,  Castlereagh  !  thou  art  a  patriot  now 

Cato  died  for  his  country,  so  didst  thou  : 

He  perish'd  rather  than  see  Rome  enslaved, 

Thou  cutt'st  thy  throat  that  Britain  may  be  saveJ' 

So  Castlereagh  has  cut  his  throat !— The  worst 
Of  this  is,— that  his  own  was  not  the  first. 

So  He  has  cut  his  throat  at  last!— He  !  Who  1 
The  man  who  cut  his  country's  long  ago. 


THE  CONQUEST. 

The  Son  of  Love  and  Lord  of  War  I  sing; 

Him  who  made  England  bow  to  Normamiy, 
And  left  the  name  of  conqueror  more  than  king 

To  his  unconquerable  dynasty. 
Not  fann'd  alone  by  Victory's  fleeting  wing, 

He  reared  his  bidd  and  brilliant  throne  on  high 
The  Bastard  kept,  like  lions,  his  prey  fast. 

And  Britain's  bravest  victor  was  the  last. 

March  8-9,  182S 


VERSICLES. 

I  READ  the  "  Christ abel ;" 

Very  well  : 
I  read  the  "Missionary;" 

Pretty — very; 
I  tried  at  "  Itderim  ;" 

Ahem  ! 
I  read  a  sheet  of  "  Marg'ret  of  j^jijou ;" 

Can  you  ? 
I  turn'd  a  page  of  Scott's  "Waterli.o;" 

Pooh !  pooh ! 
I  look'd  at  Wordsworth's  milk-whito  "  Rylstone  Dof' 

Hillo ! 

&.C.  &c.  (fcC. 


EPIGRAM, 

FROM    THE    FREXCH    OK    RCLHIEHH3. 

If,  for  silver  or  for  gold. 

You  could  lycdt  ten  thousand  pimples 

Into  half  a  dozen  dimples. 
Then  your  face  we  miirht  behold. 

Looking,  doubtless,  much  more  snugly; 

Yet  even  then  't  would  >>»^  d— d  ugly. 


TO  MR.  MURRAY. 

To  hook  the  reader,  you,  John  Murray, 
Have  publisird  "  Anjim's  Marsraret," 

Which  won't  be  sold  off  in  a  hurry. 
(At  least,  it  has  not  beeti  as  yet  ;^ 

And  thiMi,  still  further  to  bewilder  'em. 

Without  remorse  yr-ii  set  up  ••  Ilderim;" 
So  mind  you  don't  iret  into  debt. 

Because  as  how,  if  you  sho  Id  fail. 

These  books  would  he  bu'  i  iiklish  bail. 


H6 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  mind  you  do  not  let  escape 
Those  rhymes  to  Morning  Post  or  Perry, 
Wliioh  would  he  very  treacherous — very. 

Ami  get  me  into  pm-ji  a  scrape  ! 
For,  firstly,  I  sliould  have  to  sally. 
All  in  my  little  boat,  a^rainst  a  Gnlley ; 

And,  should  I  chance  to  slay  the  Assyriati  vvi^ht, 

Have  next  trs  combat  with  the  female  knijrht. 

J\Iarch  25,  1817. 


EPISTLE  FROM  MR.  MURRAY  TO 
DR.  POLIDORI. 

Dear  Doctor,  T  have  read  your  play, 
Which  is  a  good  one  in  its  way, — 
Purges  the  eyes  and  moves  the  bowels, 
And  drenches  handkerchiefs  like  towels 
With  tears,  that,  in  a  (lux  of  grief. 
Afford  hysterical  relief 
To  shatter'd  nerve?  and  quicken'd  pulses, 
Which  your  catastrophe  convulses. 

I  like  your  moral  and  machinery; 
Your  ])lot,  too,  has  such  scope  for  scenery; 
Your  dialogue  is  apt  and  smart ; 
The  [)lay's  concoction  full  of  art ; 
Your  hero  raves,  your  heroine  cries, 
All  .<tah,  and  every  body  d»ps. 
fii  short,  vour  tragedy  would  be 
The  v.ry  thing  to  hear  and  see: 
A  in;  for  a  piece  of  publication, 
!•'  !  ii;(!ii;!'  on  this  occasion. 
It  is  not  that  I  am  not  sensible 
T^«  w.erits  in  themselves  ostensible; 
But— and  I  grieve  to  speak  it— plays 
Are  drugs— mere  drugs,  sir— now-a-days. 
J  had  a  heavy  los*  by  "  Manuel," — 
Too  lucky  if  it  prove  not  annual,— 
And  rf'.itlioby,  witli  his  "Orestes," 
(Which,  by  the  by,  the  author's  best  is,) 
Has  iaiii  so  very  long  on  hand, 
Thill  1  despair  of  all  demand. 
I've  a.'ivertised,  but  see  my  books, 
Or  oiiiy  watch  my  shopman's  looks; — 
Still  Ivan,  lua,  and  such  lumber. 
My  tiack-shop  glut,  my  shelves  encumber. 

Tli'ri;  's  Byron  too,  who  once  did  better. 
Has  sent  me,  folded  in  a  letter, 
A  sort  of— it 's  no  more  a  dran»a 
Than  Daniley,  Ivati,  or  Kehama  ; 
?o  alter'd  since  last  year  his  pen  is, 
I  think  he's  lost  his  wits  ai  Venice. 
!n  snort,  sir,  what  with  one  and  t'other, 
I  lari;  not  venture  on  another. 
I  write  in  haste  ;  excuse  each  blunder; 
The  ciiaches  through  the  streets  so  thunder! 
My  roi.m  's  so  full— we've  Gifiord  here 
Ri'adiiiL'  MS.,  with  Mookman  Frere, 
Pronnuiu'in-  on  the  nouns  and  particles 
Of  some  of  our  forthcoming  Articles. 

Tiie  (iuarterly — Ah,  sir,  if  you 
Had  hut  tlu!  genius  to  review!— 
A  T^mtirl  rriliqiie  upon  St.  Helena, 
{)T  if  you  onl>   would  hut  tell  in  a 
Fliori  compass  what  — hut,  to  resume: 
As  I  was  sa'iiig  "^it    'he  moia — 


The  room  's  so  full  of  wits  and  bards, 

Crahbes,  Campbells,  Crokers,  Freres,  ant  Wuxda 

And  others,  neiflier  ba'ds  nor  wits- — 

•Vly  hiimhie  tentunent  admits 

All  persons  in  the  dress  of  gent., 

From  Mr.  r.'ammoud  to  Dog  Dent. 

A  party  dines  witli  me  to-day, 
Ail  clever  men,  *\  iio  make  their  way; 
Crahbe,  Malcolm,  Hamiiton,  and  Chantrey 
Are  all  partakers  of  my  pantry. 
Tiiey 're  at  this  moment  in  discussion 
On  poor  De  Stael's  late  dissolution. 
Her  book,  they  say,  was  in  advance — 
Pray  Hi^aven,  she  tell  the  truth  of  France ! 
Tlius  run  our  time  and  tongues  away. — 
But,  tojreturn,  sir,  to  vour  play: 
Sorry,  sir,  hut  I  cannot  deal. 
Unless  't  were  acted  by  O'Neil. 
My  iiands  so  full,  my  head  so  busy, 
r  m  almost  dead,  and  always  di/zy  ; 
And  so,  with  endl(,'ss  truth  and  hurry, 
Dear  Doctor,  I  am  yours, 

John  MtJRtTiV 


EPISTLE  TO  ]MR.  MURRAY. 

My  dear  Mr.  Murray, 
You're  in  a  damn'd  hurry 

To  set  up  this  ultimate  CanV); 
But  (if  they  don't  roii  us) 
You'll  see  Mr.  Hohhouse 

Will  bring  it  sai'e  in  his  portmanteati. 
For  the  Journal  you  hint  of, 
As  ready  to  print  off, 

No  (iouhi  you  do  riiriit  to  commend  it; 
But  as  yet  1  liave  writ  off 
Th(!  devil  a  hit  of 

Our  "  Bcppo  :" — when  copied,  I  "11  send  il. 

Tiien  you  've  *  *  *  's  Tour,— 
No  gii.sit  liiiiigs,  to  h<;  sure,— 

You  couhl  lianily  beinn  witli  a  less  work  ; 
For  the  pompous  rascallion, 
Who  don't  speak  Italian 

Nor  French,  must  liave  scribbled  by  guess-v/;jr« 

You  can  make  any  loss  up 
With  "Speuce"  and  iiis  gossip, 

A  work  wiiicli  must  surely  succeed; 
Tlien  Q,ueen  Mary's  Epistie-craft, 
With  the  new  "  Fytte"  of  "  Whistlecrcft,*^ 

Must  m-ike  peo'de  purchase  and  read. 

Then  vou  've  Oemral  Gordon, 
Who  L'lnlcd  his  sword  on. 

To  serve  with  a  Muscovite  master 
And  help  liim  to  ptdish 
A  nation  so  owlish. 

Tli(!V  thouL'iil  sliavini;  their  lieards  a  disaster. 

For  the  man.  "poor  aiid  shrewd," 
With  whom  you  'd  conclude 

A  compact    wiliiout    more  delay, 
Perhaps  some  such  pen  is 
Ptill  extant  in  Venice  ; 

But  please,  sir,  to  mention   ijGur  pay. 

f-'cnicc.  JanuaTy  8,  If'lrt 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


14: 


TO  MR.  MURRAY. 

SiR.«n.iv,  Tdrisoii.  T,iiitot  of  the  timet 
Patron    imi   (iiinlislicr  of   rliymcs, 
F'or  thee  ilio  l);u.l   iii)   I'liidu^  climbs, 
My  Murray. 

T'l  thtc,  witli  liope  and  terror  diiiiib, 
'I'lie  nn fiedcr(Ml  MS.  authors  conio : 
TI;ou  j)riulest  all  -and  stllesl  some — 
My  Murray. 

Upon  thy  table's  baize  so  green 
Tiie  last  new  (iuarterly  is  seen, — 
But  where  is  tliy  new  Ala-razuie, 
My  Murray? 

Along  thy  sprucest  book-shelves  shine 
Tlie  works  thou  deeinest  most  divine — 
The  '•  Art  of  Cookery,"  and  mine, 
My  Murray. 

Tours,  Travels.  Essays,  too,  I  wist. 
And  Sermons  to  thy  mill  bring  grist; 
And  then  thou  hast  tlie  "  Navy  List," 
My  Murray. 

.\nd  rieaven  forbid  I  should  conclude 
Without  "  the  Board  of  Longitude," 
Altiiough  tiiis  narrow  paper  would. 
My  Murray! 

Venice,  March  25,  1818. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

What  are  you  doing  now. 

Oh  Thomas  xMoore  ? 
What  are  you  doing  now, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore? 
Siyhiiig  or  suing  now, 
Rhyniiug  or  wooing  now, 
Biliiiiir  or  cooing  now, 
Which,  Thomas  Moore? 

But  the  CariiivaTs  coming, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore  1 
The  (,'ar;i!v;;rs  coming, 

();.  Thoiiias   Moore  ! 

Maskisi^'  and   iMjinming, 

Filing  and  .iruinuiing, 

Guilarriiig  and  strumming. 

Oh  Tliomas  Moore  ! 


STWZAS. 

7»-.iEN-  a  man  hath  no  freedfim  to  tinht  tor  at  homfi, 
J.cl  liim  r;<aibai  for  that  of  his  tici-libinirs; 

I.,  t  him  thi'ik  <'f  tiu'  irl'uies  of  Greece  and  of  Ronn 
.\V'{  /el  knork'd  on  th^'  luad  for  his  labours. 

V><  do  good  to  mankind  is  the  chivalrous  plan, 

And  IS  ah\  ays  as  nohly  requited  ; 
Then  battle  for  frfi-dom  wherever  you  can. 

And    il   not  Shu    .r  haiig'd,  you  '11  get  kmghted 


EPITAPH  FOR  WILLIAM  PITT. 

With  death  doom'd  to  grapple 
Beneath  this  cold  slab,  he 

Who  lied  in  the  Chapid 
Now  lies  in  the  Abbey, 


ON  MY  WEDDIXG-DAY. 

Here's  a  happy  new  y(>ar  !  but  with  reaac  i 
I  beg  you  'II  permit  me  to  say — ■ 

Wish  me  many  returns  of  the  season, 
But  as  few  as  you  please  of  the  da-j 


EPIGRAM. 


The  world  is  a  bundle  of  hay, 
Mjmkind  are  the  asses  who  pull; 

Each  tugs  in  a  different  way. 

And  the  greatest  of  all  is  John  Bull. 


THE  CHARITY  BALL. 

[On  hearing  that  Lady  Byron  hnd  l)eon  P:itronpss  of  a  Ral   in 
aid  of  some  charity  al  Hinckley.] 

Wh.\t  matter  the  pangs  of  a  husband  and  father, 

If  his  sorrows  in  e.\i!e  be  great  or  be  small, 
So  the  Pharisee's  glories  around  her  she  gather, 

And  the  saint  patronizes  her  "  charity  ball  '" 
What    matters— a   heart    which,   th.ougli   faulty,  was 
feeling, 

Be  driven  to  excesses  which  once  could  appal- 
That  the  sinner  should  suffer  is  only  fair  dealing. 

As  the  saint  keeps  her  charity  back  for  the  ball '" 


EPIGRAM, 
ON  the  bra-^iers'  company  having  resoi.ved  to  pas 

sent    an    address     10    QUEEN    CAROLINE. 

The  brasiers,  it  seems,  are  preparitig  to  pass 
An  address,  and  present  it  them.^  'Ives  all  in  brass;— 
A  superfluous  pageant— for.  by  ti^   Lord  Harry! 
They  '11  find  wliere  they  aie  going  much  more  than  the? 
carry. 


TO   MR.  MURRAY. 

For  Oxford  and  for  Waldegrave 

You  give  much  m^re  than  me  you  gave; 

Which  IS  not.  fairly  to  behave, 

My  Murray. 

Because  if  a  live  dog,  'tis  said 
Be  worth  a   Inui   tairly  sped, 
A  live  lord  must  l)e  worth  two  dead,. 
My  Murray. 

And  if.  as  the  opinion  goes, 
'V'erse  hath  a  better  sale  than  prose— 
Certes,  1  should  have  more  than  thcao. 
My  Vlurrav. 


148 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


But  now  this  sheet  is  nearly  cramm'd, 
So,  if  you  will,  I  shan't  be  shamm'd, 
So,  if  you  won't,  you  may  be  damn'd, 
My  Murray. 


ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  JOHN  WILLIAM  RIZZO 
HOPPNER. 

His  father's  sense,  his  mother's  grace, 
In  him,  I  hope,  will  always  fit  so ; 

With — still  to  keep  him  in  good  case — 
The  health  and  appetite  of  Rizzio, 


STANZAS,  TO  A  HINDOO  AIR. 

[These  verses  were  written  by  Lord  Byron  a  little  before  he 
•eft  Italy  for  Greece.  They  were  meant  to  suit  the  Hindoa- 
tanee  air — "Alia  Alalia  Punca,"  which  the  Countess  Guiccioli 
was  fond  of  singing.] 

Oh  ! — my  lonely — lonely— lonely — Pillow  I 
Where  is  my  lover?  where  is  my  lover? 
!-■'  it  his  bark  which  my  dreary  dreams  discover? 
Far— far  away  !  and  alone  along  the  billow? 

Oh  !  my  lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow! 
Wliy  must  my  head  ache  where  his  gentle  brow  lay? 
How  the  long  night  flags  lovelessly  and  slowly, 
And  my  head  droops  over  thee  like  the  willow. — 

Oh     thou,  my  sad  and  solitary  Pillow! 
Send  me  kind  dreams  to  keep  my  heart  from  breaking, 
In  return  for  the  tears  I  shed  upon  thee  waking; 
Let  me  not  die  till  he  comes  back  o'er  the  billow. — 

Thi^i,  if  thou  wilt — no  more  my  lonely  Pillow, 
ill  one  embrace  let  these  arms  again  enfold  him, 
And  then  expire  of  the  joy— but  to  behold  him  I 
Ob  1  my  lone  bosom  ! — Oh  !  my  lonely  Pillow  1 


STANZAS. 

["CODLD    LOVE   FOR    EVER."] 
I. 

LoDLD  Love  for  ever 
Run  like  a  river. 
And  Time's  endeavour 

Be  tried  in  vain — 
No  other  pleasure 
With  this  could  measure; 
And  like  a  treasure 

We  'd  hug  the  chain. 
But  since  our  sighing 
Ends  in  dying. 
And  form'd  for  flying. 

Love  plumes  his  wing; 
Tlien  for  this  reason 
Let 's  love  a  season  ; 
let  that  season  be  only  Spring. 


Bu 


When  lovers  parted 
Feel  brokeii-lii-ailcd, 
And,  fill  hojx's  tlnvarted, 
Expect  to  die  ; 


A  few  years  elder. 
Ah  !  how  much  coldor 
They  might  behold  her 
For  whom  they  sigh ! 
When  link'd  together, 
In  every  weather, 
They  pluck  Love's  feathe: 

From  out  his  wing — 
He  '11  stay  for  ever. 
But  sadly  shiver 
Without  his  plumage,  when  past  the  Spnug 


Like  Chiefs  of  Faction, 
His  life  is  action — 
A  formal  paction 

That  curbs  his  reign. 
Obscures  his  glory. 
Despot  no  more,  he 
Such  territory 

duits  with  disdain. 
Still,  still  advancing. 
With  banners  glancing, 
His  power  enhancing. 

He  must  move  on — 
Repose  but  cloys  him. 
Retreat  destroys  him. 
Love  brooks  not  a  degraded  throna. 


Wait  not,  fond  lover  I 
Till  years  are  over. 
And  then  recover. 

As  from  a  dream. 
While  each,  bewailing 
The  other's  failing. 
With  wrath  and  railing, 

All  hideous  seem — 
While  first  decreasing, 
Yet  not  quite  ceasing. 
Wait  not  till  teasing 

All  passion  blight : 
If  once  diminish'd, 
Love's  reign  is  fiiiish'd — 
Then  part  in  friendsiiip,— and  bid  gooJ-nigbt 

V. 

So  shall  AflTection 
To  recollection 
The  dear  connexion 

Bring  back  with  joy ; 
You  had  not  wailed 
Till,  tired  or  hated. 
Your  passions  sated 

Began  to  cloy. 
Your  last  enihraces 
Leave  no  cold  traces — 
The  same  fond  faces 

As  through  the  past; 
And  eyes,  the  mirrors 
Of  your  sweet  errors, 
Reflect  but  rapture— not  least,  though  lust 


True,  separations 

Ask  more  than  patience; 

What  desperations 

From  such  Have  risen! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Ui 


But  yet  remaining, 
What  is't  bnt  chaining 
Hearts  which,  once  waning, 

Beat  'gainst  their  prison? 
Time  can  bnt  cloy  love, 
And  use  destroy  love: 
The  winged  boy,  Lotc, 

Is  but  for  hoys — 
You'll  find  it  torture 
Though  sharper,  shorter, 
To  wean,  and  not  wear  out,  your  joys. 


THE   BLUES. 

A  LITERARY   ECLOGUE. 


♦'Nimium  ne  crede  colori." — Virgil. 

0  trust  not,  ye  beautiful  creatures,  to  hue, 

Though  your  hair  were  as  red  as  your  stockings  are  blue. 


ECLOGUE  FIRST. 

London. — Before  the  Door  of  a  Lecture  Eoom. 

Enter  Tract,  meeting  Insel. 

Ink.  You're  too  late. 
Tra.  Is  it  over? 

Ink.  Nor  will  be  this  hour. 

But  the  benches  are  cramm'd  like  a  garden  in  flower, 
With  the  pride  of  our  belles   who  have   made  it  the 

fashion ; 
80  instead  of  "  beaux  arts,"  we  may  say  "  la  belle  pas- 
sion ;" 
For  learning,  which  lately  has  taken  the  lead  in 
The  world,  and  set  all  the  fine  gentlemen  reading. 
Tra     I   know   it  too   well,   and  have   worn  out  my 
patience 
With  studying  to  study  your  new  publications. 
There's   Vamp,   Scamp,   and   Mouthy,  and  "Wordswords 

and  Co. 
'^th  th  ir  damnable — 

irJk.  Hold,  my  good  friend,  do  you  know 

"'WTiom  you  speak  to  ? 

Tra.  Right  well,  boy,  and  so  does  "  the  Row ;" 

You're  an  author — a  poet — 

Ink.  And  think  you  that  I 

Can  stand  tamely  in  silence,  to  hear  you  decry 
The  Muses? 


Tra.  Excuse  me;  I  meant  no  orfenee 

To  the  Nine;  though  the  number  who  make  some  pr» 

tence 
To  their  favours  is  such — but  the  subject  to  drop, 
I  am  just  piping  hot  from  a  publishers  shop, 
(Next  door  to  the  pastry-cook's;  so  that  when  I 
Cannot  find  the  new  volume  I  wanted  to  buy 
On  the  bibliopole's  shelves,  it  is  only  two  paces. 
As  one  finds  every  author  in  one  of  those  places,) 
Where  I  just  had  been  skimming  a  charming  critique, 
So  studded  with  wit,  and  so  sprinkled  with  Greek! 
Where  your  friend — you  know  who — had  just  got  sucb 

a  threshing. 
That  is,  as  the  phrase  goes,  extremely  ^^  refreshing." 
What  a  beautiful  word! 

Ink.  Very  true  ;  't  is  so  soft 

And  so  cooling — they  use  it  a  little  too  oft; 
And  the  papers  have  got  it  at  last — but  no  matter. 
So  they  've  cut  up  our  fi-ieud  then? 

Tra.  Not  left  him  a  tatter- 

Not  a  rag  of  his  present  or  past  reputation. 
Which  they  call  a  disgrace  to  the  age  and  the  nation. 

Ink.    I'm    sorry   to    hear  this;    for    friendship,   yoo 
know — 
Our  poor  friend! — but  I  thought  it  would  terminate 

so. 
Our  friendship  is  such,  I'll  read  nothing  to  shock  it. 
You  don't  happen  to  have  the  Review  in  your  pocket? 

Tra.  No ;  1  left  a  round  dozen  of  authors  and  others 
(Yer\'  sorry,  no  doubt,  since  the  cause  is  a  brother's) 
All  scrambling  and  jostling,  like  so  many  imps, 
And  on  fire  with  impatience  to  get  the  next  glimpse 

Ink.  Let  us  join  them. 

Tra.  What,  won't  you  return  to  the  lecture  f 

Ink.  Why,  the  place  is  so  cramm'd,  there's  not  room 
for  a  spectre. 
Besides,  our  friend  Scamp  is  to-day  so  absurd — 

Tra.  How  can  you  know  that  till  you  hear  him? 

In!:.  I  heard 

Quite  enough ;  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  retreat 
Was  from  bis  vile  nonsense,  no  le«s  than  the  heat. 

Tra.  I  have  had  no  great  loss  then  ? 

Ink.  Loss!— such  a  palaver! 

I'd  inoculate  sooner  my  wife  with  the  slaver 
Of  a  dog  when  gone  rabid,  than  listen  two  hours 
To  the  torrent  of  trash  which  around  him  he  pours, 
Pump'd  up  with  such  effort,  disgorged  with   such   1« 
bour. 

That come  —  do  not  make  me   speai  ill  of  oue'« 

neighbour. 

Tra.  /make  you! 

Ink.                            Yes,  you !  I  said  nothing  until 
You  compell'd  me,  by  speaking  the  truth 

Tra.  To  speak  HI  ? 

Is  that  your  deduction? 

Ink.  What  speaking  of  Scamp,  \11 

I  certainly /o//ojtJ,  not  set,  an  example. 
That  fellow  'g  a  fool,  an  impostor,  a  zany. 

Tj-a.  And  the  crowd  of  to-day  shows  that  one  fool 
makes  many. 
But  we  two  will  be  wise. 

Ink.  Pray,  then,  let  us  retire 

Tra.  I  would,  but 


150 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Ink.  There  must  be  attraction  much  higher 

Than  Sc&mp,  or  the  Jevvs'-harp  he  nicknames  his  lyre, 
To  call  you  to  this  hotbed. 

Tra.  I  own  it — 't  is  true — 

A  fair  lady 

Iji/c.  A  spinster? 

Tra.  Miss  Lilac ! 

Ink.  The  Blue  1 

The  heiress  ? 

Tra.  The  angel ! 

Ink.  The  devil!  why,  man! 

Pray  got  out  of  this  hobble  as  fast  as  you  can. 
Yju  wed  with  Miss  Lilac !  't  would  be  your  perdition: 
She  's  a  poet,  a  chymist,  a  mathematician. 

Tra.  I  say  she  's  an  angel. 

Ink.  Say  rather  an  avgle. 

If  you  and  she  marry,  you  '11  certainly  wrangle. 
1  say  she  's  a  Blue,  man,  as  blue  as  the  ether. 

Tra.  And  is  that  any  cause  for  not  coming  together? 

fiik    Humph  !  I  can't  say  I  know  any  happy  alliance 
Which -has    lately   sprung   up  from    a   wedlock    with 

science. 
She  's  so  learned  in  all  things,  and  fond  of  concerning 
Herself  in  all  matters  connected  with  learning, 
That 

Tra.         What  ? 

Ink.  I  perhaps  may  as  well  hold  my  tongue  : 

But  there 's  five  hundred  people  can  tell  you  you  're 
wrong. 

Tra.  You  forget  Lady  Lilac  's  as  rich  as  a  Jew. 

I7ik.  Is  it  miss  or  the  cash  of  mamma  you  pursue  ? 

Tra.  Why,  Jack,  I'll  be  frank  with  you— something 
of  both. 
Th(!  gir!  's  a  fine  girl. 

hyk.  And  j'ou  feel  nothing  loth 

To  her  good  lady-mother's  reversion  ;   and  yet 
Her  life  is  as  good  as  your  own,  I  will  bet. 

Tra.  Let  her  live,  and  as  long  as  she  likes  ;  I  demand 
IVothiug  more  than  the  heart  of  her  daughter  and  hand. 

Ink.   Why,  that  heart's  in  the  inkstand — that  hand 
on  the  pen. 

Tra.    Apropos — Will  you  write  me  a  song  now  and 
then  ? 

Ink.   To  what  purpose? 

Tra.            You  know,  my  dear  friend,  that  in  prose 
My  talent  is  decent,  as  far  as  it  goes; 
But  in  rhyme 4 

Ink.  You're  a  terrible  stick,  to  be  sure 

Tra.  I  own  it ;  and  yet,  in  these  times,  there  's  no  lure 
F'or  the  heart  of  the  fair  like  a  stanza  or  two; 
And  .so,  as  I  can't,  will  you  furnish  a  few? 

Ink.   In  your  name? 

Tra.  In  my  name.   I  will  copy  them  out, 

To  slip  -riito  her  hand  at  the  very  next  rout. 

Ink.  Are  you  so  far  advanced  as  to  hazard  this? 

Tra.  Why, 

Do  you  think  me  subdued  by  a  Blue-stocking's  eye, 
3n  far  as  to  trenihle  to  tell  her  in  rhyme 
What   I 'v(-  t(il(i  her  in  prose,  at  the  least,  as  sublime? 

Ink.   jS.«  suh/itue!    If  it  be  so,  no  need  of  my  Muse. 

Tra.    IJui    consider,   dear    Inkel,    she's    one  of  the 

•'   iJllil.'S." 

fvk.   As  sublime  !— Mr.  Tracy — I've  nothing  to  say. 
Stick  to  i»ros';— As  sublime  ! !  — but  I  wish  you  good  day. 

Tra     j\ay,    (*tay,    my   dear   fellow  —  consider  —  I'm 
wrong ; 
I  jwi',  il     but  prithee,  compose  me  the  song. 

rnk     '^1  dublime  !  ! 

Tra  Bui  I  used  the  expression  in  haste. 


Ink.  That  may  be,  Mr.  Tracy,  but  shows  daitmti  bai 
taste. 

Tra.   I  own  it — I  know  it— acknowledge  it— wha 
Can  I  say  to  you  more  ? 

Ink.  I  see  what  you  'd  be  at : 

You  disparage  my  parts  v.ith  insidious  abuse. 
Till  you  think  you  can  turn  them  best  to  your  own  v»e 

Tra.  And  is  that  not  a  sign  I  respect  them  ? 

Ink.  Why  thai 

To  be  sure  makes  a  difference. 

Tra.  I  know  what  is  what, 

And  you,  who 're  a  man  of  the  gay  world,  no  less 
Than  a  poet  of  t'  other,  may  easily  guess 
That  I  never  could  mean  by  a  word  to  offend 
A  genius  like  you,  and  moreover  my  friend. 

Ink.   No  doubt ;  you  by  this  time  should  know  what 
is  due 
To  a  man  of— but  come — let  us  shake  hands. 

Tra.  You  knew, 

And  you  hioic,  my  dear  fellow,  how  heartily  I, 
Whatever  you  publish,  am  ready  to  buy. 

Ink.  1'liat 's  my  bookseller's  business;  I  care  not  foi 
sale  ; 
Indeed  the  best  poems  at  first  rather  fail. 
There  were  Renegade's  epics,  and  Botherby's  plays. 
And  my  own  grand  romance 

Tra.  Mad  its  full  share  of  praise 

I  myself  saw  it  puff'd  in  the  "  Old  Girl's  Review." 

Ink.  What  Review  ? 

Tra.  'Tis  the  English  "Journal  de  Trevoux;' 

A  clerical  work  of  our  Jesuits  at  home. 
Have  you  never  yet  seen  it  ? 

Ink.  That  pleasure  's  to  corau 

Tra.  Make  haste  then. 

Ink.  Why  so? 

Tra.  I  have  heard  people  say 

That  it  threaten'd  to  give  up  the  ghost  V  other  day. 

Ink.   Well,  that  is  a  sign  of  some  spirit. 

Tra.  No  doubt 

Shall  you  be  at  the  Countess  of  Fiddlecome's  rout  ? 

Ink.  I  've  a  card,  and  shall  go  ;  but  at  present,  as  soon 
As  friend  S('amp  shall  be  pleased  to  step  down  from  the 

moon, 
(W^here  he  seems  to  be  soaring  in  search  of  his  vvits.J 
And  an  interval  grants  from  his  lecturing  fits, 
I  'm  engaged  to  the  Lady  Bluebottle's  collation. 
To  partake  of  a  luncheon  and  learn'd  conversation; 
'Tis  a  sort  of  reunion  for  Scamp,  on  the  days 
Of  his  lecture,  to  treat  him  with  cold  tongue  and  praise 
And  I  own,  for  my  own  part,  that  't  is  not  ui  -Dlcasant 
Will  you  go  ?   There  's  Miss  Lilac  will  also  be  ^ resent. 

Tra.  That  "  metal 's  attractive." 

Ink.  No  doubt— to  the  pocket 

Tra.  You  should  rather  encourage  my  passion  than 
shock  it. 
But  let  us  proceed;  for  I  think,  by  the  hum 

Ink.  Very  true  ;  let  us  go,  then,  before  they  can  com** 
Or  else  we  '11  be  kept  here  an  hour  at  their  levy. 
On  the  rack  of  cross  questions,  by  all  the  blue  bevy. 
Hark  !  Zounds,  they  '11  be  on  us  ;  I  know  by  the  drone 
Of  old  Botherby's  spouting,  ex-cathedra  tone. 
Ay!    there  he  is  at  it.     Poor  Scamp!    better  join 
Your  friends,  or  he  'II  pay  you  back  in  your  own  coin. 

Tra.  All  fair;  't  is  but  lecture  for  lecture. 

Ink.  That's  clear 

But  for  God's  sake  let 's  go,  or  the  bore  will  be  here. 
Come,  come  ;  nay,  I  'm  off.  (  Erit  iNKtv. 

'I'ra.  You  are  right,  and  I  '11  I'ollow 

'Tis  high  time  for  a  "Sic  mc  servavit  Jipcllo." 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


151 


\iiu  yet  we  shall  have  the  whole  crew  nn  our  kibes. 
Blues,  dandies,  and  douairers,  and  second-hand  scribes, 
All  flocking  to  inoii^ter.  their  exqnif^ite  throttles 
With  a  glass  of  Madeira  at  Lady  Dlwebottle's. 

[Exit  Tract 


ECLOGUE  SECOND 

4n    Apartment   in   the   House  of  L\dy    Bluedottlk. — 
.-J  Table  prepared. 
^iR  Richard  Bukbottle  solus. 
Was  there  ever  a  man  wlio  was  married  so  sorry  ? 
Like  a  fooi,  I  must  needs  do  the  thing  in  a  huny. 
My  lif(!  is  reversed,  and  my  quiet  destroy'd  ; 
My  days,  which  once  pass'd  in  so  gentle  a  void, 
Must  now,  every  hour  of  the  twelve,  be  employ'd : 
Tile  twelve,  do  I  say  ?— of  the  whole  twenty-four, 
Is  there  one  whi>.h  I  dare  call  my  own  any  more? 
What  witn  driving  and  visiting,  dancing  and  dining. 
What  with  learning,  and  teaching,  and  scribbling,  and 

shining, 
In  science  and  art,  1  '11  be  curst  if  I  know 
Myself  from  my  wife  ;  for  although  we  are  two. 
Vet  she  somehow  contrives  that  all  things  shall  be  done 
111  a  style  tiiat  proclaims  us  eternally  one. 
Hul  the  thiu^ir  of  all  things  which  distresses  me  more 
Than   the  bills  of  the  week  (though  they  trouble  me 

sore) 
Is  the  ntunerous,  humorous,  backbiting  crew 
Of  scribblers,  wits,  lecturers,  white,  black,  and  blue. 
Who  are  bro;ii.'ht  to  my  house  as  an  inn,  to  my  cost 
—For  the  bill  here,  it  seems,  is  defray'd  by  the  host — 
No  pleatiure  !  no  leisure !  no  thought  for  my  pains. 
Bill  to  hear  a  vile  inr^ron  which  addles  my  brains* 
A  smatter  and  chatter,  glean'd  out  of  reviews, 
»n-the  rag,  tag,  and  bc^bta;!,  of  those  they  call  "  Blues-'' 
A  rabble  who  know  not— but  soft,  here  they  come  ! 
Would  to  God  I  were  deaf!  as  I  m  not,  I  '11  be  dumb. 

Enter    Lady    Bluebottle,    Miss    Lilac,   Lady    Blce- 

MOL-NT,   Mil.  Botherey,   Inkel,  Tracy,  Miss  Maza 

R!NE,  and  others,  with  Scamp  the  Lecturer,  8fc.  Sec. 

Lady  Elueh.    Ah  !    Sir  Richard,  good  morning  ;   I  've 
brought  you  some  friiMids. 

Sir  Rich.   {boic>\   and   afterwards   aside.)     If   friends, 
they  'le  the  tirst. 

Lndy  Blueb.  But  the  luncheon  attends. 

I  ,)ray  ye  be  seated,  "  savs  ceremonie." 
Mr.  Scamp,   you're   fatigued;   take  your  chair   there, 
next  me.  [  They  all  sit. 

Sir  Ric.'i.  {aside.)  If  he  does,  his  fatigue  is  to  come. 

Lady  Blueb.  Mr.  Tracy- 

Lady    Bluemmint— Miss    Lilac— be    pleased,    pray,    to 
'  place  ye ; 

.md  you.  Mi    Botherby — 

Both.  Oh,  my  dear  Lady, 

obey. 

Lidy  Blueb.  Mr.  Inke!,  I  ought  to  upbraid  ye  ; 
Vou  were  not  at  the  lecture. 

Ink.  Excuse  me,  I  was! 

But  the  heat  forced  me  out  ii   the  best  part — alas  ! 
And  when — 

L'zly  Blueb.  To  be  sure  it  was  broiling  ;  but  then 
/ou  Iiave  lost  such  a  lecture! 

Both.  The  best  of  the  ten. 

7'ra    How  can  you  know  that?  there  are  two  more 

Bot\  Because 

1  defy  him  to  beat  this  day's  WDndroiis  applause. 
The  very  walls  shook. 


Tnk.  Oh,  if  that  be  the  teat, 

I  allow  our  friend  Scamp  has  this  day  done  his  l)e«t. 
Miss  Lilac,  permit  me  to  help  you  ;— a  wing? 
Mss  Lil.  No  more.  Sir,  I  thank  you.     Who  lecturt< 

next  spring  ? 
Both.  Dick  Dander. 

/,„;,-.  That  is,  if  he  lives. 

Miss  Lil.  And  why  not  > 

Lik.  No  reason  whatever,  save  that  he  's  a  sot. 
Lady  Bluemount!  a  glass  of  Madeira? 
Lady  Blucm.  With  pleasure 

hik.  How  does  your  friend  Wordswords,  that  Winder- 
mere  treasure  ? 
Does  he  stick  to  his  lakes,  likes  the  leeches  he  sings. 
And    their    gatherers,   as    Homer    sung  warriors    and 
kings? 
Lady  Blueb.  He  has  just  got  a  place. 
jnh.  As  a  footman  ? 

Lady  Bluem.  For  shame  I 

Nor  profane  with  your  sneers  so  poetic  a  name. 

Ink.  Nay,  I  meant  him  no  evil,  but  pitied  his  master; 
For  the  poet  of  pedlars  't  were,  sure,  no  disaster 
To  wear  a  new  livery  ;  the  more,  as  't  is  not 
The  first  time  he  has  tiirii'd  both  his  creed  and  his  coa 
Lady  Bluem.  For   shame!     I    repeat.     If    Sic  George 

could  but  hear 

Lady  Blueb.    Never    mind   our   friend    Inkel  ;  we   all 
know,  my  dear, 
'Tis  his  way. 

But  this  place 

Is  perhaps  like  friend  Scatnp'*, 


Sir  Rich. 

Ink. 
A  lecturer's. 

Lady  Blueb.  Excuse  ine- 
Ile  is  made  a 

Tra. 

Sir  Rich. 

Mss  Lil. 


-'t  is  one  in  "  the  Slamps  :" 

collector. 

Collector  ! 

How  ? 

What  ? 

Ink.  I  shall  think  of  him  oft  when  f  buy  a  new  hai. 
There  his  works  will  appear 

Lady  Blucm.  Sir,  they  reach  to  the  Ganges. 

Ink.  I  shan't  go  so  far— I  can  have  them  at  Granges  • 

Lady  Blueb.  Oh  he  ! 

jSliss  Lil.  And  for  shame  ! 

Lady  Bluem.  You  're  too  bad. 

Both.  Very  good! 

Lady  Bluem.  How  goo'? 

Lady  Blueb.  He  means  nought— 't  is  iiis  phrase. 

Lady  Bluem.  He  grows  rude. 

Lady  Blueb.  He  means  nothing;  nay,  ask  him. 

Lndy  Bluem.  Pray,  sir!  did  vou  mean 

What  you  say  ? 

I)ik.  Never  mind  if  he  did;  't  will  be  seen 

That  whatever  he  means  won't  alloy  what  he  says. 

Both.  Sir! 

Ink.  Pray  be  content  with  your  portion  of  praise 
'T  was  in  your  defence. 

Both.  If  you  please,  with  submission 

I  can  make  out  my  own. 

Ink.  It  would  be  your  perdition 

While  you  live,  my  dear  Botherby,  never  defend 
Vourself  or  your  works;  but  leave  both  to  a  friend. 
Aiiropos— Is  your  play  then  accepted  at  last  1 

Both.  At  last 

Ink.  Why  I  thought— that 's  to  say— there  bad  pasi 
A  few  green-room  wiiispers,  which  hinted— you  know 
That  the  taste  of  tiie  actors  at  best  is  si  so. 

*  Granite  is  or  was  o  famous  pastry-cook  and  fiiulerer '» 
Piccadil' 


152 


BYKON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Bath    Sir,  the  green-rcom  's  in  rapture,  and  so  's  the 

committee. 
Ink.  Ay— yours  are  the  plays  for  ex'citing  our  "  pity 
Aiul  fear,"  as  the  Greek  says:  for  "  purj^ing  the  mind," 
doubt  if  you  '11  leave  us  an  equal  behind. 
Both    I  liave  written  the  prologue,  and  meant  to  have 
pray'd 
For  a  si)ice  of  your  wit  in  an  epilogue's  aid. 
Ink.  Well,  time  enough  yet,  when  the  play's  to  be 
play'd. 
[b  it  cist  yet  ? 

Both.  The  actors  are  fighting  for  parts. 

As  is  usual  in  that  most  litigious  of  arts. 
Lady  Blueb.  We  '11  all  make  a  party,  and  go  the  jirst 

night. 
Tra.  And  you  promised  the  epilogue,  Inkel. 
Ink.  Not  quite, 

llowever,  to  save  my  friend  Botherby  trouble, 
'II  do  what  I  can,  though  my  pains  must  be  double. 
Tra.  Why  so? 

Ink.  To  do  justice  to  what  goes  before. 

Both.  Sir,  I  'm  happy  to  say,  I  've  no  fears  on  that 
score. 

Vour  parts,  Mr.  Inkel,  are 

Ink.  Never  mind  mine., 

Slick  to  those  of  your  play,  which  is  quite  your  own 
line. 
I.ady  Bluem.  You  're   a  fugitive  writer,  I  think,  sir, 

of  rhymes  ? 
Ink.  Yes,  ma'am;   and  a  fugitive  reader  sometimes, 
n  Wordswords,  for  instance,  I  seldom  alight. 
Or  on  Mouthy,  his  friend,  without  taking  to  flight. 
Ladxj  Bluem.  Sir,  your  taste  is  too  common  ;  but  time 
and  posterity 
Will  right  these  great  men,  and  this  age's  severity 
Become  its  reproach. 
Ink.  I  've  no  sort  of  objection, 

o  I  'm  not  of  the  party  to  take  the  infection. 
Lady  Blueb.  Perhaps  you  have  doubts  that  they  ever 

will  take  7 
Ink.  Not  at  all ;  on  the  contrary,  those  of  the  lake 
Have  taken  already,  and  still  will  continue 
'i'o  take— what  they  can,  from  a  groat  to  a  guinea, 
Of  pension  or  place  ;—  but  the  subject 's  a  bore. 
Lady  Bluem.  Well,  sir,  the  time  's  coming. 
Ink.  Scamp !  do  n't  you  feel  sore  ? 

What  say  you  to  this  ? 

Scamp.  They  have  merit,  I  own  ; 

Tnoudh  their  system  's  absurdity  keeps  it  unknown. 
Ink.  Then  why  not  unearth  it  in  one  of  your  lectures? 
Scamp.  It  is  only  time   past  which  comes  under  my 

strictures. 
Lady  Blueb.  Come,  a  truce  with  all  tartness  :— the  joy 
of  my  heart 
Is  to  see  Nature's  triumph  o'er  all  tliat  is  art. 
Wild  Nature  !— Grand  Shakspeare  ! 
Both.  And  down  Aristotle. 

Lady  Bluem.   Sir   George    thinks   exactly  with   Lady 
Bhiehottle; 
And  my  Lord  Seventy-four,  who  protects  our  dear  Bard, 
And  who  gave  him  his  place,  has  the  greatest  regard 
F  )r  the  poet,  who,  singing  of  pedlars  and  asses, 
■las  found  out  the  way  to  dispense  with  Parnassus. 
Tra.  Alii  you,  Scamp  !— 

iicamp.  I  1  e(!<ls  must  confess  I  'in  embarrass'd. 

[nk.     D^n't    call    upon    Scamp,    who's    already  so 

hara.fs'd 

V>'i%  old  schools,  and  new  schools,  and  no  schools,  and 

all  schools.  ^ 

TVo.  Well  one   hi n;;  >■:  certain,  that  some  must  be  fools. 


1  sliould  like  to  know  who. 

Ink.  And  I  should  lot  le  sorrj 

To  know  who  are  not:— it  would  save  us  -n  me  A^orry. 

Lady  Blueb.  A  truce  with  remark,  and   let   notliing 
control 
This  "  feast  of  our  reason,  and  flow  of  the  sou' 
Oli,  my  dear  Mr.  Botherby  !  sympathize  ! — 1 
Now  feel  such  a  rapture,  I  'm  ready  to  fly, 
I  feel  so  elastic — "  so  buoyant! — so  buoyant  I"* 

Ink.  Tracy  I  open  the  window. 

7Va.  I  wish  her  much  joy  on  t 

Both.  For  God's  sake,  my  Lady  Bluebottle,  check  act 
This  gentle  emotion,  so  seldom  our  lot 
Upon  earth.    Give  it  way;  't  is  an  impulse  which  lifts 
Our  spirits  from  earth;  the  sublimest  of  gifts; 
For  which  poor  Prometheus  was  chain'd  to  his  moun- 
tain. 
'Tis  the  source  of  all  sentiment— feeling's  true  foun 

tain  . 
Tis  the  Vision  of  Heaven  upon  Earth:  't  is  the  gas 
Of  the  soul :  't  is  the  seizing  of  shades  as  they  pass, 
And  making  them  substance  :  't  is  something  divine  :— 

Ink    Shall  I  help  you,  my  friend,  to  a  little  more  wine  ? 

Both.  I  thank  you  ;  not  any  more,  sir,  till  I  dine. 

Ink.  Apropos — Do  you   dine   with   Sir  Humphrey  to 
day? 

Tra.  I  should  think  with  Duke  Humphrey  v/as  more 
in  your  way. 

Ink.  It  might  be  of  3^0 re ;  but  we  authors  now  looK 
To  the  knight,  as  a  landlord,  much  more  than  the  Dusa. 
The  truth  is,  each  writer  now  quite  at  his  case  is. 
And  (except  with  his  publisher)  dines  where  he  pleasoa 
But  't  is  now  nearly  five,  and  I  must  to  the  Park. 

Tra.  And  I  '11  take   a  turn  with  you  there  till    t  la 
dark. 
And  you,  Scamp— 

Scamp.  Excuse  me;  I  must  to  my  nciea, 

For  iny  lecture  next  week. 

Ink.  He  must  mind  whom  he  quotes 

Out  of  "  Elegant  Extracts." 

Lady  Blueb.  Well,  now  we  break  up; 

But  remember  Miss  Diddle  invites  us  to  sup. 

Ink.  Then  at  two  hours  past  midnight  we  '11  all  meet 
again. 
For  the  sciences,  sandwiches,  hock,  and  champagne  1 

Tra.  And  the  sweet  lobster  salad  ! 

Both.  I  honour  that  mea  , 

For  't  is  then  that  our  feelings  most  genuinely— feel. 

Ink.  True  ;  feeling  is  truest  then,  far   beyond  ques- 
tion : 
I  wish  to  the  gods  't  was  the  same  with  digestion  ! 

Lady  Blueb.  Pshaw! — never  mind  that;  for  one  mo- 
ment of  feeling 
Is  worth — God  knows  what. 

Ink.  'T  is  at  least  worth  cor.cealma 

For   itself,   or   what   follows But   here   comes  yojr 

carriage. 

■Sir  Rich,  [aside.)  I  wish  ail  tliese  peopie  were  d — -J 
with  my  marriage  !  [Ri:'unJ. 

*  Fact  from  life,  with  the  wcdi. 


HINTS    FROM    H  OK  ACE. 


153 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 

BEING 

AN  ALLUSION  TV  ENGLISH  VERSE  TO  THE 
EPISTLE  "  AD  PISOXES,  DE  ARTE  POETICA," 
AM)  IXrCVDED  AS  A  SEULJEL  TO  "ENGLISH 
BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS." 


"  Ergo  fungar  vice  cotis,  acutum 
tte-ld'^ie  qua)  terrum  valet,  exsors  ipsa  secandi." 

HOR.  De  Jirte  Port,  304.  305. 

dhymee  are  diflifulf  things— they  are  stubborn  things,  sir.' 
FIELDING'S  Amelia,  Vol.  iii.  Book  5.  Chap.  5. 


Atliens.    Capuchin  Convent,  March  12th,  1811. 
Who  would  not  lau<.'li,  if  Lawrence,  hired  to  grace 
His  costly  canvas  with  each  flatter'd  face. 
Abused  his  art,  till  Nature,  with  a  bhish, 
Saw  cits  jrrow  centaurs  underneath  his  brush? 
Or,  should  some  limner  join,  for  siiow  or  sale, 
A  maid  of  iionour  to  a  ineruiaid"s  tail  ? 
Or  lowi  Dtibost  (as  once  the  world  has  seen) 
Degrade  God's  creatures  in  his  <,'raphic  spleen  ? 
Not  all  that  forced  politeness,  which  defends 
Fools  in  their  faults,  could  gag  his  grinning  friends. 
Believe  me.  .Moschiis,  like  that  picture  seems 
The  book  which,  sillier  than  a  sick  man's  dreams, 
Displays  a  cr(V,vd  of  figures  incoini)lete. 
Poetic  liigiitmares,  without  head  or  feel. 

Poets  and  painters,  as  ail  artists  know. 
May  siuxit  a  little  with  a  lengthen'd  bow; 
We  claiin  this  mutual  mercy  for  our  task, 
And  izrant  in  turn  the  pardon  which  we  ask; 
But  make  not  monsters  spring  from  gentle  dams — 
Bir>is  breed  not  vipers,  tigers  nurse  not  lambs. 

A  labour'd,  long  e.Yordiiim,  sometimes  tends 
(Like  patriot  speeches)  but  to  paltry  ends; 
\nd  nonsense  in  a  lofty  note  goes  down, 
\b  pertness  passes  with  a  leL^al  sown  : 


Humano  capiti  cervicein  pictor  equtnam 
Jii:ii:»,'re  si  velit  et  varias  inducere  plumas, 
Utuiique  coilatis  membris,  iit  turpiter  atrum 
D'isiuat  in  piscem  mulier  formosa  superne  ; 
S})ectatum  admi.^si  risiim  teneatis.  amici  ? 
C're  lite,  Pisones,  iste  tabulre  fire  librum 
Persimili'iii,  cujus.  veliit  a*irri  somnia,  vans 
Fitiireiitur  species,  u1  nee  pes,  m-c  caput  uni 
Reddatur  forniie.     Pictoribus  atqne  poetis 
Quiillibet  audetidi  semper  tuit  a-qua  potestas. 
Scituus,  et  hanc  veniam  petinmsciue  damusque  vicis 

sim : 
Sed  non  ut  placiiiis  coe'ant  immitia;  non  ut 
Serpcntes  avihus  <:''miuentnr,  tii^ribus  agni. 

I'lnpptis  irravilius  pi   ru'iique  et  iiia^na  professi 
Purpureas,  late  (pii  splendeat,  unus  et  alter 

'.   In   :in    l'nu'i;sli   nf  wspiper,   which    finds   its  way  abroad 
viicrevrr   I  here   are  EiL'iir-linion,    I  read   an   account  of  thin 

dir:y  dau'.n'F  s  cancaMue  of  .Mr.  H ,  and  the  consefjuent 

jicliiii,  .'cc.    'I'hc  cirruinslmice  is  probe  My  too  well  known  to 
iKjiiiid  further  comment 


Thus  many  a  bard  .lescribes  in  pcmpuuu  straia 

T*ie  c  ear  brook  babbling  through  tiie  gi'odlj'  plain  ; 

The  groves  of  Granta,  ar-d  her  gothic  halls, 

King's  Coll.,  Cam's  stream,  stain'd  windows,  and  old 

walls : 
Or,  in  advent'rous  numbers,  neatly  aiirs 
To  paint  a  rainbow,  or  tiie  river  Tiian)es. 

You  sketch  a  tree,  and  so  ptirhaps  niay  shine — 
But  daub  a  shipwreck  like  an  alehouse  sign  ; 
You  plan  a  vase—'il  dwindles  to  a  poi; 
Then  glide  down  Grub-street— fasting  and  forgot 
Laugh'd  into  Lethe  by  some  quaint  review, 
Whose  wit  is  never  troublesome  till  true. 

In  fine,  to  whatsoever  you  aspire, 
Let  it  at  least  be  simple  and  entire. 

The  greater  portion  of  the  rhyming  tribe 
(Give  ear,  my  friend,  for  thou  hast  been  a  scribe) 
Are  led  astray  by  some  peculiar  lure. 
I  labour  to  be  brief— become  obscure; 
One  falls  while  following  elegance  too  fast; 
Another  soars,  inrlated  with  bombast; 
Too  low  a  third  crawls  on,  afraid  to  fly, 
He  spins  his  subject  to  satiety  ; 
Absurdly  varying,  he  at  last  engraves 
Fish  in  the  woods,  and  boars  beneath  the  waves! 

Unless  your  care's  e.vact,  your  judgment  nice, 
The  flight  from  folly  leads  but  into  vice; 
None  are  complete,  all  wanting  in  some  part, 
Like  certain  tailors,  limited  in  art. 
For  galligaskins  Slowshears  is  your  man, 
But  coats  nmst  claim  another  artizan.i 
Now  tliis  to  me,  I  own,  seems  much  the  same 
As  Vulcan's  feet  to  boar  Apollo's  frame; 
Or,  with  a  fair  complexion,  to  expose 
Black  eyes,  black  ringlets,  but— a  bottle  nose  I 

Dear  authors  !  suit  your  topics  to  your  strength. 
And  ponder  well  your  subject,  and  its  letigth  ; 
Nor  lift  your  load,  before  you  're  quite  aware 
What  weight  your  shoulders  will,  or  will  not,  bear. 


Assuitur  pan  mis  ;  cum  Incus  et  ara  Diana^, 
Et  properantis  aqua;  per  amnetios  ambitus  asros, 
Aut  fluinen  Rlxnium,  aut  pluvius  dcscribitur  arcus. 
Sed  nunc  non  erat  his  locus:  et  lortasse  cupressum 
Scis  siinulare:  quid  hoc,  si  fractis  enatat  exsjjcs 
Navibus,  ipre  dato  qui  piimitur  ?  amphora  ccepit 
Institui :  currente  rot.i  cur  urceus  exit  ? 
Detiique  sit  quod  vis,  simplex  diintaxat  et  unum. 

Maxima  pars  vatuiii,  pater,  et  juveiies  patre  digoi 
Decipimur  specie  recti.     Brevis  esse  laboro, 
Oliscuriis  fio:  sectantem  levia,  iiervi 
Deticiuut  animique  :  professus  grandia,  turget : 
Serpit  humi,  tutus  nimium,  timidusijue  procellae: 
Qui  variare  ciipit  rem  prodieialiter  uiiam, 
Delphinum  sylvis  a|)pinLnt  fiiictibus  aprurn. 

In  vitiiim  ducit  culp;t>  fujja,  si  caret  arte. 
iEmilium  circa  luduin  faber  unus  et  ungues 
Exprimet,  et  niolles  inntabitur  sre  capillos  ; 
Infelix  operis  siimnia,  quia  ponere  totum 
Nesciet.     Dune  ego  me,  si  quid  componere  curem 
Non  mai:!S  esse  veliin,  quain  pravo  vivere  naso, 
Spectandum  niirris  oculis  nigroque  capillo. 

Siimite  materiem  vestris,  qui  scribitis,  equam 
Viribus;  et  versate  diu  quid  ferre  recusent 

1  "  Where  pure  description  held  the  place  of  sense.  —Pcpf. 
1  Mere  common  mortals  were  commonly  C(mtent  with  onf 
tailor  and  with  one  bill,  but  the  more  particular  gentiernen 
found  it  impossible  to  confide  their  lower  garments  to  thr 
makers  of  their  body  clothes.  I  speak  of  the  beginiiinft  of 
1809:  what  reform  may  have  isince  taken  place  1  nciinM 
know  nor  desire  to  know. 


154 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


But  Iicid  Order,  and  Wit's  siren  voice, 
Await  the  poet,  skilful  in  his  choice; 
With  native  ehiqnence  he  soars  along, 
Grace  in  his  thoughts,  and  music  in  his  song. 

Let  judj^meiU  teach  him  wisely  to  combine 
A'ith  future  parts  the  now  omitted  line; 
This  sliill  the  author  choose,  or  that  reject, 
Precise  in  style,  and  oautiotis  to  select. 
Nor  slight  applause  will  cnndid  pens  afford 
To  him  who  furnishes  a  wanting  word. 
Then  fear  not  if  't  is  needful  to  produce 
SiiMie  term  unknown,  or  obsolete  in  use, 
I  As  1  Pitt  has  furnisird  us  a  word  or  twi, 
U'hich  le\icogra|)hers  declined  to  do  ;) 
^o  you,  indeed,  with  care,— (but  be  content 
fo  take  this  license  rarely)— may  invent. 
New  words  find  credit  in  these  latter  days, 
f  neatly  grafted  on  a  Gallic  phrase. 

What  Chaucer,  Spenser  did,  we  scarce  refuse 
To  Dryden"s  or  to  Pope's  maturer  muse, 
if  you  can  add  a  little,  say  why  not, 
As  well  as  William  Pitt  and  Waiter  Scott? 
Since  they,  by  force  of  rhyme  and  force  of  lungs, 
Enrich'd  our  island's  ill-united  tongues  ; 
'Tis  then— and  shall  be— lawful  to  present 
Reform  in  writing,  as  in  parliament. 

As  forests  slied  their  foliage  by  degrees. 
So  fade  expressions  which  in  season  please. 
And  we  and  ours,  alas  !  are  due  to  fate. 
And  works  ami  words  but  dwindle  to  a  date. 
Though  as  a  monarch  nods,  and  commerce  calls. 
Impetuous  rivers  stagnate  in  canals; 
Thougli  swamps  subdued,  and  marshes  drain'd,  sustain 
The  heavy  ploughshare  and  the  yellow  grain. 
And  rising  ports  along  the  busy  shore 
Protect  the  vessel  from  old  f)ceaa's  roar, 
All.  all  must  perish;  but,  surviving  last. 
The  love  of  letters  half  preserves  the  post. 

Q,uid  valeant  humeri.    Ciii  h.'Cfa  potentererit  res. 
Nee  fa-,undia  deseret  hnnc  nee  Inciilus  ordo. 

Ordinis  h;ec  virtus  erit  et  venus,  ant  eno  fallor, 
Ut  jam  nunc  dicat,  jam  nunc  debentia  dici 
Plera(]ur  diiTi'rat,  et  prjeseiis  in  tempus  omittat; 
Hoc  amet,  hoc  s|)ernat  pnunissi  carminis  anctor. 

In  verbis  etiam  tenuis  cautus(]ue  serendis  : 
Dixeris  e!rre<;ie,  notum  si  rallida  verbtim 
Hcddiderit  junctura  novum.     Si  forte  necusse  est 
Indiciis  monstrare  recentibns  abdita  rerum, 
FiiiL'iire  cinctutis  non  exaudita  Cethccis 
Cf)ntimret  ;  dabiturtpie  licinitia  sunipta  ()udenter; 
Et  nova  facta(|ue  nuper  habtdmnt  verba  (idem  si 
Gneco  fnnte  cailaiit.  parce  detorta.     Q,uid  autem 
t';i;cilio  PlanKique  dabit  Romanus,  ailemptum 
Viririlio  Vario(]ue?  ego  cur,  acquirere  [juuca 
Si  possum,  iuvideor;  cum  lingua  Catonis  et  Enni 
Sermonem  patrium  ditavt-rit,  et  nova  rerum 
Nomina  protuierit  ?     Licuit,  semi)erque  licebit, 
Si;rnatum  i)r;esente  nota  prodncen;  nonuui. 

Ut  sihif  foliis  pronos  mutunt'ir  in  annos  ; 
Prima  cadunt :  ita  v(!rbv)ruin  vetus  interit  a-las, 
Et  juvenum  ritu  dorent  niodo  nata,  viijefitqiie. 
Debemur  morti  nos  nostracpn- ;  sive  receptus 
Terra  Neplumis  classes  aquilonibus  aicet, 
Regis  opus;  st(;rilisve  diu  palus,  aptacpie  remis 
Vicinas  urbcs  alit,  et  grave  scntit  aratrum  : 
Sen  cursum  mulavit  ini<|uuin  fruKibus  amnis, 
Doctus  iter  melius;  mort;ilia  facta  pcribunt: 
Nedum  stirmonum  sti't  lionos,  et  gratia  vivax. 
Malta  rcnascentur,  ijuu'  jam  cccidere  ;  cailcntipie, 
QurE  nunc  sunt  in  lionori,'  N'ocabuia,  si  vtdtt  usus; 
Quern  penes  arbitrium  est,  et  jus,  et  norma  loqucndi. 

1  Mr.  Pitt  was  liberal  m  his  iuldirions  U)  our  pirlniiiienfiiy 
;onj!UC,  08  may  oe  seen  in  manv  imblications,  particularly  tiw 
Edinburgh  Review. 


True,  some  decay,  yet  not  a  few  revive, 

Though  those  shall  sink,  which  now  ap;ear  to  thrive. 

As  custom  arbitrates,  whose  sh.fting  sway 

Our  life  and  language  must  alike  obey. 
The  immortal  wars  which  gods  and  angels  wags 

Are  ttiey  not  shown  in  Milton's  sacred  page  .' 

His  strain  will  teach  what  numbers  best  lielong 

To  themes  celestial  told  in  epic  song. 

The  slow,  sad  stanza  u  ill  correctly  paint 

The  lover's  anguish  or  the  friend's  complaint. 

P.. it  which  deserves  the  laurel,  rhyme  or  blank  ? 

Which  holds  on  Helicon  the  higlier  rank  ? 

T.et  s(piabbling  critics  by  themselves  dispute 

This  point,  as  puzzling  as  a  Chancery  suit. 
Satiric  rhyme  tirst  sprang  from  selfish  spleen. 

Yo^'i  doubt— see  Dryden,  Pope,  St.  Patrick's  dean.' 

Dlank  verse  is  now,  with  one  consent,  allied 
To  Tragedy,  and  rare/y  quits  her  side. 
Though  mad  Almanzor  rhymed  in  Dryden's  days, 
No  sing-song  hero  rants  in  modern  plays, 
While  modest  Comedy  her  verse  foregoes 
For  jest  ami  pun^  in  very  middling  prose. 
Not  that  our  Bens  or  licaumonts  show  the  worse, 
Or  lose  one  point,  because  they  wrote  in  verse. 
But  so  Thalia  pleases  to  api)ear. 
Poor  virgin  !  damn'd  some  twenty  times  a  year ' 

Whate'er  the  scene,  let  this  advice  have  weight:— 
Adapt  your  language  to  your  hero's  state. 
At  times  Melpomene  for;rets  to  groan. 
And  brisk  Thalia  takes  a  serious  tone; 
Nor  unregarded  will  the  act  pass  by 
Where  angry  Townly  lifts  his  voice  on  high. 
A<;ain,  f)ur  Shakspeare  limits  verse  to  kings, 
When  common  prose  will  serve  for  common  thinga- 


Res  sesta'  resumqiie  ducumtiue  et  tristia  bella. 
Quo  scrihi  possent  nuniero  monstravii  Hoim.'rus. 

Versihus  impariter  jniu'tis  ([uerinionia  primuia  ; 
Post  etiam  iiulusa  est  voti  senteiitia  compos. 
Q,uis  tamen  oxmuos  eleirr.s  emiserit  anctor, 
Granimatici  ctrtant.  (-1  adhiic  sub  jndire  lis  est. 

.'\rciiilocum  proprio  rabies  armavit  iainbo; 
Hunc  socci  cei)ere  [ifdem  (;ran(le>(iue  ci4liurni, 
AUernis  aptum  s(;rmonibus,  et  popnlares 
Vincenttun  strejjitus,  et  natum  rebus  agendis. 

Mnsa  dedit  fidihus  divos.  pnerosque  dcorum 
Et  pu-iilcm  victoreni,  et  e(|uiim  certamine  priinum, 
Et  juvenum  cnriis  et  libera  vina  referre. 

riescriptas  ser\are  vices  operumcj-ie  colores, 
C'AV  esro.  si  necpieo  iiriuu-fHiue,  poetn  salutor? 
Cur  nescire  pudens  prave,  <piani  eiscere  malo? 

Versibus  exp  uii  trauicis  res  coniica  non  vult 
Inditniatnr  item  privati>-.  ac  [)rope  socco 
Dignis  carminibus  narrari  ccena  Tliyesta;. 
Singula  qi'.;pque  locum  teneant  sortita  decenter. 
Interdum  tamen  et  vocem  connedia  tollit, 
Iratusipie  Chrenies  fnmido  delitiirat  ore  : 
Et  trai'iciis  [derumque  doiet  sermone  pedestri. 
Telephus  et  Peleus,  cum  i.nnper  (U  exul,  uterque 

1  Old  b;illads,  old  r^a.vs,  imd  old  women's  stoiies,  arc  a 
present  in  as  n)uch  request  as  old  wine  or  new  s^peeches.  If 
fact,  till.*  is  the  minenniuni  of  black  letter:  thanks  to  our  lie 
bers,  Webers,  and  ScottsI 

2  Mac  Flerknoe.  the  Dunrind,  and  all  Swift's  l<imv)o(;iii 

i    bnllads.     Whatever  their  other   works  niiiy  be,   these  origi 

i    Piiled    in    personal    reelinu.*,    mid    an-ry   retort   on    unsvorthy 

-iviiis;    and   thons^h   the  ahdily  »d'  ihes^  satires  elevatLs  tht 

{Kielical,  tl  eir  poifiiiaii.v  de'.;acts  ftoin  the  uerson>il  ^naracter 

<u    ll:e  writer*. 

3  Widi  all  the  vnl<rar  applause  and  critica  ani'iorretire 
of  puns,  they  have  Aristotle  on  thoti  »'u\",  who  permits  ihenii 
!(i  orators,  and  gives  tliein  consequence  by  a.  grave  disquiai 


HINTS    FROM    HORACE. 


155 


And  lively  Ha   resitrns  heroic  "e. 

To  -  hollowing  Hotspur"!  and  tho  sceptred  sire. 

"fis  not  pnoMirh.  ve  hards,  with  all  your  art, 
To  polisii  poeni-i ;  tiicy  must  touch  the  heart: 
Where'er  the  s-.ene  be  laid,  whate'er  the  song. 
Still  let  it  hear  the  hear<'r's  soul  along; 
Command  youi  audience  or  to  smile  or  weep, 
Whiche'er  may  please  you— any  thing  hut  sleep. 
The4)oet  claims  our  tears;  hut,  hy  his  leave, 
Before  1  shed  them,  let  me  see  him  grieve. 

If  haiiisird  Romeo  feign'd  nor  sigh  imr  tear, 
Lull'd  h\-  his  languor,  I  should  sleep  or  sneer. 
Sad  words,  no  douht,  heconie  a  serious  face. 
And  men  look  aui^ry  in  the  proper  place. 
At  double  mianiniis  fcdks  seem  wondrous  sly, 
And  sentiment  prescribes  a  pensive  eye; 
For  nature  I'oinrd  at  tiisi  the  inward  man, 
And  actors  copy  nature— wlien  they  can. 
She  bids  the  beating  heart  with  rapture  bound. 
Raised  to  tli(!  stars,  or  levelTd  with  the  ground; 
And  for  expression's  aid,  't  is  said,  or  sung. 
She  gave  our  mind's  interpreter— the  tongue. 
Who,  worn  \\ith  use,  of  lute  would  fain  dispense 
(At  least  in  theatres)  with  common  sense; 
O'erwhelm  with  sound  the  boxes,  gallery,  pit, 
And  raise  a  laugh  with  any  thing  but  wit. 

To  skilful  writers  it  will  much  import, 
Whence  spring  their  scenes,  from  common  life  or  court 
Whether  they  seek  applause  by  smile  or  tear,* 
Tc  draw  a  "  Lying  Valet,"  or  a  "  Lear," 
A  sage,  or  rakisli  youngster  wild  from  school, 
A  wandering  "  Peregrine,"  or  plain  "  John  Bull ;" 
All  persons  please,  when  nature's  voice  prevails, 
Bcottish  or  Irish,  born  in  Wilts  or  Wales. 


Projicit  anipullas,  et  sesquipedalia  verba; 
Si  curat  cor  speefantis  tetigisse  qnc-rola. 

Non  satis  est  pulchra  esse  poemata  ;  dulcia  sunto, 
Et  quocurKpie  voleut,  animiim  auditoris  agunto. 
Ut  ridentibus  arrident,  ita  flentibus  qdflent 
Iluniani  vultiis;  si  vis  me  tiere  <ln!eiidum  est 
Prinnim  ipsi  tib'  ;  tunc  lua  me  infortunia  hndent. 
Telephe,  \<'l  Peien,  male  si  mandata  Inqueris, 
Aut  dormitaho.  a;it  rid(;bo:  tristia  mcestum 
Vultum  verba  decent;  iratum,  plena  minarum; 
Ludeiitem,  lasciva  ;  severum,  seria  dictu. 
Formatenim  natura  prius  non  intus  ad  omnein 
Fortuiiariiin  habituin  ;  juvat,  aut  impellit  ad  iram  ! 
Aut  ad  liumum  miRrorc  irravi  deducit,  et  angit ; 
Post  eti'frt  auimi  mntus  iuterj)rete  lingua. 
Si  dicentis  erunt  fortunis  absniia  dicta, 
Romani  tolletit  e<iuites.  pedites(]ue  echinuin. 

Intererit  multum.  Daviisne  loquatur  an  heros; 
Maturusne  senex,  an  adhuc  floretite'  juvetita 
Fervidus;  an  matroiia  potens.  an  sed'ula  nutrix  ; 
Merratorne  vau'us.  cultorne  vireutis  aixelli  ; 
Colchus  an  Assyrius;  Thebis  nutritus,  an  Ariris. 

Aut  faniain  sirqucre,  aut  sibi  convenieutia  finge. 
Fcriptor  honoratum  si  forte  rcponis  Achillein; 
ImpiL'er.  iracundus.  ini'xorahilis,  acer, 
.lura  ne^n-t  sibi  nata.  nihil  non  arro^ret  armis. 
Sit  .Medea  fer  >x  iuvirtaipie.  flebilis  Ino; 
Pertidus  Ixiou  ;  h^  va!.'a  ;  tristis  Orestes  ; 
Si  (piid  in  'xpertum  sceme  committis.  et  audes 
Personam  tormare  novam  ;  servi^tur  ad  imum 
Qualis  ab  iiicepto  prficesserit,  et  sibi  constet. 

Difficile  est  proprie  coninmuia  dicere  ;  tuque 
Rectieus  Liacitm  carmen  deducis  in  actus, 
Quam  si  proterres  ignota  indictaque  primus. 
Publica  inateries  privati  juris  (Mif.  si 
TVec  circa  vilem  patuluiiKpH!  moraberis  orbem;  • 

Nee  vcrbum  vcrbo  curalus  reddere  tidus 
liiternres,  nee  desilies  imitator  in  arctum 
Ui'de  .)edf-m  profcrre  pudor  vetet.  aut  op^ris  lex. 

Nee  sic  incipies,  ut  scnptor  C'ycli.;us  olim: 

I      And  in  his  ear  I'll  hollow,  Mortimer  I" — Henri/  11^ 


Or  follow  common  lame,  or  forge  a  plot. 
Who  cares  if  mimic  heroes  lived  or  no:  ? 
One  precept  serves  to  regulate  the  scene: 
Make  it  app(;ar  as  if  it  vii^lit  have  been. 

If  some  Drawcansir  you  aspire  to  d.raw, 
Present  him  raving,  and  abo\e  all  law: 
If  female  furies  in  your  scii.'iue  are  jilann'd 
Macbfth's  tierct  dame  is  ready  to  your  hand 
Por  tears  and  tt)v;ichery,  for  good  or  evil, 
Constance,  King  Richard,  Hamlet,  and  the  Devil! 
But  if  a  new  design  you  dare  essay, 
.'^nd  fr«-ely  wander  tVom  the  beaten  way. 
True  to  your  characters,  till  a!!  be  past. 
Preserve  consistency  from  tirst  to  last. 

'Tis  hard  to  venture  where  our  b(>tters  fail, 
Or  lend  fresh  interest  to  a  twice-told  tale  ; 
And  yet,  perchaiu;e,  'i  is  wiser  to  prefer 
A  hackney'd  plot,  than  choose  a  new,  and  err; 
Yet  copy  not  too  closedy,  but  n^cord, 
More  justly,  thouglit  tor  tli()u:.'ht  than  word  for  wjri; 
Nor  trace  your  i)rototype  through  narrow  ways, 
But  only  follow  where  he  merits  praise. 

For  you,  young  bard  !  whom  lucklesi  fate  may  lead 
To  tremble  on  the  nod  of  all  \'.lio  read. 
Ere  your  first  score  of  cantos  time  unrolls. 
Beware— f(n-  God's  sake,  don't  begin  like  Bowles  !i 

"  Fortunam  Priami  eaiitahn,  el  nobile  helium." 
Quid  di^nuin  tanto  ferel  hie  promissur  liiatu 
PatturiunI  moiites  :  iiMsceiur  rnjculus  m:is. 
Ciuanto  rv'ctius  hie.  (jui  I'il  inoiiSiir  iue-jite  ! 
"  Die  inilii.  .M':sa,  viruin  cijita-  p  si  tenip  ua  Troj.e, 
Qui  mores  lioiuiiinm  mnl'.iniiii  \i;iil,  ei  mlies." 
Non  fumum  ex  fuL'ore.  sed  e.\  t'umo  dan-  liicein 
Co<;itat,  ut  speci.isa  dehiiie  niir;;c;iia  prnmat. 
Antiphaten,  Sc\  llamqiie.  et  ciui  (;\cl.  p;'  Charvbditr* 
Nee  reiiitum  Uiiunedis  ab  iuteiitu  >h  lea:;ri. 
Nee  cemino  helium  'i'rujauum  nrdilur  ab  u\o. 
Semper  ad  evenlum  iVsiiiiUt  ;  et  in  nriuas  res 
Non  secus  ac  notas,  auditorem  raidt.  et  (|;i!P 
Desperat  trnctata  nilescere  po.-se,  r.linijuit  : 
At(!ue  ita  mentitur,  sic  veris  fal^a  r.  uii-cet, 
Primo  ne  medium,  lui.'dio  lie  tliscreijei  imam. 


1  About  two  years  njfo,  a  young  man,  nann  d  Townsend, 
wiis  announced  by  Mr.  Cumberland  (in  a  revitw  si.uce  do- 
i;e:i-ed)  as  beins  eniiiiired  m  an  epic  poem  to  be  enilded  "'  Ar- 
imifzeddou."  The  phui  and  specunen  promise  much  •  but  1 
h:ipo  neither  to  offend  .Mr.  Towns^end  ner  ins  f: lends.  Dy  re- 
coinmendin.3  to  Ins  attention  the  lines  of  H  iraie  ui  wSich 
these  rhymes  allude.  U'  Mr.  Townsend  succeeds  m  his  ueder- 
tukin!.',  as  there  is  reasen  to  h<ipe,  linw  much  wi'.i  the  werld  he 
indebted  ti»  Mr.  Cmnberland  for  briiiiiiP:,'  him  hetore  the  pub- 
lic !  But  till  that  eventful  day  arrives,  it  may  !)■  douie^'d 
whether  the  premature  display  of  hib  plan  (sal/.inie  as  the 
ideas  confessedly  are)  has  not,  by  raisum  e.vpectation  too  huh, 
or  diminishing  curiosi'y,  by  developing  bis  ar-imient,  rather 
incurred  the  hazard  of  injuring  Mr.  Tovvnsend's  future  pros- 
pects. Mr.  Cumberland  (whose  talents  I  shall  nor  depreriaie 
by  the  humble  tribute  of  my  prai.se)  and  Mr.  Towns,  nd  must 
not  suppose  me  actuated  by  unworthy  motives  in  'his  susrsze* 
tion.  1  wish  the  auther  all  the  success  he  can  vvi:di  hiiucdf 
and  shall  be  truly  hi,pi>y  !"  see  epic  poetry  vveish.  d  up  iVo.j 
the  bathos  where  it  lies  smikei:  wiih  Southey,  Cottle,  C.  wlcy 
(Mrs.  or  Abraham),  Ogilvy,  Wilkie.  Pye,  and  all  the  "  dull  o. 
past  and  present  days."  Even  if  he  is  not  a  J\hlt(in,  be  rieiy 
be  better  than  Biackinorc, ;  if  not  a  Hunicr,  an  ^^iiUmachus 
I  should  dtein  mys<  If  presumptuous,  as  a  ytiuns;  ma.i  ia 
offorinff  advice,  were  it  not  addres.sed  to  one  still  rounf,er. 
Mr.  Townsend  has  the  greatest  difficulties  to  encounter;  but 
in  conquering  diem  be  will  fini  employment ;  in  having  con- 
quered them,  his  reward.  1  know  too  well  "  the  scribbler's 
scotl',  the  critic's  contumely,"  and  1  am  afraid  time  wiil  teacfi 
Mr.  Town.send  to  know  them  belter.  Those  who  suce-ed,  and 
those  who  do  not,  must  bear  this  alik'%  and  it  is  hard  to  say 
which  have  most  of  it.  1  trust  that  Mr.  T.)u  nseiid's  sharn 
will  be  from  C7ir.?/ ,— he  will  soon  know  mankind  wc  e  uiush 
not  to  attribute  this  expression  to  malice 

The  above  note  was  written  befort  'Jie  author  wa?  aiipnted 


of  Mr.  Cumberland's  death 


156 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


'Awake  a  loiuler  and  a  loftier  strain," 

And  [)ra\',  what  follows  from  his  boiling  brain  !— 

Up  sinks  to  Soiithey's  level  in  a  trice, 

Whose  epic  mountains  never  fail  in  mice! 

Not  so  of  yore  awoke  your  mighty  sire 

The  temper'd  warhliiigs  of  his  master  lyre: 

Buff  as  the  gentler  breathing  of  the  lute, 

"Of  mau's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit" 

He  speaks,  but  as  his  subject  swells  along, 

Earth,  heaven,  and  hades  echo  with  the  song. 

Still  to  the  midst  of  things  he  hastens  on, 

As  if  we  witness'd  all  already  done  ; 

Leaves  on  his  path  whatever  seems  too  mean 

To  raise  the  subject,  or  adorn  the  scene ; 

Gives,  as  each  pa<re  improves  upon  the  sight. 

Not  smoke  from  brightness,  but  from  darkness— light ; 

And  truth  and  fiction  with  such  art  compounds. 

We  know  not  where  to  fix  their  several  bounds. 

If  you  would  please  the  public,  deign  to  hear 

What  soothes  the  many-headed  monster's  ear; 

If  your  heart  triumph  when  the  hands  of  all 

Applaud  in  thunder  at  the  curtain's  faW, 

Deserve  those  plaudits— study  nature's  page, 

And  sketch  the  striking  traits  of  every  age  ; 

Wliile  varying  man  and  varying  years  unfold 

Life's  little  tale  so  oft,  so  vainly  told. 

Observe  his  simple  childhood's  dawning  days, 

His  pranks,  his  prate,  his  playmates,  and  his  plays; 

Till  time  at  length  the  mannish  tyro  weans. 

And  prurient  vice  outstrips  Jiis  tardy  teens  ! 

BeliDld  him  freshman  !  forced  no  more  to  groan 
O'er  'Virgil's  devilish  verses  and  his  own, 
Praj-ers  are  too  tedious,  lectures  too  abstruse. 
Fie  flies  from  T— v— I's  frown  to  "  Fordham's  Mews;" 
(fJnIucky  T — v— 1  !  doom'd  to  daily  cares 
3/  pugilistic  pupils  and  by  bears,-) 


Tu.  quid  eco  et  populus  mecnm  desideret,  audi. 
Si  plausoris  eges  aukea  manentis,  et  usque 
Sessuri,  donee  cantor,  Vos  plaudite,  dicat ; 
iEtatis  cujusque  notandi  sunt  tibi  mores, 
Mobilibusque  decor  naturis  dandris  et  annis. 
Red(l(!re  qui  voces  jam  scit  |)uer,  et  pede  certo 
Piirnat  humum  ;  gestit  paribus  colludere,  et  iram 
Collisrit  ac  ponit  temere,  et  nmtatur  in  horas. 

Imherbis  juvt'nis.  tandem  custode  remoto, 
Gaudet  eqiiis  caiiibusque,  et  aprici  gramine  campi 
Cereus  in  vitiuni  flecti,  monitoril)us  asper, 
Utiliiim  tardus  [jrovisor,  [)ro(iiHUS  seris, 
Suhlimis,  cupidusque,  et  amata  relinquere  pernix. 

(Joiiversis  studiis,  setas  animusque  virilis 
Qua;rit  opes,  et  aniicitias,  inservit  honori ; 
Coiriniisisse  cavet  cpiod  mox  mutare  laboret. 

M;ilta  sen(^ni  conveniunt  incommoda  ;  vel  quod 
Q'la'rit,  et  inventis  miser  abstiuet,  ac  timet  uti ; 
\'(l  (|',iod  res  omnes  timide  gelideque  ministrat, 
Dilator,  s|)e  loimus,  iners,  avidusijue  futuri; 
Dillif.ilis,  quMTiiius,  laudator  temporis  acti 
Se  i).iero,  castigiitor  censorque  minorum. 
Miilla  ferunt  anni  venientes  commoda  secum, 
Multa  recedentes  adinmnt.     Ne  forte  seniles 


1  Harvey,  the  circulator  of  (he  civcidation  of  the  blood, 
oeeri  t<i  flins?  away  Virsil  in  his  ecstasy  of  admiration,  and 
lay,  *'  the  bnok  Ind  a  di'vil."  N<tw,  such  a  character  us  I  am 
ti)j)yiii(;  would  prill), ib!y  llins:  it  away  also,  but  rather  wish 
that  the  devil  h'ld  the  book  :  not  froin  any  dislike  to  ttie  poet, 
out  H  well-fonnded  horror  of  hexameters.  Indeed  the  public 
nchi'ol  penance  of  "  lunfr  and  short"  is  enousrh  to  beget  an 
flnlii)iiihy  to  tiociry  for  the  residue  of  a  man's  life,  and,  per- 
haps, no  far  may  be  an  advantane. 

2  "  Inrandiinr^regina,  jnbes  renovate  dolorem."  I  dare  say 
Mr.  T— V— I  (to  whom  (  mean  no  atfriint)  will  understand  mc  * 
and  it  \»  no  inalter  wiiether  any  one  else  docs  or  no. — To  the 
above  events,  "(|na;<iue  ip.se  niisi'rrima  vidi,  et  quorum  pars 
xiagnii  fui,"  ail  limes  and  tcrvis  bear  testimony. 


Fines,  tutors,  tasks,  conventions  threat  in  vain 
Before  hounds,  hunters,  and  Newmarket  plain. 
Rough  with  his  elders,  with  his  equals  rash, 
Civil  to  sharpers,  prodigal  of  cash  ; 
Cojistant  to  nought— save  hazard  and  a  whore, 
Yet  cursing  both— for  both  have  made  him  sore ; 
Unread  (unless,  since  books  beguile  disease, 
The  p— X  becomes  his  passage  to  degrees); 
Fool'd,  pillaged,  dunn'd,  he  wastes  his  term  away 
And,  unexpell'd  perhaps,  retires  M.  A.; 
Master  of  arts  !  as  hells  and  cluhs^  proclaim. 
Where  scarce  a  blackleg  bears  a  brighter  name! 

Launch'd  into  life,  extinct  his  early  fire. 
He  apes  the  selfish  prudence  of  his  sire  ; 
Marries  for  money,  chooses  friends  for  rank, 
Buys  land,  and  shrewdly  trusts  not  to  the  Bank; 
Sits  in  the  senate  ;  gets  a  son  and  heir ; 
Sends  him  to  Harrow,  for  himself  was  there. 
Mute,  though  he  votes,  unless  when  call'd  to  cheei 
His  son's  so  sharp— he'll  see  the  dog  a  peer  I 

Manhood  declines— age  palsies  every  limb; 
He  quits  the  scene— or  else  the  scene  quits  him ; 
Scrapes  wealth,  o'er  each  departing  penny  grieves. 
And  avarice  seizes  all  ambition  leaves  ; 
Counts  cent,  per  cent.,  and  smiles,  or  vainly  frets, 
O'er  hoards  diminish'd  by  young  Hopeful's  debts  ; 
Weighs  well  and  wisely  what  to  sell  or  buy. 
Complete  iji  all  life's  lessons— hut  to  die; 
Pe(;vish  au'd  spiteful,  doting,  hard  to  please, 
Ciunmending  every  time,  save  times  like  these; 
Crazed,  querulous,  forsaken,  half  forgot, 
Expires  unwept — is  buried — let  him  rot! 

But  from  the  drama  let  me  not  digress. 
Nor  spare  my  precepts,  though  they  please  you  lesa 
Though  women  weep,  and  hardest  hearts  are  stirr'd 
When  what  is  done  is  rather  seen  than  heard, 
Yet  many  deeds  preserved  in  history's  page 
Are  better  told  than  acted  on  the  stage  ; 
The  ear  sustains  what  shocks  the  timid  eye, 
And  horror  thus  subsides  to  symjiathy. 
True  Briton  all  beside,  I  here  am  French — 
Bloodshed  'tis  surely  better  to  retrench; 
The  gladiatorial  gore  we  teach  to  flow- 
In  tragic  scene  disgusts,  though  but  in  show; 
We  hate  the  carnage  while  we  see  the  trick, 
And  find  small  sympathy  in  being  sick. 
Not  on  the  stage  the  reuicide  Macbeth 
Appals  an  audience  with  a  monarch's  death; 
To  gaze  when  sable  Hubert  threats  to  sear 
Young  Arthur's  eyes,  can  ours,  .^r  nature  bear? 

Mandentur  juveni  partes,  pueroqiie  viriles. 
Semper  in  adjunctis,  ;ev()(iue  morabimur  aptig. 

Ant  airitur  res  in  scenis,  aiit  acta  refertur, 
Segnius  irritant  animos  demissa  per  aurem 
duam  q'KE  sunt  oculis  subjecta  ndelibus,  et  quffi 
Ipse  sibi  tradit  spectator.  "  Non  tamen  ititus 
Digiia  geri,  promes  in  scenam  ;  multaqne  tolles 
E.\  oculis,  qua'  mox  narret  faciindia  pra^sens. 
Ne  pueros  coram  populo  .Medea  trucidet ;  ■ 
Aut  humana  palam  coqiiat  exta  nefarius  Atreua ; 
Aut  in  avem  Progne  vertatur,  Cadmus  in  anguem. 
Qiiodciinque  ostendis  milii  sic,  incredilliis  _<li. 

Neve  minor,  iie'i  sit  (piiuto  productior  actu 
Fabula,  qua'  posci  vnit,  et  spectata  rep(Hi«- 
■  Nee  Deus  intersit,  nisi  diguus  viudice  nodus 
Inciderit.  *  *  * 

1  "Hell,"  a  gaming-house  so  called,  where  you  risk  lift  ^ 
and  are  cheated  a  good  deal.  "  Club,"  a  pleasant  purgatory 
where  you  lose  more,  and  are  not  supposed  to  be  chrataJ 
at  all 


HINTS    FROM    HORACE. 


167 


A  'halter'd  heron.e  Johnson  sought  to  slay — 

We  saved  Irene,  but  half  danin'd  the  play. 

And  (Heaven  be  praised  !)  our  tolerating  times 

Btinl  metamorphoses  to  pantomimes, 

And  Lewis'  self,  w  ilh  all  his  sprites,  would  quake 

To  clianfje  Earl  Osmond's  negro  to  a  snake  I 

Because,  in  Pceiies  exciting  joy  or  grief, 

We  loathe  tlh;  action  w  liicli  e.xccttis  belief: 

And  yet,  Gm\  knows!  what  may  not  authors  do, 

Wliose  postscrijus prate  of  dyeing  "  heroines  blue  ?"a 

Above  all  things,  Dan  Poet,  if  you  can, 
like  out  your  acts,  I  pray,  with  mortal  man  ; 
Nor  call  a  ghost,  unless  some  cursed  scrape 
Must  open  ten  trap-doors  for  your  escape. 
Of  all  the  monstrous  things  I  'd  fain  forbid, 
I  loathe  an  opera  worse  than  Dennis  did  ; 
Where  good  and  evil  persons,  right  or  wrong, 
Rage,  love,  and  aught  but  moralize,  in  song. 
Hail,  last  memorial  of  our  foreign  friends 
Which  Gaul  allows,  and  still  Hesperia  lends  I 
Napoleon's  edicts  no  embargo  lay 
On  whores,  spies,  singers,  wisely  shipp'd  away. 
Our  giant  capital,  whose  squares  are  spread 
Where  rustics  earn'd,  and  now  may  beg,  their  bread; 
In  all,  iniquity  is  grown  so  nice, 
It  scorns  amusements  which  are  not  of  price 
Hence  the  pert  shopkeeper,  whose  throbbing  ear 
Aches  with  orchestras  which  he  pays  to  hear, 
Wliom  shame,  not  sympathy,  forbids  to  snore, 
Hi^  anguish  doubling  by  his  own  "encore;" 
PilueezL-d  in  •'  Fop's  Alley,"  jostled  by  the  beaux, 
Jeasi'd  v.ith  his  hat.  and  trembling  for  his  toes; 
Pcarce  wrestles  through  the  night,  nor  tastes  of  ease 
Till  the  dropped  curtain  gives  a  glad  release; 
Why  this,  and  more,  he  sutfers — can  ye  guess? — 
Because  it  costs  him  dear,  and  makes  him  dress  f 

So  prosper  eunuchs  from  Etruscan  schools ; 
Give  us  but  tiddlers,  and  they  're  sure  of  fools ! 
Ere  scenes  were  play'd  by  many  a  reverend  clerk^ 
(What  harm,  if  David  danced  before  the  ark?) 
In  Chri-stmas  revels,  simple  country  folks 
Were  pkas'd  with  morrice-nmmm'ry  and  coarse  jokes. 
Improving  years,  with  things  no  longer  known. 
Produced  blithe  Punch  and  Merry  Madame  Joan, 
Who  still  frisk  on  with  feats  so  lewdly  low, 
'Tis  strange  Benvolio  suffers  such  a  show;* 

Ex  noto  fictum  carmen  sequar,  ut  sibi  quivis 
Speret  idem  :  sudet  multum,  tVustraque  laboret 


1  "  Irene  had  to  spe.ik  two  lines  with  the  J^owstring;  round 
her  neck  ;  but  the  audience  cried  out  'Muiderl'  and  she  was 
obliged  to  be  carried  ofl'the  siaire."— iJosfcciZ's  Life  of  John- 
san 

2  In  the  postscript  to  the  "  Cnstle  Ppoctre"  Mr.  IjBwis  tells 
U8,  that  thouffh  blacks  were  unknown  in  England  at  the  pe- 
rioJ  of  his  action,  yet  bo  has  made  the  anachronism  to  set  off 
the  scene, .  and  if  he  could  have  produced  the  effect  "  by 
making  his  heroine  blue" — i  quote  him — "blue  he  would 
hfive  made  her  I" 

3  "The  first  theatrical  representations, entitled  'Mysteries 
and  Moralities,'  were  i?enf!rally  enr',cted  at  Christmas,  by 
monks,  (as  the  only  persons  who  could  read.)  and  latterly,  by 

he  clergy  and  students  of  the  universities.  The  dramfilis 
personee  were  usually  Adam,  Paler  C(p|pst''3,  Faith,  Vice,'" 
&c.  &c  —Vide  fVarton's  Histurii  of  Evi^lish  Poetry. 

4  Benvolio  docs  not  bet  ;  but  every  man  who  maintain.^ 
■ace-horses  is  a  prcnnoter  of  all  the  concomitant  evils  of  the 
tu.-f.  Avoiding  to  bet  is  a  litile  Pharisaical.  Is  it  an  exculpa- 
tion ?  I  think  not.  I  never  yet  hi'ard  a  bawd  praised  for 
chastity  because  she  herself  A\d  pot  commit  fornication. 


Suppressing  peer!  to  whom  tach  vice  gives  place. 
Oaths,  boxing,  begging,— all,  save  rout  and  race. 

Farce  follow'd  Ccunedy,  and  reach'd  her  prime 
In  ever-laughing  Foote's  fantastic  time; 
Mad  wag !  who  pardon'd  none,  nor  spared  the  best. 
Ami  turn'd  some  very  serious  things  to  jest. 
Nor  church  nor  state  escaped  his  public  sneers. 
Arms  nor  the  gown,  priests,  lawyers,  volunteers: 
"  Alas,  poor  Yorick  !"  now  for  ever  mute  ! 
Whoever  loves  a  laugh  must  sigh  for  Foote. 

We  smile,  perforce,  when  histrionic  scenes 
Ape  the  swoln  dialogue  of  kings  and  queens. 
When  "  Chrononhotonthologos  must  die," 
And  Arthur  struts  in  mimic  majesty. 

Moschus!   with  whom  once  more  I  hope  to  sit 
And  smile  at  folly,  if  we  can't  at  wit; 
Yes,  friend!   for  thee  I'll  quit  my  cynic  cell, 
And  bear  Swift's  motto,  "  Vive  la  bagatelle  I" 
Which  charm'd  our  days  in  each  .^gean  clime, 
And  oft  at  home,  witli  revelry  and  rhyme. 
Then  may  Euphrosyne,  who  sped  the  past, 
I    Soothe  thy  life's  scenes,  nor  leave  liiee  in  the  last 
I    But  find  in  thine,  like  pagan  'Plato's  bed. 
Some  merry  manuscript  of  mimes,  when  dead. 

Now  to  the  Drama  let  us  bend  our  eyes, 
Where  fetter'd  by  whig  Walpole  low  she  lies; 
Corruption  foil'd  her,  for  she  fear'd  her  glance ; 
Decorum  left  her  for  an  opera  dance  ! 
Yet '^Chesterfield,  whose  polish'd  pen  inveishs 
'Gainst  laushter,  fought  for  freedom  to  our  plays ; 
Uncheck'd  by  nioiii'us  of  patrician   braitis, 
And  damning  dullness  of  lord  chamberlains. 
Repeal  that  act  !    again  let  Humour  roam 
Wild  o'er  the  stage— we  've  time  for  tears  at  home. 
Let  "  Archer"  plant  the  horiis  on  "  Siilion's"  brows, 
And  "Estifania"  gull  her  "  Copperas  spouse  ; 
The  morals  scant— but  that  may  be  excused. 
Men  go  not  to  be  lectured,  but  amused. 
He  whom  our  plays  (iispose  to  good  or  ill 
Must  wear  a  head  in  want  rvf  Willis'  skill; 
Ay,  but  Macheath's  exaini^le— p>ii.i  I— no  more! 
It  form'd  no  tliieves— the  thief  was  form'd  before 
And  spite  of  puritans  anrl  (Collier's  curse,* 
Plays  make  mankind  no  better,  and  no  worse. 


Ausijs  idem:  taiitum  series  ju'icturaquo  pollet ; 
Tantuni  de  me.iio  sumtis  acceiiit  hoiuuis. 

Silvis  deilucti  ca\eant,  me  judice,  Fauni, 
Ne  veliit  iniiati  triviis,  ac  pene  forenses, 
Aut  minium  teneris  juvenentiir  versihus  unquam 
Aut  immu!ida  crepiuit,  ignominiosaque  liicta. 
Offemiuntur  enim,  (piibus  est  equus,  et  pater,  et  r»» 
Nee,  si  qui  1  fricti  ciceris  probat  et  nucis  emtor, 
.^rpiis  accipiunt  animis,  donantve  corona. 
Syllaba  lonira  brevi  subjecta.  vacatur  iambus 
i       Pes  citus:  luule  etiam  trimetris  accrescere  jussit 

;  1  Under  Plato's  pillow  a  volume  of  the  Mimes  of  Sophru 
I  was  tound  the  day  he  died. —  Vide  Barthelevii,  De  Pnuu.,  « 
i  I)iof:&7)cs  L(frtiv.<.  if  ajrreeable.  De  Pauvv  call.-;  it  p  --^ 
j    book. — (Cumberland,  in   his  Observer,  terms  it  moral,  like  th 

saym^s  of  "  Publius  Syrus." 
i       -  Hh  sptipcb  on  the  licensing  act  is  one  of  his  most  eloquent 
I    eff.r's. 

3  Michael  Perez,  the  "Copper  Captain  "  in  "Rule  a  Wife 
and  have  a  Wde." 

4  Jerry  Collier's  controversy  with  Conjrevc,  &c  ,  on  Xbe 
subjoct  of  the  dra:na,  is  too  well  knovn  to  requite  further 
Comrnoul. 


158 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Tlien  spare  our  stago.  ye  methodiitic  men  I 

Nor  burn  daiimM  Driiry  if  it  rise  again. 

I?\it  whT  to  bi-ain-scoreh"d  biguts  thus  appeal! 

Can  heavenly  mercy  dwell  with  earthly  zeal? 

For  times  of  fire  and  faggot  let  tiieni  hope; 

Times  dear  alike  to  pnritan  or  pope. 

As  pions  Calvin  saw  Servetus  blaze, 

So  would  new  sects  on  newer  victims  gazo. 

E'en  now  the  songs  of  Solyma  begin  ; 

Faith  cants,  perplex'd  apologist  of  sin  ! 

While  the  L'lrd's  servant  chastens  whom  he  loves, 

And  :iinieon  kicks  where  'Baxter  only  •'  shoves. " 


Whom  nature  ^niides,  so  writes,  that  every  dunce, 
E:iraptMred,  thinks  to  do  the  same  at  once; 
But  after  inky  tlmmbs  and  bitten  nails. 
And  twenty  scatter'd  quires,  the  coxcomb  fails. 

Let  pastoral  be  dumb  ;   for  who  can  hope 
To  match  the  youthful  eclogues  of  our  Pope? 
Vet  his  aud   PlMliips'  faults,  of  different  kind, 
F  »r  art  too  rude,  for  nature  too  refined, 
Iiii-trui.t  how  luud  the  medium  'tis  to  hit 
'Tvvixl  too  much  polish  and  too  coarse  a  wit. 

A  vulvar  scribbler,  certes,  stands  disgraced 
[:i  this  nice  use,  when  all  aspire  to  taste; 
The  dirty  langua^^e,  and  the  noisome  jest. 
Which  pleased  in  Suift  of  yore,  we  now  detest; 
Proscribed  not  only  in  the  world  poiite, 
But  even  too  nasty  for  a  city  knight! 

Peace  to  ?wii"t's  faults!  his  wit  hath  made  them  pass 
Unmatch'd  by  all,  save  matchless  Hudibras! 
Whose  author  is  perhaps  the  first  we  meet, 
Who  from  our  couplet  lopp'd  two  final  feet; 
N'o  less  in   merit  than  the  longer  line, 
This  ii'oasure  moves  a  favourite  of  the  Nine. 
Tnouuli  at  first  view  eight  feet  may  seem  in  vain 
Forni'd,  save  in  ode,  to  bear  a  serious  strain, 
Vet  Scott  has  shown  our  wondering  isle  of  late 
Tiiis  measure  shrinks  not  from  a  theme  of  weight, 
And,  varied  skilfully,  surpasses  far 
Heroic  rliyme,  but  most  in  love  and  war, 
VVliitse  fluctuations,  tender  or  sublime. 
Are  curb'd  too  much  by  long-recurring  rhyme. 

But  many  a  skilful  judge  abhors  to  see, 
What  few  admire— irregularity. 
This  some  vouchsafe  to  pardon  ;  but  't  is  hard 
When  such  a  word  contents  a  British  bard. 


Nomen  iandteis,  cum  seims  relderet  ictus. 
Primus  .-id  o.xtremum  siinilis  sibi  :  non  ita  pridem, 
Tardior  ut  paiilo  graviorque  veniret  ad  aures, 
S()i!ndeos  stabiles  in  jura  j>aterna  recepit 
Coinmod'is  et  liatiens;  non  ut  de  sede  secunda 
(y'ederet  a. it  ()uarta  socialiter.     Hie  et  in  Acci 
Noiiilihup  trimetris  apjiaret  rarus,  et  Enni.  , 

lii  scenani  missos  mairno  cum  poudere  versus, 
\>\  iipera-  celeris  nimium,  ciiratpie  carentis, 
Aiit  iuMorata?  premil  artis  crimine  turpi. 

\'(Ui  <!  livis  vid-t  iminodulata  pnemata  judex ; 
Et  data  Romanis  venia  est  i'ldigiia  po.nis. 
FdciiTone  va-rer.  scriliamque  lic<'nter?  an  omnes 
Visuros  pe(;raia  putem  mea  ;  lulus,  et  intra 


1  "  Baxter's  Shovi  to  beavy-a — d  Christians."  Tiie  vorita- 
le  ulle  of  a  book  once  in  good  Wpute,  and  likely  enouf:h  to 
.lO  so  iifrnin.— Mr  Simeon  is  the  very  bully  of  beliefs,  and  cas- 
JiKutcir  of  "good  workH."  [le  is  ably  siipporied  by  John 
'^tickles,  a  !ab()i.;er  in  lliesame  vim  yard  : — bui  1  say  m.  more, 
or  accordin!.'  '<>  J.  I, any  in  full  Ciingregaiioii,  "  JVl/  ho,  cs  for 


And  must  the  bard  his  glowing  thoughts  confine. 
Lest  censure  hover  o'er  some  fau  ty  line  ? 
Remove  whatever  a  critic  may  suspect. 
To  gain  the  paltry  suffrage  of  ''correct?" 
Or  prune  the  spirit  of  each  daring  phrase, 
To  fly  from  error,  not  to  merit  prai-^e? 

Ye  who  seek  finish'd  models,  never  cease, 
By  day  and  night,  to  read  the  works  of  Greece. 
But  our  good  fathers  never  bent  their  brains 
To  heathen  Greek,  content  with  native  strains. 
The  few  who  read  a  page,  or  used  a  pen, 
Were  satisfied  with  Chaucer  and  old  Ben; 
The  jokes  and  numbers  suited  to  their  taste 
Were  quaint  and  careless,  any  thing  but  chaste 
Yet  whether  right  or  wrong  the  ancient  rules 
It  will  not  do  to  call  our  fathers  fools! 
Though  you  and  I,  who  eruditely  know 
To  separate  the  elegant  and  low. 
Can  also,  when  a  hobbling  line  appears, 
Detect  with  fingers  in  default  of  ears. 

In  sooth  I  do  not  know  or  greatly  care 
To  learn,  who  our  first  English  strollers  were ; 
Or  if,  till  roofs  received  the  vagrant  art 
Our  muse,  like  that  of  Thespis,  kept  a  cart. 
But  this  is  certain,  since  our  Shakspeare's  days, 
There's  pomp  enougli,  if  little  else,  in  plays; 
Nor  will  Melpomene  ascend  her  throne 
Without  high  heels,  white  plume,  and  Bristol  stone. 

Old  comedies  still  meet  with  much  applause, 
Though  too  licentious  for  dramatic  laws  : 
At  least,  we  moderns,  wisely,  'tis  confest, 
Curtail,  or  silence,  the  lascivious  jest. 

Whate'er  their  follies,  and  their  faults  besiJe, 
Our  enterprising  bards  pass  nought  untried; 
Nor  do  they  merit  slight  applause  who  choose 
An  English  subject  for  an  Englisli  muse. 
And  leave  to  minds  which  never  dare  invent 
French  flippancy  and  German  sentiment. 
Where  is  that  living  language  which  could  claim 
Poetic  more,  as  philosophic,  fame. 
If  all  our  bards,  more  patient  of  delay, 
Would  stop,  like  Pope,  to  polish  by  the  way  ? 

Lords  of  the  quill,  whose  critical  assaults 
O'erthrow  whole  quartos  with  their  quires  of  faults, 

Spein  venise  cautns?  vitavi  denique  culjiam, 
Non  laudcm  merui.     Vos  exemitlaria  Graca 
Nocturna  versate  manu,  versate  diurna. 
At  vestri  proavi  Plautinos  el  niimeros  et 
Laudavere  sales;  nimiuni  patieiiter  ulrumque, 
Ne  dicam  stulte,  mirati  ;  si  niodo  ego  et  vos 
Sciinus  in\;rbanum  lepido  seponere  dicto, 
Leiritimumque  solium  digitjs  calKnius  et  aure. 

Ignotum  tragicffi  genus  invenisse  I'ameiia 
Dicitur,  et  plaustris  ve.xisse  pufinaia  'J"hespi.«, 
Ciua;  canerenl  agereiiKpie  i>eruiHti  fietibus  ora 
Post  hunc  persona'  pallnMpie  repertor  honesty 
/l-^schylus,  et  modicis  iiistravit  |)ulpita  tignis. 
Et  docuit  maunumque  loqiii,  inti(iue  cothiirno. 

Successit  vetiis  his  comiBdia,  non  sine  multa 
Laude;  sed  in  vitium  lil)ertas  excidit,  et  vim 
Dignam  leue  reiii  ;  lex  est  accepta.  chonisque 
Turpitrr  obticuit,  sublato  jure  iiocendi. 

Nil  inteutatum  nostri  liqiiere  jioeta'; 
Nee  niiiiimum  ineruer"  decus   vestiiria  Gra^ca 
Aussi  deserere,  et  cel.'brare  dtuiiestica  facta; 
Vel  (\\u  pradextas,  V(d  (jtii  docuen'  togatas. 
Nee  virtate  foret  clarisve  potentius  armis. 
Uuam  liiiLMia,  Lafium.  si  mm  ofieiideret  unum- 
quemtpie  poetarimi  lima-  laln.r,  et  mora.     Vos, 
P.uiipiiius  sanguis,  carmen  repnliitudite,  quod  non 
M  ilta  dies  et  multa  litura  coercuit.  at(pie 
Pni's-ctum  tlecies  imii  caslig-OMt  ad  uiigueiu 


HINTS    FROM    ir  GRACE 


15S 


WTio  s(,on  detect,  and  mark  where'er  we  fail, 
And  Diove  our  marble  with  too  nice  a  nail  1 
0.>in  critus  hinisclf  was  not  so  had; 
He  (  Illy  thoiiir/it,  l)!jt  you  woiilil  make,  us  mad  I 

But,  truth  to  ;ay,  most  rhymers  rarely  guard 
Against  that  riilicule  tJK'y  deem  so  hard; 
lu  ,,erso!i  ne^liuent,  th(>y  wear,  IVom  shith, 
IJeards  of  ;i  week,  and  nails  ol  annua!  ::rowtli; 
Rf'side  in  turrets,  fly  from  tli.ise  they  meet. 
And  walk  in  alleys,  ratiier  than  the  ::treel. 

With  little  rhyme.  less  reason,  if  you  please, 
TI;o  name  of  poet  may  he  <:ol  w  iih  ease. 
So  that  not  turns  of  hellelioric  juiee 
Plnill  e\('r  turn  your  head  to  any  u^r; 
Write  h-.it  like  Wordsworth,  live  beside  a  lake. 
And  keep  ymir  bushy  loeks  a  year  from  Dluke  ;i 
Then  print  your  book,  once  more  return  to  town. 
And  boys  shall  hunt  your  iordsJiip  uji  and  down. 

Am  I  not  wise,  if  such  some  poets'  jilight, 
T.'  purire  in  spring  (like  Hayes)  before  I  write  ? 
If  this  precaution  soften'd  not  my  bile, 
1  know  no  scribbler  with  a  madder  style  ; 
But  since  (perhaps  my  feelings  are  too  nice) 
[  cannot  purchase  fame  at  such  a  price, 
I  "11  labi.ur  ,','ratis  as  a  erinder's  whe'd, 
And,  blunt  myself,  give  edge  to  others'  steel, 
N'or  write  at  all,  unless  to  teaidi  the  art 
To  those  rehearsing  for  the  poefs  part ; 
From  Horace  show  the  pleasina  paths  of  song, 
And  from  my  own  example,  what  is  wrong. 

Th-ou^h  modern  practice  siMuetinies  dilfers  quite, 
"J'  is  just  a<  vvt  II  to  think  before  you  write  ; 
Let  e%try  o'.kik  that  suits  your  theme  be  read, 
So  shall  you  trace  it  to  the  fountain-head. 

He  who  has  hsirnt  the  d.iity  which  he  ov,-es 
To  friend  and  country,  and  to  pardon  foes; 
Who  models  his  deportment  as  may  best 
Accord  with  brotlier,  sire,  or  stranser  auest ; 
Who  takes  our  laws  and  worship  as  lliey  are, 
\or  roars  reform  for  senate,  church,  and  bar; 
[n  i)ractice,  rather  than  loud  precept,  wise, 
r.iils  not  his  tongue,  but  heart,  philosophise; 
Such  is  thi'  man  the  poet  should  rehearse, 
As  joi  it  exemplar  of  his  life  anil  verse. 

lML'e!iiui;i  misera  quia  fortunatius  arte 
Creiiit.  et  excliidit  sanos  lielicoiie  ;,T;cta3 
Denii  crifis  ;  bona  pars  nou  u'i'iu<  s  pcv.-ere  C'irat 
Non  barliam:  secreta  petit  icci,  Icilnea  vitat. 
\a!:ci-.r,  f;:r  enim  itr.'iiuni  n.eni.pque  poeta-. 
Si  tribi-  .\;itirvns  caivt  insa  :;al!ilf  nnn(]nani 
Tons'^ri    !,iri;e)"conHiilse:Mt.      ()  I'jio  |tv\is, 
Clui  puruor  br.eni  sub  verni  tenqtoris  lioram  ! 
i\on  alius  f.ac  ret  midiora  poemata  :  veriim 
\il  ta:iti  i-t  :  erL'o  t'umrar  vise  coiis,  acutu!n_ 
Iti-duT"  q^Ki'  f-rruni  val  -t,  e.»;sors  ipsa  secandi  : 
Muio-.s  ct  oilicium,  ni!  scnhe'is  in«e,  docebo ; 
i.iide  parentur  opes;  quid  fdat  formi'tciue  poetam ; 
Quid  elec-'at.  tpiid  non  ;  quo  virtus,  quo  ferat  error. 
Pcri!)en  li  r-cte,  sajfere  est  et  principium  et  fons. 
Ren!  tibi  .<(;cratic;c  poterant  ostendere  charts: 
V^erba.jue  pm'.isam  rem  non  i:ivita  sequentur. 
Q,ui  ('iiiicit  j.atriie  (juid  d(d)eat,  el  (juid  amicis; 
Quo  sit  aiuf.'re  par(Mis,  (juofraiir  aniandus,  et  hospes 
Quod  "il  cons  'ripiti,  (luod  judiris  oliicium  ;  qufE 
Partes  in  bfihun  inissi  ducis  ;   ille  profecto 
Rfddere  per^on.T  scit  convenientia  cuiipre. 
R-'S|dc;re  cxiuiiplar  vittc  morunniue  jnbehn 
D.iciiiiu  imit.-it(n-em,  et  vivas  hmc  ducere  voces. 

1  As  tamous  a  tensor  as  L.cinus  himself,  and  better  paid 
in.i  m.iy,  liuu  h.nri,  Le  c-^.e  '".ay  a  senator,  bavinsr  u  better 
ju'difi'-ntiop  tha"  one  half  o.*"  the  liuads  be  crops,  viz. — inde- 
lendtnce. 


Sometimes  a  sprightly  wit,  and  tale  well  told. 
Without  much  grace,  or  weiglit,  or  art,  will  hold 
A  longer  empire  o'er  the  public  mind 
'J'haii  sounding  trifles,  empty,  thougii  refined. 

Unhappy  Greece!  thy  sons  of  ancient  days 
The  muse  may  celebrate  with  p<.'rfect  praise, 
Whose  ^nuierous  childn  n  narrow'd  not  their  hearts 
With  comnu'ice,  given  alone  to  arms  ami  art«. 
Our  boys  '  -av"  tiiose  u  lnun  public  schools  compel 
To  "  long  and  short"  before  they're  taught  to  sfCJI) 
From  frnaal  fatln-rs  soon   imbibe  i)y  rote, 
"A  p<Mi;i>'  saved,  my  lad.'s  a  [)enny  sot." 
I?abe  of  ,1  city  birili!  from  sixpence  take 
Two  thinls,  how  much  >.\ii!  the  remaimler  make? — 
"A  ;rro  It."— "  Ah,  bravf      Dick  hath  done  the  sum! 
He'll  swell  my  fifty  thon.-aud  to  a  plum." 

They  V  hose  youn:i  souls  receive  this  rust  bet. rues. 
"Tis  clear,  are  fit  f)r  any  thins  but  rhymes; 
.And  Locke  wi!!  tell  you,  that  the  father's  right 
Wiio  hides  all  \erses  from  his  children's  sight; 
For  poets  (says  this  sage,  and  many  more,'\ 
Make  sa  I  mechanics  with  their  lyric  hjre  ; 
And  Delphi  now,  however  rich  of  old, 
Discovers  little  silver  and  less  gold, 
Because  Parnassus,  tllouL'li  a  mount  divine 
Is  poor  as  Iru.'i,'^  or  an  Irish  niine.^ 

Two  objects  a!wa\s  shonl  1  the  poet  move 
Or  one  or  botli,— to  please  or  to  improve. 
W^hate'iM"  you  teach,  be  brief,  if  you  design 
For  our  remembrance  your  didactic  line  ; 
Redundance  plav^es  memory  on  the  rack. 
For  brains  may  be  overloaded,  like  the  liack. 

Fiction  does  best  when  taught  to  look  like  truth, 
And  fairy  fables  bubble  none  but  youth: 
Expect  no  credit  for  too  wond'rous  tales. 
Since  Jonas  only  springs  alive  from  whales! 


Iiiterdum  speciosa  locis,  morataque  recte 
Fabula,  nullius  vemn-is,  sine  yiondere  et  arte, 
Vahlius  oblectat  populum,  meliusque  moratur, 
Quam  versus  inopes  rernm  nuL'a'que  canorjc. 

Graiis  inaenium.  Graiis  dedit  ore  rot-,iiid,o 
Musa  loqui,  pr;eter  laudem  nullius  avaris. 
Honiani  piieri  longis  rationibiis  assem 
Discunt  in  partes  centum  diducere  :  dicat 
Filius  Albiiii,  Si  de  quincunce  reniota  est 
Tncia,  quid  siiperat  ?  poterat  dixisse— Tri'^ns.     Eu 
lu'in  poteris  servare  tuam.     Rei'it  uncia  :  quid  fit.' 
Semis.     An  hsec  aninios  a-ruffo  et  ciira  pecnii 
C.nn  seme!  imbtierit,  speramus  carniina  tiimi 
por-se  iimmda  cedro,  et  levi  servanda  cupresso  ? 

Aut  prorlesse  volunt,  aut  delectare  poetie  ; 
Aut  sii'ivil  et  jucunda  et  idonea  dicere  vita;, 
Qiiidqnid  pra'cipies,  esto  brevis:  ut  cito  dicta 
Pficipiaut  animi  dociles,  teneantque  fideles. 
Oinne  Mipervacuum  pleno  de  pectore  maiiai, 
Ficia  volu[)Tatis  causa,  sint  proxima  veris  : 
Nee,  quodcnnque  volet,  poscat  sibi  fabula  eredi ; 
Neu'pransje  LamiiE  vivum  puerum  extrahat  ah'o. 

Centuria>  seniorum  asitant  expertia  frugis  : 
telsi  prtrt:  reunt  austera  poemata  Rhamnes. 
Oinne  lulit  punctiim,  qui  miscuit  utile  duici, 
Lectorem  delcctando,  pariterque  inonendo. 

1  I  have  n<>i  the  original  by  me,  but  the  Italian  trans'titioi: 
runs  as  lollows-.— "E  una  cosa  a  mio  credere  molto  strava 
gaute,  che  un  padre-desideri,  o  permctta,  die  sue  fiirlivk 
coltiri  e  perfezioni  questo  talento."  A  little  further  on  :  " 
trovano  di  rado  nel  Parnaso  le  miniere  d'  oro  e  d'  arsento  '— 
EilnrMzioiie  dci  Fanciulim.el  Signor  Locke.  Venetian  d: 
tioti. 

1  "  Iro  paiiperior:"  this  is  the  same  bescar  who  boxefl 
with  LT|ys-;s  for  a  pound  of  kid's  fry,  which  he  iost.  und  hal 
a  de/en  t«-rh  besides. — See  Od'j.^sci/,  b.  18. 

3  Tiie  Irish  pold  mine  of  Wtcklow,  which  fields  just  oni 
cnoi.-h  'o  swear  bv   or  gild  a  bad  suinea. 


160 


BYP.ON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


young  men  with  aught  but  elegance  dispense, 
Maturer  years  require  a  little  sense. 
To  end  at  once :— that  bard  for  all  is  fit 
Who  mingles  well  instruction  with  his  wit; 
For  him  reviews  sluill  smile,  for  him  o'erflow 
The  patronage  of  Pateruost«r-row  ; 
His  book,  with  Longman's  liberal  aid,  shall  pass 
(Who  ne'er  despises  bot)ks  that  bring  him  brass); 
Through  three  long  weeks  the  taste  of  London  lead, 
And  cross  St.  George'.s  Channel  and  the  Tweed. 
But  every  thing  has  faults,  nor  is 't  unknown 
That  harps  and  (iJdles  often  lose  their  tone, 
And  wayward  voices,  at  their  owner's  call 
With  all  his  best  endeavours,  only  squall : 
Dogs  blink  their'cover,  flints  withhold  their  spark, 
And  double-barrels  (damn  them  !)  miss  tlicir  mark.^ 
Where  frequent  beauties  strike  the  reader's  view. 

We  must  not  quarrel  for  a  blot  or  two  ; 

But  pardon  equally  to  b..nks  or  men. 

The  slips  of  human  nature,  and  the  pen. 

Yet  if  an  author,  spite  of  foe  or  friend, 
Despises  all  advice  too  nmch  to  mend, 
But  ever  twangs  the  same  discordant  string, 
Give  him  no  quarter,  howsoe'er  he  sing. 
Let -Havanrs  fate  o'ertake  him,  who,  for  once, 
Produced  a  play  too  dashing  for  a  dunce: 
At  first  none  deem'd  it  his,  but  when  his  name 
Announced  the  fact— what  then  ?— it  lost  its  fame 
Though  all  depbire  when  Milton  deigns  to  doze, 
In  a  long  v.ork  't  is  fair  to  steal  repose. 

As  pictures,  so  shall  poems  be;  some  stand 
fne  critic  eye,  and  please  when  near  at  hand ; 
But  others  at  a  distance  strike  the  sight ; 
This  seeks  the  shade,  but  that  demands  the  light, 

Hie  meret  cera  liber  Sosiis ;  liic  et  mare  transit, 
Et  longum  noto  scriptori  i)rorogat  levum. 

Sunt  delicta  tameu,  quibus  i^novisse  velimus; 
Nam  neque  chorda  sonum  reddit  quern  vult  manus  et 

mens, 
Poscentique  gravem  persa'pe  remittit  acntura  ; 
Nee  semper  feriet  quodcunque  minabitur  areas. 
Verum  ubi  plura  nitent  in  carmine,  nou  ego  paucis 
Offendar  maculis,  quas  aut  iucuria  fuifit, 
Aut  liumaiia  [)arum  cavit  natura.     Q,iiid  ergo  ? 
Ut  scriptor  si  peccat  idem  librarius  us(|ue, 
duamvis  est  monitus,  venia  caret;  nt  citharoedus 
Ridetur,  chorda  qui  semper  oherrat  eadem  . 
Sic  mihi,  qui  multum  cessat,  fit  ChtBrilns  ille, 
Q,uem  bis  terve  bonum  cum  risu  miror;  et  idem 
Indignor,  quandoque  bonus  dormitat  llomerus 
Verum  operi  longo  fas  est  obrepere  sf)mnum. 

Ut  [lictura,  jjoesis  :  erit  qua;,  si  proi)ius  stes, 
Te  capiet  magis  ;  et  qua^dam,  si  iongius  abstes  : 
Hiec  aniat  oliscurum  ;  volet  ha;c  sub  luce  videri, 
Judicis  arguJum  cpia;  non  formidat  acumen  : 
Hffic  placiiit  seund  ;  luce  decies  rejx'tita  [)lacebit. 

O  major  juvenuni,  (piamvis  et  voce  |)at*>rna 
Fingerjs  ad  rectum,  et  per  te  sapis ;  hoc  tihi  dictum 
'J'olle  memor :  certis  medium  et  tolerahile  rebus 
Recte  concedi  :  coiisultus  juris,  et  ai'tor 
Causarum  mediocris  abest  virtute  diserti 
Me-salio,  nee  scit  quantum  Cassellius  Aulus  : 
Sed  tameii  in  pretio  est:  mediocribus  esse  poetis 
Non  iiomines,  nou  di,  non  concessere  columnar. 


Nor  dreads  the  connoisseur's  fastidious  view, 
But,  ten  times  scrutinizeil,  is  ten  times  new. 

Parnassian  pilgrims  !  ye  whom  chance  or  choice 
Hath  led  to  listen  to  the  nmse's  voice. 
Receive  this  counsel,  and  be  timely  wise  ; 
Few  reacii  the  summit  which  before  you  lies. 
Our  church  and  state,  our  courts  and  camps,  concede* 
Reward  to  very  moderate  heads  indeed! 
In  these,  plain  common  sense  will  trave  tr.r; 
All  are  not  Erskines  who  mislead  the  bar: 
But  pnesy  between  the  best  ami  worst 
No  medium  km)ws  ;  yon  must  be  last  or  first ; 
For  middling  poets'  miserable  vcdunies, 
Are  damn'd  alike  by  gods,  and  men,  and  columns 

Again,  my  Jeffrey  ! — as  that  soiind  inspires. 
How  wakes  my  bosom  to  its  wonted  fires ! 
Fires,  such  as  gentle  Caledonians  feel. 
When  Southrons  writhe  upon  their  critic  wheel. 
Or  mild  Eclectics,'  when  some,  worse  than  Turks, 

'■  Would  rob  poor  Faith  to  decorate  "  good  works." 

j  Such  are  the  genial  feelings  tho\i  canst  claim. 
My  falcon  flies  not  at  ignoble  game. 

i   Mightiest  of  all  Duuedin's  beasts  of  chase! 

j    For  thee  my  Pegasus  would  mend  his  pace. 

i    Arise,  my  Jeffrey  !  or  my  inkless  pen 

I   Shall  never  blunt  its  (HJge  on  meaner  men ; 

1   Till  thee  or  thine  mine  evil  eye  discerns, 
Alas!  I  cannot  "  strike  at  wretched  kernes.' 
Inhuman  Sa.xon  !  wilt  tliou  then  resign 
A  muse  and  heart  by  choice  so  wholly  thine  ? 

I       Ut  gratas  i'lter  inensas  synipliniiia  eisdors^ 
j     .  Et  crassuin  uniruentuui,  et  Siiriio  cum  molle  pipuvei 
I        Offendunt,-poterat  duci  quia  ceena  sine  istis 
■       Sic  aniniis  naturn  inventunKpie  poeina  juvandis, 
8i  nauluni  a  suinmo  decessit,  verL'it  ad  imum. 
Lu(hn-e  cpii  nescit,  canipestribus  abstinet  armis 
I        Indoctusque  pil'.e,  discive,  trochive,  quiescit, 
Ne  spissa^  risiim  tollant  iinpune  coronte  : 
Q,ui  nescit,  versus  tamen  audet  fingere  ! — Quid  ni  ? 
Liber  et  insenuus  pra^sertim  census  equestrem 
Summam  nummorum,  vitioque  remotus  ab  omni. 


1  Ab  Mr.  Pope  took  the  liberty  of  damninj?  Homer,  to 
Aihom  he  was  under  eroat  obligations — "Jind  Homer  (damn 
"iiia  '.)  calls" — it  may  be  presumed  that  any  ixiily  or  any  thing 
niiiy  be  damned  in  vi'rse  by  poetical  license;  uiul.  in  case  ol 
T'c.ident,  I  be;,'  leave  to  plead  so  illustrious  ii  preicedent. 

2  For  the  story  of  Hilly  Havard's  irngdy,  sei'  "  Davies's 
Lifi-  ut' Garrick."  I  h<'liove  it  i.«  "  Retndu.«,"  or  "Charles 
!iif  First." — Tlie  moment  it  was  known  to  \»-  Ins  the  theatre 

liiiuii'd,  and  the  booksellei  rclueed  lo  cive  liie  cui^tomury  sum 
t'.i.  tin;  copyiiKhi 


1  To  the  Eclectic  or  Christian  Reviewers  !  have  to  retum 
thanks  for  the  fervour  of  that  ch.nity  which  in  IS09  induced 
ihem  to  express  a  hope,  that  a  tliinir  then  published  by  me 
might  lead  to  certain  consequences,  which,  although  naiiiral 
enouah,  surely  came  but  rashly  from  reverend  lips.  1  refer 
them  to  their  own  paacs,  whore  they  confrratulated  themselves 
on  the  prospect  of  a  tilt  between  Mr.  Jeffrey  and  myself,  fnm 
which  some  great  cood  was  to  accrue,  provided  one  or  hi  th 
were  knocked  on  the  head.  Having  survived  two  years  and  a 
half  those  "Elegies"  which  they  were  kiedly  proparini:  to 
review,  1  have  no  peculiar  jiusto  to  wive  them  "so  joyful  i 
trouble,"  except,  indeed,  '  uiK)n  compul.-;ioi),  Fi;il  ;"  but  if, 
as  David  says  m  the  "Riva,s,"  it  shouid  come  to  "  bloody 
sword  and  enn  fi^d)tinfr,"  we  "won't  run,  will  we,  Sir  Lu 
cius  1"  I  do  not  know  why.t  I  had  done  to  those  Eclectic  pen 
tlemon :  my  work:*  are  tlieir  lawful  perquisite,  to  he  hewn  ia 
pieces  like  Agag,  if  it  should  tseem  meet  unto  ihem  ;  but  why 
they  should  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  kill  off  their  auihor,  I  am 
ignorant.  "Tiie  race  is  not  always  U>  the  swift,  nor  the  bat- 
tle to  the  strong:"  and  now,  as  these  Clirisiians  have  "  smoia 
me  on  one  cheek,"  I  hold  them  up  the  other;  luul  in  return 
for  their  good  wishes,  give  them  an  opP'Ttunity  of  repealing 
them,  Flad  any  other  set  of  men  expressed  sucli  sentiments 
1  should  have  smiled,  am!  left  them  t.i  llie  "  rerordini;  angel,' 
but  fiom  the  pharisees  of  Christianity  decency  nnuht  he  ex 
pected.  1  can  assure  these  l)ielliren,  that,  publican  and  snnier 
as  I  am,  I  would  not  have  treated  "mine  enemy's  dou  thi;»  ' 
To  show  ihem  the  superiority  (d"  my  brotherly  love,  if  ever  the 
Reverend  Me.-!srs.  Smieon  or  K.oiistlen  should  he  engaged  in 
such  a  conllici  iis  that  in  which  they  re(nieste(l  me  lo  fill,  I 
hope  tliey  nniy  e>eape  will  Iwaii:  "  u  inged"  only  U!id  tliai 
Heaviside  m;;y  be  at  l.uuo  !o  e\iia;M  Hie  hall 


HINTS    FROM    HORACE. 


161 


Dta.,  d— <1  contemner  of  my  schoolboy  songs, 

Hast  itiou  no  vengcjiince  for  my  manhood's  wrongs? 

If  unprovoked  thou  once  couldst  hid  me  bleed, 

Hast  thou  no  weapon  for  my  darinji  deed  ? 

What '  not  a  word  ?— and  am  1  tlien  so  low? 

Will  thou  forbear,  w  iio  never  spared  a  foe  ? 

Hast  tliou  no  w  rath,  or  wisii  to  give  it  vent  ? 

No  wits  for  nolilos,  dunces  by  descent? 

No  jest  on  •'  minors,"  (iuil)l)les  on  a  name. 

Nor  one  lacctious  [lara-iairh  ol'  blame? 

Is  it  for  this  on  ilion  I  liavt;  t^tood, 

i^nd  thought  of  Homer  less  than  Holyrood  ? 

Ou  shore  of  Euxine  or  /l^gean  sea. 

My  hale  untravell'd  f)i!(ily  turu'd  to  thee. 

Ah!  let  me  cease;  in  vam  my  bosom  burns. 

From  (>n-ydon  unkind  Ale.\is*turns  : 

Thy  rhymes  are  vain  ;  thy  Jelfrey  then  forego, 

Nor  woo  that  anger  which  he  will. not  show. 

What  thiMi  ?— lidina  starves  some  lanker  son, 

'Co  write  an  article  thou  canst  not  sliun: 

Some  less  fastidious  Scolclmian  shall  be  found, 

As  bold  in  Billingsgate,  though  less  renown'd. 

As  if  at  table  some  discordant  dish 
Bhoi  Id  shock  our  optics,  such  as  frogs  for  fish  ; 
As  cil  in  lieu  of  butter  men  decry, 
And  pojipies  please  not  in  a  modern  pie  ; 
If  ad  such  mixtures  liien  be  half  a  crime, 
W i  must  have  excellence  to  relish  rhyme. 
Mere  roast  and  boil'd  no  eiiicure  invites; 
Thus  poetry  disgusts,  or  else  delights. 

Who  shoot  not  flying  rarely  touch  a  gun ; 
Will  he  who  swims  not  to  the  river  run? 
And  men  unpractised  in  exchanging  knocks 
Must  go  to  Jackson  ere  they  dare  to  box. 
vViiale'er  the  weapon,  cudgel,  fist,  or  foil, 
None  reach  e.xpertness  without  years  of  toil; 
But  fifty  dunces  can,  with  perfect  ease, 
Tag  twenty  thousand  couplets  when  lliey  please. 
VViiy  not  ?--sha!l  I,  thus  qualified  to  sit 
For  rotten  bcrouirjis,  never  sliow  my  wit?- 
Shall  I,  whose  fathers  \\  ith  the  quorum  sate, 
.'\iid  lived  in  freedom  on  a  fair  estate  ; 
Wiio  left  me  heir,  \\\\h  stables,  kennels,  packs, 
To  nil  their  income,  ain^  to  Ucice  its  taz  ; 
Whose  form  and  pedig"ec>  have  scarce  a  fault. 
Shall  r,  1  say,  suppress  my  aftic  salt  ? 

Thus  think  "the  mo!)  of  wcn:iemen  ;"  but  you. 
Besides  all  this,  nnjst  have  s,iir(;  genius  too. 
Be  this  your  sobor  judgment,  ,u.'l  i  rule, 
And  print  not  jiiping  hot  from  ooii'K-y's  school, 
Wni,  (ere  another  Thaiaba  ap|,ei.<rr^,) 
I  trust,  will  spare  us  for  at  least  /une  yesrs. 
And  natk'ye,  Southey  !  i  pray— bui  Con't  be  vext— 
Burn  all  your  la>n  three  works — and  hi),*"  the  next. 

Tu  nihil  invita  dies  facicsve  .S]incr\a: 

I  liiiius;  si  (juid  rr;".>_'en  oliin 


I^i  tibi  ii.:lliiii!n  I'sl. 
eciipsori>,  10  M.in  d 
i:t  patiis,  .'t  nostra  ;. 
M;;i:l);airs  infis  [,  k- 
(ol.iod  iioii  (iii(!c.-ns  1 
tSvlv.■^trc  ■  honiiii-; 


Cfii'iaiit  juilicis  aurijs, 
/i.u'u'pn,'  pnniatur  in  annum 
N,,  d,/l-rc  lir,d)ll 
eil  vox  missa  revcrti. 
'i-  iu'L'tprcsque  deorum 


ryuili.is  ct  victu  foedo  d..a';iruil  (Jrpheus  ; 


*  Invenies  aliiim,  ei  te  hie  la.slidit.  Alexin. 
1  Mr.  Suuihcy  lias  lately  Ik d  amiihcr  Ciunstcr  to  liis  tail  in 
the  "Curse  of  Kchama,"  iiKinu'ri'  IIk^  iinL'lrct  (d"  MudoC,  &c., 
and  lias  in  one  iiis!;iiii:e  had  a  uoriiiii  fill  i  tUcl.  A  literary 
rrifiid  of  rnii.c,  wiilkiiii:  i  ii:  o'lO  luve  y  i  vc!:iriu'  last  guriini'.T, 
>ij 'he  elevesih  biuU'i.  '>i  tli-'  I' '.Irliii-iMn  canal  was  alarmed 
11 


But  why  this  vain  advice?  once  publi-^hed,  hooks 
Can  never  be  recall'd — from  pastry  cooks! 
Though  "  Madoc,"  with  "  l'ucellt,"i  instoiJ  of  Punch, 
May  travel  back  to  Quito  on  a  trunk  I' 

Orpheus,  we  learn  from  (^\  id  and  Lempriere 
Led  all  wild  beasts  but  women  by  the  ear; 
And  had  he  fiddled  at  the  presimt  hour, 
We'd  seen  the  lions  waltzing  in  the  Tower; 

Dictus  ob  hoc  lenire  tiL^res,  rabjdostiue  leones; 
Dictns  et  Amphion,  Thehauiu  conditor  arcis, 


by  the  cry  of  "one  in  jeopardy:"  he  rushed  along,  colleclo^ 
a  body  of  Irish  haymakers  (suppinir  on  buttermilk  ni  an  ailja- 
cent  paddock),  procured  llnce  rakes,  oiii;  ei;l-spear,  and  u 
landing  net,  and  at  last  (horesco  ret'urens)  pulu'd  out— ins  owe 
publisher.  The  uidoituiiate  man  was  jfone  for  ever,  aiaiso 
was  a  larsre  tjuarto  wherewith  he  had  taken  the  leap,  wliici. 
proved,  oil  inquiry,  to  have  been  Mr.  Southey's  iaslwuiii.  lis 
"alacrity  of  sinking"  was  so  areai,  that  it  has  never  since 
been  heard  of,  though  some  maintain  that  i;  is  at  this  inonu  iit 
concealed  ai  Alderman  Birch's  pastry  premi^e^,  Ci.ninill.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  the  coroner's  inauest  biini^ht  in  a  veidici  of 
"  Felo  de  bibliopida"  against  a  "quarto  unknown;"  and  cir- 
cumstaiilial  evidence  being  since  strong  agaiiist  the  "  (.''urse 
of  Kehania"  (of  which  the  above  words  are  an  exact  do 
scription),  it  will  be  tried  by  its  peers  next  session,  in  Grub- 
glreei.— Arthur,  Alfr  d,  DaviJcis,  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion.  Ex- 
odus, Exodia,  I^pigonaid,  Calvary,  Fall  of  Caiiihria,  Siejie 
of  Acre,  Don  R(jdeiick,  and  Tom  Thumb  the  Great,  are  the 
names  of  the  twelve  jurors.  The  judfos  are  Pye,  Bowies,  aiid 
the  bellman  of  St.  Sepulchre'^.  The  same  advocates,  pro  and 
con,  will  be  employed  as  are  now  ensajied  in  Sir  F.  Biirdot:'g 
celebrated  cause  in  the  Scotch  courts.  The  public  an.'ivuslv 
await  the  result,  and  all  live  pub'isliers  will  be  subpoPiiec'  af 
witnesses. 

But  Mr.  Southey  has  published  the  "Curse  of  Kehaina:' 
an  inviting  title  to  quibbl.;rs.  By  liie  by,  it  is  a  good  deal  co 
neath  S<Mlt  and  Campbell,  and  not  much  above  Souihey  .c 
allow  the  booby  Baliantyne  to  entitle  them,  in  the  Edinhu.'jrh 
Annual  Register  (of  which,  by  the  by,  Southey  is  ed:tor),  *' the 
grand  poetical  triumvirate  of  the  day."  But,  on  .second 
tlioughts,  it  can  be  no  great  degree  of  praise  m  be  Ihe  one- 
eyed  leaders  of  the  blind,  though  they  might  as  well  keep  tu 
theinseives  '.'Scott's  thirty  ihousand  copies  sold,"  vvh;:l  must 
Badly  discomfit  poor  Soulhey's  unsaieables,  P,.^;-  Smithey,  it 
should  seem,  is  the  "  Lepidus"  of  this  pr^:.(icril  trimnvira'to. 
I  am  only  surprised  to  see  hia  .n  such  good  company. 
"  Such  things  we  know  are  neither  lich  nor  rare. 
But  wonder  hcrw  the  devil  he  came  there." 
The  trio  are  well  defined  in  the  sixth  pri'positjon  of  Euclid- 
"Because,  in  the  triangles  DBC,  ACB,  DV>  is  cQual  to  AC, 
and  BO,  common  to  both  :  the  two  sides  DB,  BC.  are  eoua!  to 
the  two  AC,  CB,  each  to  each,  and  the  angle  UBC  is  equal 
to  the  angle  ACB  :  tlierefore,  the  base  DC  ise^ual  to  the  base 
AB,  and  the  triangle  DBC  {V,r.  Southey)  is  equal  to  the  tri- 
angle ACB,  the  Irss  to  the  ^renter,  which  is  absurd,"'  &c. — 
The  editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Register  wih  find  tlie  rt  si  ol  the 
theorem  hard  by  his  stabling:  he  lias  on  y  to  cross  the  river, 
'tis  the  first  turnpike  'I  other  side  "  Pons  A^inl,n:Iil."* 

1  'V^oitaire's  "  Pncelle"  is  not  quite  so  immaculate  as  Mr. 
Southey's  "Joan  of  Aic,"  and  yet.  I  am  aiiind  :lie  Frenchman 
has  both  more  truth  and  poetry  too  i  i>  his  side- — {they  rarely 
go  together) — than  our  patriotic  minstrel,  whose  first  ess.-iy 
was  in  praise  of  a  fana'ical  French  strumpet,  whose  title  ot 
witch  w(mld  be  correct  with  tiie  change  of  tiie  first  lettei. 

2  Like  Sir  B.  Burgess's  Richard,  the  tenth  book  of  whiciil 
read  at  Malta,  on  a  trmik  of  Eyres.  U»,  Cockspur-street.  If 
this  be  doubted,  I  shall  hiiy  a  portman'eaii  to  quote  from 

*This  Latin  has  sorely  puzzled  the  TTniversity  of  Fnin 
burgh.  Ball;'.niyne  said  it  meant  tlie  "  Bndi^e  of  Beiwick," 
but  Southey  claimed  it  as  half  Fnglish  ;  Scott  swore  it  war 
the  "  Brig  o'  Stirling;"  he  had  just  pissed  two  King  James  f 
and  a  dnzen  Douglasses  over  it.  At  l:,st  it  was  decide  i  b^ 
Jeffrey,  tliat  it  meant  nothing  more  nor  lesy  'ban  the  "cnur'tru 
of  Arch;-  Con^tabKi's  shop." 


162 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  old  A.mphion,  such  were  minstrels  then, 
(lad  built  St.  Paul's  without  the  aid  of  Wren. 
Vt^rse  too  was  justice,  and  tlie  bards  of  Greece 
Did  more  than  constables  to  keep  the  peace; 
\h.ilisir<i  .uickoldoiii  with  inucli  applause, 
CuIlM  couut.v  lucetiiigs,  and  enforced  tlie  laws, 
I'at  dnwii  cronu  iutliieiice  '.vith  reforming  scythes. 
And  served  tih-  cliiirch  without  deniandiii!:  tithes; 
And  hence,  throughout  all  Hellas  and  the  East, 
Each  poet  u  as  a  prophet  and  a  priest, 
Whose  old-(;sta!di>h\i  board  of  joint  controls 
Included  kini|doms  in  the  cure  of  souls. 

Next  rose  the  martial  Homer,  epic's  prince. 
And  tightiiig  "s  been  in  fashion  ever  since; 
And  old  Tyrtteus,  v.lien  the  Spartans  warr'd, 
(A  limping  leader,  but  a  lofty  bard,) 
Thoimh  wall'd  Ithome  had  resisted  long. 
Reduced  the  fortress  by  the  force  of  song. 

When  oracles  [)revaird,  in  times  of  old. 
In  song  alone  Apollo's  will  was  told. 
Then  if  your  verse  is  wliat  all  verse  should  be, 
An.!  gods  were  not  ashamed  on  't,  why  should  we? 

The  muse,  like  mortal  females,  may  be  woo'd; 
In  turns  she  'U  seem  a  Pajihian  or  a  prude  ; 
Fierce  as  a  bride  when  first  she  feels  atfright, 
Miid  as  the  same  u|hmi  the  second  night; 
Wild  as  the  wife  of  alderman  or  peer, 
Now  lor  his  grace,  and  now  a  grenadier! 
H'r  eyes  licsetun,  her  heart  belies,  her  zone, 
Ice  ill  a  crowd,  and  lava  when  alone. 

If  verse  be  studied  with  some  show  of  art. 
Kind  nature  always  will  perform  her  part. 
Though  without  genius,  and  a  native  vein 
Of  wit,  w<'  loathe  an  artificial  strain  ; 
Yet  art  and  nature  join'd  will  win  the  prize, 
Unless  they  act  like  us  and  our  allies. 

The  youth  who  trains  to  ride  or  run  a  race 
Must  bear  privation  with  unruffied  face, 
Be  call'd  to  labour  when  he  thinks  to  dine, 
And,  harder  still,  Ic'ave  wenching  and  his  wine. 
Ladies  who  sing,  at  least  who  sing  at  sight, 
[Jave  follow'd  music  tin-ough  her  farthest  flight; 
Hut  rhvmers  tell  yon  neither  more  nor  less,  ^ 

■•  I  "vc  s'.n  a  ()retty  poem  for  the  press;" 
\!id  that 's  enough  ;  then  write  and  print  so  fiist  ;- 
'■'  Sat.-in  take  the  hindmost,  who'd  be  last? 

Saxa  movi^re  so?io  testndinis,  et  prece  blanda 
Duci'rc  (iuu  v.rili't  :  fiiil  lut'c  sapientia  quotularn, 
Publira  privatis  s-'ccrncre  ;  sacra  profanis  ; 
Ciiiiculiitu  iirohiitcrc  vai/o;  d.-ire  juramaritis; 
Djipi  la  uioliri  ;  I.'Lm>  incidcr."  liiiiio. 
Pic  honor  ct  noiii.-n  dn  inis  valiims  atspie 
Carniiiiihiis  vc:;it.     i'.ist  lios  iiisit'iiis  Homerus 
ryilir!is(]ue  mar:js  aniinos  in  .Marlia  b.'lla 
V':i>il)  IS  .'xacuit  ;  dictie  |)er  carmina  sortes 
Kt  \.M :;•  motistrata  via  est:  et  gratia  regum 
I'nriis  I'.Mlala  modis  :  liidiis(ine  rcpertus. 
El  lo:ii;or:iiu  opcrum  tinis;  nc  forte  padori 
S)t  tilu  Miisa  lyrie  sol'^rs,  et  cantor  Apollo, 
Natnra  (icrct  laudalulc  carmen,  an  an-', 
Q,;iivsitiim  est  :  ego  nee  studiiim  sine  divite  vena 
\ec  rude  ipiid  prosit  viileo  ingeniiim  ;  alt'uius  si 
Altera  iv.s-it  opem  res,  et  conjnrat  amic'. 
Um  slud"t  optataiii  ciirsu  continijere  inetani, 
Multa  rulit  fecitcpie  piier  ;  suda\  il,  et  alsit  ; 
Abstiiiuit  Venere  et  vino:   ijui  Pythia  cantat 
nipicen,  didicil  jiriiis,  ext iniuil«iiii'  nsauistrum. 

Viinc  satis  est  rli\l^se;  v.' ira  poemata  paii^rn 

»ci  'ip.  L  .•xtreniiim  scabies  ;  mihi  lnrp(!  relinqui  i 
rl)     \i|0'j  imii    lidiei,  sane  M"scjre  taleri. 


They  storm  the  types,  they  publish,  f  ne  and  all, 
They  leap  the  counter,  and  they  leave  the  stall. 
Provincial  maidens,  men  of  high  command, 
Vea,  baronets  have  ink'd  the  bloody  handl 
Cash  cannot  quell  them  ;  Pollia  play'd  this  prank 
(Then  Phoebus  tirst  found  credit  in  a  bank!) 
Not  all  the  living  only,  but  the  dead, 
Fool  on,  as  fluent  as  an  Orpheus"  head  ;i 
Dainn'd  all  their  days,  they  posthur.ously  thrivo- 
Dug  up  from  dust,  though  buried  when  alive 
Reviews  record  this  epidemic  crime. 
Those  "  Books  of  Martyrs"  to  tlie  rage  for  rhyme 
Alas  !  woe  worth  the  scribbler  !  often  seen 
In  Morning  Post  or  Monthly  Magazine. 
There  lurk  his  earlier  lays;  but  soon,  hot-prest. 
Behold  a  quarto !— Tarts  must  tell  the  rest. 
Then  leave,  ye  wise,  the  lyre's  precarious  chords 
To  muse-mad  baronets  or  madder  lords. 
Or  country  Crispins,  now  grown  somewhat  stale. 
Twin  Doric  minstrels,  drunk  with  Doric  ale! 
Hark  to  those  notes,  narcotically  soft ! 
Tiie  cobbler  laureats  smg-  to  Cajiel  LoflT; ! 
Till,  lo  I  that  modern  Midas,  as  he  hears. 
Adds  an  ell  growth  to  his  egregious  ears !» 

There  lives  one  druid,  who  prepares  in  time 
'Gainst  futiiri;  feuds  his  poor  revenge  of  rhyme; 
Hacks  his  dull  memory,  ami  his  duller  muse. 
To  publish  faults  whicii  friemiship  should  excuse. 


1  Tuni  qvjoque  inarniorea  caput  acrrvico  revulsum, 
Ciirsiie  cum  me(ho  peirtans  CEagrius  Hebrus, 
Volveret  Eurydicen  vox  ipsa,  et  fri{rid;i  linaua; 
All,  miseram  Eurydicen  I  anima  fujriente  viicabat ; 
Eurydicen  toto  relereijant  flujnine  riv>Ds. 

Geor^ic.  iv.  523. 

21  beg;  Nathaniel's  pardon;  he  is  not  a  cobbler;  it  is 
tailor,  but  begged  (yapel  LofR  to  f^ink  the  prnfessien  in  liid 

preface  to  two  pair  of  panta psha !— of  cantos,  which  hcj 

wished  the  piiblic  to  try  on  ;  but  the  sieve  of  a  patron  let  it 
out,  and  so  far  saved  the  expensie  of  an  advertisement  to  \m 
country  ciisloincrs.— Merry's  "  Moorfiuld's  wdiine"  was  no- 
tliinfr  to  all  this.  TIh;  "  Dtdia  Cru-ctttis"  were  people  of  some 
education,  and  no  profession;  but,  these  Arcidians  ("Aica'le 
ainbo" — bumpkins  both)  send  out  their  na'ive  nonsense  with- 
out the  smallest  alloy,  and  leave  all  the  shoes  am!  sniallclotlieiz 
in  the  parish  unrepaired,  to  patch  up  Elegies  on  Enclosures 
and  Pseans  to  Gunpowder.  Sitting  on  a  shopboard,  they  de- 
scribe fields  of  baitle,  when  the  only  blood  they  ever  saw  was 
tihed  from  the  fni^'er:  and  an  "  Essay  on  Wai-"  is  produced 
by  the  ninth  part  of  a  "poet." 

"  And  own  that  nine  such  poets  made  a  Tate." 
Did  Nathan  ever  road  that  line  of  Pope?  and  if  he  did,  why 
not  take  it  as  his  motto  ? 

3  Tiiis  weii-nieaning  gentleman  has  spoiled  some  excplienf 
ehoe-m  ikers,  and  been  acces^ary  to  the  poeiinal  niidoiiii;  of 
many  <,f  die  niduslrious  poor.  Nathaniel  Bloiunfield  and  his 
broiher  B  .liby  h.ve  sei  all  Somersetsiiire  singing;  nor  has  the 
mnla.iy  ceiifiL-d  :!se!f  to  one  county.  Pratt,  too,  (who  once 
was  wiser.)  lias  caught  the  contagion  of  paironagt;,  and  de- 
coyed a  poor  fellow  named  Blackett  into  poetry  ;  but  he  died 
during  {\\i\  operation,  leavMig  one  child  and  two  volumes  of 
"Remains"  utterly  destitute.  Tiie  girl,  if  she  ilon't  take  a 
poetical  twist,  and  come  forth  as  a  shoe-making  Sappho,  may 
do  well;  hut  the  "tragedies"  arc  as  ritke'y  as  if  liii.'y  had 
been  ilie  ollsprinjr  of  an  Earl  or  a  Seatonian  prize  poet  'J'he 
patrons  of  diis  poor  lad  are  certainly  answerable  for  h'S  eiu!, 
and  it  (uight  to  be  an  indictable  offenee.  But  this  is  tne  least 
ihey  have  done,  for,  by  a  icfinenient  of  bariiarily.  they  have 
mad(!  the  (late)  man  posihnmonsly  ridii  u(oll.^,  by  printing 
wh.'U  he  wmild  iiave  had  sense  enomiii  never  to  print  himself. 
(,\:rles  ihtse   rakers  of  "  Remains"  ( ouie  nnder  the  staiuto 


HINTS    FROM    HORACE. 


1(53 


f  Ini'i  ilsl'jp's  iiotlii!!!,'   self-rcirnrd  mi^Mit  teach 
\]nr,'  p,i!)-^iri)  iisa-c  oT  .ii«  parts  of  spc.>cli. 
I!  It  what  i>'  slKiui".  or  what  is  aiii.'ht,  to  liiiii  ? 
'\r  Vfiiis  lii<  >p!(cii  or  ;:ralilics  liis  wliiin. 
'^■■iiii'  iaiiciril  slii'lit  ;ias  roused  his  lurking  hate, 
S   111.-  toll\  crtirs'il.  .-oiiif  jest,  or  some  dchale  ; 
I'p  to  liis  .Icii  Sir  SiTii;l)ltM-  hies,  and  soon 
•Vh.'  -athrr-d  -all  is  voided  in  lampoon. 
r  liiaps  at  some  pert  speecli  you  've  dared  to  frown, 
''•rhaps  \our  [iiem  may  iiave  pleased  the  town; 
If  so,  alas!   't  is  nature  in  the  man- 
May  heaven  lori:i\e  \oii,  for  he  inner  can  ! 
Thi-n  he  it  so:  and  may  his  withering  hays 
I"o -111  tVesli  ill  satire,  thoiiirJi  tliey  fade  in  praise! 
Willie  Ins  lost  songs  no  more  sliall  steep  and  stink, 
The  diiiiest,  fattest  weeds  on  Le^the's  iirink. 
Bat  spriiejiiiir  upwards  from  the  slu^^iji^li  mould, 
Be,  (what  they  ne\i'r  were  hefore)  he  sold; 
Should  some  riv:h  hard  (hut  such  a  monster  now. 
In  modern  i)liysics,  we  can  scarce  allow,) 
Should  some  i)retending  scrihhler  of  the  cotirt, 
Some  rhyminjr  i)eer— there  's  plenty  of  the  sort — * 
All  hut  one  poor  dependent  priest  withdrawn, 
(All!  too  regardless  of  his  chaplain's  yawn  !) 


.".irniiist  "resurrection  men."  What  does  it  signify  whether 
::  i)ii()r,  dr.-ir,-(!ead  dunce  is  to  be  stuck  np  in  Suraeons'  or  in 
S::i!!!)!)ers'  Hall?  Is  it  so  bad  to  unearth  his  bones  as  his 
hlunder!;?  Is  it  not  better  to  "ibbet  his  body  on  a  lieatii,  than 
Ids  soni  in  an  octavo'?  "  W^e  know  what  we  are,  but  we 
know  not  what  we  may  he:"  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  we  never 
«it;ill  know,  if  a  man  who  has  pass»-,,l  tbreupb  life  with  a  sorl 
Dt' eclat  is  to  find  himself  a  niountebank  on  the  other  side 
ol'Siyx.  and  made,  like  poor. Joe  Blacken,  the  laushins-siock 
of  i;u.-i;ii!ory.  The  plea  of  publication  is  to  provide  for  the 
caild  ;  now,  niielit  not  some  of  this  "Sutor  ultra  Crepidum's" 
(Viends  and  seducers  have  done  a  decent  action  without  in- 
vciizlin?  Pratt  into  bioL'raphy?  And  then  his  inscription  split 
into  so  many  modicums  1 — "To  the  Dunhess  of  So-nmch,  the 
Ui-ht  Hon.  So-ai,id  So,  and  Mrs.  and  IMiss  Somebody,  these 
volmnes  are,  itc.  tc."— why,  this  is  doliin:  out  the  "soft  milk 
of  dedication"  in  eilis, — 'here  is  but  a  quart,  and  he  divides 
it  anions  a  dozen.  Why.  Pratt,  hadst  Ihou  not  a  pufT'lefll 
iJost  thou  think  six  families  of  distinction  can  share  this  in 
p.atet  7— There  is  a  child,  a  book,  and  a  dedication  ;  send  the 
f-'irl  to  her  trrnce,  the  volumes  to  the  grocer,  and  the  dedica- 
tion lo  the  (levd 

1  Here  will  Mr.  Gifford  allow  me  to  introduce  once  more  to 
his  iintice  thi-  S'le  ::urvivor,  the  "ultimus  Romanoru.n,"  the 
Jr.-t  of  liie  "Ciiiscanii  I" — "  Rdvvin"  the  "  prof)und,"  by  our 
Lady  (d"  Puni-hioeut:  h(ire  he  is  as  lively  as  in  the  days  of 
"well  said  IJavnal  the  Correct."  1  thoujiht  Filzserald  had 
been  the  !aii  .d  jk. <'->•,  hut,  alas  S-he  is  only  the  pcimltiinate. 

A    fAillLIAR   HIMS'lLr:  TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE 
MoiiM.Nt;  CHRONICLE. 

"  What  re.ims  of  paper,  floods  of  ink," 

Do  so, lie  men  spoil,  who  never  think! 

And  so  perhaps  you  'II  say  of  me, 

In  vvhif;:,  yiiur  readers  may  ajiree. 

Slill  I  \vri:e  on,  and  !el!  you  why; 

Nothing  "s  so  bad,  you  can't  deny, 

Iiiit  may  instruct  or  entertain 

Without  the  ri>k  of  irivni!;  pain. 

And  should  you  do-.ihi  what  I  assert, 

The  nan:e  of  Camiien  !  insert, 

vV'ho  novels  read,  and  olt  maintain'd 

He  here  and  there  some  knowled^'e  gam'dr 

Then  why  not  I  indul^ie  tny  pi  n. 

Though  I  no  fame  or  profit  sum. 

Yet  may  amuse  your  idle  men; 

Of  wIkjui,  thoui:!)  some  may  be  severe, 

Others  may  read  without  a  sneer? 


Condemn  the  imhickv  -urate  to  recite 
TlK'ir  last  dramatic  w    rk  by  candle-li-hl 
How  would  th(-  jireac.ier  turn  each  ruet'ul  leaf, 
Dull  as  his  sermons,  hut  not  half  so  brief! 
Vet,  since  't  is  promised  at  the  rector's  death 
He  'II  risk  no  living  ror  a  little  breath. 

Then  spouts  and  foams,  and  cries  at  every  line. 

('I'ho  Lord  for<rive  iiim  !)   "Bravo!  grand!  divine" 

Hoarse  with  those  praises  (which,  by  tiutt'ry  fed. 

Dependence  barters  for  her  bitter  bread,) 

H(!  strides  and  stam[)s  along  with  creaking  boot. 

Till  the  floor  echoes  his  emphatic  foot ; 

Then  sits  again,  then  rolls  his  jiions  eye. 

As  when  tin;  dyiiij;  vicar  will  not  die  I 

Nor  fe(ds,  forsooth,  emotion  at  his  heart;— 

But  all  dissemblers  overact  their  part. 

Ye  who  aspire  to  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
Believe  not  all  who  laud  your  false  "  sublime  f 
But  if  some  friend  shall  hear  your  work,  and  say, 
'•  Expunge  that  stanza,  lop  tliat  line  away," 

*  *  N  Si  canoina  condes,  . 

Niinqnam  te  fallant  aniini  sub  viilpe  laientes. 

Q,uintilio  si  (jiiid  ivcitares,  Corriize,  sodes. 
Hoc  (aiebat)  et  hoc:  melius  te  pvisse  negarea. 
His  lerque  e.xpertiim  frustra,  deiere  jnhebat 
Et  male  toniatos  incudi  re.ldere  versus. 
Si  defi.Midere  delictum  (luani  v-jrtere  malles, 
Nullum  ultra  verhum  a:!t  oi,eram  insuiiK.'hat  inanec 
Ciuin  sine  rivali  teipie  et  tua  solus  ainares. 


Thus  much  premised,  I  next  proceed 
To  frive  you  what  1  fee!  my  creed. 
And  in  what  follows  to  display 
Some  humours  of  the  passing  day. 

ON  SOME  MODERN  QUACKS  AND  REFORMISTiL 

In  tracing  of  the  human  mind 

Throujih  all  its  various  courses. 
Though  strange,  'tis  true,  we  ofieii  find 

It  knows  not  its  resources  : 
And  men  through  life  assume  a  part 

For  which  no  talents  they  possess. 
Yet  wonder  that,  with  all  their  art. 

They  meet  no  better  with  success. 
'T  is  thus  we  see,  through  life's  career. 

So  few  excel  in  their  profession; 
Whereas,  would  each  man  but  appear 

In  what's  within  his  own  possession 
Wr  should  not  see  such  daily  quacks 

(For  (ju  cks  ibere  are  in  every  art) 
Attempting,  by  their  strange  attacks, 

To  meliorate  the  mind  and  heart. 
Nor  mean  1  here  the  stage  alone. 

Where  some  deserve  th'  ai>piause  they  inee  ; 
For  quacks  llujre  are,  and  they  well  known, 

li  either  house,  who  hold  u  seat. 
Reform  *s  the  order  of  the  day,  I  hear. 

To  which  I  cordially  assent: 
But  then  let  ibis  reform  api»ear. 

And  ev'ry  class  of  men  cement. 
For  if  you  but  reform  a  few, 

And  others  leave  to  their  full  bent, 
1  fear  you  will  but  little  do, 

And  find  your  time  and  pains  mispent. 
Let  each  man  'o  fiis  post  assign'd 
By  Nature,  take  Ins  part  to  act. 
And  then  few  causes  shall  we  find 

To  call  each  man  we  meet — a  quack.* 

*  For  such  incry  man  is  who  Ptther  appears  to  be  what  he 
is  not,  or  strives  '.o  be  w  hat  he  -annot 


164 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


And,  after  fruitless  efforts,  you  return 
Without  amendment,  and  he  answers,  "Burn!" 
TliHt  insta,nt  throw  your  paper  in  the  fire, 
Ask  not  his  thoughts,  or  follow  his  desire; 
But  if  (true  bard!)  you  scorn  to  condescend, 
\nd  will  not  alter  what  you  can't  defend. 
If  you  will  breed  this  bastard  of  your  brains, — » 
We"ll  have  no  words — I've  only  lost  my  pains. 

Yet,  if  you  only  prize  your  favourite  thought 
As  critics  kindly  do,  and  authors  ought ; 
If  your  cool  friend  annoy  j'ou  now  and  then, 
And  ci-oss  whole  pages  with  his  plaguy  pen; 
No  matter,  throw  your  ornameuts  aside — 
Better  let  him  than  all  the  world  deride. 
Give  light  to  passages  too  much  in  shade, 
Nor  let  a  doubt  obscure  one  verse  you've  made, 
i'our  friend's  "a  Johnson,"  not  to  leave  one  word, 
However  trifling,  which  may  seem  absurd; 
Such  erring  trifles  lead  to  serious  ills. 
And  furnish  food  for  critics.^  or  their  quills. 

As  the  Scotch  fiddle,  with  its  touching  tune, 
Oi  the  sad  influence  of  the  angry  moon, 
All  men  avoid  bad  writers'  rcsady  tongues, 
As  yawning  waiters  flys  Titzscribble's  lungs; 
Yet  on  he  mouths — ten  minutes — tedious  each 
As  prelate's  homily  or  placeman's  speech; 
Long  as  the  last  years  of  a  lingering  lease, 
When  riot  pauses  until  rents  increase. 
While  sufh  a  minstrel,  muttering  fustian,  strays 
0"er  hedge  and  ditch,  through  unfrequented  ways. 
If  by  some  chance  he  walks  into  a  well. 
And  shouts  for  succour  with  stentorian  yell, 
"A  rope!  help,  Christians,  as  ye  hope  for  grace!" 
Nor  woman,  man,  nor  child  will  stir  a  pace! 
For  there  his  carcass  he  miglit  freely  fling, 
Prom  frenzy,  or  the  humour  of  the  thing. 
Though  this  has  happen'd  to  more  hards  than  one, 
I'll  tell  you  Budgell's  story,  and  have  done. 

Budgell  a  rogue  and  rhymester,  for  no  good, 
(Unless  his  case  be  much  misunderstood,) 
When  teased  with  creditors'  continual  claims, 
"To  die  like  Cato,"«  leapt  into  the  Thames! 

Yir  bonus  et  prudens  versus  reprehendet  inertes  ; 
Culpabit  duros;  iucomptis  allinet  atrum 
Ti'unsverso  calamo  signum  ;  ambitiosa  recidet 
Oi'nainenta:  jiarum  Claris  lurem  dare  c-oget; 
Argnet  amhigue  dictum:  nmtanda  notabit; 
Fiet  Aristarchus  :  nee  dicet,  Cur  ego  amicum 
Ofl"endam  in  nugis?  hfe  nugte  seria  duccnt 
In  mala  derisum  semel  exccjjtiunque  sinistre. 

Ut  mala  qu.em  ,-<-abies  aut  uiirbus  regius  urguet, 
Ant  fanatieus  error  et  inicutida  Diana, 
Vi'>-;inuiu  tetigisyt!  tiriient  fugiunt(iue  poetam, 
On:  -aiiiunt:  jigirant  piieri,  im-autique  scquuntur. 
Ilic  duin  sublimes  ve-rsiis  ruetatur,  et  errat 
Si  v;:!iiti  tneriilis  iatiMitus  d'cidit  auceris 


1  lldit'ira  '■/your  7?/y/,;;?.<.— Minerva  being  the  first  by 
Juj  iter's  li<  ad-pieeo.  and  a  variety  of  equally  uuaccount- 
aMe  j  artui-itioiis  upon  earth,  such  as  .Madoc,  &c.  .tc.  &c. 

2  -A  crust  for  tli<'  critics."— yic/r'.s,  iv  tl,n  Rehearml. 

.3  And  tlie  "  waiters"  are  th<;  only  fortunate  peoi)le  who 
c«n  ••  fly''  from  tli'^ni ;  ;ill  the  r<'St,  viz.  the  sad  subscribers 
to  the  "  Liti'rary  Fuml."  bein-;  compelled,  by  courtesy, 
to  sit  out  the  rrcifatioii,  willir.ut  a  iiope  of  excl.'iiming, 
^.Sie"  (tiiat  is.  by  cli'.iikuiii;  Fit/,,  uitl,  bad  uine  or  worse 
poetry)  "me  s-rvavjt  Ay.tWn':' 

4  On  his  t:,ble  wre  frnml  tliese  n-<,rds:  "  miat  Cato 
Hil  and  Aili/ison  ii}i/,i-':f  (/  '•--„,.,/  Ip  i.",-i  ti'/:'  i;ut  Ad- 
li-on  did  not  "apin-vc:"  and  ir' b,.  bad.  it  would  not 
biive  inended  the  m.itH't.  lie  liad  invited  bis  ilauirhter 
~.n  ilie  same  Mater  party,  but  .Miss  liiidgeli.  l>y  some  ac- 
Md'!)t.  -scaped  this  last  jiaternal  atteiifiou.  Tlius  fid)  tie 
svrvj.baitt  of  •' Atticus,"  and  the  enemy  of  Pope. 


And  therefore  be  it  lawful  through  the  town 

For  any  bard  to  poison,  hang,  or  drown. 

Who  saves  the  intended  suicide  receives 

Small  thanks  from  him  who  loathes  the  life  he  leaves; 

And,  sooth  to  say,  mad  poets  must  not  lose 

The  glory  of  that  death  they  freidy  choose. 

Nor  is  it  certain  that  some  sorts  of  verse 

Prick  not  the  poet's  conscience  as  a  curse; 

'Dosed  with  vile  d)'ams  en  Sunday  he  was  found, 

Or  got  a  child  on  consecrated  ground ! 

And  hence  is  haunted  with  a  rhyming  rage — 

Fear'd  like  a  bear  just  bursting  from  his  cage. 

If  free,  all  fly  his  versifying  fit. 

Fatal  at  once  to  simpleton  or  wit. 

But  him,  unhappy  !  whom  he  seizes — Mm 

He  flays  with  recitation  limb  by  limb; 

Probes  to  the  quick  where'er  he  makes  his  breach, 

And  gorges  like  a  lawyer  or  a  leech. 

In  puteum,  foveamve ;  licet.  Succurrite,  longum 
Clamet,  lo  civesi  non  sit  qui  toUere  curet. 
Si  quis  curet  opem  ferre,  et  demittere  funem. 
Qui  scis  aTi  prudens  hue  se  diyecerit,  atque 
Servari  nolit?     Dicam  :  Siculique  poetie 
Narrabo  interitura.     Deus  imoiortalis  haberi 
Dum  cupit  Emp'  docles.  ardentem  frigidus  iEtnam 
Insiluit  :  sit  jus  liceatque  perire  poelis  : 
Invitum  qui  servat,  idem  facit  occidenti. 
Nee  semel  hoc  fecit;  nee,  si  retractus  erit.  jam 
Fiet  homo,  et  pouct  famosa-  mortis  amnrem. 
Nee  satis  apparet  cur  versus  factiti^t;  utrum 
Minxerit  in  patrios  cinei-es.  an  triste  loclental 
Moverit  incestus  ;  certe  furit,  ac  velut  ursus, 
Objectos  cavere  valuit  si  frangei-e  clatliros, 
Indoctum  doctumque  fugat  reeitatnr  acerbus. 
Quem  vero  arrij^uit,  tenet,  occiditque  h-gc-ndo, 
Non  missura  cutem,  nisi  plena  cruoris,  hirudo. 


"Di^nle  e  t  pujnie  cnum  nvn  chr  le    — "\  k    Da 
iVIdt    de '^  M^n(    1  oi  t  au    uid  o  hi  i     b  ivi^  b  tt  tl  nr 
p  ite  on  the  nieanin_  of  t  j     )  is   i^t  ui   i  ti  ii  t  con  i 
bly  Ion   erthiuthep)  uotlli    rp      It  i    j^inited  it 
close  of  the  (Uvi  nth  \o  (  ni    ot  M    1   m     le  >  m    n       ! 
ters  (d]t(d  U  Clo^(lb    1  ni     \Hy       !    ;    uiun.tl   it 
y;\\o  ((in  con  tiuc  mi"4  vcnturi    m  Oj  i  lu  i  on     u  h 
jt<ts   paituuliilj   I      omiTi>«ho(ii      t\     ^c  til    n 
same  hb  xU    I    houid  J   n      ill     n      t  itb  i     <  i  i  i  ( 
awlwaidh  a     mo  n  i   1  i     intms  k    )      t      i      h   Nxit 
Ii  ui    th    Fourtinth     Au   u  tin    k    U    nii      dm    t( 
join  till   e  illu  tn  u      aUlmitt        it    !  (  ii    in        11 
difi=cik  d(  tiitd   a<       uj   t     ill     ci  i       it(«    d     t 

1(  monde  i  iini  mim  le  qui  ^ou  i  i  t  p  jiu 
qui  ipi  He  omopuruu  iidpi  1  t'  ii  f  T(n\( 
ni         „  h    liitK  u\        "\   n    il  (    t  I  (  n  V    i 

dest'-aits  pio]  ri  s  ( tln(h^  u  1  u\<ti( 
bit  3lh    Di(i(r        II       t    1  fti  ill    d 

abkmentce  n  1 1<  i  |U(  t  t'  w  \( 
M  h  de  ''  vi_n  cj  n  i  n  i  1  t  in  U 
Fomi   tlint\  1  I         1  fiut  1  11 1  (111  n  \ 

SUM  \    \    Clio    «     (.     t    1  1(  U    II     11     I  ' 

aivci   (  sniti  n  11 1  itirn    nipu    it     Li       i 
b-v    1  t>  of  (om  I  it   it       n  1     t    t     \     i 
lumiu  u\  Dum  ii    u      in  i  (    hi     i    |)    n 
on  hi    li ,     1       1         di      111    t   11    I         1 
to  1     ]»      d      i  ntii  II  n I  ai   1        i       1 

somi  b(  \\      till  111  )  (.   lum  1(1       \  I  1 
and  di  m  ili  h  Dum        n     mil  h  t  t 

iff  lit  1  if  Ik  w  II  no  1  ctt  t  t'l  in  I  t 
oi  (I  mil  (  nt  ot  1  o  moie  i  1 1  if 
(  il(u'  ti(  11  (  1  t  1  pi  nt  ion 
'  la  !(  lu  1(1  I  d  li  I  rt  ti  n 
frrm  nin  inv  in  i  onto  mi 
Biileiu    md  it  li  i  t  is  ^  lo  1  i     1 


itji 

(  nt 

k 

1 

1 
H 

I  11 


tb 
1  1 
M    \) 

A  I 


tt 


1(  irnin^  is 


\^i  d  1  \  til  (omi  111  nofioninit 
h(  u  i  ^  1  di  il  111  ij  b  iLiidi  I  d 
)U-ieti>rs. 


d  m^  i(  u    th    u 

It  ni  I     1     p 

1     11.    u     to 


n  If  "dosed  with."  kc.  be  censiu-.d  as  biw.  1  beg  lea  v  to 
refer  to  the  original  for  something  still  lower:  and  if  :;n5 
reader  wi  11  translate '•  Minxerit  in  patrioscineres,"i^c.  into 
a  decent  couplet,  I  will  insert  liaid  couplet  'n  lieu  ot  rhe 
present.     • 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S   PILGillMAGE 


165 


PILGRIMAGE; 

A  ROIMAUNT. 


L  u  Ivors  rsl  une  cspcce  de  livrn,  .'.out  on  n^a  lu  que  la 
reiKi  rt:  pau'i',  quaiKi  on  n'ii  \  ii  nw  son  p.:y#.  J'i.mi  ai 
ffuiilitc  nil  liSM'Z  ?raiul  nomlire,  'iiic  j':ii  trouxees  ei:;ileiiieiit 
nvi'i\  Hiscs.  Cot  ix:;iiuri  m-  m'a  iioint  ete  liilhictiii-iix.  Je 
iiaN-.-.is  ma  (latnt'.  Tuutts  If:;  iiiu»ortiiicnces  lies  peuplos 
.:i\.i.-.  i):iriiii  lr~i|u.  U  j':ii  '.i-'u.  ni'diit  re.7oncilie  irvoc  elle. 
(iir.ii'.ti  jf  n'ai'rais  tire  d'aiitiu  beiietiee  lie  nies  voyages  que 
ceiui-la,  je  i.'en  refretteraii  ni  les  tVais  ni  Ir-s  raiiL'ues. 

LE  COS.MUPOLITE 


PREFACE. 


The  following  poem  was  written,  for  the  most  part, 
amidst  the  scenes  which  it  attempts  to  descrihe.  I' 
was  hcLnm  in  Albaiiia ;  and  the  parts  relative  to  Spain 
ami  Porluaal  were  composed  li-om  the  atitlior's  obser- 
vations in  those  eoimtries.  Thus  mnch  it  may  he  ne- 
cessurv  to  state  for  tlie  correctness  of  the  descriptions. 


The  scenes 


ted  to  he   sketclicd 


?pam, 


PortU2al,  Epiriis,  Acarnania,  and  Greece.  There 
for  llie  nrescnt  the  poem  stops :  its  reception  will 
determine  whether  the  author  may  venture  to  conduct 
his  readers  to  the  capital  of  the  East,  through  Ionia  and 
Phrvtria  :  these  tsvo  (.artus  are  merely  experimental. 

A  lictitious  character  is  mtroduced  for  the  sake  ol 
giving  some  connexion  to  the  piece;  which,  however, 
mi.kes  no  [)reiensi(>n  to  regularity.  It  has  been  sug- 
cested  to  me  by  frien.is,  on  whose  opinions  I  set  a  high 
va'.ue,  th:it  in  this  fie  itious  character,  "  ChiLle  Harold," 
[  may  in<;iir  the  suspicion  of  having  intended  some  real 
per-oriiie  ;  this  I  bejj  leave,  once  for  all,  to  disclaim — 
Harold  is  the  child  cf  imagination,  for  the  purpose  I 
tiave  stated.  In  some  very  trivial  particulars,  and  those 
merelv  local,  there  might  be  grounds  for  such  a  notion; 
but  in  the  mam  points,  I  should  hope,  none  whatever. 

It  is  ahnost  superfluous  to  mention  that  the  appella- 
tion "Childe,"  as  "Childe  Waters,"  "Childe  Chil- 
ders,'"  etc.,  is  used  as  m  )re  consonant  with  the  old  struc- 
ture of  versilioation  which  I  have  ado])ted.  The  "Good 
Niyiit,'''  in  the  besuining  of  the  first  canto,  was  sug- 
gfc-^ted  by  "  Lord  Maxwell's  Good  Night,"  in  the  Bor- 
der .Mmstrel^y,  edited  by  Mr.  Scott. 

With  ;!ie  dilferenl  poems  which  have  becR  published 
on  Spanish  subjects,  there  may  be  found  some  slight 
coincidence  in  the  first  part,  which  treats  of  the  Penin- 
sula, but  it  can  only  be  casual ;  as,  with  the  exception 
o.'  a  tew  concluding  stanzas,  the  whole  of  Uiis  poem 
was  written  in  the  Levant. 

The  stanza  of  Spenser,  according  to  one  of  our  most 
successful  |)oets,  admits  of  every  variety.  Dr.  Beattie 
makes  the  t'bllowinj;  observation:  "Not  long  ago  I 
b<'>:au  a  poem  in  the  style  and  stanza  of  Spenser,  in 
which  I  jiropose  to  give  full  scope  to  my  inclination, 
nd  be  either  droll  or  pathetic,  descriptive  or  senti- 
mental, tender  or  satirical,  as  the  humour^stnkes  me  ; 
for,  if  I  mistake  no  ,  the  measure  which  I  have  adopted, 
admits  equally  of  all  these  kinds  of  composition.'"' — 
Strengthened  in  my  opinion  by  such  authority,  and  by 

1  Btdtiie's  Letters. 


the  cxampli.-  of  some  in  the  highest  order  c'  Itaiiar 
poets,  I  sh;dl  make  no  a]K)kigv  for  attempts  at  siniUat 
variations  m  the  lullowinji  composition  ;  satisfied  that, 
if  they  are  imsuccessfiii,  their  failure  must  be  in  the 
execution,  rather  than  in  the  design  saTictioned  by  the 
practice  of  Ariosto,  Thomson,  and  Beattie. 

ADOITION  TO  THE  PREFACE. 
I  have  now  waited  rill  almost  all  our  periodical  jour- 
n.ils  liave  distributed  their  usual  [)ortion  of  criticism. 
To  the  justice  of  tlie  generality  of  their  cril.  isms  | 
have  nothing  to  object  :  it  would  ill  become  me  It 
ijuarrel  with  their  very  slight  degree  of  censure,  when 
perliaps,  if  they  haa  been  less  kind,  they  had  been  more 
candid.  Ueturning,  therefore,  to  all  and  ei-ch  my  I  est 
thanks  for  their  liberality,  on  one  point  alone  sh;il!  I 
venture  an  observation.  Amongst  the  many  objections 
justly  urged  to  the  very  inditierent  character  of  t!ie 
"vagrant  Ch'lde"  (whom,  notwithstanding  many  hints 
to  the  contrary,  ^  «itill  maintain  to  be  a  fictitious  ]!er- 
sonage),  it  has  been  statecUtliat,  besides  the  anacuron- 
ism,  he  is  very  wtknightli/,  as  the  times  of  the  knights 
were  times  of  love,  Tionoiir,  and  so  forth.  Now,  it  so 
happens,  that  the  good  old  times,  when  "Tamour  du 
bon  vieux  temps,  I'amour  anti'pie"  flourished,  were  the 
most  profligate  of  all  possible  centuries.  Those  who 
have  anv  doubts  on  this  subject,  may  consult  St.  Palaye, 
pa.<i«/7j,  and  more  particularlj'  voJ.  ii.  page  69.  The 
vows  of  chivalry-  were  no  better  kept  than  any  other 
vows  whatsoever,  and  the  songs  of  the  Troubadours 
were  not  more  decent,  and  certainly  were  niu-'h  lesa 
refined,  than  those  of  Ovid. — The  "  Conrs  d'amour 
parlemeV'ts  d'amour  ou  de  courtoisie  et  de  gentilesse.** 
had  mucii  more  of  love  liian  of  courtesy  or  gentleness.— 
See  Roland  on  the  same  subject  with  St.  Patayc— 
Whatever  other  objection  may  be  urged  to  that  iuii9 
unanuabie  personage,  Chiiue  Harold,  he  was  so  fat 
perfectly  knightly  in  his  attributes — "  No  waiter,  but  a 
knight  templar.'"' — By  the  bve,  I  fear  that  Sir  Tristram 
and  Sir  Lancelot  were  no  better  than  they  should  be, 
although  veiv  poetical  personages  and  true  kmghts 
"  sans  pcur,"  though  not  "  sans  reproche." — If  the 
storvof  th(;  institution  of  the  "Garter"  be  not  a  faliie, 
tlie  knightsof  that  order  have  for  several  centuries  borne 
the  badg''  of  a  Countess  of  Salisbur}',  of  inuitferent 
memory.  So  much  for  chivalrv.  Burke  need  not  have 
regretted  that  its  days  are  over,  though  Mane  Antoinette 
was  quite  as  chaste  as  most  of  those  in  whose  honours 
lances  were  siiivered,  and  kmghts  unhorsed. 

Before  the  days  of  Bayard,  and  down  to  those  of  Sir 
Joseph  Banks  (the  most  chaste  and  celebrated  of  ari- - 
cient  and  modern  times),  few  exceptions  will  be  found 
to  this  statement,  and  I  fear  a  little  investigation  will 
teach  us  not  to  regret  those  monstrous  mummeries  of 
the  middle  ages. 

I  now  leave   "Childe  Harold'' to  live  his  day,  such 

as  he  is;   h  had  been   more  agreeabk ,  and  certainly 

more  easv,  to  have  drawn  an  amiable  character.   It  had 

been  easv  to  varnish  over  his  faults,  to  make  liim  do 

more  and  express  less,  but  he  never  was  intended  as  an 

example,  further  thar/To  show  that  early  perversion  of 

mind  and  morals  leads  to  satiety  of  past  pleasures  and 

I     disappointment  in  new  ones,  and  liiat  even  the  beauties 

i     of  nature,  and  th(i  stimulus  of  travel  (exce[)t  ambition, 

I    the  most  powerful  of  all  excitements),  are  lost  on  a  soul 

'     so  constituted,  or  rather  misdirectcJh   Had  I  proceeded 

with  the  poem,  tiiis  character  would  have  dee[)ened  as 

he  drew  to  the  close  ;    for  the  outline  which  I  once 

,     meant  to  fill  up  for  him,  was,  with  some  exce[)tions, 

I     the  sketch  of  a  modern  Timon,   perhaps  a   piKtical 

Zeluco. 

1  Tl-.e  Rovers. — Anti  jacobin 


166 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


TO  lANTHE. 

Soi  in  ihose  climes  where  I  have  late  been  straying, 
Tlio   beauty  long  hath  there  been  matchless  deeiii'd ; 
Not  in  those  visions  to  the  heart  displaymg 
Forms  wliicii  it  sighs  but  to  have  only  dream'd, 
Hath  aught  like  thee,  in  truth  or  fancy  seeniM : 
Nor,  having  seen  thee,  shall  I  vainly  seek 
To  jiaint  those  charms  which  varied  as  they  beam'd — 
To  such  as  see  thee  not  my  words  were  weak  ; 
To  those  who  gaze  on  thee  what  language  could  they 
speak  7 

Ah  !   may'st  thou  ever  be  what  now  thou  art, 
Nor  unbeseem  the  promise  of  tliy  spring. 
As  fair  in  form,  as  warm  yet  pure  in  l.eart, 
Love's  image  upon  earth  without  his  wing, 
And  guileless  beyond  hofie's  imagining ! 
And  surely  she  who  now  so  fondly  rears 
Thy  youth,  in  thee,  thus  hourly  brightening, 
Beholds  the  rainbow  of  her  future  years, 
Before  whose  heavenly  hues  all  sorrow  disappears. 

Young  Peri  of  the  West ! — 'lis  well  for  me 
My  years  already  doubly  number  thine  ; 
My  loveless  eye  unmoved  may  gaze  on  thee, 
And  safely  view  thy  ripening  beauties  shine ; 
Happy,  I  ne'er  shall  see  them  in  decline. 
Happier,  that  while  all  younger  hearts  shall  bleed. 
Mine  shall  escape  the  doom  thine  eyes  assign 
To  those  whose  admiration  shall  succeed. 

But  mix'd  with  pangs  to  love's  even  loveliest  hours  de- 
creed. 
Oh  !   let  iliai  eye,  which,  wild  as  the  gazelle's, 
i\;nv  brightly  bold  or  beautifully  shy, 
Wins  as  it  wanders,  dazzles  ,vhere  it  dwells, 
Gl-.m'-'i'  "'">•  this  page,  nor  to  my  verse  deny 
That  smile  for  which  my  breast  might  vainly  sigh 
Could  I  to  thee  be  ever  more  than  frielid: 
This  much,  dear  maid,  accord ;   nor  question  why 
To  one  so  young,  my  strain  I  would  commend. 

But  bid  me  with  my  wreath  one  matchless  hly  blend. 

Such  is  thy  nanic  with  this  my  verse  entwined  j 
And  long  as  kinder  eyes  a  look  shall  cast 
On  Harold's  l>age.  lantiie's  here  enshrined 
Shall  thus  be  first  beheld,  forgotten  last  : 
My  days  once  number'd,  should  this  homage  pas< 
Attract  thy  fairy  fingers  near  the  lyre 
or  him  who  hail'd  thee,  loveliest  as  thou  wast, 
Such  is  the  most  my  memory  may  desire  ; 
Xliougli  mo'c  than  hope  can  claim,  could  fiiendship 
less  >"equire'' 


CHILDE  HAROLD  S 

PILGRIMAGE. 


A  ROIVIAUNT. 


CANTO  I. 


On,  thou!   in  Hellas  deem'd  of  heavenly  birth 
Muse!    tbrm'd  or  fabled   at  the  muistrel's  v/ill  I 
Since  shamed  full  oft  by  later  lyres  on  earth 
Mine  dares  not  call  thee  from  tny  sacred  liill : 
YoA  there  I've  wander'd  by  thy  vaunted  rill; 
Fes!   sigh'd  o'er  Delphi's  long-deserted  slirine,' 
Where,  save  that  feeble  fountain,  all  is  still : 
Nor  mote  my  shell  awake  the  weary  Nine 
To  grace  so  plain  a  tale — this  lo >\ly  lay  of  mine. 

11. 

Whilome  in  Albion's  isle  there  dwelt  a  youth, 
Who  ne  in  virtue's  ways  did  take  delight ; 
But  spent  his  days  in  riot  most  uncouth,  » 

And  vex'd  with  mirth  tlie  drowsy  ear  of  niwht. 
Ah,  me !   in  sooth  he  was  a  shameless  wight, 
Sore  given  to  revel  and  ungodly  glee; 
Few  earthly  things  found  favour  in  his  sight 
Save  concubines  and  carnal  companie, 
And  flaunting  wassailers  of  high  and  low  degree. 

HI. 

Childe  Harold  was  he  hight : — but  whence  his  nansc 
And  lineage  long,  it  suits  me  not  to  say  ; 
Suilice  it,  that  perchance  they  were  of  fame. 
And  had  been  glorious  in  another  day: 
But  one  sad  losel  soils  a  name  for  aye. 
However  mighty  in  the  oideu  time  ; 
Nor  all  that  heralds  rake  from  coffin'd  clay, 
Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honied   lies  of  rhyme, 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crime. 


IV. 

Childe  Harold  bask'd  him  in  the  noontide  sun, 
Disporting  there  hke  any  other  fly  ; 
Nor  deem'd  before  his  little  day  was  done. 
One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 
But  long  ere  scarce  a  third  of  his  pass'd  by, 
Worse  than  adversity  the  Childe  befell ; 
He  felt  the  fiilness  of  satiety: 
Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell, 
Which  seem'd  to  him  more  lone  than  eremite's  sad  eel 


For  he  tlirough  sin's  long  labyrinth  had  run 
Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss, 
Had  sigli'd  to  many,  though  he  loved  but  one, 
And  that  loved  one,  alas !  could  ne'er  be  his.' 
All,  happy  slie!   to  'scape  from  him  whose  kiss 
Had  been  pollution  unto  auiiht  so  cliaste  ; 
VVho  soon  had  left  her  charms  for  vulgar  bliss. 
And  spoil'd  her  goodly  lands  to  gild  iiis  waste, 
Nor  calm  domestic  peace  had  ever  deign  d  to  taste. 


CIIILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


1(^7 


VI. 

And  now  Childe  Harold  was  sore  sick  at  lieart, 
And  from  his  fellow  bacchanals  would   flee  ; 
'Tis  saiil,  at  tinies  the  sullen  tear  would  start, 
Rut   pride  cuii^real'd  the  dro|)  within  iiis  ee: 
Apart  he  stalk'd  in  joyless  reverie,  ,     '  .. 

And  from  his  native  land  resolv'd  to  <:o,  -  -  ' 
And  visit  ?-C(irchin<;  chines  beyond  the  sea; 
Willi  pleasure  dru<;g'd   he  almost  lon^^'d  for  woe, 
And  e'en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  the  siiadcs 
below. 

VIL 

riie  Childe  departed  from  his  father's  hall  : 
It  was  a  vast  ind  venerable  pile : 
So  old,  it  seemed  onlv  not  to  fidl. 
Yet  strenirth  was  pillar'd  in  each  massy  aisle. 
Monastic  dome  !   condemn'd  to  uses  vile  ! 
Where  Superstition  once  hail  made  her  den 
Now  Paplnan  -rirls  were  known  to  sing  and  smile  ; 
And  monks  might  deem  their  time  was  come  agen 
(f  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy  men. 


VIII. 

Ye.  oft-!imes  in  his  maddest  mirthful  mood, 
Strani;e  panics  would  flash  along  Childe  Harold's  brow, 
As   if  the  memory  of  some  deadlv  feud 
Or  disappointed  passion  lurk'd  below  : 
But  tins  none  knew,  nor  haply  cared  to  know; 
For  his  was   not  that  open,  artless  soul, 
Tliat  feels  relief  by  bidding  sorrow  Row, 
N^r  sought   he  friend  to  counsel  or  condole", 
Wliate'er  his  grief  mote  be,  which  he  couid  not  control. 

IX. 

And  none  did  love  him— though  to  hall  and  bower 
He  gaiher'd  revellers  from  far  and  near. 
He  knew  them  flatterers  of  the  festal  hour; 
The  heartless  parasites  of  present  cheer. 
Yea,  none  did  love  him— not  his  lenians  dear— 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman's  care, 
And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a  fere  ; 
Maidens,  like  moths,  are  ever  caught  bv  glf.re, 
And  Mammon  wins  his  way  where  seraphs  mightdcspair. 

X. 

Childe  Harold  had  a  mother — not  forgot. 
Though  fiurting  from  that  mother  he  did  shun  ; 
A  sister  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  [)ilgrimage  begun: 
If  friends  he  had,  he  bade  adieu  to  none. 
Vet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of  steel; 
"i  e  who  have  known  what  't  is  to  dote  upon 
A  few  dear  objects,  will  in  sadness  feel 
(ich  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly  hope  to  heal. 

XI. 

His  house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  Jands, 
The  laughing  dames  in  wl.om  he  did  deliirht, 
Whose  large  blue  ey<!s,  fair  locks,  and  snowy  hands, 
Might  •^hake  tlie  saintship  of  an  anchorite, 
And  long  had  i'm]  his  youthful  appetite ; 
His  goblets  brimm'd  with  everv  costly  wine 
And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite, 
Without  a  sigh  he  left,  to  cross  the  brine. 
And  traverse  Paynini  shores,  and  pass  earth's  central 
line> 


XII. 

The  sails  were  fill'd,  and  fair  the  l.ght  winds  bl,-w, 
As  glad  to  waft  hnn  from  his  native  home ; 
And  fast  the  white  rocks  faded  from  his  view, 
And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam: 
And  then,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 
Reprnt<;d  he,  but  in  his  bosom  slept 
The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did  come 
One  word  of  wail,  whilst  others  sate  and  wept. 
And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moanin"  kept. 


XIM. 

But  when  the  sun  svas  sinking  in  the  sea. 
He  seized  his  harp,  which  he  at  times  could  str/ii^. 
And  strike,  albeit  with  untaught  melodv. 
When  deeiiiM  he  no  strange  ear  was  listenin^r- 
And  now  his  finders  o'er  it  he  did  flinij, 
And  tuned  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twilight. 
While  flew  the  vessel  on  her  snowy  wing. 
And  fleeting  shore*  receded  from  his  sii;hi. 
Thus  to  the  elements  h«!  pour'd  his  last  "  Good  Is'iyht. ' 


J. 

"  AniEU,  adieu  !   my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue  ; 
The  niglu-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 

jNIy  native  land — Good  Night! 

2. 
A  few  siiort  hours  and  he  will  rise 

To  g.ve  the  morrow  birth  ; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  li(;arlh  is  desolate  ; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

3. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page! 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billows'  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale  ? 
But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong: 
Our  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 

More  merrily  along." 

4. 

'  Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

I  fear  not  wave  nor  wind  ; 
Yet  oiarvel  not.  Sir  Childe,  that  I 

Am  sorrowful  in  mind  ; 
For  I  have  from  my  father  gone, 

A  mother  whom  1  love. 
And  have  nc  friend,  save  these  alone, 

But  thee — and  one  above. 

5. 
<  Mv  father  bless'd  me  fervently. 

Yet  did  not  much  complain; 
But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 

Tiil  I  come  back  apain.' 


168 


BYRON'S    rOETICAL    WORKS. 


^' 


Enough,  enougli,  my  little  lad  ! 

Such  tears  become  thine  eye ; 
f  F  thy  guileless  bosom  had,  '■•^ 
X-line  own  would  not  be  dry.' 

6. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  staunch  yeoman, 

Whv  dost  thou  look  so  pale? 
tJr  dost  thou  dread  a  French  foeman? 

Or  shiver  at  the  gale?" — 
'  Deem'st  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life? 

Sir  Childe,  1  'm  not  so  vyeak  ; 
IJut  thinking  on  an  absent  wife 

Will  blanch  a  faithful  cheek. 

7. 

*  My  spouse  and  hoys  dwell  near  thy  hall, 

Along  the  bordering  lake. 
And  when  they  on  their  father  call, 

What  answer  shall  she  make?' — 
'  Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good, 

Thy  grief  let  none  gainsay  ; 
But  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood, 

Will  laugh  to  flee  away. 


'  For  wno  would  tru''*  *he  spuming  »'ghs 

Of  wife  or  paramour? 
Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eyes 

We  late  saw  streaming  o'er. 
For  pleasures  past  I  do  not  grieve, 

Nor  perils  gathering  near  ; 
My  greatest  grief  is  that  I  leave 

No  thing  that  claims  a  tear. 

9. 

"  And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone, 

Upon  tiie  wide,  wide  sea  : 
But  why  should  I  for  others  groan, 

Wiien  none  will  sigh  for  me  ? 
Perchance  my  dog  will  whine  in  vain, 

Till  fed  by  stranger  hands  ; 
But  long  ere  I  couh;  back  again. 

He  'd  tear  me  where  he  stands. 


10. 


«  With  thee,  my  hark,  I'll  swiftly  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine  ; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bear'st  me  to, 

So  not  a'jain  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark-blue  waves. 

And  when  you  fail  my  sight, 
Welcome,  ye  deserts,  and  ye  caves ' 

My  native  land— Good  Night!" 


XIV. 

On,  on  the  vessel  IVk^s,  the  land  is  gone, 
Ax\(.  wind>   ire  rude  m  !5isriiy's  sleepless  ba^. 
Four  days  are  sp(;d,  but  with  thfs  fifth,  anon. 
New  shores  descried  make  ev(-ry  bosom  gay: 
And  Cintra's  mo   main  vrvvA^  tlicm  on  their  way, 
And  Tagus  dashnin  onward  to  the  ileep. 
His  fabled  golden  inl.ule  bent  to  pay; 
And  soon  on  board  the  Lusian  jiilots  leap, 
And  stee'-'twi.V  tortile  shores  whc-e  yet  few  rustics  reap. 


XV. 

Oh !  Christ !  It  is  a  goodly  sight  to  see 
What  Heaven  hath  done  for  this  delicious  land ; 
What  fruits  of  fragrance  blush  en  every  tree ! 
W  hat  goodly  [)rospects  o'er  the  hills  expand  ! 
But  man  would  mar  them  with  an  impious  hano: 
And  when  the  Almighty  lifts  his  fiercest  scourge 
'Gainst  those  who  most  transgress  his  high  commanJj 
With  treble  vengeance  will  his  hot  shafts  urge 
Gaul's  locust  host,  and  earth  from  fellest  foemen  purge 

XVI. 

What  beauties  doth  Lisboa  first  unfold? 
Her  image  floating  on  that  noble  tide, 
W^hich  poets  vainly  pave  with  sands  of  gold. 
But  now  whereon  a  thousand  keels  did  ride 
Of  miijhty  strength,  since  Albion  was  allied, 
And  to  the  Lusians  did  her  aid  alibrd : 
A  nation  swoln  with  ignorance  and  pride. 
Who  lick  yet  loathe  the  ham'  that  waves  the  sword 
To  save  them  from  the  wrath  o!  Gaul's  unsparing  lord 

XVII. 
But  whoso  entereth  within  this  town,    '^    I 
That,  sheening  far,  celestial  seems  to  be,  ^ 
Disconsolate  will  wander  up  and  down,  ^'  . 
'Mid  many  things  unsightly  to  strange  ee  ; 
For  hut  and  palace  show  like  iilt'iily :      ?'^ 
The  dingy  denizens  are  reared  in  dirt ;  c 
Ne  personage  of  high  or  mean  degree    -^ 
Doth  care  for  cleanness  of  surtout  or  s!iirt,t' 
Though  shent  with  Egypt's  plague,  unkempf,juiiwa.>h"d, 

unhurt.  y 

XVIII. 

Poor,  paltiy  slaves!   yet  born 'midst  aoblcst  scene.?— 
-^  Why,  Nature,  waste  thy  wonders  on  such  men  ? 

Lo  !   Cintra's  glorious  Eden  intervenes 

In  variegated  maze  of  mount  and  glen. 

Ah,  me !   what  hand  can  pencil  guide,  or  pen, 

To  follow  half  on  which  the  eye  dilates, 

Through  views  more  dazzling  unto  mortal  ken 

Than  those  whereof  such  things  the  bard  relates. 
Who  to  the  awe-struck  world  unlock'd  Ehsiuia's  gates  ? 


XIX. 

The  horrid  crags,  by  toppling  convent  crown'd, 
The  cork-trees  hoar  that  clothe  the  shaggy  steep. 
The  mountain-moss  by  scorching  skies  imbrown'd, 
The  sunken  ghm,  whose  sunless  shrubs  must  we'>p, 
The  tender  azure  of  the  unrutfled  deep. 
The  orange  tints  that  gild  the  greenest  bough. 
The  torrents  that  from  clitf  to  valley  leap, 
The  vine  on  high,  the  willow  branch  bvlow, 
Mix'd  in  one  miglity  scene,  with  varied  beauty  glow* 


XX. 

Then  slowly'cliinb  the  many-\N  inding  way. 
And  frecpient  turn  to  linger  as  you  go. 
From  loftier  rocks  nev.  loveliness  surv<'y. 
And  r(!st  ye  at  "our  Lads's  house  of  woe  ,"^ 
Where  frugal  monks  their  littk^  relics  show. 
And  sundry  legends  to  the  stranger  1(^11 : 
Here  impious  men  have  i)unished  Uv.vn,  ana  lol 
Decj)  in  yon  cave  Honorius  long  did  dwell, 
In  hope  to  merit  heaven  by  making  earth  a  hell. 


CIIILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


1C9 


XXI. 

And  here  and  there,  as  up  the  crags  you  spring, 
Mark  many  rudocarvcd  crosses  near  the  path : 
^'el  (h;eni  not  these  devotion's  ollering — 
Tlicse  are  nienionals  trail  of  niurderous  wrath: 
For  wheresoever  the  shri<;king  vielini  liath 
PourM  forth  his  blood  heneath  the  assassin's  knife, 
Some  hand  e-ects  a  cross  of  mouldering  lath  ; 
And  gnve  and  g!en  with  thousand  such  arc  rife 
]'hruugh(yul  ikis  jturple  land,  where  law  secures  not  life.  * 


XXII. 

On  sloping  mounds,  oi  in  the  vale  beneath, 
Are  doin(.'s  wiiere  whi'.unK;  kiujis  did  make  repair; 
But  now  the  wild  (lowers  round  them  only  breathe; 
Vet  rnin'd  splendour  still  is  lin^eviui:  there-. 
And,  yon  ler  towers  the  prince's  palace  fair: 
There  thou  too,  Vathek  !    Enijland's  wealthiest  schi, 
Once  f  >rm'd  thv  paradise,  as  not  aware 
When  wanton  wealth  her  mightiest  deeds  hath  done, 
Meek  peace  voluptuous  lures  was  ever  wont  to  shun. 


XXIII. 

Here  didst  tho'i  dwell,  here  schemes  of  pleasure  plan, 
Beneath  von  luountam's  ever-beauteous  brow: 
T)iii  now,  as  if  a  thinw  uidilest  by  man, 
Tliv  fairv  dwclliiV:.'  is  as  lone  as  thou  ! 
H'jre  ;r'aut  we(,'tls  a  passa<:c'  scarce  allow 
To  lia'ls  deserted,  portals  i/apiui'  v.ide: 
Fres!i  It-ssosis  to  the  thinking  bosom,  how 
Vain  ate  the  pleasaimcf>f^  on  earth  supjilied  ; 
Swept  mtc  wrecks  anon  by  time's  ungentle  tide' 

XXIV. 

Bdiold  the  hal!  v.here  chiefs  were  late  convened!* 
Oh  !    dome  displfasn:^  unto  British  eye! 
Willi  diadem  hight  toulscaj),  lo !   a  f^end, 
A  Iniie  iiLiid  I  hat  scoffs  iucessanlly, 
There  sits  in  parchment  robe  array'd,  and  by 
His  side  is  huuL'  a  seal  and  sable  scroll, 
Where  biazon'd  irlare  names  known  to  chivalry, 
And  sundry  si^matures  adorn  the  roll. 
Whereat  the  urchin  points  and  laughs  with  all  his  soul. 

XXV. 

Convention  is  th'  dwarf-sh  demon  stvled 
Tiiat  foird  the  knii^hts  m  Marialva's  dome: 
Of  brains  (if  brains  the\-  had)  he  them  beguiled, 
And  turned  a  iiatioifs  sh;ul;)w  joy  to  gloom. 
Here  folly  dasifd  to  earth  the  victor's  plume, 
And  policv  r(;..rain'd  what  arms  had  lost: 
For  ci-.iefs  like  ours  in  vaui  may  laurels  bloom! 
Woe  to  the  coiKjiierin;;^,  not  the  conquer'd  host. 
Since  baJlled  ti-iuinph  droops  on  Lusitaiiia's  coast 

XXVI. 

And  "-v'er  since  that  martial  svnod  met, 
Britatmia  sickei  s,  Cintra  !   at  thy  name; 
And  folks  in  office  at  the  mention  fret. 
And  fain  would  blush,  if  blush  they  could,  for  sliaine. 
Flow  will  ])ost('rity  the  di'cd  proclaitn! 
Will  not  our  own  and  fellow-nations  sneer, 
To  view  theso  champions  clu'ated  of  their  fame, 
By  to(?s  in  fi<rh    o'erfhro^vn,  yet  victors  her(?, 
VVIife--!'  Scorn  her  finger  uoints  through  many  a  coming 
vear  ? 


XXVII. 

So  deem'd  the  Childe,  as  o'er  the  mountains  ho 

Did  take  his  way  in  solitary  guise: 

Sweet  was  the  scene,  yet  soon  he  thought  to  flee, 

More  restigss  than  the  swallow  in  the  skies : 

Though  here  awhile  he  learn'd  to  moralize. 

For  meditation  fix'd  at  times  on  him; 

And  conscious  reason  whisper'd  to  despise 

His  early  youth,  niisiient  in  madilesi  whim;    - 

But  as  he  gazed  on  truth,  his  aching  eyes  grew  diirit 


XXVIII. 

Q 

To  horse  !   to  horse  !   he  (juits,  for  ever  quits       ^ 
A  scene  of  peace,  though  soothing:  to  his  soul:    -"fr*^ 
Again  he  rouses  from  his  moping  tits,  <'^         , 
But  seeks  not  now  the  harlot  and  the  bowl.     ^ 
Onward  he  ilies,  nor  fix'd  as  yet  the  I'oal    Jf^ 


Where  he  sliall  rest  him  on  his  pilgrimage  ; 


/ 


And  o'er  him  many  changing  scenes  must  roll 
Ere  toil  his  thirst  for  travel  can  assuane,      <:_ 
Or  he  shall  calm  his  breast,  or  learn  experience  sage  <- 

XXIX. 

Vet  ?iTafra  ^hall  one  moinent  claim  delay,* 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Lusian's  luckless  (pieenj 
And  church  and  court  did  minaje  their  arrav, 
And  mass  and  revel  were  alternate  scx'u  ; 
Lordlin::s  and  freeres — ill-sorted  frv  I  ween! 
But  here  the  Babvlonian  whore  hath  built  ..^ 

A  dome,  where  flaunts  she  in  such  glorious  sheen^ 
That  men  forget  the  blood  which  she  hath  spilt, 
And  Low  the  knee  to  pomp  that  loves  to  varnish  guilt. 

XXX- 

O'er  vales  that  teem  with  fruits,  romantic  hills, 
(Oh,  that  such  hills  u[dield  a  freeborn  race!) 
Whereon  to  gaze  the  eye  with  joyaunce  fills, 
Childe  Harold  wends  through  in;uiy  a  pleasant  place 
Though  sluggards  deem  it  but  a  foolish  chase, 
And  marvel  men  should  quit  their  easy  chair. 
The  toilsome  way,  and  long,  long  league  to  trace. 
Oh  !   there  is  sweetness  in  the  mountain  air. 
And  life,  that  bloated  ease  can  never  hope  to  share. 


XXXI. 

More  bleak  to  view  the  hills  at  length  recede, 
And,  less  luxuriant,  smoother  vales  extend: 
Immense  horizon-bounded  plains  succeed  ! 
Far  as  the  eye  discerns,  withou'en  end, 
Spain's  realms  apjjear  whereon  her  shepherds  tena 
Flocks,  whose  rich  fleece  right  well  the  trader  know:*- 
Now  must  the  pastor's  arm  his  lambs  defend: 
For  Spain  is  compass'd  by  unyielding  foes. 
And  all  must  shield  their  all,  or  share  subjection's  woee 

xxxn. 

Where  Lusitania  and  her  sister  meet, 
Deem  ve  what  bounds  the  rival  realms  divide? 
Or  ere  the  jealous  queens  of  nations  gteei, 
Doth  Tavo  interpose  his  mighty  tide? 
Or  dark  Sierras  rise  in  craggy  pride? 
Or  f<,'nce  of  art,  like  China's  vasty  wall? — 
Nc  barrier  wall,  lie  river  deep  and  w  de, 
Ne  horrid  cra^s,  nor  mountains  dark  and  tall, 
Rise  like  tlie  rocks  that  part  Hispania's  land  *Vom  Gaul 


170 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XXXIII. 

But  these  between  a  silver  streamlet  glides, 
And  scarce  a  name  distingiiishcth  the  brook, 
Though  rival  kingdoms  press  its  verdant  sides. 
Here  leans  the  idle  shepherd  on  his  crook, 
And  vacant  on  tlie  rippling  waves  doth  look, 
That  peaceful  still  'twixt  bitterest  foeinen  flow ; 
For  ])roud  each  peasant  as  the  noblest  duke : 
Well  doth  the  Spanish  hind  the  (iifference  know 
'Tvvixt  him  and  Lusian  slave,  the  lowest  of  the  low. 


XXXIV. 

But,  ere  the  mmgling  bounds  have  far  been  pass'd, 
Dark  Guadiana  rolls  his  power  along 
In  sullen  billows,  murmuring  and  vast, 
So  noted  ancient  roundelays  among. 
Whilome  upon  his  banks  did  legions  throne 
9f  Moor  and  knight,  in  mailed  s[)lendour  drest: 
Here  ceased  the  swift  their  race,  here  sunk  the  strong; 
The  Paynim  turban  and  the  Christian  crest 
Mix'd  on  the  bleeding  stream,  by  floating  hosts  oppress'd. 


XXXV. 

Oh!  lovely  Spain!   rcnown'd,  romanticland ! 
Where  is  that  standard  which  Pelagio  bore, 
When  Cava's  traitor-sire  first  call'd  the  band 
That  dyed  thy  mountain  streams  with  Gothic  core  7' 
Where  are  those  bloody  banners  which  of  yore 
Waved  o'er  thy  sons,  victorious  to  the  gale, 
And  drove  at  last  the  spoilers  to  their  shore  ? 
Red  gleam'd  the  cross,  and  waned  the  crescent  pale, 
While  Afric's  echoes  thrill'd  with  Moorish  matrons'  wail. 

XXXVI. 

Teems  not  each  ditty  with  the  glorious  tale? 
Ah  !   such,  alas  !   the  hero's  amplest  fate  ! 
When  granite  moulders  and  when  records  fail, 
A  peasant's  plauit  prolongs  his  dubious  date. 
Pride !   bend  thine  eye  from  heaven  to  thine  estate, 
See  how  the  mighty  shrink  into  a  song  ! 
Can  volume,  pillar,  pile,  preserve  thee  great? 
Or  must  thou  trust  tradition's  simple  tongue. 
When  flaitery  s!ee{)s  with  thee,  and  history  does  thee 
wrong  ? 

XXXVII. 

Awake !  ye  sons  of  Spain  !  awake  !  advance  ! 
Lo!   Chivalry,  your  ancient  goddess,  cries. 
But  wields  not,  as  of  old,  her  thirsty  lanccj 
,     Nor  shakes  her  crimson  plumage  in  the  skies : 
/,      Now  on  the  smoke  of  blazing  bolts  she  flies, 

And  speaks  in  thunder  through  yon  engine's  roar: 
In  every  peal  she  calls — "Awake!  arise!" 
Say,  is  her  voice  more  feeble  than  of  yore. 
When  her  war-song  was  heard  on  Andalusia's  shore? 


XXXVIII. 
Hark  ! — heard  you  not  those  hoofs  of  dreadful  note? 
Sounds  not  the  clang  of  conflict  on  the  heath? 
Saw  ye  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  smote ; 
Nor  saved  your  br(Uin-(!n  ore  they  sank  beneath 
Tj rants  and  tyrants'  slaves? — the  fires  of  death. 
The  bale-fires  flash  on  high  : — from  rock  to  rock 
Each  volley  tells  fnat  thousands  cease  to  breathe  : 
Death  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc, 
Ked  Battle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  f(;el  the  shock. 


XXXIX. 

Lo  !   where  the  giant  on  the  mountain  stands, 
His  blood-red  tresses  deep'ning  in  ttie  sun, 
With  death-shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands, 
And  eye  that  scorcheth  all  it  glares  upon ; 
Restless  it  rolls,  now  fix'd,  and  now  anon 
Flashing  afar, — and  at  his  iron  feet 
Destruction  cowers  to  mark  what  deeds  are  done 
For  on  this  morn  three  [)Otent  nations  meet. 
To  shed  before  his  shrine  the  b'cod  he  deems  most  sweet 

XL. 

Bv  Heaven  !  it  is  a  splendid  sioht  to  see  •'  \ 

(For  one  who  hath  no  friend,  no  br-ther  there) 
Their  rival  scarfs  of  mix'd  embroiderv. 
Their  various  arms  that  glitter  in  the  air ! 
What  gallant  war-hounds  rouse  them  from  their  la;i, 
And  gnash  their  fangs,  loud  yelling  for  the  prey  ! 
All  join  the  chase,  but  few  the  triumph  share; 
The  grave  shall  bear  the  chiefest  prize  away, 
And  havoc  scarce  for  joy  can  number  their  array. 

XLI. 

Tliree  hosts  combine  to  offer  sacrifice  ; 
Three  tongues  prefer  strange  orisons  on  high; 
Three  gaudy  standards  flout  the  pale  blue  skies ; 
The  shouts  are  France,  Spain,  Albion,  Victory! 
The  foe,  the  victim,  and  the  f  )nd  ally 
That  fights  for  all,  but  ever  fights  in  vain, 
Are  met — as  if  at  home  they  could  not  die — 
To  feed  the  crow  on  Talavera's  plain, 
And  fertilize  the  field  that  each  pretends  to  gain. 

XLB. 

There  shall  they  rot — ambition's  honour'd  fools ! 
Yes,  honour  decks  the  turf  that  v.'raps  their  clay ' 
Vain  soi)histry!   in  these  behold  the  tools, 
The  broken  tools,  that  tyrants  cast  away 
By  myriads,  when  they  dare  to  pave  their  way 
With  human  hearts — to  what? — a  dream  alone. 
Can  despots  compass  aught  that  hails  their  sway'^ 
Or  call  with  truth  one  sp.-\n  of  earth  their  own. 
Save  that  wherein  at  last  they  crumble  bone  by  bone '.' 

XLIII. 

Oh,  Albuera !    glorious  field  of  grief! 
As  o'er  thy  plain  the  pilgrim  prick'd  his  steed, 
Who  could  foresee  thee,  in  a  space  so  brief, 
A  scene  where  mingling  foes  should  boast  and  bleed 
Peace  to  the  [lerish'd  !  may  the  warrior's  meed 
And  tears  of  triumph  their  reward  prolong ' 
Till  others  fall  where  other  chieftains  lead. 
Thy  name  shall  circle  round  the  gaping  throng, 
And  shine  in  worthless  lavs,  the  theme  of  trans  ent  son^ 


XLIV.  . 

Enough  of  battle's  minions  !  let  them  play 
Their  game  of  lives,  and  barter  breath  for  faniej 
Fame  that  will  scarce  reanimate  their  clay. 
Though  thousands  fall  to  deck  some  single  name. 
In  sooth  't  were;  sad  to  thwart  their  noble  aim 
Who  strike,  blest  hirelings !   for  their  country's  good 
And  (lie,  that  living  nii<;ht  have  |)roved  her  shaino) 
Perish'd,  i)er("fian<M>,  in  some  domestic  feud. 
Or  in  a  narrower  sphere  wild  rapine's  [lath  pursuea- 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


17] 


XLV. 

Full  swiftlj'  Harold  wends  liis  lonely  way 
VVhoie  proud  Sevilla  trumiphs  unsubdued: 
V(\.  is  she  free — tlie  spoiler's  wish'd-for  prey! 
Soon,  soon  shall  conquest's  fiery  foot  intrude, 
Blackening  her  lovely  d.omes  with  traces  rude. 
Inevitable  houi  !    'gainst  fate  to  strive 
Where  desolation  |)lants  her  famished  brood 
Is  vain,  or  Ilion,  Tvre  might  yet  survive. 
And  virtue  vanquish  all,  and  murder  cease  to  thrive. 

XLVI. 

But  all  unconscious  of  the  coming  doom, 
The  feast,  the  song,  the  revel  here  abounds  , 
StraPiTC  modes  of  merriment  the  hours  consume. 
Nor  bl(>ed  these  patriots  with  their  couhtj-y''s  wounds 
Not  here  war's  clarion,  but  loves  rebeck  sounds^ 
Here  folly  still  his  votaries  enthralls  ; 
And  young-eved  lev.dness  walks  her  midnight  rounds: 
Girt  with  the  silent  crimes  of  capitals. 
Still  to  the  last  kind  vice  clings  to  the  tott'ring  walls. 


XLVIL 

Not  so  the  rustic — with  his  trembling  mate 
He  lurks,  nor  casts  his  heavy  eye  afar, 
Lest  he  should  view  his  vineyard  desolate, 
Blasted  below  the  dun  hot  breath  of  war. 
No  mo-e  beneath  soft  eve's  consenting  star 
Fandango  twirls  his  jocund  castanet: 
Ah,  monarchs !   could  ye  taste  the  mirth  ye  mar, 
Not  in  the  toils  of  glory  would  ye  fret; 
The  hoarse  dull  drum  would  sleep,  and  man  be  hap  j)y  yet. 

XLVIII. 

How  carols  now  the  lusty  muleteer? 
Of  love,  romance,  devoticn,  is  his  lay, 
As  whiloine  he  was  wont  the  leagues  to  cheer, 
Hi;  quick  bells  wildly  jingling  on  the  way  7 
No     as  he  speeds,  he  chaunts  : — "  Viva  el  Key !" 
And  .checks  his  song  to  execrate  Godoy, 
The  royal  wittol  Charles,  and  curse  the  day 
Wlien  first  Spain's  queen  beheld  the  black-eyed  bov, 
And  gore-faced  treason  sprung  from  her  adulterate  joy. 

XLIX. 

On  yon  long,  level  plain,  at  distance  crown'd 
With  crags,  whereon  those  Moorish  turrets  rest, 
Wide-scatter'd  hoof-marks  dint  the  wounded  ground  ; 
And,  scathed  by  fire,  the  green  sward's  darken'd  vest 
Tells  that  the  foe  was  Andalusia's  guest : 
Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-fiiune,  and  the  host, 
Here  the  bold  peasant  storm'd  the  dragon's  nest ; 
Still  does  he  mark  it  with  triumphant  boast. 
And  points  to  yonder  cliffs,  which  oft  were  won  and  lost 

L. 

And  whoinsoe'ei  along  the  path  you  meet 
Bears  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimson  hue, 
Which  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  whom  to  greet 
Woe  to  the  man  tluit  walks  in  public  view 
Without  of  loyalty  this  token  true: 
Sharp  is  the  knife,  and  sudden  is  the  stroke ; 
And  sorely  wouki  the  Gallic  foeman  rue. 
If  subde  poniards,  wrapt  beneath  the  cloak, 
Could  blunt  the  sabre's  edge,  jt  clear  the  cannon's 
smoke 


LI. 

At  every  turn  INIorena's  dusky  height 
Sustains  aloft  the  battery's  iron  load  ; 
And,  far  as  mor'al  eye  can  compass  sight, 
The  inountain-howit/.er,  the  broken  road, 
The  bristling  palisade,  the  fosse  o'erflow'd. 
The  slation'd  bands,  the  never-vacant  watch, 
The  magazine  in  rocky  duraiiee  stow'd. 
The  holster'd  steed  beneath  the  shed  of  thatch. 
The  ball-piled  pyramid,  the  ever-blazing  match,' 

LII. 

Portend  the  deeds  to  coftie : — but  he  whose  nod 
Has  tumbled  feebler  despots  from  their  sway 
A  moment  pauseth  ere  he  lifts  the  rod  ; 
A  little  moment  deigneth  to  delay  : 
Soon  will  his  legions  sweep  through  these  their  wr>y . 
The  West  must  own  the  scourger  of  the  world.   — 
Ah,  Spain!    how  sad  will  be  thy  reckoning-day. 
When  soars  Gaul's  vulture,  with  his  wings  unfuri'd. 
And  thou  shall  view  thy  sons  in  crowds  to  Hatles  luuTd ! 

LIII. 

And  must  they  fall?  the  young,  the  proud,  the  brave, 
To  swell  one  bloated  chief's  unwholesome  reign' 
No  stej)  between  submission  and  a  grave? 
The  rise  of  rapine  and  the  fall  of  S[)ain? 
And  duth  the  Power  that  man  adores  ordain 
Their  doom,  nor  heed  the  sui)pliant's  ai)peal? 
Is  all  that  desperate  valour  acts  in  vain? 
And  counsel  sa^je,  and   patriotic  zeal, 
The  veteran's  skill,  youth's  fire,  and  maniiood's  heart  ol 
steel  ? 

LIV. 

Is  it  for  this  the  Spanish  maid,  aroused, 
Hangs  on  the  willow  her  unstrung  guitar, 
And,  all  iinsex'd,  the  anlace  hath  espoused. 
Sung  the  loud  song,  and  dared  the  deed  of  war? 
And  she,  whom  once  tlu;  s('nil)!;in"e  of  a  scar 
Ajjpall'd,  and  owlet's  'iarum  chili'd  with  dread, 
Now  views  the  column-scattering  bay'nel  jar. 
The  falchion  tlash,  and  o'er  the  yet  warm  dead 
Stalks  with  iNIiiKn-va's  step  where  Wars  might  (juako 
to  tread. 

LV. 

Ye  who  shall  marvel  when  you  Iiear  her  tale. 
Oh !   had  you  known  her  in  hov  so'ier  hour, 
Mark'd  her  black  eye  that  mcf'ks  her  coal-black  veil. 
Heard  her  light,  lively  tones  in  lady'i>  bower, 
Seen  her  long  locks  that  foil  the  painter's  power. 
Her  fairy  form,  with  more  than  female  grace, 
Scarce  would  you  deem  that  Saragoza's  tower 
Beheld  her  smile  in  danger's  Gorgon  face, 
Thin  the  closed  ranks,  and  lead  in  glory's  t'carful  ch  ise 

LVI. 

Her  lover  sinks — she  sheds  no  ill-timed  tear ; 
Her  chief  is  slain — she  fills  his  fatal  post  ; 
Her  fellows  flee — she  checks  their  base  career ; 
The  foe  retires — she  heads  the  salHng  host: 
W'ho  can  appease  like  her  a  lover's  ghost? 
Who  can  avenge  so  well  a  leader's  fall  ? 
What  maid  retrieve  when  man's  tlush'd  hope  i-s  Io?i^ 
Who  hang  so  fiercely  on  the  flying  Gaul, 
Foil'd  by  a  woman's  hand,  before  a  i)atter'd  wall?'' 


172 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LVII. 

Vet  are  Spiin's  maids  no  race  of  Amazxtns, 
But  fonii'd  for  all  the  witching  arts  of  love; 
Though  til  IS  in  arms  they  emulate  her  son« 
And  in  thf  horrid  phalanx  dare  to  move, 
'1  IS  nut  the  tender  herccness  of  the  dove, 
Peckiuii  the  hand  that  hovers  o'er  her  mate: 
In  softness  as  in  firmness  far  above 
Remoter  females,  famed  for  sickening  prate; 
lier  mind  is  nobler  sure,  her  charms  perchance  as  great. 


LVIII. 

-    The  seal  love's  dimpling  finger  hath  imprcss'd 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  which  bears  his  touch  :' 
Pier  l:i)s,  whose  kisses  pout  to  leave  their  nest, 
Bid  man  be  valiant  ere  he  merit  sr.ch : 
Her  idanre  how  wildlv  beautiful !    how  much 
Hath  Pha-'bus  woo'd   in  vain  to  spoil  her  check. 
Which  glows  yel  smoother  from  his  amorous  clutch  ! 
Wy  :>  round  the  north  for  paler  dames  would  seek? 

How  poor  their  forms  appear!   how  languid,  wan,  and 
weak ! 

LIX. 

Match  me,  ye  climes  !   which  poets  love  to  laud  ; 
IMalch  UKr,  ye  |-.arams  of  tlie   land!   where  now 
I  strike  my  strain,  far  ifislant,  to  aj)i)laud 
Beauties  tiiat  ev'n  a  cvuic  must  avow  ; 
Match  me  those  houries,  whom  ve  scarce  allow 
To  taste  the  gale  lest  love  should  ride  the  wind. 
With  Spain's  dark-jrlancing  daughters — deign  to  know 
Tb.cre  your  wise  prophet's  paradise  we  find. 
His  black-eyed  mai;ls  of  heaven,  angelically  kind. 

LX. 

Oli,  thou  Parnassus  I '-^   whom  I  now  survey, 
Not  m  ihe   (ihriTisv  of  a  dreamer's  eye, 
Not  m  the  fal)led  landscape  of  a  lay, 
But  soaring  snow-clad  through  tuy  native  sky, 
In  the  wild  pom[)  of  mountain  majesty! 
What  marvel  if  I  thus  essay  to  sing! 
The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 
Would  iiladly  woo  thine  echoes  with  his  string, 
I'hough  from  thy  heights  no  more  one  muse  will  wave 
her  wing. 

LXI. 

Ofi  have  I  dream'd  of  tliee !   whos^glorious  name 
Who  know--  not,  knows  not  man's  divinest  lore : 
An!  now  I  view  thee,  't  is,  alas!   with  shan  e 
That  I  m  f(M'blesl   accents  must  adore. 
^VIler.  I  rec(juiit  thy  worshipjiers  of  vore 
I  tremble,  and  can  only  lieiul  the  knee  ; 
Nor  raise  my  voice,  nor  vainly  dare  to  soar, 
But  gaze  beneath  thv  cloudv  canoi)y 
n  silent  joy  to  think  at  last  1  li  )k  on  thee  ! 


LXII. 

Ha|»f)ier  in  this  than   miiihticst  t^iards  have  been, 
VVhose  fall-  to  disiant  hi.r..cs  coufiiuid  their  lot, 
Shall  I  ur.move.i  1..  hold  the  hallowM  scene, 
Winch  otbirs  rav('  of,  ihouijn  thfv  know  it  no*'' 
rhoiiiih    here  no  more  Apollo  haunts  bis  grot, 
^tid  (hoii,  the   muses'  seal,  art  -low  their  grave, 
Some  gentle  ^pirit  still    pi-rvudcs  the  spot, 
Si^hs  in  lb';  gabt,  ki-fps  silence  m  the  cave, 
in.l  glides  with  glassy  foot  o't;r  yon  melodioits  wave. 


LXIII. 

Of  thee  hereafter. — Even  amidst  m\  strain 
I  turn'd  aside  to  pay  my  homage  here  ; 
F.)rgot  the  land,  the  sons,  tiie  maitis  of  Spam  ; 
Her  fate,  to  every  freeborn  bosom  dear, 
And  hailM  thee,  not   jiercliance  withoui  a  tear. 
Now  to  my  tlieme — but  from  thy  holy  haunt 
Let  me  some  remnant,  some  memorial  bear; 
Yield  me  one  leaf  of  Daphne's  deathless  plant. 
Nor  let  thy  votary's  hope  be  deem'd  an  idle  vaunt. 

LXIV. 

But  ne'er  didsi  thou,  fair  mount  !   when  Greece  s\as 

young. 
See  round  thv  giant  bnse  a  brighter  choir, 
Nor  e'er  did  Delphi,  when  her  [iriestess  sung 
The  Pythian  hymn  v.ith  more  tiiai;  Uiortal  fire, 
Toehold  a  train  more  t^tlm^r  to  inspire 
The  sonii  of  love,  than  Andalusia's  maids, 
Nurst  in  the  glowing  !a|)  of  soft  desire  : 
Ah  !    that  to  these  w(.:re  given  such  peacefiil  shades 
As  Greece  can  still  bestow,  though  glory  l^y  her  glade? 

LXV. 

Fair  is  proud  Seville  ;   let  her  countrv  boast 
ILt  stren:i:rh,  Iut  wealth,  her  site  o'' ancient  days;"* 
But  Cadiz,  rising  on  the  distant  coast. 
Calls  forth  a  sweeter,  th.ou^ih'  ionoble  praise. 
Ah,  vice!   how  soft  are  thv  voluptuous  ways! 
While  boyish  blood  is  mantling  who  can  'scape 
Th(;  fascination  of  thv  magic  iraze, 
A  cherub-hydra  round  us  dost  thou  izape, 
And  mould  to  every  taste  thy  dear  delusive  shape. 

LXVl. 

When  Paphos  fell  by  tiuie — accursed  time! 
The  (lueen  who  coiKpiers  all  must  viidd  to  thee — 
Tlie  Pleasure^  fk^d,  but  sought  as  warm  a  clime; 
And  Venus,  constant  to  her  native  sea. 
To  noiiglit   el^e  constant,  hither  deisiii'd  to  flee  ; 
And  fix'd  her  shrine  within  these  walls  of  white 
Though  not  to  one  dome  circnmscribeth  she 
Her  worshqi,  biit,  devoted  to  her  rite, 
A  thousand  altars  rise,  tiir  ever  blazing  bright. 


Lxvn. 

From  morn  till  night,  from  niidit  till  startled  morn 
Peeps  blushing  on  the  revel's  laushmg  crew, 
The  sonij  is  heard,  the  ro-y  I'arland  worn, 
Devices  (piaint,  an. I  frolics  ever  new, 
Tread  on  each  othrr's  kibes.      A  Ions  adieu 
He  bids  to  solier  joy  that  here  sojourns: 
Nou::!it  iuterrui-ts  t!i(>  riot,  tliougli  in  lieu 
Of  true  devotion  monkish  incense  burns, 
And  love  and  prayer  unite,  or  rule  the  hour  by  turna. 


Lxvm. 

The  sablKith  comes,  a  day  of  lilessed  rest; 
What  hv.ilows  it  upon  this  Clu'istian  shore? 
Lo!    it  is  sacred  to  a  solemn  fea<t: 
Hark!   he-,ird  voii  not  the  f)res    monarch's  roir  ? 
Crashiu'j  the  lance,  he  siniirs  the  spoulmg  gr,rc 
Of  man  and  steed,  o'ertlirown  beiKNitli  his  horn; 
The  thronir'd  arena  shakes  with   shouts  for  more. 
Yells  the  mad  crowd  o'er  entrails  freshly  tern, 
Nor  shrmks  the  female  eye,  nor  even  aflccts  to  niuurn. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRnrAGE. 


173 


LXIX. 

•    The  sov  ;iit!i  day  tb.i^  ;    iho  jiilnlec  of  man. 

London!   ri;:!u  \\<A]  V.wa  know'st  the  dav  of  prayer: 
Thin  thv  sjinire  ci'.i/.i'U,  wa^hM  artisan, 
And  <mii::  ajij'rtMitice  gulp  tlieir  wocUly  air: 
Ti:y  coai'li  of  Ilacknev,  whiskey,  one-hc^rsc  chair, 
And  liiinililts!  ui^'  throuiili  sundry  siiLnirhs  whirl, 
Ti.  Hampsiead,  Brernlord,  Harrow,  make  repair ; 
Till  the  tired  ,ia<ie  the  wheel  f.M-gets  to  hurl, 
tov.kii.a  envious  <;ihe  from  each  pedestrian  churl. 

LXX. 

Some  o'er  thy  Thamis  row  the  riblwn'd  fair, 
0:!)('rs  a'.ona  tlie  safer  turnpike  fly  ; 
Soni"  Richmond-hill  ascend,  some  scud  to  Ware, 
And  many  to  the  steep  of  Hi<.');t:ate  hie.    - 
A-k  ye,  Baotian  shades!   the  reason  why?'* 
'T  is  to  the  worship  of  the  solemn  horn, 
Gras|>'d  in  tiie  holy  hand  of  my^teiy. 
In  wliose  dread  name  both  men  and  maids  are  sworn, 
And  consecrate  the  oath  with  draught  and  dance  till 
morn. 

LXXI. 

A!l  b.ave  theiv  fooleries — not  al'ke  are  thine, 
Fair  Cadiz,  risini;  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea! 
pDon  as  the  matin-hell  proclaimeth  nine, 
T.hv  sanit-adorers  count  the  rosary: 
Mn  h  is  tlie  Virgin  teased  to  shrive  tapm  f'-ee 
{NVeil  do  I  ween  the  only  virgin  there)     j 
¥run\  crimes  as  numerous  as  her  bead5j<(en  be ; 
Tlien  to  the  crowded  circus  forth  they  fare, 
Vcunu,  old,  !iii;h,  low,  at  once  the  same  diver.-von  shnre. 

LXXII. 

The  lists  are  oped,  the  spacious  area  clcar'd. 
Thousands  on  thousands  piled  are  seated  round; 
Long  ere  the  first  loud  trumpet's  note  is  heard, 
Ne  vacant  space  for  lated  \\  ioht  is  found  : 
rirre  dons,  grandees,  but  chiefiy  dames  abound^ 
SkilI'd  in  the  ogle  of  a  roguish  eve. 
Vet  ever  well  inclined  to  heal  the  wound ; 
Xone  through  their  cold  disdain  are  doom'd  tc  die, 
.■\s  moon-struck  bards  complain,  by  love's  ^ad  ar-diery 

LXXIII. 

Hvish'd  is  the  din  of  tonsincs — on  cailant  steeds, 
\\*it!i  milk-white  crest,  gold  spur,  and  light-poised 

lance. 
Four  cavaliers  prepare  for  venturous  deeds, 
And  lowlv  bending  to  r!}e  lists  advance  ; 
1  Jill  are  their  scarfs,  their  chargers  feativ  prance: 
If  in  the  daiiirerous  game  tliey  shine  to- dav, 
7'he  crowrfs  loud  s!:f>ut  and  ladies'  lovelv  glance, 
T5rst  pri7e  of  b.i'tter  arts,  they  bear  awav, 
K\n'  ali  that  kings  or  chiefs  e'er  gain  their  toils  repay. 

Lxxrv. 

In  costly  sl'.een  and  traudv  cloak  array'd, 
But  ail  a-foot,  the  liuh'-limbM  Mata-lore 
Stands  in  tlie  cc>ntre,  eai.'i;r  to  invarie 
Tl'.e  lord  of  lov.insi  herds:   but  not  before 
The  tTround,  witii  cautious  tread,  is  traversed  o'er, 
Le-t  auirht  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his  speed; 
His  aim's  a  dart,  he  fii^lits  aloof,  nor  more 
Can  man  achieve  wit.iout  the  friendly  steed, 
Alas!  too  ofl  cond'^mn';  for  him  to  bear  and  bleed. 


LXXV. 

Tlirice  sounds  the  clarion  ;   lo  !    thi  si^i.a!  faliu, 
Tile  den  expands,  and  expectation  mute 
Gapes  round  the  silent  circle's  peo[)l(;d  wads. 
Bounds  wiih  one  lashmg  sprin:j  the  mitihty  bnil(3, 
And,  wildly  starinor,  s;)urns,  with  soiind.ing  teol, 
The  sand,  nor  blindly  rushes  on  his  toe : 
Here,  there,  he  points  his  threaieniiiH  front,  to  stui 
His  first  attack,  wide  wavini;  to  aiul  lio 
[lis  angry  tail ;   red  rolls  his  eye's  dilated  glow. 

LXXVL  " 

Sudden  he  stops  ;   his  eye  is  fix'd  :   away. 
Away,  thou  heetlless  boy!    preiiare  the  s^iear: 
Now  is  thv  time,  to  perish,  or  display 
The  skill  tb.at  yet  may  clieck  iiis  mad  career. 
With  well-timed  croupe  the  nimble  cours^Ts  veer;    * 
On  (<)ams  the  bull,  but  not  unscathed  he  'ioes  ; 
Streams  from  his  t'ank  the  crimson  torrent  clear; 
He  Ihes,  he  wheels,  disiracted  with  his  throes  ; 
Dar;  follows  dart  ;   laiicc,  lance;  loud  bellowings  aperfi 
his  woes, 

Lxxvn. 

Asain  he  comes  ;   nor  dart  nor  lance  avail, 
Nor  the  wild  plunginu  of  tb.e  tortured  horse ; 
Though  man  and  man's  avengiuir  arms  assail, 
Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force. 
One  gallant  steed  is  streteh'd  a  maiiiiled  corse ; 
Another,  hikleous  sight !   unseain'd  ap})ears, 
His  gory  chest  unveils  life's  panting  source. 
Though  death-struck  still  his  feeble  frame  he  rears, 
Stagirering,  but  stemming  all,  his  lord  miharm'd  he  heuis. 

Lxxvin. 

Foil'd,  bleeding,  breatidess,  furious  to  the  last, 
Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bay, 
'Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  darts,  and  lances  bras., 
And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray: 
And  now  the  M;itadores  aiounii  him  play, 
Shake  the  red  cloak,  and  poise  the  ready  brand : 
Once  more  through  all  he  burst-- his  thunderinrrw-a}' — 
Vain  rage  !   the  mantle  (piits  the  conyn^-e  hnnd, 
Wraps  his  tierce  eye — 't  is  past — he  sinks  upon  the  sand' 

LXXIX.  '"'^ 

Where  his  vast  neck  just  min-r's  with  the  snine, 
Slieathed  in  his  form  the  dea^Ky  weapon  lies. 
He  stops — he  starts — disdainini  to  decline  ; 
Slowly  he  falls,  amidst  trium:)!,'nir  cries. 
Without  a  I'roan,  without  a  s'ruL'ii!'*,  'iiL's. 
The  decorated  car  aj)!)ears — "u  iiinh 
The  corse  is  piled — sweet  si_:ht  (Vir  vulvar  eves- 
Four  steeds  that  spurn  the  rein,  as  swift  as  shy, 
Hurl  the  dark  bulk  along,  scarce  seen  m  d;ishing  by. 

LXXX. 

Such  the  unseutle  spor'  that  oft  ii-.vites 

The  Sjianish  maid,  and  cheers  the-  Sp  uiish  r.'-cm. 

Nurtured  m  blood  betimes,  his  hi  art  i^<lii;lits 

In  venneance,  <;loalins,'  on  another's  pain. 

\Vhat  private  feiuis  the  tro'inleri  viila:^<'  stain! 

Though  now  one  phalanxM  host  shou'd  mcei  iln:  r^c. 

Enough,  alas  !    in  hinnble  homes  remain, 

To  meditate  'gainst  friends  the  secret  blon. 


For  some  slight  cause  of   \ 
stream  must  flow. 


•rath,  whence  li%'s   wane 


174 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LXXXI. 

Bu!  jealousy  has  fl-'fl ;   his  bars,  his  bolts, 
His  withered  sentinel,  duenna  sage  ! 
And  all  whereat  the  generous  soul  revolts, 
IVhich  the  stern  dotard  deem'd  he  could  engage, 
riave  pass'd  to  darkness  with  the  vanish'd  age. 
.'Vho  late  so  free  as  Sjjanish  girls  were  seen 
Ere  war  uf<rose  in  his  volcanic  rage,) 
With  braided  tresses  bounding  o'er  the  green, 
bile  on  tlie  gay  dance  shone  night's  lover-loving  queen? 


LXXXII. 

-  Oh !   many  a  time,  and  oft,  had  Harold  loved, 
9r  dreauiM  he  loved,  since  rapture  is  a  dream; 
But  now  his  wayward  bosom  was  unmoved, 
for  not  yet  had  he  drunk  of  Lethe's  stream  ; 
And  lately  had  he  learn'd  with  truth  to  deem 
Love  has  no  gift  so  grateful  as  his  wings  : 
How  lair,  how  young,  how  soft  soe'er  he  seem, 
Full  from  the  fount  of  Joy's  delicious  springs 
)me  bitter  o'ei  the  flowers  its  bubblingvenom  flincs." 


Lxxxin. 

Yet  to  the  beauteous  form  he  was  not  blind. 
Though  now  it  moved  him  as  it  moves  the  wise ; 
Not  that  pliilosophv  on  such  a  mind 
E'er  deign'd  to  bend  her  chastely-awful  eyes  ;' 
But  passion  raves  herself  to  rest,  or  flies  ; 
And  vice,  that  digs  her  own  voluptuous  tomb, 
Had  buried  long  his  hopes,  no  more  to  rise: 
Pleasure's  pall'd  victim  !   life-abhorring  gloom 
V\>ote  on  his  faded  brow  curst  Cain's  unresting  doom, 

LXXXIV. 

Still  he  beheld,  nor  mingled  with  the  throng; 
But  view'd  them  not  with  misanthropic  hate: 
Fain  would  he  now  havejoin'd  the  dance,  the  song; 
But  uho  may  smile  that  sinks  beneath  his  fate? 
Nought  that  he  saw  iiis  sadness  could  abate : 
Vet  once  he  struggled  'gainst  the  demon's  sway, 
And  as  in  beauty's  bower  he  pensive  sate, 
Pjur'd  forth  liis  unpremeditated  lay, 
I"<-  ."harms  as  fair  as  those  that  sootlied  his  happier  day. 


TO    INBZ. 

L 

N\Y,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow, 

Alas  !    1  cannot  smile  again  ; 
Yet  Heaven  avert  that  (;vor  thou 

Should'sl  weep,  and  lia[)ly  weep  m  vain. 


And  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  woe 
I  berr,  corroihiiij  joy  and  youth  .' 

And  wilt  ihou  vainlv  seek  to  know 
A  pang,  ev'n  tiiou  must  fail  to  soothe  ? 


Ii  IS  not  lovo.  It  is  not  hate, 

Nor  low  aiuliii  ion's  honoirs  lost, 

riiat  bids  mi;  loailn-  ruv  present  state, 
And  riv  froiii  ali  I  i.i:/,(;  I  the  most; 


It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 
From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see : 

To  me  no  pleasure  beauty  brings  ; 

Tiuiie  eyes  have  scarce  o  charm  for  rao. 

5. 

It  is  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom 
The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore; 

That  will  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 
But  cannot  hope  for  rest  before. 


What  exile  from  himself  can  flee  ? 

To  zones,  though  more  and  more  remote. 
Still,  still  pursues,  where'er  I  be. 

The  blight  of  life — the  demon  thought. 

7. 
Yet  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem, 

And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake ; 
Oh  !   may  they  still  of  transport  dream. 

And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake ! 


Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  go, 
With  many  a  retrospection  curst ; 

And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 

Whate'er  betides,  I  've  known  the  worst. 


What  is  that  worst  ?  Nay,  do  not  ask- 
In  pity  from  the  search  forbear  : 

Smile  on — nor  venture  to  unmask 

Man's  heart,  and  view  the  hell  that's  thero. 

LXXXV. 

Adieu,  fair  Ca>liz !   yea,  a  long  adieu! 
Who  maj'  fijrget  how  wel"  thy  walls  have  stood! 
When  all  were  changing  thou  alone  wert  true. 
First  to  be  free  and  last  to  be  subdued: 
And  if  amidst  a  scene,  a  shock  so  rude. 
Some  native  blood  was  seen  thy  streets  to  dye ; 
A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud:  '^ 
Here  all  were  noble,  save  nobility ; 
None  hugg'd  a  conqueror's  chain,  save  fallen  chivalry 


LXXXVI. 

Such  be  the  sons  of  Spain,  and,  strange  her  fate  • 
They  fight  for  tl-eedom  who  were  never  free ; 
A  kiugless  peo])le  for  a  nerv(!lc'ss  state. 
Her  vassals  combat  when  their  clii<>ftains  flee. 
True  to  the  veriest  slave  of  treachery  ; 
Fonfl  of  a  land  which  gave  them  nought  but  Ufe, 
Pride  points  the  path  that  leads  to  liberty; 
Back  to  the  struggle,  balilcd  in  the  strife, 
War,  war  is  still  the  crv,  "war  even  to  the  knife!"'" 


Lxxxvri. 

Ye,  who  would  more  of  Sjiain  and  Sjianiarua  know, 
Go,  read  whate'er  is  writ  of  bloodiest  strife: 
Whatcj'er  keen  vorii;eance  urged  on  foreign  foc 
Can  act,  is  acting  there  against  man's  life: 
From  riasliing  scimitar  to  sccrttt  knife, 
\Yar  mouhh'th  there  each  weapon  to  his  nectl  — 
So  mav  he  jruard  the  sister  and  the  wife. 
So  may  lie  make  each  curst  oppressor  bleed, 
So  mav  such  foes  duserve  llio  most  remorseless  deed' 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


175 


LXXXVIII. 

Hcus  there  u  tear  of  pity  for  the  dead  ? 
Look  o'er  the  ravage  of  tlie  reckiiic;  plain; 
Look  on  the  hands  with  female  slai'>il)ter  red; 
Then  to  the  doirs  resi^in  the  unhuried  shiin, 
Tti(;n  to  the  vuhure  let  each  corse  remain  ; 
Alheit  unworthy  of  the  prey-bird's  maw, 
f  jet  their  lileachM  lion'-s,  and  blood's  nn!)leaching stain. 
Lon;:  mark  the  battle -fi.'ld  with  hideous  awe: 
Tims  only  inav  our  sons  conceive  the  scenes  we  saw! 


LXXXLX. 

Nor  vet,  alas  I   the  dreadful  work  is  done, 
Fresh  leofions  pour  adown  the  Pyrenees ; 
It  deepens  still,  the  work  is  scarce  begun,     - 
Nor  mortal  eve  the  distant  end  foresi:es. 
Fall'n  nations  gaze  on  Spain  ;   if  freed,  she  frees 
More  than  her  fell  Pizarros  once  encliain'd  : 
Strange  retribution!   now  Columbia's  ease 
Ri.'pairs  the  wrongs  that  Quito's  sons  siistain'd, 
U'hileo'er  the  parent  clime  prowls  murder  unrestrain'd. 


xc. 

Not  all  the  blood  at  Talavera  shed, 
Not  all  the  marvels  of  Harossa's  fight, 
Not  Albuera,  lavish  of  the  dead, 
Have  won  Cor  Spain  iier  well-asserted  right. 
W'.mn  shall  her  olive-branch  be  free  from  blighr?' 
\Vh(;n  sIk'.II  she  breatb.e  lier  frtmi  the  blushing  toil? 
How  many  a  doiibrf  d  dav  shall  sink  in  night, 
Eire  the  Frank  ro!)':)er  turn  iiiin  H-om  his  spoil, 
Aiid  freedom's  stranger- 'ree  grow  native  of  the  soil ! 

XCL 

And  thou,  my  friend  I'^ — smce  unavailing  woe 
Bursts  from  my  heart,  and  mmgles  with  the  strain — 
}iad  the  svvord  laid  thee  with  the  mighty  low, 

•   I'nde  might  forbid  ev'n  tiacudship  to  coaipium: 
Hut  thus  unlaurerd  to  descend  in  vain, 
By  ail  t'orgntten,  save  the  lonely  breast, 
And  mix  unbleeding  with  the  boasted  slain. 
While  gifjr}  eroAiis  ^o  many  a  meaner  crest! 

V\  hat  hadsi  tiiuii  done  to  sink  so  [)eaceably  to  rest? 

xcn. 

Oh  !   known  the  earliest,  and  esteeni'd  the  most ! 
Dear  to  a  heart  where  nought  was  left  so  dear! 
Though  to  my  hopeless  days  for  ever  lost. 
In  dreams  iW'nv  me  not  to  see  thee  here  ! 
And  ni'.rn  in  secret  shall  renew  the  tear 
Of  cnnsciousnrss  anakuig  to  her  woes. 
And  fancv  h'>ver  o'er  tby  bloodless  bier. 
Till  mv  frail  frame  retiirn  to  v.hence  it  rose, 
And  inourn'd  and  mourner  lie  united  in  re])ose. 

xcin. 

Here  is  one  fvtte  of  Harold's  pilgrimnge: 
Y';  who  of  liini  may  further  seek  to  know, 
Shall  nnd  s.ime  tidings  in  a  future  page, 
if  he  that  rhvrni'th  now  may  scribble  nioe. 
Is  this  too  much  /   stem  critic  !    s^ay  not  so: 
Patiimce  !   and  ye  shall  hear  wh.at  he  beheld 
.11  other  lands,  wdiere  he  was  doom'd  to  go: 
I^ands  that  contain  the  monuments  of  Eld, 
Sre  Greece  and  Grecian  arts  by  barbarous  hands  wer*» 
ijueU'd. 


CANTO  IT. 


I. 

Come,  blue-eyed  maid  of  heaven! — but  thou,  aUu3l 
Didst  never  yet  one  mortal  song  inspire — 
Goddess  of  wisdom!   here  thy  lenijile  was, 
And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wastmg  fire,  ' 
And  vears,  that  bade  thy  worshij)  to  expire: 
Hut  worse  than  steel,  and  tlame,  and  ages  slow, 
Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  feit  the  sacred  glow 
Ifiat  thoughts  of  .thee  and  thine  on  polish'd  bieastj 
b.'stow.  2 

II. 

Ancient  of  days!   august  Athena !   where, 
Where  are  thy  men  of  might?   thy  grand  in  soul? 
Gone,  glimmering  thro'  the  dream  of  thmgs  tnat  were: 
First  in  the  race  that  led  to  glory's  goal,  ^ 

Thev  won,  a:i  I   pass'd  away — is  this  the  whole  ? 
A  school-boy's  tale,  the  wonder  ol"  an  hour? 
The  warrior's  weajton  and  the  soj)hist's  stole 
Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o'er  each   mouldering  tower, 
Dim  witii  the  mist  of  years,  gray  tiits  the  shade  of  power. 

III. 

Son  of  the  morning,  rise  I   approach  you  here  ! 
Come — i)ut  molest  not  yon  defenceless  urn  ; 
Look  on  this  sriot — a  nation's  sepulchre  ! 
Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines  no  longei   burn. 
Even  gods  must  yield — religions  take  their  turn  ; 
'T  was  Jove's — 'tis  Mahomet's — an  1  other  creeds- 
Will  rise  with  otlier  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainlv  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds  ; 
Poor  child  of  doubt  and  death,  whose  hojie  is  built  or 
reeds. 

IV. 

Bound  to  the  earth,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  hea\-on— 
Is't  not    enough,  unhapj)y  thing  I   to  knov^ 
Th.ou  art  /    Is  tins  a  boon  so  kmdly  given, 
Tliat  bring,  thou  wouldst  be  again,  and  go. 
Thou  know'st  not,  reck'st  not  to  what   region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies? 
Still  wilt  thou  dream  on  future  joy  and  woe  '^ 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  tTies : 
riiat  little  urn  saith  more  than  thousand  homilies. 


Or  biir-i  the  vanish'd  hero's  lofty  mound  ; 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps:  ^ 
He  f  ':,  an  I  falling  nations  mourn'd  around: 
But  iio'.v  not  one  of  saddening  thousands  weei)s 
Nor  va,!:ke  worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Wh(M-e  (!'   ni-gods  appear'd,  as  records  tell. 
Remove  v..n  skull  from  out  the  scatter'd  heaps- 
Is  thai  a  t:  ;nple  where  a  god  may  dwell  1 
\\h\  ev'n  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shattei'd  i 


VI. 

Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  niin'd  wall, 
Its  ch:un'"^rs  desolate,  and  portals  foul: 
Ves,  ib's  uas  or.ce  ambition's  airy  hall, 
Tiie  (b^me  oi'  tliough.f,  the  palace  of  the  soul 
i5rholH  through  eacn  lack-iustre,  eyeless  hole, 
'['lie  gay  recess  of  wisdom  and  of  wu, 
And  passum's   host,  that  never  brook'd  control 
("an  all,  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ, 
People  tnis  1'  iclv  tower,  this  tenement  refit  "^ 


176 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


VII. 

Well  didst  thou  speak,  Athena's  wisest  son  ! 
"  A.11  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  bo  Known," _ 
Why  should  we  shrink  Ironi  what  we  cannot  shun? 
Each  has  his  ])an^,  hut  feeble  sutierers  groan 
With  brain-born  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own. 
Pu  sue  wlial  ch;\.nce  or  fate  proclainieth  best ; 
Feace  waits  us  on  the  sliores  of  Acheron  : 
There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest. 
But  silence  sureads  the  couch  of  ever-welcome  rest. 

V!II. 

Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deem'd,  there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore, 
To  sliame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore ; 
How  sweet  it  vv-ere  in  concert  to  adore 
With  tnose  who  made  our  mortal  kibours  light! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  fear'd  to  hear  no  more ! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  reveal'd  to  sight, 
Ihe   Kactrian,  Sarnian  sage,   and  all  who  taught  the 
riglit ! 

IX. 

Tliere,  thou  ! — whose  love  and  life  together  fled, 
Have  left  me  here  to  love  and  live  in  vain — 
T\\'iiicd  witii  my  heart,  and  can  I  (i(>em  thee  dead. 
When  busy  memory  flashes  on  my  brain? 
Well — I  will  dream  that  we  may  nujet  again, 
And  woo  the  vision  to  my  vacant   breast: 
If  aught  of  young  reme^nhrance  then  remain, 


Be 


lav  futurity's  behest, 


For  me  't  were  b 


;h  to  know  ifiy  spirit  blest ! 


X. 


Here  let  me  sit  upon  this  massy  stone. 
The  ;i)arb!e  colninn's  yet  unshaken  l)ase  ; 
Hf.Tf,  son  of  Saturn  !    was  thy  (av'rite  throne:'* 
INiiijIitiest  (jf  ma'iv  surh  I    Hence  let  me  trace 
The  !;i:e:il    i;riui;!ei-.r  of  thy  dwr-lling  place. 
It  may  not  be  :    nor  ev'n  can  fancy's  (;ye       * 
Restore  what  time  hath   labourM  to  de-face. 
Yet  these  proiul  pillars  claim  no  p^assmg  sigli — 
Cnnioved  the  ^loslem  siis,  ilie  liizhi  Greek  carols  by< 


XI. 

But  Nvho,  f)f  all  the  plunderers  of  yon  fane 
On  hi'di,  where  Fallas  linger'd,  loth  to  liee. 
The  latest  relic  of  her  ancient  reign  ; 
Tiie  hi-t,  the  worst,  dull  spoiler,  v>lio  via--:  h';  ? 
Biu--ii,  Odedonia!    such  thv  son  nr.ilA    \k'\ 
England  !    I  Joy  no  ciiild  he'was  o''  thme  : 
Thy  freeh.irn  men  s'lould  spare  v.  h:it  oiice  v^a.s  fre( 
Vet  t.hev  couid  Molnie  each  satldening  sliririe, 
\ral  bear  thf^se  altars  o'er  the  long-r(duei;int   l;rine.^ 


XII. 

But  most  the  modern  Fiet's  ignolje   bonst, 
To  nve  wlrit  ( Jotli,  and  Turk,  ;uiil  lime  li;uh  spared:'' 
Cold  as  tin;  cnigs  upon  bis   native  eo;,-;!, 
Ills  mind  as  barr-ii  and  his  hejirt  a-^  li.nd. 
Is  he  whose  bead  conceived,  whose  hmid  prr],';ire(l, 
Aughi  to  displace  Athena's   poor  n  tiiums : 
Her  sons  too  we;di  the  sacred   sUrine  lo  gunrd. 
Vet  felt  «ome  portion  of  their  mother's  |).uns,' 
\nd  n:r'or  knew,  till  then,  the  weight  of  despots'  chains. 


XIII. 

What!   shall  it  e'er  be  said  by  British  tongue, 
Albion  was  happy  in  Athena's  tears? 
Though  in  thy  name  the  slaves   her  bosom  vvrmii^. 
Tell  not  the  deed  to  biushiiiir  Europe's  ears; 
The  ocean  c;ueen,  the  free  Britannia  bears 
The  last  poor  plunder  from  a  bleeding  land: 
Yes,  she,  whose  gen'rous  aid  her  name  endears, 
Tore  down  t!;ose  remnants  with  a  harpy's  hand, 
Which  envious  Eld  forbore,  and  tyrants  left  to  stand 

XIV. 

Where  was  thine  pegis,  Pallns!   that  apjiall'd 
Stern  Alar.ic  and  havoc  on  their  wav?^ 
Where  Peleiis'  son?   whom  hel!  in  vain  cnthrall'd. 
His  shade  from  Hades  upon  that  drearl  day. 
Bursting  to  liglit   in  terrible  array  ! 
What !   could  not   Pluto  spare  the  chief  once  more. 
To  scare  a  second  robber  from  his  prey? 
Idly  he  wander'd  on  the  Stygian  shore. 
Nor  now  preserved  the  vvalls  he  loved  to  shield  before 

XV. 
Cold  is  the  hcitrt,  fair  Greece  !   that  looks  on  .hee, 
Nor  feels  as  lovers  o'er  the  d,ust  tliev  loved  ; 
Dull  is  the  eye  that  v.-ill   not  weep  to  see 

»   Thy  walls  defaced,  thy  mouldering  shrines  removed 
By  British  hands,  winch  it   had  best  Irehoved 
To  guard  those  relics  ne'er  to  be  restored. 
Curst  be  the  hour  wlien  tVom  their  isle  thev  roved, 
And  once  again  thy  hapless  bosom  gored, 

And  snatch'd  t!iy  shrinking  gods  to  northern  climes  ab' 
horr'd ! 

XVI. 

But  v>-h(;re  is  Harold  ?  shall  I  tlien  forget 
To  urge  the  gloomy  wanderer  o'er  the  wave? 
I/ittle  reck'tl  he  of  all  tliat  men  regret; 
No  loved-one  now  in  feign'd  lament  could  rave; 
No  friend  the  parting  hand  extended  gave. 
Ere  the  coki  stranger   jiassM  to  other  climes  : 
H;u-d  is  his  heart  uliom  ch>inns   mav  not  ensiave ; 
But  Harold  felt  not  as  in  oilier  times, 
And  left  u-TtTrduraTsiidi  the  laii;l  of  war  and  crimes. 


XVII. 

He  that  has  sail'd  up'on  the  dark-n!ue  sea 
Has  view'd  at  times,  I  wei-n,  a  tull  fan-  sight; 
V\'h("n  the  fresh  bree/.e  is  fiiir  ;is  bree/e  m;;v  be, 
The  v.hiie  s  lil  set,  die  :;a!iinil  hiirate  ii'.dit  ; 
Masts,  spires,  and  struiui    reiinng  to  tii(>  ri;:ht, 
I'lie  L:;or!0!is  main  expapduiii  o'er  ihe  !>ow. 
The  convoy  spn^ad    like  wihl   swans  in  their  tligl.t, 
The  diillesi  ^aiier  weaniii;   hravelv  now. 
So  gaily  curl  the  waves  bei()re  eaeli  dashing  prow. 


XMII. 

And   oh,  the  little  .varlil-.e  world  williin! 
The  well-reeve,|  ^n;us,  llie    nei;,  ,1  .■;  iie.pv,'' 
The  hoarse  eoneeniid,  die  busy  Imonn.n^  dm, 
\V):en,  a!  a  wor:!.  the  '..ps  are"  niai:n"d  .-n  liidt. 
Hark  lothe    hnalswa:;!'s  call,  die  ehr.  ring  crv  ! 
Win!.-  Ihrough  the  s<;aMia!rs  haii<!  the  ta.,-!de"   -lid. 
Or  s(  hool-bov  midsh:])man,  ilia;,  standuii:  by, 
Strains  his  shrill  pipe  as  good  or  ill  betides, 
4nd  well  the  docile  crew  that  skilful  nrclrn  guide? 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE 


177 


XIX. 

White  is  the  glassy  deck,  without  a  stain, 
^Vherc  on  the  watch  the  staid  Heiitonant  walks 
Look  on  that  part  which  sacred  dot!)  remain 
For  the  lone  chieftuin,  who  majestic  stalks         * 
Si'ent  and  foar'd  Uy  all— not  oft  he  talks 
\\  ith  aught  beneath  him,  if  he  would  preserve 
I  !i:it  strict  restraint,  which  broken,  ever  balks 
C(/n(j nest  and  fame:   but  Hritons  rarelv  swerve 
From  'aw,  however  stern,  which  tends  their  strenglluo 
nerve. 

XX. 

niow!   s^Iifly  blow,  thou  keel-compelling  ga'e  ! 
Till  0;<;  broad  sun  withdraws  his  lessening  ray; 
T!.en  must  tne  pennant-bearer  slacken  sail^ 
That  lagging  barks  may  make  their  lazy  way. 
Ah!   grievance  sore,  and  listless  dull  deiav, 
To  waste  on  shiggish  hulks  the  sweetest  "breeze! 
What  leagues  are  lost  before  the  dawn  of  day, 
Thus  loitering  pensive  on  the  willing  seas, 
lie  flapping  sail  haui'd  down  to  hall  for  lo^rs  like  these! 


XXI. 

The  moon  is  up  ;   by  Heaven,  a  lovely  eve  ! 
Long  streams  of  ligiu  o'er  dancing  waves  expand  ; 
Now  lads  on  shore  may  sigh,  and  maids  believe : 
Such  1)0  our  fate  when  we  return  to  land  ! 
Meantime  some  rude^Arion's  restless  hand 
^^  akes  the  brisk  harmony  that  sailors   love  • 
A  circle  there  of  merry  listeners  stand. 
Or  to  some  well-known  measure  featly  move, 
thoughtless,  as  if  on  shore  they  still  were  free  to  rov(!, 

XXII. 

Through  Calpe's  straits  survey  the  sleepy  shore; 
Europe  and  Afric  on  each  other  gaze! 
Lands  of  the  dark-eved  maid  and  dusky  Moor 
Alike  beheld  beneath  pale  Hecate's  blaze: 
How  softly  on  the  S[)anish  shore  she  [>lays. 
Disclosing  rock,  and  slope,  and  forest   brown, 
Distinct,  though  darkening  with  her  waning  phase  ; 
But  .Mauritania's  giant-shadows  frown. 
From  mountain-clitf  to  coast  descending  sombre  down. 


XXIII. 

'Tis  night,  when  meditation  bids  us  feel 
We  once  have  loved,  though  love  is  at  an  end: 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  baffled  zeal, 
l^timrgh  frienilless  now,  will  dream  it  hixti  a  friend. 
Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to  bend, 
When  youth  itself  survives  voung  love  and  joy? 
Alas!    when  nmigling  souls  forget  to  blend,  , 
Death  hath  but  lirt'e  left   him  to  destroy  I        '  '     . 

All!  hai:)py  years!  once  more  v.-ho  would  not  be  d  boy?  ' 

XXIV. 

rhus  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  iaving  side, 
To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected   sphere  ; 
riie  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  hope  and  [iridc, 
And  files  unconscious  o'er  each  backwarti  year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear. 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possess'd 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear; 
A  flashing  pang!    of  which   the  wearv  breast 
U'oukl  still,  ulbeit  in  vara,  the   h(.-avv  heart  divest. 

12 


XXV. 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  ana  fell, 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene. 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  rwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er,  or  rarely  l)een ; 
To  climb  tne  tracklgss  mountain  all  unseen, 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold; 
Alone  o'er  st(;eps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean  ; 
Tiiis  is  not  solitude  ;   'tis  but  to  bold 
Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view'het  ttoies 
unroll'd. 

XXVI. 

But  'midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men, 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess, 
Anil  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen. 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless . 
Minions  of  splendour  shrinking  from  distress  ! 
NonelTTat,  with  kindred  consci-nisness  endued. 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less 
Of  all     .at  flatter'd,  follow'd,  sought,  and  sued ; 
Tliis  IS  to  be  alone  ;   this,  this  is  solitude  ! 

XXVII. 

INIore  blest  the  life  of  godly  erermfe, 
SiK'h  as  on  lovely  Athos  may  be  seen. 
Watching  at  eve  upon  the  giant  height,. 
Wliich  looks  o'er  waves  so  blue,  skies  so  seren<>». 
That  he  who  there  at  such  an  noiir  bath  been 
Will  wistful  linger  on  that  hallow'd  spot  ; 
Then  slowlj'  tear  him  fi-om  the  'witching  scono,. 
Sigh  forth  one  wish  that  such  had  been  his  lot, 
Then  turn  to  hate  a  world  he  had  almost  forgi.t. 

xxvin. 

Pass  we  the  long,  unvarying  course,  the  track 
Oft  trod,  that  never  leaves  a  trace  behind  ; 
Pass  we  the  calm,  the  gale,  the  change,  the  tack, 
And  each  well-known  ca[)rice  of  wave  and  wuici , 
Pass  we  the  joys  and  sorrows  sailors  find, 
Coop'd   in  their  winged   sea-girt  citadel ; 
The  foul,  the  fair,  the  contrary,  the  kind, 
As  breezes  rise  and  fall  and  billows  sweL'_ 
Till  on  some  jocund  morn — io,  land!    and  all  is  well 


XXIX. 

But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso's  isles,'" 
Tlie  sister  tenants  of  the  nnddle  dee|) ; 
There  for  the  weary  still  a  haven  smiies. 
Though  the  fair  goddess  long  iuuh  ceased  to  ^•:^'e^,, 
And  o't.T  her  cliffs  a  fruitless  watch  to  keep 
For  him  who  dared  prefer  a  mortal   liride  : 
Here,  too,  his  boy  essay'd  the  dreadful  leap 
Stern  Mentor  urged  from  high  to  yonaer  tide  .- 
While  thus  of  !K)fh   bereft,   ti-e   uvmph-queen  douuh 
sigh'd. 

XXA. 

Her  reign  is  |)ast,  her  gentle  glories  gent, . 
B  ;t  trust  not  this;   too  <;asy  youth,  beware! 
A  mortal   sovereign  holds  her  dangerous  throne. 
And  thou  may'st  find  a  new  C'alypso  th(   e-. 
Sw(;et  Florence  !    (tould  another  ever  share 
This  wayward,  loveless  heart,  it  would  be  thine. 
But  clieek'd  by  ev(;ry  tie,  I  may  not  dare 
T(j  cast  a  wortb.less  offering  at  thy  slirine, 
Nor  ask  so  dear  a  breast  to  feel  on<;  pang  for  mino. 


178 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XXXI. 

'Hius  Harolfl  deem';!,  as  on  that  lady's  eye 
He  look'd,  and  met  its  hoani  witliout  a  thought^ 
Save  admiration   irlaii^ini^  harmless  by: 
Ijovo  kept   aloof,  aUx;)!  not  tar  remote. 
Who  knew  hi;_viiliiry  ♦tiffin  \osl  and  caughl, 
B>it  knew  him  as  his  worshii^ner  n^  niore, 
And  ne'er  again  the  boy  his  bosom  stnght : 
Since  now  he  vainly  urged  him  lo  adore, 
Well  deemed  the  little  god  his  aneienl  sway  was  o'er. 


XXXIl. 

Fair  Florence  found,  in  sootli  with  some  amaze, 
One  who,  'twas  said,  still  sigh'd  to  all  he  saw, 
Withstand,  unmoved,  the  lustre  of  her  gaze, 
Which  others  hail'd  with  real,  or  mimic  awe. 
Their  ho|)e,  their  doom,  their  punishment,  their  law ; 
All  that  gay  beauty  from  her  bondsmen  claims : 
And  much  she  marvell'd  that  a  youth  so  raw 
Nor  ti'll,  nor  feign'd  at  least,  the  oft-told  flames, 
iV  hich,  though  sometimes  they  frown,  yet  rardy  anger 
dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little  knew  she  that  seeming  marble-heart, 
Now  uiask'd  in  silence  or  withheld  by  pride, 
Was  not  unskilful  in  the  spoiler's  art, 
And  spread  its  snares  licentious  far  and  wide  ; 
Noi  from  the  base  pursuit  had  tum'd  aside, 
As  long  as  aught  was  worthy  to  pursue: 
But  Harold  on  such  arts  no  more  relied  ; 
Ai>'l  had  he  doated  on  those  eyes  so  blue, 
/et  n»'V'T  would  he  join  the  lover's  whining  crew. 

XXXIV. 


;,  I  ween,  of  woman's  breast, 
anton  thing  is  won  by  sighs  ; 


Not  much  he  kens 
Who  thinks  that  w 
What  canith  slie  for  hearts  when  once  possess'd  ? 
Do  proper  hoinaue  to  thine  idol's  eyes  ; 
Hut  noi  loo  humbly,  or  she  will  despise 
Thee  and  thy  suit,  though  told  in  moving  tropes  : 
Disguise  ev'n  tenderness,  if  thou  art  wise  ; 
Brisk  crmtidence  still  best  with  women  copes  ; 
['u\uv.  her  and  soothe  in  turn,  soon  passion  crowns  thy 
hopes. 

XXXV. 

'Tis  an  old  lesson  ;   imie  ai)proves  it  true, 
And  those  who  know  .t  best,  de|)lore  it  most; 
Wlum  all  is  »<oii  thiit   all  desire  to  woo, 
Th(!  paltry  prize;  is  hardly  worth  the  cost; 
Youth  wasted,  minds  degraded,  honour  lost. 
These  are  thy  fruits,  successful  passion!  these! 
[f,  kuidly  cruel,  early  hope  is  crost, 
Still  to  the;  last  it  rankles,  a  disease, 
N  )t  to  De  cured  when  love  itself  forgets  to  please. 


XXXVI. 

Avvu)      nor  let  me  loiter  in  my  song. 
For  vvr  have  many  a  mountain-path  *o  tread, 
Anil  many  a  varies!  shore  to  sail  along. 
By  pensive  sadn<;ss,  not  by  fiction,  led — 
(/linie.s,  fair  withal  as  ever  mortal  hea*! 
Imairined  in   its  litth;  srh(;m(!S  of  tliought; 
Or-e'er  in  new  Utopias  were  read. 
To    eac>i   man  what  h(!  might  be,  or  he  ought ; 
It  Ih'v'  c<»i-upied  diing  could  ever  such  be  laug!il 


XXXVII. 

Dear  Nature  is  the  kindest  mother  still, 
Though  always  changing,  in  her  aspect  niiUl; 
From  her  bare  bosom  let  me  take  my  till, 
Her  never-wean'd,  though  not  her  favour'd  cliild. 
Oh !   she  is  fairest  in  her  features  wild, 
Where  nothing  i)olish'd  dares  pollut<;  tif^r  path  ; 
To  ine  by  day  or  night  she  ever  smiitMi, 
^hough  I  have  inark'd  her  when  none  other  hatJi, 
And  sought  her  more  and  more,  and  loved  her  b»«» 
wrath. 

XXXYIII. 

Land  of  Albania  !   where  Iskander  rose, 
Theme  of  the  young,  and  beacon  of  the  wise, 
And  he,  his  name-sake,  whose  ofl-bafHed  toes 
Shnink  from  his  deeds  of  chivalrous  emprize : 
Land  of  Albania!"   let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  nigged  nurse  of  savage  men  ! 
The  cross  descends,  thy  minarets  arise. 
And  the  pale  crescent  sparkles  in  tin;  glen, 
Through  many  a  cypress-grove  within  each  city's  ken. 


XXXIX. 

Childc  Harold  sail'd,  and  pass'd  the  barren   spot'* 
Where  sad  Penelope  o'ericxA'd  the  wave  ; 
And  onward  view'd  the  mt>unl,  not  yet  ^hr<jot, 
The  lover's  refuge,  and  the  Lesbian's  grave. 
Dark  Sappho !   could  not  verse  injrnoffal  save 
That  breast  imluied  with  such  inntiortut  tire? 
Could  she  not  live  who  life;  eternal  gave  ? 
If  life  eternal  may  await  the  lyre, 
That  only  heaven  to  which  earth's  children  may  nspiJ'P. 

XL. 

'Twas  on  a  Grecian  autiunn's  genlle  (,"V«; 
Childe  Harold   hail'd  Leucadia's  cape  af'r: 
A  S|)ot  he  lojig'd  to  see,  nor  cared  to  leave: 
Oft  chd  he  mark  the  scenes  of  vanish'd  war, 
Actiuin,  Lepamt>,  fatal  Trafalgar;''' 
iMark  tlierti  unmoved,  for  he  would   not  delif'ht 
(Born  beneath  some  remote  inglorious  star) 
In  themes  of  bloody  fray,  or  gallant  fight, 
But  loathed  the   bravo's  trade,  and  laugli'd   at  ina)t»al 
wight. 

XLL 

But  when  he  saw  the  evening  star  above 
Leucadia's  far-projecting  rock  of  w(/e. 
And  hail'd  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love,'* 
He  felt,  or  deem'd  he  felt,  no  common  glow  ; 
And  as  the  stately  vtjssel  glided  slow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  ancient   mount. 
He  watch'/  the  billows'  melancholy  flow, 
And,  sunk  ..Ibeit  in  thought  as  he  v\  as  wont. 
More  placid  seem'd  his  eye,  and  smo'  th  his  pallid  ironl 

XLIl. 

Morn  flawns  ;   and  »vith  it  stem  Albania's  lulls, 
Dark  Suli's  rocks,  and  Pinri.is'  inland  peak. 
Robed  half  in  mist,  bedew'd  with  snowy  rills. 
Array'd  in  many  a  dun  and   purjile  streaK, 
Arise  ;   and,  as  the  clouds  along  them  break, 
Disclose  the  dwelling  of  the  mountaineer  : 
Here  roams  the  wolf,  the  eagle  whets  his  beak, 
Mirds,  b(;asts  of  prev,  and  wilder  men  apjiear, 
\n(i  "'athering  storms  around  convi  '  f  »h«^  closms:  vi-ar 


CTTILDE     HAROLD'S    riLGRIMAGE. 


17P 


XLIIl. 

N<i\\  Hiirolii  felt  himself  at  h'n^^th  alone, 
Ami  bade  to  Ch  ij'J.ui  toiiiiiics  a  long  aiiieu ; 
.Now  lie  advcntii  rd  on  a  shore  unknown, 
Wliioh  all  ii'Jrn'.rc,  but  niativ  dread  to  vic\s- ; 
Iha  breas'  was.  '.niiM  'ganist  fate,  his  wafits  were  kvf, 
Peril  he  sought  not,  but  ne'er  shrank  to  meet. 
The  «cenj  .vv>  savage,  but  the  scene  was  now  ; 
Thi&  m;^c'e -.l.e  ceaseless  toil  of  travel  sweet, 
(*eat  back  kre,\  winter's  blast,  and  welcomed  summer's 

XLIV. 

Here  t'*^  re^  cross,  for  still  the  cross  is  here 
Thou  Hi  sadly  scoff 'd  at  by  the  circumcised, 
For^jfcs  that  pride  to  pamper'd  priesthood  dear; 
CKuichman  and  votary  alike  despised. 
Foul  superstition!   howsoe'er  disguised, 
idol,  saint,  virgin,  prophet,  crescent,  cross, 
For  whatsoever  symbol  thou  art  prized, 
Thou  sacerdotal  gam,  but  general  loss  ! 
Who  from  true  worship's  gold  can  separate  thy  dross  ' 


XLV. 

Ambracia's  gulf  behold,  where  once  was  lost 
A  world  for  woman,  lovely,  harmless  thing  ! 
In  yonder  rippling  bay,  their  naval  host 
Did  many  a  Roman  chief  and  Asian  king'* 
To  doubtful  conflict,  certain  slaughter  bring : 
Look  wliere  the  second  Caesar's  trophies  rose!'" 
N.iw,  like  the  hands  that  rear'd  them,  withering: 
Iihpenal  anarchs,  doubling  human  woes  ! 
(iOd!  was  thy  globe  ordain'd  for  such  to  win  and  lose? 

XLVI. 

From  the  dark  barriers  of  that  rugged  clime, 
Kv'n  to  the  centre  of  Illyria's  vales, 
Childe  Harold  pass'd  o"er  many  a  mount  suMinie, 
Through  lands  scarce  noticed  in  historic  talcs; 
Vet  ni  filmed  Attica  suciriovely  dales 
Are  rarely  seen  ;   nor  can  fiiir  Tempe  boast 
A  charm  they  know  not ;   loved  Piu-nassus  fails. 
Though  classic  ground  and  consecrated  most, 
Vo  match  some  spots  that  lur'\  within  this  lowering  coast, 

XLvn. 

He  pass'd  hieak  Pindds,  Acherusia's  lake," 
And  left  the  primal  city  of  the  land, 
And  onwards  did  Ins  further  journey  take 
To  irreet  Albania's  chief,"*  whose  dread  command 
[s  lawless  law  ;   for  with  a  bloody  hand 
He  SNvavs  a  nation,  turbulent  and  hold  : 
Yet  here  and  there  soiue  daruig  mountain-band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  tlieir  rocky  hold 
Huii  their  defiance  far,  nor  \ield,  unless  to  gold." 

XLVIIl. 

Monastic  Zitza!^"  from  thv  shadv  brow. 
Thou  small,  but  favoiir'd  spot  of  holy  irround  ! 
Where'er  we  gaze,  arouncf.  ;il'o\-e,  l)(;low, 
What  rainbow  tints,  w  ha'  'nagic  charms  are  found  ! 
Hock,  river,  forest,  mu>ni(ain,  all  abound. 
And  bluest  skies  thu'  harmonize  the  whole: 
Benea'h,  the  distant  torrent's  rushing  sound 
Tells  where  the  volumed  cataract  doth  roll 
Uetween  tlioso  hanging  rocks,  that  shock  yet  please  the 
souU 


XLIX. 

Anndst  the,  grove  that  crowns  yon  tufted  hill, 
Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a  mountain  nigh 
Kising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  loftier  still, 
iNIight  well  itself  be  deein'd  of  dignity. 
The  convent'^  white  walls  glisten  fiiir  on  high  • 
Here  dwells  the  caloyer,-^'  nor  rude  is  he. 
Nor  niirgard  of  his  cheer ;   the  passer-by 
Is  welcome  still  ;   nor  heedless  will  he  (iee 
From  hence,  if  he  delight  kind  nature's  sheen  to  s-ao 

L. 

Here  in  the  sultriest  season  let  him  rest,      '''- 
Fresh  is  the  green  beneath,  those  a<red  trees  ;   -^ 
Here  winds  of  gentlest  wing  will  fan  his  breast,  "^ 
From  heaven  itself  he  may  inhale  the  breeze:  "« 
The  plain  is  far  beneath — oh!   let  him  seize    <i 
Pure  [tleasure  while  he  can  ;   the  scorchitiii  rav    *- 
Here  pierceth  not,  impregnate  with  disease :     ^ 
Then  let  his  length  the  loitering  pilgrim  hp  ^      ^• 
And  gaze,  untired,  the  morn,  the  noon,  the  eve  away. 


LI. 

Dusky  and  huge,  en;:irging  on  the  sight, 
Nature's  volcanic  amiihitheatre,"^^ 
Chimtera's  A1])S  extend  from  left  to  right  : 
Beneath,  a  living  valley  seems  to  stir; 
Flocks  play,  trees  wave,  streams  flow,  the  mounta.ii  fir 
Nodding  above:   behoM  lilack  Acheron!  ^' 
Once  consecrated  to  the  sep!:!.'-!'.v('. 
Pluto!   if  this  be  he'l  I  look  uiion, 
Close  shi'.med  Elysiuni's  ga'es,  my  shade  shall  seek  for 
none ! 

LII. 

Ne  city's  t(»wers  [)ollute  the  lovely  view  ; 
Unseen  is  Vanina,  though  not  remote, 
\  eil'd  by  the  screen  of  hills  !   here  men  are  few, 
Scanty  the  hamlet,  rare  the  lonely  coi ; 
But,  peering  down  each  [)recipice,  the  goat 
Browseth  :   and,  [)cnsive  o'er  his  scatter'd  flock. 
The  lutle  shepherd  m  his  white  capote^* 
Doth  lean  his  boyish  form  along  the  rock. 
Or  in  his  cave  awaits  the  tempest's  short-lived  siiocii. 

LIII. 

Oh!   where,  Dodona!   is  thine  aged  grove. 
Prophetic  fount,  and  oracle  divine? 
What  valley  echoed  the  response  of  Jove? 
What  trace  remaincth  of  the  Thunderer's  shrine? 
All,  all  forgotten — and  shall  man  repine 
That  his  frail  Iwnds  to  fleeting  life  are  broke? 
Cease,  fjol !   the  fate  of  gods  may  well  be  thine; 
WoukNt  thou  survive  the  marble  or  the  oak  ? 
When  nations,  tongues,  and  worlds  must  sink  b<'nea>b 
the  stroke  ! 

LIV. 

Epirus'  bounds  recede,  and  mountains  fail; 
Tired  of  up-dazing  still,  the  weaned  eye 
Repos(!s  gladiv  on  as  smooth  a  vale 
As  ev<',r  spring  yclad  in  grassy  dye : 
Even  on  a  plain  no  hun^ble  beauties  lie, 
Wh(;rc  some  bold  river  breaks  the  loiisj  expanse. 
And  w.HxIs  along  the  banks  are  waving  liigh, 
Whose  shadows  in  the  glassy  waters  dance. 
Or  with  the  moon -beams  sleep  in  midnight's  sol<=mr 
trance. 


180 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LV. 

The  Sin  had  sunK  behind  vast  Tomerit,^^ 
And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roaring  by  ]  ^^ 
The  shades  of  wonted  night  were  gathering  yet, 
When,  down  the  steep  banks  winding  warily, 
Chil'ie  Harold  saw,  like  meteors  in  the  sky, 
Tlie  glitt(>ring  minarets  of  Tepa^fin, 
Wliose  walls  o'crlook  the  stream  :   and  drawing  nigh, 
He  heard  ihe  busy  hum  of  warrior-men 
fevvclling  the  breeze  that  sigh'd  along  the  length'ning  glen. 

LVI. 

He  pass'd  the  sacred  haram's  silent  tower, 
And,  underneath  the  wide  o'erarching  gate, 
Survey'd  the  dwelling  of  this  chief  of  [)0wer, 
Where  all  around  proclaim'd  his  high  estate. 
Amidst  no  common  pomp  the  despot  sate, 
While  busy  preparations  shook  the  court, 
Slaves,  eunuchs,  soldiers,  guests,  and  santons  wait ; 
W^ithin,  a  f)alace,  and  without,  a  fort : 
Here  men  ol'  every  clime  appear  to  make  resort. 

Lvn. 

Richly  caparison'd,  a  ready  row 
Of  armed  horse,  and  many  a  warlike  store 
Circled  the  wide-extending  court  below  : 
Above,  strange  groups  adorn'd  the  corridor  ; 
And  oft-times  through  the  Area's  echoing  door 
Some  high-cap[)'d  Tartar  spnrr'd  his  steed  away: 
The  Turk,  the  Greek,  the  Albanian,  and  the  Moor, 
Here  mingled  in  their  many-hjed  array, 
Wiiile  I  he  deep  war-drum's  sound  announced  the  close 
of  diiy. 

LVin. 

The  wild  Albanian  kirtled  to  his  knee, 
With  shawl-girt  head  and  ornamented  gun. 
And  gold-cmbroider'd  garments,  Hiir  to  see  ; 
The  crimson-scarfed  men  of  IMacedon  ; 
The  Delhi  with  his  cap  of  terror  on, 
And  crooked  glaive  ;   the  lively,  supple  Greek  ; 
Am!  swarthy  Nubia's  mutilated  son  ; 
The  bearded  Turk  that  rartdy  deigns  to  P]leak, 
Master  of  all  around,  too  potent  to  be  meek, 


LIX. 

Are  mix'd  conspicuous:   some  rechne  m  grouns, 
■^caiinini;  t!ie  motley  scene  that  varies  round  ; 
There  some  grave  Moslem  to  devotion  stoops, 
And  some  that  smoke,  and  some  that  play,  are  found  ; 
Hiirc  ihe  Albanian  proudlv  treads  the  ground  ; 
Half  w!ii>;pering  there  the  Greek  is  heard  to  prate; 
Hark  !    from  the  mos<]ue  the  nightlv  solemn  sound. 
The  Muez/.a's  call  doth  shake  die'mitiarel, 
•There  is  no  god  Ixit  God!— tojirayer — lol  Go  I  i>^  great!" 


LX. 

Jost  a    tnis  season  Rnmazani'-'  fast 
Tnrou^rli  the  Ion;?  day  ils  p<'ii;uie(;  did  iii:i 
Hut  when  the  linL'fril)<_'  l\vili,o|ii  hour  was 
Hfvci  aii;i  feast  assumed  the  rule  ajraui  : 
Now  iill  was  bustle,  ;ir><i  the  metiial  tr;iiii 
F\epare'l  and  spread  \\\(-  plenteous  boar'l  within 
Th<;  vacant  gallery  now  setMii'd  made  in  v;un, 
But  from  the  chambers  came  the  nnuuling  din, 
\s  ij.i;"",  and  "lave  anon  were  p;i  «irig  out  and  in. 


past 


LXI. 

Here  woman's  voice  is  never  heard  :  apart, 
And  scarce  permitted,  guarded,  veil'd,  to  move, 
She  yields  to  one  her  person  and  her  heart, 
Tame(i  to  her  cage,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  rove : 
For,  not  unhappy  in  her  master's  love. 
And  joyful  in  a  mother's  gentlest  cares, 
J-Jlest  cares!   all  other  feelings  fir  above! 
Herself  more  sweetly  rears  the  babe  she  bears, 
Who  never  quits  the  breast  no  meaner  passion  sharois 


Lxn. 

In  marble-paved  pa\'ilion,  where  a  spring 
Of  living  water  from  the  centre  rose. 
Whose  bubbling  did  a  genial  freshness  fling. 
And  soft  voluptuous  couches  breathed  repose, 
Alt  reclined,  a  man  of  war  and  woes  ; 
Yet  in  his  lineaments  ye  cannot  trace. 
While  gendeness  her  milder  radiance  throws 
Along  that  aged  venc-able  face. 
The  deeds  that  lurk  beneath,  and  stain  him  with  disgrace 


Lxni. 

It  is  not  that  yon  hoary  lengthening  beard 
111  suits  the  passions  which  belong  to  youth ; 
Love  conquers  age — so  Hafiz  hath  averr'd, 
So  sings  the  Tcian,  an(J'hU?mgs  in  sooth — 
But  crimes  that  scorn  the  tender  voice  of  llutfi, 
Beseeming  all  men  ill,  but  most  the  man 
In  years,  have  mark'd  him  with  a  tiger's  tooth; 
Blood  follows  blood,  and,  through  th(nr  mortal  :?i)an< 
In  bloo<lier  acts  concluile  those  who  witli  blood  l>og;ui. 

LXIV. 

'Mid  many  things  most  new  to  ear  aim  eyp 
The  pilgrim  rested  here  his  weary  feet, 
And  gazed  around  on  Moslem  luxury, 
Till  (juickly  wearied  with  that  spacious  seat 
Of  wealth  and  wantonness,  the  choice  retreat 
Of  sate'd  grandeur  irom  the  city's  noise: 
And  were  it  humi)ler  it  in  sooth  were  sweet ; 
But  peac'o  abhorreth  artificial  joys. 
And   plinisure,   leagued  with  pomp,  the  zest   of  l^.th 
destroys. 

LXV. 

Fierce  are  Albanin's  children,  yet  ihe'v  lack 
Not  virtues,  were  those  virtues  more  tiKiiure. 
V»'here  is  the  foe  that  ever  saw  their  back  ? 
Who  can  so  well  the  toil  of  war  endure? 
Their  native  fastnesses  not  more  secure 
Than  they  in  iloubtfui  time  of  troub'lous  tuetl : 
Their  wrath  h.ow  dc;ully !   but  their  friendship  sur»:. 
W^hen  gratitude  or  valour  bids  (hem  l)le(>d, 
Unshaken  rushing  on  where'er  their  cluef  may  'ead. 

LXVI. 

Childe  IlaroM  saw  them  in  their  chi<'ftniii's  to\ve' 
Thronging  to  war  in  splendour  and  sn<-eess  ; 
And  after  view'd  them,  when,  within  tluir  po  ver. 
Himself  auhile  !!)e  victim  of  distress; 
Thtit  saddening  liour  when  bad  men  hotlier  press: 
But  these  did  sh<'ll(!r  him  beneath  their  roof. 
When  less  barbarians  would  liavt;  clf(>er'd  lum  le>s, 
And  leliuw-countrymen  have  stood  aloot' — '-" 
In  au^ht  that  tries  the  heart  how  few  .vitlisiand  the  phm^P 


yjo  n 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


ISl 


Lxvn. 

[i  chanced  tliat  adverse  winds  once  drove  his  bark 
Fnll  on  the  coast  of  Siili's  siiaggy  shore, 
Wlien  all  arovmd  was  desolate  and  dark; 
Ti'  land  was  pcrilnus,  to  so',onrn  more; 
Vet  tor  a  while  the  mariners  fbrhore, 
Dnbious  to  trust  where  treachery  rnii;ht  hark: 
At  len;;rh  the")  ventured  forth,  though  tloiibting  sore 
'f'hat  tliose  who  loathe  alike  th.e  Frank  and  Turk 
'SUiiM  once  a"ain  renew  llieir  ancieui  buiclier-work. 


LXVIIL 

Vain  tear!   the  Suliotes  stretch'd  the  welcome  hand, 
Le(i  them  o'er  rocks  and  juist  the  dangerous  swamp. 
Kinder  tlian  j)oli<h'd  slaves  thoii^rh  not  so  blund, 
And  piled  the  hearth,  ami  wrung  their  garments  damp, 
And  bird  the  howl,  and  truiun\l  the  cheerful  lamp, 
And  spijead  their  fare  ;  though  homely,  all  they  had: 
Such  conduct  bears  piulanthropy's  rare  stamp — 
To  rest  tiie  weary  and  to  soothe  the  sad, 
Doth  lesson  hai»pier  men,  and  shames  at  least  the  bad. 


LXIX. 

It  cai.ic  lo  pass,  that  svhen  he  did  address 

FIiu:se!f  to  quit  at  length  this  mountain-land, 

Combined  marauders  half-way  barr'd  egress. 

And  wasted  far  and  near  with  glaive  and  brand ; 

And  thereibre  did  he  take  a  trusty  band 

To  traverse  Acarnania's  forest  wide, 

In  war  w(;ll  seasoned,  and  with  lalwurs  tann'd, 

Till  he  did  greet  white  Achelous'  tide. 

And  from  his  further  bank  ^tolia's  worlds  espie<i. 

LXX. 

Where  lone  Utraikey  forms  is  circling  cove, 
And  wearv  waves  retire  to  gleam  at  rest, 
How  brown  the  foliage  of  the  green  hill's  grove, 
Noddin::  at  midniijht  o'er  the  calm  bay's  breast. 
As  wnids  come  lightly  whispering  from  the  west, 
Kissu'.g,  not  ruiilhig,  the  blue  deep's  serene. — 
Here  Harold  was  received  a  welcome  guest. 
Nor  did  he  pass  unmoved  the  gentle  scene, 
<*''or  many  a  joy  could  he  from  night's  soft  presence  glean. 


^'  Ta.mbouhgi  !  Tambourgi!*  thy  larum  afir 
Gives  hope  to  the  valiant,  and  promise  of  war , 
All  the  sons  of  the  mountains  arise  at  tlie  note, 
Chiniariot,  lUvrian,  and  dark  Suliote ! 


Oh!   who  is  mor(!  brave  than  a  dark  Suliote, 
In  his  snowy  cainese  and  his  shaggy  capote? 
-To  the  wolf  and  the  vulture  he  leaves  liis  wild  flock, 
And  descends  to  the  plain  like  the  stream  from  the  roci. 

3. 

Shall  the  sons  of  Chimari,  who  never  forgive 
The  fault  of  a  friend,  bid  an  enemy  live? 
Let  those  guns  so  unc-ag  such  vengeance  forego'' 
What  mark  is  so  fair  as  the  breast  of  a  foe  ? 

4. 

Macedonia  sends  forth  lier  invincible  race ; 
For  a  time  they  abandon  the  ca\e  and  the  chase- 
But  those  scarfs  of  blood-red  shall  be  redder,  before 
The  sabre  is  sheathed  and  llie  battle  is  o'er. 

5. 

Then  the  pirates  of  Parga  that  dwell  by  the  waves. 
And  teach  the  pale  Franks  what  it  is  to  be  slaves. 
Shall  leave  on  the  beach  the  long  galley  and  oar, 
And  track  to  his  covert  tlie  captive  on  shore. 

I  ask  not  the  pleasures  that  riches  supplv, 
IMy  sabre  shall  win  what  the  feeble  must  buy ; 
Shall  win  the  young  bride  with  her  long-flowing  hair, 
And  tiuuiy  a  maid  fi-om  her  mother  shall  tear. 


I  love  the  fair  face  of  the  maid  in  her  youth, 
Her  caresses  shall  lull  me,  ner  music  shall  sootht^ ; 
Let  her  bring  from  the  chamber  her  many- toned  lyre, 
And  Sing  us  a  song  on  the  fall  of  her  sire. 


Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  fell,^-' 
The  slirieks  of  the  conquer'd,  the  conquerors'  yell. 
The  roofs  that  we  fired,  and  the  plunder  we  shared, 
The  wealthy  we  slaughter'd,  the  k)vely  we  spared. 


LXXI. 

On  the  smooth  shore  the  night-fires  brightly  blazed, 
The  feast  was  done,  the  red  wine  circling  fast,  "^ 
And  ho  that  unaw^ares  had  there  ygazed 
Witn  iraj)ing  wonderment   had  stared  aghast; 
For  ere  niifht's  midmost,  stillest  hour  was  past. 
The  native  revels  of  the  troop  began; 
Each  palikar-"  his  sabre  from  him  cast, 
And  boundintj  hand  in  hand,  man  link'd  to  man, 
^'filling  their  uncouth  dirge,  long  danced  the  kirtled  clan 

LXXII. 

Childe  Harold  at  a  little  distance  stood 
And  view'd,  but  not  displeased,  the  revelrie. 
Nor  hated  harmless  mirth,  liowever  rude: 
In  soyiii,  it  was  no  vulgar  sight  to  see 
Their  liari)arous,  yet  their  not  indecent,  glee, 
And,  as  the  flames  along  their  faces  gleam'd, 
Their  gestures  nimhle,  dark  eyes  flashing  free. 
The  long  wild  locks  that  to  their  girdles  stream'd, 
'■''  hile   thus  in  concert  they  tiiis  lay  half  sung,   half 
ucrcam'd :  * ' 


I  talk  not  of  mercy,  I  taJk  not  of  fear  ; 
He  neither  must  know-  who  would  serve  the  vizier 
Since  the  days  of  our  pro[)!iet  the  crescent  ne'er  saw 
A  chief  ever  glorious  like  Ali  Pashaw. 

10. 
Dark  Muchtar  his  son  to  the  Danube  is  sped, 
Let  the  j'ellow-hair'd  '  Giaours^  view  his  horse-t^i^' 

with  dread  ; 
When  his  Delhis''  come  dashing  in  blood  o'er  the  banks. 
How  few  shall  escape  from  the  Muscovite  ranks  ! 

n. 

Selictar!*  unslieathe  then  our  chief's  scimitar; 
Tambourgi !   thy  'larum  giv<!s  promise  of  war 
Ye  mountains,  that  see  us  descend  to  the  shore, 
Shall  view  us  as  victors,  or  view  us  no  more ! 

*  nnunmpr. 
I  Yellow  is  tho  epithet  given  to  the  Russians. 
'2  Intideis. 

3  Horse-tails  are  the  insignia  of  a  pacha. 

4  lb)rsrmen,  anbwering  tcour  forlorn  hope. 

5  Sword-bearer. 


]t>Z 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LXXIII. 

Fair  Greece  •   saci  relic  of  departed  wortli !  =»' 
Immortal,  though  no  more  ;   though  fallen,  great! 
Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scatter'd  <-hi!i}r(;n  forth, 
And  long-accustom'd  bondage  uncreate? 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilome  did  await, 
The  hopeless  warriors  of  a  willing  doom, 
In  bleak  Thermo  )yl;u's  sepulchral  strait — 
Oh !   who  that  gadant  spirit  shall  resume, 
heap  f-oni  Eurolas'  banks,  and  call  thee  from  the  tomb  ? 

LXXIV. 

S[)irit  of  freedom'   when  on  Phyle's  brow''' 
Tliou  sat'st  with  Thrasj'bu?us  and  his  train, 
Couldst  thou  forebode  the  disrrial  hour  which  now 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain? 
ISot  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain. 
But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land ; 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain, 
Trembhng  beneath  the  scourge  of  Turkish  hand. 
From  birth  till  death  enslaved;  in  word,  in  deed  unmann'd. 

LXXV. 

In  all,  save  form  alone,  how  changed !   and  who 
That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in  each  eye. 
Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  burn'd  anew 
With  thy  unquenched  beam,  lost  liberty? 
And  many  dream  withal  the  hour  is  nigh 
That  gives  them  back  their  fathers'  heritage: 
For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh. 
Nor  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage, 
Oi  rear  their  name  defiled  from  slavery's  mournful  page. 

LXXVI. 

Hereditary  bondsmen  I  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow? 
By  thei)  right  arnr»s  the  conquest  must  be  wrought  ? 
\\'\\\  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye?  no! 
True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoilers  low. 
But  not  for  you  will  freedom's  altars  fiame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots  !  triumph  o'er  your  foe  ! 
Greece  !  change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the  same ; 
1  liy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thine  years  of  shahie. 


LXXVII. 

The  city  won  for  Allah  from  the  Giaour, 
The  Giaour  from  Othman's  race  again  may  wrest  j 
And  the  Serai's  impenetrable  tower 
Kticeive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  fornier  guest;'* 
Or  Wahab's  rebel  brood,  who  dared  divest 
The  prophet's  tomb  of  all  its  {>ious  spoil,  '* 
May  wind  their  path  of  blood  along  the  West; 
But  ne'er  will  fre<idom  seek  this  fated  soil, 
Itut  slave  succeed  to  slave  through  years  of  endless  toil. 

LXXVTIl. 

Ynt  mark  their  mirth — ere  lenten  (fays  begin, 
That  penance  which  their  holy  rites  prepare 
To  shrive  from  man  his  weight  of  rr»ortal  sin, 
By  daily  abstin»'nce  and  nightly  pmyer; 
But  ere  his  sackcloth  garb  repentance  wear, 
Some  days  >f  jo\auiM:e  .ire  decreed  to  all, 
To  take  of  pleas  vunce  each  riis  secret  share, 
hi.  motley  robe  to  dance  at  masking  bail, 
4jfia  join  thf  mimic  train  of  njerry  Carnival. 


LXAlX. 

And  whose  more  rife  with  merriment  that  thme, 
Oh  Stamboul!   once  tht  empress  of  their  reign? 
Though  turbans  now  pollute  Sophia's  shrine. 
And  Greece  her  very  altars  eyes  in  vain: 
(Alas!   her  woes  wilV  still  pervade  my  strain ' ) 
Gay  were  her  mmstrels  once,  for  free  her  thror,g. 
All  felt  the  common  joy  they  now  must  feign, 
Nor  oft  I  've  seen  such  sight  nor  heard  such  song 
As  woo'd  the  eye,  and  thrill'd  the  Bosphorus  along. 

LXXX. 

Loud  was  the  lightsome  tumult  of  the  shore, 
Oft  music  changed,  but  never  ceased  her  tone, 
And  timely  echoed  back  the  njeasured  oar, 
Arid  ripplmg  waters  made  a  pleasant  moan: 
The  queen  of  tides  on  high  consenting  shone. 
And  when  a  transient  breeze  swept  o'er  the  wave, 
'T  was,  as  if  darting  from  her  heavenly  throne, 
A  brighter  glance  her  form  rellecled  gave. 
Till  sparkling  billows  seem'd  to  light  the  banks  they  lave 

LXXXI. 

Glanced  many  a  light  caT<pie  along  the  foam, 
Danced  on  the  shore  the  daughters  of  the  land, 
N(;  thought  had  man  or  maid  of  rest  or  home, 
While  matiy  a  languid  eye  and  tlvrillujg  hand 
Exchanged  the  look  few  bosoms  may  withstand, 
Or  gendy  prest,  return'd  the  pressure  still : 
Oh  love  !   young  love !  bound  in  thy  rosy  band. 
Let  sage  or  cynic  prattle  as  he  will, 
These  hours,  and  only  these,  redeem  life's  years  of  iB . 

LXXXII. 

But,  'midst  the  throng  in  merry  masquerade, 
Lurk  there  no  hearts  that  throb  with  secret  pain, 
Ev'n  through  the  closest  searmcnt  half  betray'd? 
To  such  the  gentle  murmurs  of  the  main 
Seem  to  re-echo  all  they  mourn  in  vain ; 
To  such  the  gladness  of  the  gamesome  crowd 
Is  source  of  wayward  thought  and  stern  disdain: 
How  do  they  loathe  the  laughter  idly  loud. 
And  long  to  change  the  robe  of  revel  for  the  shroud? 


LXXXIII. 

This  must  he  feel,  the  true-bom  scmi  of  Greece, 
li  Greece  one  true-born  patriot  still  can  boast : 
Not  such  as  prate  of  war,  but  skulk  in  peace. 
The  bondman's  peace,  who  sighs  for  all  he  lost, 
Yet  with  sn>ooth  smile  his  tyrant  can  accost. 
And  wield  the  slavish  sickle,  not  the  sword  : 
Ah!  Greece!  they  love  thee  least  who  owe  theeniow  , 
Their  birth,  their  blood,  and  that  sublime  record 
Of  hero  sires,  who  shame  thy  now  degenerate  hotxic ' 


LXXXIV. 

When  riseth  Lacedemon's  hardihood, 
When  Thebes  Ei)aminondas  rears  again, 
When  Athens'  children  are  with  hearts  endued. 
When  Grecian  mothers  shall  grve  birth  to  men. 
The!)  may'st  thou  be  restored ;  but  not  till  then. 
A  thousand  yearS  scarce  serve  to  form  a  state ; 
An  hour  may  lay  it  in  the  dust;   and   vhen 
Can  man  its  shatter'd  splendour  renovate, 
Recall  its  virtues  back,  and  vanouish  time  and  fate  7 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGF.IMaCE 


184 


LXXXV. 

And  yv\  hnw  luvc  y  in  lluiic  aj;e  of  woe, 
F,;uiA  ot  lest  ifoits  ;iiul  godlike  iivm,  arl  thou! 
T.hv  vales  <trcK'r-gnx'iJ,  thy  hills  of  snow'" 
Froclaiiu  tixe  uaturo's  varied  favourite  now: 
Thy  fanes,  tliy  temples  to  thy  surface  bow, 
Coniniinglin<i  slowly  widi  heroic  earlli, 
B^ke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough: 
So  perisli  njonuments  of  nK^rtal  l)irfli, 
ho  perisli  all  in  turn,  save  well-recorded  worth ; 

LXXXVL 

Save  where  some  solitary  column  mourns 
Above  its  prostrate  bretliren  ol"the  cave  ;^* 
Save  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine  adorns 
('oloana's  chtf,  and  gleams  along  the  wavt; ; 
Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half-tbrgotten  grave. 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass 
Ages,  but  not  ob  ivion,  feebly  brave, 
While  strangers  only  not  regtirdless  j)ass, 
Lingering  like  me,  perciiance,  to  gaze,  and  sigh  "Alas .' 


LXXXV  IL 

Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  %\-ii(^  ; 
Sweet  are  (hv  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields, 
Thine  olive  ri\xi  as  \^^lerl  Minerva  smiled, 
And  still  his  honied  wealtii  Hyniettus  yit^lds  ; 
There  the  iilithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  iMiilds, 
The  freetHwn  wanderer  of  thy  n»ountair>-air  j 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  svimmer  gilds, 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  marbles  glare ; 
It,  glory,  freedouj  fail,  but  nature  sliU  is  fair, 

LXXXVIIL 

Where'er  we  tread  't  is  haunted,  holy  ground ; 
No  e-irth  of  tliine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mo  ild, 
But  one  vast  realm  ot  wonder  spreads  around. 
And  ail  the  muse's  tales  seem  truly  tcW. 
Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  u]Km : 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deep'ning  glen  and  wold 
Defies  the  [Kjwer  which  cnish'd  thy  tem[)les  gone : 
Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares  gray  Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The  sun,  the  soil,  but  not  thn  slave,  toe  same ; 
Unchanged  in  all  except  its  foreign  lord — 
l-'rescrves  alike  its  b<tunds  and   boundless  fame 
The  battle-field,  where  Persia's  victim  horde 
First  bow'd  beneath  the  brimt  of  Hellas'  sword. 
As  on  the  morn  to  distant  glory  dear. 
When  JNlarathon  became  a  magic  word  ;'^ 
Which  utter'd,  to  the  hearer's  eye  appear 
i'he  camp,  the  host,  the  fight,  the  -.onqueror's  careei 

XC. 

The  flying  Mede,  his  shaftless  broken  bow; 
The  fiery  Greek,  his  red  pursuing  spear  ; 
Mountains  al)ove,  earth's,  ocean's  |)lain  below; 
Death  in  fite  front,  destruction  in  the  rear! 
Such  was  th«^  scene — what  now  remaineth  here? 
What  sacred  trophy  marks  the  hallow'd  ground 
Recording;  freedom's  smile  and  Asia's  tear? 
The  rifled  urn,  the  violated  mound, 
llie  dust  thy  courser's  hoof,  rude  stranger  I  spurn."^ 
around. 


xn. 

Yet  to  ine  rem' ant?  of  thy  sple.idou.  pas'. 

Shall  pi.grims,  pensive,  but  unwearied,  throng 
/  Long  shtui  the  vovager,  with  the  Ionian  blast. 

Hail  .he  bright  clime  of  battle  and  o(  song ; 

/Long  shall  thine  annals  and  immortal  tongue      ) 
f  Fil[  with  thy  fame  the  youth  of  many  a  shore; 

Boast  of  the  aged  !   lesson  of  the  y<iung  ! 

Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore. 
As  Pallas  and  tlie  muse  unveil  their  awful  lore. 


xcn. 

The  parted  bosom  clings  to  wonted  home, 
If  aught  that's  kindred  cheer  the  welcome  hearth, 
He  that  is  'onely  hither  let  him  roam. 
An  1  gaze  cotnpiacent  on  congenial  earth. 
Greece  is  no  lightsome  land  of  social  mirth  , 
But  he  whom  sadness  sootheth  may  abide. 
And  scarce  regret  the  region  of  his  birth. 
When  wandering  slow  by  Delt)hi's  sacred  side, 
Or  gazing  o'er  the  iilains  where  Greek  and  Persian  died 

xcm. 

Let  such  approach  this  consecrated  land. 
And  |>ass  in  |)eace  along  the  magic  waste: 
But  spare  its  relics — let  no  busy  hand 
Deface  the  scenes,  already  how  defaced ! 
Not  for  such  purpose  were  these  altars  placed 
Revere  the  remnauis  nations  once  revered  : 
So  mav  our  country's  name  be  undisgraced. 
So  mav'st  th(»u   prosper  where  thy  youth  was  rear-d. 
By  every  honest  joy  of  love  and  life  endear'd ! 

XCIV. 

Fornhee,  w^io  tJius  in  too  protracted  song 
Hast  soothed  thine  idiesse  with   inglorious  lays. 
Soon  shall  tliy  voice  be  lost  amid  the  throng 
Of  'ouder  minstrels  in  these  later  days  ; 
To  such  resign  the  strife  for  fading  bays — 
III  may  such  contest  now  the  spirit  nwve 
Which  heeds  nor  keen  reproach  nor  partial  praise ; 
Since  cold  each  kinder  heart  that  might  approve. 
And  none  are  left  to  please  when  none  are  lett  to  kivc. 


xcv. 

Thou  too  art  gone,  thou  loved  and  lovely  one ! 
Whom  youth  and  youth's  affection  bound  to  me ; 
Who  did  for  me  what  none  beside  have  done, 
Nor  shrank  from  one  albeit  unworthy  thee. 
What  !s  my  being  /  thou  hast  ceased  to  be  ! 
Nor  staid  to  welcome  here  thy  wanderer  home, 
W^ho  m<»urns  o'er  hours  w  hich  we  no  more  shall  sce- 
Would  they  had  never  been,  or  were  to  crme ! 
Would  he  had  ne'er  retum'd  o  find  fresh  cause  to  roami 


XCVL 

,  Oh  !  ever  loving,  lovely,  and  beloved  ! 
How  selfish  sorrow  ponders  on  the  past. 
And  c!ini!s  trt  ihouglits  now  better  far  removed! 
But  time  shall  tear  thy  shadow  from  me  last. 
All  thou  coiildst  have  of  mine,  stern  Death  !  tlicMi  hast, 
The  i)arent,  friend,  and   now  the  more  than  friend: 
Ne'er  yet  for  one  thine  arrows  Hew  so  fast. 
And  grief  with  grief  continuing  still  to  blend. 

Hath  snalch'd  the  little  joy  that  life  had  vet  to  Iciwl.      ^ 


184 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XCVII. 

I'hen  must  1  plunge  again  into  the  crowd, 
And  follow  all  that  j)t!ace  disdains  to  seek  ? 
Where  revel  calls,  and  laughter,  vainly  loud, 
False  to  the  heart,  distc;ls  the  hollow  cheek, 
To  leave  the  tti^gging  spirit  doiil)ly  weak ; 
Still  o'er  th"!  features,  which  perforce  they  cheer, 
To  feign  the  pleasure  or  coujeal  the  [)iqae ; 
Smiles  form  the  cliaiine!  of  a  future  tear, 
(3r  raise  the  writhing  lijj  with  ill-dissembled  sneer. 

xcvrii. 

What  is  the  worst  of  woes  that  wait  on  age  ? 
What  stamps  the  wrinkle  deeper  on  the  brow  ? 
To  view  each  loved  one  blotted  from  hfe's  page, 
And  be  alone  on  earth,  as  I  am  nmv. 
Before  the  Chastener  humbly  let  me  bow, 
O'er  hearts  divided,  and  o'ef  hopes  destroy'd  : 
Roll  on,  vain  days  !   full  reckless  may  ye  How, 
Since  time  hath  reft  whate'er  my  soul  enjov'd, 
\nd  with  the  ills  of  Eld  mine  earlier  years  alloy'd 


If 


\ 


0 


^1 


CANTO  III. 


*  Afiii  que  cette  application  vous  forcat  de  penscr  k  autre 
aiiose,  ii  n'y  a  en  veriie  ile  roniede  que  Cblui-la  et  le  temps." 
Leltre  du  lioi  de  Prusse  a  Dalembert,  Sep.  7,  1776. 


h 


(s  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  my  fair  child ! 
Adai   sole  daughter  of  my  house  and  heart? 
When  last  I  saw  thy  young  blue  eyes  they  smiled, 
And  then  we  parted, — not  as  now  we  part, 
But  Willi  a  hope. — 

Awaking  with  a  start. 
The  waters  heave 'around  me  ;   and  on  high 
The  winds  lift  up  their  voices  :   I  depart, 
^   Whither  I  know  not;   but  the  hour's  gone  by, 
kVhen  Albion's  lessening  shores  could  grieve  or  glad 
mine  eye. 

il. 

Once  more  upon  the  waters  I   yet  once  more ! 

And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 

That  knows  his  rider.      Welcome  to  their  roar  ! 

Swift  be  their  guidance,  whcresoe'er  it  b.'ad ! 

Tliough  the  strain'd  mast  should  <iuiver  as  a  reed, 

And  the  rent  caiiv:i«  lluttering  strew  the  gale, 
^  Still  must  I  on  ;   U  r  I  am  as  a  weed, 

Klung  from  the  rock,  on  ocean's  foam,  to  sail 
Where'er  the  surge   may  sweeii,  the  tempest's  brcatli 
pre^-ul. 


J    ^  a  si'b  \v\ 


^ 


In  my  youth's  summer  I  did  sing  of  one, 
Tlie.  waijclenng  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind, 
Again  I  seize  the  theme  then  but  begun, 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  whid 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards  :   in  that  tale  I  find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  tears. 
Which,  -ebbing,  h.'ave  a  sterile  track  behind, 
O'er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 
I'lod  the  last  sands  of  lite, — wheie  not  a  flower  appears, 

IV. 

Since  my  young  days  of  passion— joy,  or  pain, 
Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a  string, 
And  both  may  jar  :   it  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I  would  essay  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 
Yet,  though  a  dreary  strain,  to  this  I  cling; 
So  that  it  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  scltish  grief  or  gladness-;-so^j_l_fl!ng 
Forgetfuliiess  around  rne;;:;;;jt_shall  seem 
To  me,  though  to  none  else,  a  not  ungrateful  theme. 


V. 

He,  who  grown  aged  in  this  world  of  woe,         ^ 
In  deeds,  not  years,  piercing  the  depths  of  life,    -w 
So  that  no  wonder  waits  him  ;   nor  below  iJL 

Can  love,  or  sorrow,  fame,  amb'tion,  strife,     -^ 
Cut  to  his  heart  again  with  the  keen  knife      -^ 
Of  silent,  sharp  endurance  :   be  can  tell         C- 
Why  thought  seeks  refuge  in  lone  caves,  yef  nfe    o- 
With  airy  images,  and  shapes  which  dwell         ^ 
^ill  unimpair'd,  though  old,  in  the  soul's  haunted  cell 

VI. 

'^is  to  ere  ate,  and  in  creating. kve  .  | 

'  A  being  i^ore  intense,  that  we  ciijiow  I 

With  form  our  fancy,  gainmj^  as.\ve  give      \ 
The  life  we  image,  ev'h  iisl  do  now.         ^ 
What  am  I/?   Nothing  ;   but  not  so  art  thou, 
nSoul  of  m/ thought!   with  whom  I  traverse  earth, 
Invisible-out  gazing,  as  I  glow 
Mix'd  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  thy  birth, 
Ari^  feeUng  still  with  thee  in  my  crush'd  feelings'  dcartlj 


Y*l. 

Yet  must  I  think  less  wildly  :— I  iinve  thought 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became, 
In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwrought,      . 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame  :         \ 
And  thus,  untaiiglit  in  youth  my  heart  to  tame. 
My  springs  of  life  were  poison'd.     'Tis  too  lat*;/! 
Yet  am  I  changed  ;  though  still  enough  the  s 
In  strength  to  bear  what  time  cannot  abate. 
And  feed  on  bitter  fruits  without  accusing  fate. 


VIII. 

om'ething  too  tnuch  of  this:— but  now  'tis  j  as«. 
And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent   seal. 
'^^Long- absent  Hakold  re-appears  at  last ;    - 
He  of  tlv.e  breast  -.vhicli  fain  no  more,  wyiiid'/ecl, 
Wrung  with  tlie  wounds  which  kill  not  lait  ne'er  hial. 
Yet  time,  who  changes  all,  had  altcr'd  him 
In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age  :  years  steal 
Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigour  from  the  linib  ; 
And  life's  enchanted  cup  l)ut  sparkles  near  the  brim 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


185 


IX. 

His  had  been  quafT'd  too  quickly,  and  he  found 
Tlie  dru2s  were  wormwood  ;  but,  he  till'd  aj^ain, 
rtiid  from  a  purer  fount,  on  holier  around, 
And  (icemM  its:  sprint  perpetual ;   but  ia  vain! 
Still  round  him  cluu;:  invisibly  a  ehaiu 
Which  uall'd  for  ever,  fetterinn  thouixh  unseen, 
And  heavv  thouLdi  it  claiikM  not  ;   worn  with  pain, 
Which  puied  altliounh  it  spoke  not,  and  grew  keen, 
Enlerin*'  wiih  every  step  he  took,  through  many  a  scene. 


./ 


¥ 


U^ 


X. 

Secure  in  anarded  coldness,  he  had  mi.x'd 
Ajfain  in  fancieil  safety  with  liis  kind, 
Ann  deemM  his  sniri*  now  so  firmly  fix'd 
And  sheatlK'd  wiih  an  invulnerable  mind. 
That,  if  nojov,  no  sorrow  lurk'd   behind 
And  he,  as  one,  miirht  'midst  the  many  stand 
Unhee;led,  searchins  throuiih  the  crowd  to  find 
Fii  speculation  !   such  as  in  strange  land 
[e  found  in  wonder-works  of  God  and  Nature's  hand. 


XI. 

But  who  can  nHcw  tbe  ri|)er}'a_rfis^^or  seek 

To  wear  it  ?   who  can  curiously  beholct 

Tli~smootiTness  and  the  sheen  of  beauty's  cheek, 

Nor  feel  tiie  heart  can  nev(!r  all  ::!•<  w  old  ? 

Who  can  conteni])late  fame  through  clouds  unfold 

The  star  which  rises  o'er  her  steep,  nor  climb  .' 

Harold,  once  more  within  the  vortex,  rc'.l'd 

On  with  the  sid-ly  circl«3,  chasing  time, 

Yet  with  a  nobler  aim  tlian  in  liis  youth's  fond  prime. 

xri. 

^u:  soon  heJaievv_himse]y[_ibe-most  unfit-  &<*[ /t*'V 

(^rmenlcriienJ_\yitbijiiun^   with  whom  he  held  *^ 
Little  Ttrcommon  ,_. untaught  to  subijiit 
His  thoulitiTS  to  others,  though  his  soul  was  quell'd 

111  v'i'jU)  !)y  Iv.s  own  th(nii:h's:    slill  uncompeU'd 
fle'vouul  not  yi.;i,i  (l.^iuinioii  (jf  his  mind 
To  sjiints  ;ii£;iinst  whom  his  own  rebell'd ; 
Proud  ihougii  111  desolation;   which  could  find 
\  life  witlnn  itself,  to  breathe  without  mankind. 


XIII. 

Where  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him  were  friends; 
Where  roil'd  the  oce;ui,  thereon  was  his  home; 
Where  a  blue  sky  and  glowing  clime  extends, 
He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam ; 
The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam. 
Were  unto  him  companionship  ;   they  spake 
A  mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome 
Ot  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  v.ould  oft  forsake 
For  nature's  pages,  glass'd  by  sunbeams  on  the  lake. 

XIV. 

Like  ♦l^e  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the  stars, 
Til!  he  had  j,>eoi)!ed  them  with  beings  brigiit 
As  their  own  beams  ;   and  earth,  and  earth-born  jars, 
And  human  frailties,  were  f.>r::otten  quite: 
Could  he  have  kept  Ids  spirit  to  that  dii.'ht 
He  had  been  happy  7  but  this  clay  will  sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  liaht 
-To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  link 
That  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  wh'.ch  woos  us  to  its 
brink 


XV. 

But  in  man's  dwellings  he  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  svern  and  wearisome, 
Droop'd  as  a  wild-horn  falcon  with  dipt  wing, 
To  wiiom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home : 
Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o'ercome, 
As  eaiierly  the  harrM-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  aiiaiust  his  wiry  dome. 
Till  the  blood  tmge  his  plumage,  so  (he  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  throng  1  his  bosom  eacl. 

XVI. 

Self-exiled  Harold  wanders  forth  again. 

With  nought  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of  gloom , 

The  very  knowledge  that  he  lived  in  vain, 

That  all  was  over  on  this  side  tl;e  tomb. 

Had  made  flespair  a  smilingness  assume. 

Which,   though  't  were  wild, — as  on  the  plunder'd 

wreck 
When  mariners  would  madly  meet  tlicir  doom 
With  drauahts  intemperate  on  t'ue  sinkina  deck,— 
Did  yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he  forbore  to  check. 

XVII. 

Stop  ! — for  thy  tread  is  on  an  empire's  dust! 
An  earthcpiakc's  spr»il  is  sei)ulchred  below ! 
Is  the  spot  mark'd  with  no  colossal  bust? 
Nor  column  troi)hied  for  tnuinph;d  show? 
None  ;   but  the  moral's  truth  tells  simpler  so, 
As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it  be  ; — 
How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest  grow!  -v 
And  is  this  all  the  world  has  gain'd  by  thee. 
Thou  first  and  last  of  fields  !    king-making  victory? 

^■^^'  xvni. 

And  Harold  stands  upon  this  place  of  skulls. 
The  grave  of  France,  tiie  deadly  Waterloo  ! 
How  in  an  hour  the  power  winch  gave  annuls 
Its  'ults,  transterring  fame  as  tleeting  too! 
In  "  pride  of  place"  '  here  last  the  eagle  tlew, 
Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain, 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations  through ; 
Ambition's  life  and  labours  all  were  vain ; 
He  wears  the  shatter'd  links  of  the  world's  broken  chaia 

XIX. 

Fit  retribution!   Gaul  may  champ  the  bit  ^^ 

And  foam  m  tetters ; — but  is  earth  more  fr,ee? 
Did  nations  combat  to  make  (J/te^uinini ; 
Or  league  to  teach  all  kings  true  sovereignty? 
What!   shall  reviving  thraldom  again  he 
The  palch'd-up  idol  of  enlightened  days? 
Shall  we,  who  struck  the  lion  down,  shall  we 
Pay  the  wolt'  homage  ?   protiering  lowly  gaze 
And  servile  knees  to  thrones '!  No  5  ^rove  uetbre  ye  praiso 


XX. 

If  not,  o'er  one  fallen  despot  boast  no  moref 
In  vain  fair  cheeks  were  furrow'd  with  hot  tears 
For  Europe's  flowers  long  rooted  u|)  before 
The  Irampler  of  her  vineyards  ;   in  vain  years 
Of  death,  depopulation,  bondage,  fears, 
Have  all  men  borne,  and  broken  by  the  accord 
Of  roused-up  millions :   all  that  most  endears 
Glory,  is  when  the  myrtle  wreathes  the  sword, 
Such  as  Harmodius^  drew  on  Athens'  tyrant  lord. 


186 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XXI. 

There  was  a  50und  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  beaut)'  and  her  chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  winch  spake  agam, 
A.nd  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell ;  ' 
fiat  hush !  hark !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

XXII. 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ? — No ;  't  was  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance  !   let  joy  be  uncontined ; 
No  sleep  till  morn  when  youth  and  pleasure  meet, 
To  cliase  the  glowmg  hours  with  flying  feet — 
But,  hark! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
A.S  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 
Arm!  arm!  it  is — it  is — the  camion's  opening  roar ! 

XXIII. 

Withm  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  death's  prophetic  ear ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier. 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell: 
He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

XXIV.  V 

Ah !   then  and  there  was  hurrymg  to  and  fro. 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press  . 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choJ^ing  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated ;   who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes,  . 
Smce  upon  nights  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise? 

XXV. 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  naste :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car. 
Went  [touring  forward  with  impetuous  speed. 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 

Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — "  The  foe !  They  come! 
they  come !" 

XXVI. 
And  wild  and  high  the  "Cameron's  gathering"  rose! 
The  war-note  of  Locliiel,  which  Albvn's  hills 
Have  iieard,  and  iieard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes : — 
How  in  the  noon  of  mglit  that  pil)rt)ch  thrills, 
Savage  and  siirill !    But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  moimtain-pii)e,  so  till  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  inst.Js 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  lliousand  years, 

And  E\  an's,"  Donald's    fame  rings  in  each  clansman's 
cars! 


XXVII. 

And  Ardennes^  waves  above  them  her  green  Vaves^ 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  tliey  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  sha.ll  (,mw 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and 
low. 

XXVIII. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life. 
Last  eve  in  beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent, 
The  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and  pent. 
Rider  and  horse, — friend,  foe, — in  one  red  burial  blent ' 


Their  pfaise  is  hymn'd  by  loftier  harps  than  mine ; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng. 
Partly  because  thei'  blend  me  with  his  line, 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong. 
And  partly  that  bright  names  %vill  hallow  song ; 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  shower'd 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinn'd  files  along. 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lower'd, 
They  reach'd  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  your  g,  gallant 
Howard ! 

XXX 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts  tor  thee. 
And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I  such  to  give ; 
But  when  I  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tn  e, 
Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live, 
And  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive 
Witli  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive. 
With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
I  turn'd  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not  bring.' 

XXXI. 

I  turn'd  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 
And  one  as  -dl  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 
In  his  own  Kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  teach 
Forgctfulness  were  mercy  for  their  sake  ; 
The  archangel's  trump,  not  glory's,  must  awake 
Those  whom  they  thirst  for ;  though  the  sound  of  famf 
May  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  an„  .'ie  name 
So  honour'd  but  assumes  a  stronger,  bitterer  claim. 

XXXIL 

rhey  mourn,  hut  smile  at  length  ;  and,  smiling,  mourn 
The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall ; 
The  hull  drives  on,  though  mast  and  sail  be  t;irn ; 
The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hail 
In  massy  hoariness  ;  the  ruin'd  wall 
Stands  when  its  wind-worn  battlemcn's  are  gone ; 
The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  enthral, 
The  dav  drags  through  though  stormskoepou*  the  sun. 
And  thus  the  heart  will  bro<ik,  yet  brokenly  bve  on 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


187 


) 


xxxni. 

K\cn  as  a  broken  mirror,  which  tlie  glass 
In  every  t'niijnient  nuilti|ilies  ;   and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 
The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes, 
Living  in  shatter'd  guise,  and  still,  and  cold. 
And  bloodless,  with  its  slee[)!ess  sorrow  aches, 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  v.ithout  is  old, 
ShowiHg  no  visible  sign,  for  such  tilings  are  untold. 

XXXIV. 

There  is  a  very  life  in  our  despair, 
Vitality  of  poison, — a  quick  root 
Which  feeds  these  deadly  branches  ;   for  it  were 
As  nothing  did  we  die  ;   but  life  will  suit 
Itself  to  sorrow's  most  detested  fruit. 
Like  to  the  apples  on  the  Dead  Sea's  ^  shore, 
All  ashes  to  the  taste ;   did  man  compute 
Existence  by  enjoyment,  and  count  o'er 
Such  hours  'gainst  years  of  Ufe, — say,  would  he  name 
three-score  ? 

XXXV. 

The  Psalmist  number'd  out  the  vears  of  man: 
They  are  enoj^h  ;   and  if  thy  tale  be  true, 
Thou,  wft:,  didst  grudge  him  ev'n  that  fleeting  span 
More  than  enough,  thou  fatal  Vraterloo! 
INIiliion?  of  tongues  record  thee,  and  anew 

Tlieir  children's  lips  shall  echo  them,  and  say 

"  Here*  where  the  sword  united  nations  drew, 

Our  countr\'men  were  warring  on  that  day!" 

And  tliis  is  much,  and  all  which  will  not  pass  away. 


^  r  XXXVI. 


T'wre  sunk  the  'greatest,  nor  the  worst  of  men, 
Whose  spirit  antithetically  mixt 
One  moment  of  tlie  mightiest,  and  again 
On  little  objects  with  like  firmness  fixt, 
Extreme  in  all  things !   hadst  thou  been  betwixt. 
Thy  throne  had  still  been  thine,  or  never  been  ; 
For  daring  made  thy  rise  as  fall :  thou  seek'st 
Even  now  to  re-assume  the  imperial  mien, 
And  shake  again  tlie  world,  the  thunderer  of  the  scene! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art  thou  ! 
She  trembles  at  thee  still,  and  thy  wild  name 
Was  ne'er  more  bruited  in  men's  minds  than  now 
That  thou  art  nothing,  save  the  jest  of  fame. 
Who  woo'd  thee  once,  thy  vassal,  and  became 
The  flatterer  of  thy  fierceness,  till  thou  wert 
A  god  unto  thyself;   nor  less  the  same 
To  the  astounded  kingdoms  all  inert,     . 
Who  ^eem'd  thee  for  a  time  whate'er  thou  didst  assert. 


XXXVIII. 

Ufi,  more  or  less  than  man — in  high  or  low, 
Batthng  with  nations,  flying  from  the  field  ; 
Now  making  monarchs'  necks  thy  footstool,  now 
JNIore  than  thy  meanest  soldier  taught  to  j'ield ; 
An  empire  thou  couldst  crush,  command,  rebuild, 
But  govern  not  thy  [)ettiest  passion,  nor,--^ 
However  deeply  in  men's  spirits  skill'd, 
Look  through  thine  own,  nor  curb  the  lust  of  war. 
Nor  leani  that  tempted  fate  will  leave  the  loftiest  star. 


XXXIX. 

Yet  well  thy  soul  hath  brook'd  the  turning  tide 
With  that  untaught  innate  philosophy, 
Which,  be  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or  deep  [)ride, 
Is  gall  and  w(jrmwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the  whole  host  of  haired  stood  hard  by. 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  hast  smiled 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye  ; — 
When  fortune  fled  her  s[)oil'd  and  favourite  child. 
He  stood  unbow'd  beneatii  the  ills  upou  him  piled. 


XL. 


^ 


Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes  ;  for  in  them 
Ambition  stecl'd  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That  just  habitual  s^m  which  could  contemn 
IMen  and  their  thougnts  ;  't  was  wise  to  feel,  not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow, 
A.nd  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  t-urn'd  unto  thine  overthrow : 
'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  or  lose  ; 
So  hath  it  proved  to  thee,  and  all  such  lo'  who  choose. 

XLI. 

If,  like  a  tower  upon  a  headlong  rock. 
Thou  hadst  been  made  to  stand  or  fiill  aione. 
Such  scorn  of  man  had  help'd  to  brave  the  shock; 
But  men's  thoughts  were  the  steps  which  p£.ved  tl- 

throne. 
Their  admiration  thy  best  weapon  shone ; 
The  part  of  Philip's  son  was  thine,  not  then 
(Unless  aside  thy  purple  had  been  thrown) 
Like  stern  Diogenes  to  mock  at  men  ; 
For  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  far  too  wide  a  den.* 

XLII. 

But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell. 
And  there  hath  been  thy  bane ;   there  is  a  fire 
And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  bemg,  but  asjjire 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire ; 
And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore, 
Preys  ujioii  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest ;   a  fever  at  the  core, 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 


XLIII. 

This  makes  the  madmen  v.ho  have  made  men  mad 
Bv  their  contagion  ;   conquerors  and  kings, 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems,  to  whom  add 
Sophists,  bards,  statesmen,  all  unquiet  things. 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul's  secret  springs, 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they  fool ; 
Envied,  vet  how  unenviable  !   what  stings 
Are  their's!   One  breast  laid  open  were  a  school 
Which  would  unteach  mankind  the  lust  to  shine  or  rule, 

XLIV. 

Their  breath  is  agitation,  and  their  lile 
A  storm  whereon  they  ride,  to  sink  at  last. 
And  yet  so  nursed  and  bigoted  to  strife. 
That  should  their  days,  surviving  perils  past. 
Melt  to  calm  twilight,  they  feel  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supineness,  and  so  die  ; 
Even  as  a  flame  unfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickering,  or  a  sword  laid  by 
Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ing-onously. 


188 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XLV. 

He  who  ascends  to  mountain-toi)s  shall  find 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow ; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow, 
Ami  far  beneath  the  earch  and  ocean  Si)read, 
Rou^ul  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head, 
a.nd  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits  led 

XLVI. 

A\\  av  with  these  !   true  wisdom's  world  will  be 
WiJiin  its  own  creation,  or  in  thine, 
Maternal  nature  !   for  who  teems  like  thee. 
Thus  on  the  banks  of  thy  majestic  Rhine? 
There  Harold  gazes  on  a  work  divine, 
A  blending  of  all   beauties  ;   streams  and  dells, 
Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  corn-field,  mountain,  vine, 
And  chiefless  castles  breathing  stern  farewells 
F'r>m  gray  but  leafy  walls,  where  ruin  greenly  dwells. 

XLVII. 

Ard  there  they  stand,  as  stands  a  lofty  niina, 
W  orn,  bu'  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd, 
All  tenantless,  save  to  the  craniiying  wind, 
Or  holding  dark  cominunion  with  the  cloud. 
There  was  a  day  when  they  were  young  and  [jroud, 
Banners  on  hi^h,  and  battles  [jass'd  below, 
But  they  who  fought  are  in  a  bloody  shroud. 
And  those  which  waved  are  shredless  dust  ere  now, 
And  the  blccik  battlements  shall  bear  no  future  blow. 

XLVUI. 

Beneath  th(!se  battlements,  within  rhose  wails. 
Power  dwelt  amidst  her  passions:    in  proud  state 
Each  robber  chief  upheld  his  ai-med  halls, 
Doing  his  evil  will,  nor  less  elate 
Than  migntier  heroes  of  a  longer  date. 
What  want  these  outlaws '°  conquerors  should  hav»;, 
But  history's  purchased   page  to  call  them  great? 
A  wider  space,  an  ornamented  grave  ? 
Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their  souls  were  full 
as  brave. 

>i:Lix. 

In  their  baronial  feuds  and  single  fields, 
•    What  deeds  of  prowess  unrecorded  died ! 
i     And  love,  which  lent  a  blazon  to  their  shields. 
With  e-nblems  well  devised  by  amorous  pride, 
Tlirough  all  the  mail  of  iron  hearts  would  glide ; 
But  still  their  Hame  was  fierceness,  and  drew  on 
Keen  contest  and  destruction   near  allied, 
And  manv  a  tower  for  some  fair  mischief  won, 
Saw  tne  discoloured  Khmc  beneath  its  ruin  run. 

L. 

»ut  thou,  exulting  and   abounding  river! 
Makiri<z  thy  wav(?s  a  blcssiitg  as  they  flow 
riirough  banks  whose  beauty  would  endure  for  ever, 
CoulJ  niiui  liut  leave  thy  bright  creation  so, 
Nrr    Is  fair  promises  from  the  siirliice  mow 
VVitl   the  sharp  scythe  of  contltet,— then  to  see 
Thy  vallev  oi'  sut.'et  waKTs,  were;  to   know 
Earth  paved  like  heaven  ;   and  to  seem  such  to  me 
Lven    now   what    wants    thy  scream' — that   it    shoul 
Lethe  be. 


LI. 

A  thousand  battles  have  assail'd  thy  baims, 
But  these  and  half  their  fi\me  have  pass'd  away. 
And  slaughter  lieup'd  on  high  his  weltering  rnnks — 
Their  very  graves  arci  gone,  and  uhat  are  they? 
The  tide  wash'd  down  the  blood  oi  yesterday. 
And  all  was  stainless,  and  on  thy  clear  stream 
Glass'd  with  its  dancing  light  the  sunny  ray, 
But  o'er  the  blacken'd  memory's  blighting  dream 
Tliy  waves  would  vainly  roll,  all  sweeping  as  they  sceni, 

lAl. 

Thus  Flarold  inly  said,  and  pass'd  akmg. 
Yet  not  insensibly  to  all  which  here 
Awoke  the  jocund  birds  to  early  song 
In  "lens  which  might  have  made  even  exile  dear  ; 
Though  on  his  brow  were  graven  lines  austere. 
And  traiKjuil  sternness  which  had  ta'en  the  place 
Of  feelings  fierier  far  but  less  severe, 
Joy  was  not  always  absent  from  his  face, 
But  o'er  it  in  such  scenes  would  steal  with  transient 
trace. 

LIII. 

Nor  was  all  love  shut  from  him,  though  his  days 
Of  passion  hud  consumed  themselves  tc  dust. 
It  is  in  vain  that  we  would  coldly  gaze 
On  such  as  smile  upon  us  ;   the  heart  must 
Lea])  kindly  back  to  kindness,  though  disgust 
Hath  wean'd  it  from  ;dl  worldlings:   thus  he  fc't, 
For  there  was  sofi  remembrance,  and  sweel  trust 
In  one  fond  breast,  to  which  his  own  would  meft. 
And  in  its  tenderer  Hour  on  that  his  bosom  dwelt, 

LIV 

And  he  had  learri'd  to  love — 1  know  not  why, 
p'^fjrjhjsj_n  such  as  him  seernssti  ange  ot  mood,  • 
The  helplesTloolis  of  lilooming  TnTancy,  '    ■ 

Even  in  !ts  earliest  nuriure;   what  subdued 
To  change  like  this,  a  mind  so  far  imbued 
With  scorn  of  man,  it  little  boots  to  know; 
But  thus  It  was ;   and  tliough  in  solitude 
Small  power  the  nipu'd  afi'ections  have  to  grow. 
In  him  this  glow'd  when  all  beside  had  ceased  to  glow, 

LY. 

And  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath  been  said, 
Which  miti)  Ins  was  bound  by  stronger  ties 
Than  the  church  links  withal ;   and,  though  unwed, 
Thai  love  was  jjure,  and,  far  above  disguise, 
Had  stood  the  Test' of  mortal  enmities 
Still  undivided,  and  cemented  more' 
By  peril,  dreaded  most  in  fenuile  eyes; 
But  this  was  firm,>and  from  a  for<;ign  shore 
Well  to  thattieart  might  his  these  absent  greetings  pcur 

1. 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels '» 

Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
VYIiose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 

Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom'd  trees, 

And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wmo, 
And  scatter'd  cities  crowning  these, 

Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strew'd  a  scene,  which  I  should  seo 
With  double  joy  wert  tkou  with  nie' 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


189 


AnJ  pcasmt  girls,  with  doop-blufi  eyes, 

Aiul  hands  uliich  oHcr  early  llowers, 
Walk  sinihiii;  ()'(;r  this  iiara<lise  ; 

Above,  iht:  lK'(juent  ieiKial  towers 
Throiirrh  green   leaves  liti  llieir  walls  of  gray, 

And  main-  a  rock  whieh  steeply  lours, 
And  noble  arcli  in  proml  d(U'av, 

Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers ; 
Knt  one  thing  want  the.se  hanks  of  Rnine,— 
Tin-  gentle  hand  to  elasp  in  mine  ! 

3. 

I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me  ; 

Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  toucli, 
I  know  that  they  must  wither'd  be. 

But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such; 
For  I  have  eherish'd  them  as  dear, 

Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 

Wlien  tliou  behold'st  them  drooping  nigh. 
And  know'st  them  gathered  by  the  Rhine" 
And  oti'er'd  from  my  heart  to  thine  ! 

4. 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows. 

The  charm  of  this  encharted  ground. 
Arid  all  its  tJiousand  turns  disclose 

Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round  ; 
^    The  haughtiest  brt'ast  its  wish  might  bound 

Through  life  to  d\\  ell  delighted  liere  ; 
Nor    oiild  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

1)    Nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine  ! 

LVL 

By  Coblentz,  on  a  rise  of  (gentle  gi-ound. 
There  is  a  small  and  simple  pyramiil, 
Crowning  the  summit  of  the  verdant  mound; 
Beneath  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid. 
Our  enemy's, — but  let  not  that  forbid 
Honour  to  ."Marceaii !   o'er  whose  earlv  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush'd  from  llie  rough  soldier's  lid, 
Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  doom, 
Falling  for  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  resume. 

Lvn. 

Brief,  brave,  and  glorious  was  his  young  career,— 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  friends  and  foes  ; 
And  fitly  may  the  straoiier  lingerinir  here 
Pray  for  his  sallant  spirit"^  brigh.t  riqiose  ; 
For  he  u'as  Freedom's  champion,  one  of  those. 
The  few  in  number,  who  had  not  o'erstept 
The  ciiartei  .o  chastise  which  she  bestows 
On  such  as  wield  her  weapons  ;   he  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him  wept.'* 


1? 


LVHL 

Here  Ehrenbreitstein,  "  with  her  shatter'd  wall. 
Black  with  the  miner's  blast,  upon  her  height 
Yet  shows  of  what  she  was,  when  shell  and  ball 
Rebounding  idly  on  her  streiiirth  did  light ; 
A  tower  of  victory'  from  whence  the  tli^'lit 
Ofbatiled  foes  was  watch'd  along  the  plain: 
But  peace  destroy'd  \vhat  war  couirt  never  bli<:!it^ 
And  laid  those  proud  roofs  b;ire  to  summer's  rain — 
On  which  the  iron  shower  for  years  had  jioiir'd  in  vain. 


LIX. 

Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine  !   How  long  do  ighted 
The  stranger  tain  would  linger  on  his  way  ' 
Thine  is  a  scene  alike  where  so'ils  united 
Or  lonely  contemplation  thus  might  stray ; 
And  could  the  ceasi'less  vultures  cease  to  prey 
On  selt-condemnmg  bosoms,  it  were  here, 
Where  nature,  nor  too  sombre  nor  too  gay, 
AVild  but  not  rude,  a\vful  yet  not  austere. 
Is  to  the  mellow  earth  as  autumn  to  the  year. 

LX. 

Adieu  to  thee  again  !   a  vain  adieu! 
There  can  be  no  farewell  to  scene  like  thine; 
The  mind  is  colour'd  by  thy  every  hue ; 
And  if  reluctantly  the  eves  resign 
Their  eherish'd  gaze  upon  thee,  lovelv  Rhine  ! 
'T  is  with  the  thankful  glance  of  jiarting  praise; 
IMore  mighty  spots  may  rise — more  (.daring  shine, 
But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 
The  brilliant,  fair,  and  soft, — the  glories  of  old  days. 

LXL 

The  negligently  grand,  the  fruitful  bloom 
Of  coming  ripeness,  the  white  city's  sheen. 
The  roUinij  stream,  the  precijiice's  irioom. 
The  forest's  growth,  and  Gothic  walls  between, 
The  wild  rocks  shaped  as  they  had  turrets  been 
In  mockery  of  man's  art ;   and  these  withal 
A  race  effaces  happy  as  the  scene, 
Who^e  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all, 
Still  springing  o'er  thy   banks,  thou<zh   empires   Dviar 
them  fall. 

LXII. 

But  these  recede.     Above  me  are  the  Alps, 
The  palaces  of  nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps. 
And  throned  eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  loiuis  ami  falls 
The  avalanche — the  thunderbolt  of  snow! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appals. 
Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show 
How  earth  may  pierce  to  heaven,  yet  leave  vain  nv-.n 
below. 

LXIIL 

But  ere  these  matchless  heights  1  dare  to  scan, 
There  is  a  spot  should  not  be  I'uss'd  in  vain, — 
INlorat!  the  proud,  the  patriot  held!   where  man 
INIay  gaze  on  ghastly  trophies  of  the  slain. 
Nor  blush  for  those  who  coniiuer'<l  on  that  plain  ; 
Here  Burgundy  heqn(;ath'd  his  tombless  host, 
A  bony  h(;ap,  through  ages  to  remain, 
Themselves  their  monument  ; — the  Stvgian  coast 
Unsepulchredthev  roam'd,  and  shnek'd  each  wandcnrc 
ghost.  14 

LXIV. 

While  Waterloo  with  Cannae's  carnage  vies, 
INlorat  and  Marathon  twin  names  shall  stanii  ; 
They  were  true  glory's  stainless  victories, 
Won  by  the  imambitiotis  heart  and  hand 
Of  a  proud,  brotherly,  and  civic  ban -I, 
All  unbought  champions  in  no  princ(;lv  cause 
Of  vice-entail'd  corruption:   thev  no  land 
Doom'd  to  bewail  the  blasphemy  of  laws 
Making  kings'  rights  divine,  by  some  Draconic  ch  ise 


100 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WOilKS. 


LXV. 

By  a  lone  wall  a  lonelier  column  rears 
A.  giay  and  grief-worn  aspect  of  old  days ; 
'T  is  the  last  remnant  of  the  wreck  of  years, 
And  looks  as  with  the  wild  bewilder'd  gaze 
Of  one  to  stone  converted  by  amaze, 
Yet  still  with  consciousness  ;   and  there  it  stands, 
Making  a  marvel  that  it  not  decays, 
When  the  coeval  pride  of  human  hands, 
Levell'd  Aventicuni,'*  hath  strevv'd  her  subject  lands. 


LXVI. 

And  there — oh !  sweet  and  sacred  be  the  name ! — 
Julia — the  daughtei,  the  devoted — gave 
Her  youth  to  Heaven  ;  her  heart,  beneath  a  claim 
Nearest  to  heaven's,  broke  o'er  a  father's  grave. 
Jujstice  is  sworn  'gainst  tears,  and  hers  would  crave 
The  life  she  lived  in  ;   but  the  judge  was  just, 
And  then  she  died  on  him  she  could  not  save. 
Tlieir  tomb  was  simple,  and  without  a  bust, 
And  held  within  their  urn  one  mind,  one  heart,  one 
dust.'« 

LXVII. 

Bui  these  are  deeds  which  should  not  pass  away. 
And  names  that  must  not  wither,  though  the  earth 
Forgets  her  empires  with  a  just  decay. 
The  enslavers  and  the  enslaved,  tlieir  death  and  birth; 
The  high,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth 
Should  be,  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  woe. 
And  from  its  immortality  look  forth 
In  the  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow,  " 
riiji'jrishably  pure  beyond  all  things  below. 

^  Lxvni. 

v^  O 

^ako  Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face, 
The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  mountains  view 
Tiie  stillness  of  their  asi;ect,  in  each  trace 
Its  'Ipar  dci)th  yields  oi' their  fair  height  and  hue 
Tliv^ie  IS  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look  through 
With  a  (it  mind  the  might  which  I  behold ; 
-But  soon  in  trie  shall  loneliness  renew 
Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cherish'd  than  of  old,. 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penn'd  me  in  their  fold. 

LXIX. 

To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  mankind  | 
All  are  not  ht  with  tliem  to  stir  and  toitj 
Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 
l)ee[)  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 
In  the  hot  throng,  where  we  become  the  spoil 
Of  our  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 
We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  the  coil, 
(n  wretched  interchange  of  wrong  for  wrong, 
Midst  a  contentious  world,  striving  where  none  are 
strong. 

LXX. 

There,  in  a  moment,  we  may  |)luiige  our  years 
In  fata!  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul,  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears, 
And  colour  things  to  come  with  hues  of  night; 
Tne  race  of  hie  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To  those  that  walk  in  darkness  :  on  the  sea, 
rhu  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  invite, 
But  ihtire  are  wanderers  o'er  etf^rnity. 
^  iiose  burK  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchor'd  ne'ei  tJiiall  be. 


LXXI. 

Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone, 
And  love  earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake  ^ 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone," 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake, 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fair  but  froward  infant  her  own  care, 
Kissing  its  cries  away  as  thesej^awake ; — 
Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to  vvcar, 
Than  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doom'd  to  inflirt  or  bear? 

LXXII.  -^ 


I  live  not  in  myself,  but  1  become 
Portion  of  that  around  me  ;   and  to  me, 
High  n!0Ui;T;ans  are  a  feeling,  but  the  hum 
Of  human  cities  torture:  I  can  see 
INothing  to  loathe  in  nature,  save  to  be 

link  reluctant  in  a  fleshy  chain, 
fClass'd  among  creatures,  when  the  soul  can  flee, 
/And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving  plain 
0f  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  in  vain. 

LXXIII 

And  thus  I  am  absorb'd,  and  this  is  life 
I  look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past 
As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife, 
Where,  for  some  sin,  to  sorrow  was  I  cast, 
To  act  and  sufler,  but  remount  at  last 
W^ith  a  fresh  pinion  ;  which  I  feel  to  spring, 
Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous  as  the  blast 
W^hich  it  would  cope  with,  on  delighted  wing, 
Spurning  the  clay-cold  bonds  winch  round  our  being 
chng. 

LXXIV. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be  all  free 
From  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded  form, 
Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  flv  and  worm, — 
When  elements  to  elements  conform. 
And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not 
Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm? 
The  bodiless  thought  ?  the  spirit  of  each  spot, 
Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the  immortal  U.t' 

LXXV. 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies,  a  part 
Of  me  and  of  mv  soul,  as  I  of  them? 
Is  not  the  love  of  tiiese  doep  in  my  heart 
With  a  pure  passion?   sho'ild  !  not  contemn 
All  objects,  if  compared  with  these?  and  stem 
A  tide  of  suffering,  rather  than  forego 
Such  feelings  for  the  hard  and  worMly  phlegm 
Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  turn'd  below, 
Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with  thoughts  which  dare  not 
glow  ? 

LXXVI. 

But  this  IS  not  my  theme  ;  and  I  return 
To  that  which  is  immediate,  and  require 
Those  who  find  contemplation  in  the  urn, 
To  look  on  One,  whose  dust  was  once  all  firo, 
A  native  of  the  land  where  I  respire 
The  clear  air  for  a  while — a  passing  guest. 
Where  ho  became  a  being, — whose  liesire 
Wa>  to  1"'  iilorious  ;  't  was  a  foolish  quest. 
The  which  to  gain  and  keep,  he  sacrificed  all  rest. 


■A 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


193 


Lxxvri. 

ficre  the  5(  If-torturing  sophist,  wild  Rousseau, 
Tho  apostle  ofafHirtion,  he  who  threw 
Enchantment,  over  passion,  and  from  woe 
Wrung  overwiiolminij  elocjucnce,  first  drew 
The  hroath  which  made  him  wretched  ;   yet  he  knew 
How  to  make  madness  hcautiful,  and  cast 
O'er  erring  deeds  and  thoughts  a  lieavenly  hue 
Of  words,  like  sunbeams,  dazzling  as  they  past 
ilie  eyes,  which  o'er  them  shed  tears  feelingly  and  fa§t. 

LXXVIII. 

His  love  was  passion's  essence — as  a  tree  '      i 
On  fire  by  lightning ;  with  ethereal  flame 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted  ;  fer  ta  be 
Thus,  and  enaniuur'J,  were  in  him  the  sam'e.y 
But  his  was  not  ttie  love  of  living  dame, 
Nor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
But  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
Tn  him  existence,  and  o'erflowing  teems 
Along  his  burning  page,  distemper'd  though  it  seems. 


LXXIX. 

Thh  breathed  itself  to  life  m  Julie,  this 
Invested  her  with  all  that's  wild  and  sweet; 
This  hallow'd,  too,  the  memorable  kiss 
Which  everv  morn  his  fever'd  lip  would  greet, 
From  hf-r'-\  who  but  with  friendship  his  would  meet ; 
But  tothnf  wMitle  toi'ch,  through  brain  and  breast 
Flash'd  thi'  'iirill'd  spirit's  love-devouring  heat; 
In  tha'  absuPDing  sigh  perchance  more  blest, 
T*;ian  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  they  seek  possest. " 

LXXX. 

His  life  was  one  long  war  with  self-sought  foe'^, 
Or  friends  by  him  self-barsish'd  ;   for  his  mind 
Had  grown  sus])icion's  sanctuary,  and  chose 
For  its  own  cruel  sacrifice,  the  kind, 
'G.iinst  whom  he  raged  with  fury  stiange  and  blinds 
But  he  was  phrenzied, — wherefore,  wlio  n-ay  know? 
Since  cause  tnight  be  which  skill  could  never  find  ; 
But  he  was  |»hrenzied  by  disease  or  woe, 
I'o  that  worst  pitch  of  all  which  wears  a  reasoning  show. 

LXXXI. 

For  then  he  was  inspired,  and  from  him  came, 
"As  from  the  Pythian's  mvstic  cave  of  vore, 
Those  oracles  which  set  the  world  in  flame, 
Nor  ceased  to  burn  till  kingdoms  were  no  more : 
Did  he  not  this  for  France?  which  lay  before 
Bow'd  to  the  inborn  tyranny  of  years  ? 
Broken  and  trembling,  to  the  yoke  she  bore, 
Till  by  the  voice  of  him  and  his  compeers, 
Roused  up  to  too  much  wrath  which  follows  o'ergrown 
fears  ? 

Lxxxn.  -^ 

They  mad  ?  themselves  a  fearful  monument ! 
The  wreck  of  old  opinions — things  which  grew 
Breathed  from  the  birth  of  tirrf :   the  veil  they  rent. 
And  what  behind  it  lav,  ;i'l  i'-,  ■■•h  shall  view. 
But  good  with  ill  they  also  m,    rthrew. 
Leaving  but  ruins,  wherewitli  to  rebuild 
U{)oii  the  same  foundation,  and  renew 
Dungeons  nnri  thror'es,  which  the  same  hour  re-fili'd 
As  heretofore,  because  ambition  was  self-will'd. 


LXXXIII. 

Bit  this  will  not  endure,  nor  be  endured! 
JNlankind  have  felt  their  strength,  and  made  it  feli. 
They  might  have  used  it  better,  but,  allured 
By  their  new  vigour,  sternly  have  they  'lealt 
On  one  another;   pity  ceased  to  melt 
With  h(;r  once  natural  charities.     But  tliej', 
Who  in  oppression's  darkness  caved  had  dwelt, 
They  were  not  eagles,  nourish'd  with  ttie  day ; 
W'hat  marvel  then,  at  times',  if  they  mistook  their  prcyl 


LXXXI  V. 

W^hat  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  scar  i 
The  hearts  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it ;   and  they  who  war 
With  iheir  own  hopes,  and  have  been  vanquish'd,  hem 
Silence,  but  not  submission  :   in  his  lair 
Fi\'d  passion  nolds  his  breath,  until  the  hour 
Which  shall  atone  for  years  ;   none  need  despair  : 
It  came,  it  cometh,  and  will  come, — the  power 
To  punish  or  forgive — in  one  we  shall  be  slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear,  placid  Leman !   thy  contrasted  lake. 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  vvarns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Fourth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
'^I'o  waft  me  f-om  distraction  ;  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved, 
'i'hatl  with  stern  delights  should  c'e"*  have  been  so  nwyreti, 

LXXXVI. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thv  margin  and  ihe  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
IMellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 
Save  diu-ken'd  Jura,  who've  cajit  heights  appear 
Pricipitously  steep  ;    ai'd,  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  (lowers  vet  fresh  with  childhood  ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  ''ri[)  of  the  suspended  oar. 
Or  chirns  ihe  uras^hopper  one  good-night  "-arol  more, 

LXXXYII. 

He  is  an  evening  refelkjr,*who  makes 
His  life  and  infancy,  and  sings  !us  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  monienl,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whis;;cr  on  the  hill ; 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silentlv  their  tears  of  love  instil. 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

LXXXVIII.  ^ 

Ve  stars  !   which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven ! 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men"^nd  empires, — 'tis  to  be  forgiven. 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, — 
Our  destinies  o*erl(>ap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you  ;   for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
Ilia!  foiiiine,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  theinselvea 
a  star. 


192 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LXXXIX. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still— ihouah  Dot  in  sleep, 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  m  thoughts  too  deep : — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still :   from  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lull'd  lake  :uid  mountain-coast, 
A'l  is  conc(  -iter'd  in  a  life  intense, 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

xc.        '    • 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  leml  alone  ; 
A"  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt, 
And  purifies  from  self:   it  is  a  tone, 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm. 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone. 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty; — 'twould  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  harm. 

XCI. 

Not  vamly  did  the  early  Persian  make 

His  altar  die  high  places  and  the  peak 

Of  carfh-o'ergazinii  niountains,^"  and  thus  take 

A  fit  and  unwall'd  teinpk!,  there  to  seek 

The  si)irit,  in  whose  honour  shrnies  are  weak, 

Unrear'd  of  human  hands.      Come,  ;uid  compare 

Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  G'reek, 

*Vith  nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air. 

Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  prayer! 

XCII. 

The  sky  is  changed  !— and  such  a  change  !  Oh  night,^' 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Vei  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !   Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  amons 
Leaps  the  hve  thunder !   Not  from  one  lone  cloud. 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue. 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  v.ho  call  to  her  aloud  ! 

.  xcm. 

And  tins  is  in  the  night: — most  glorious  night' 
Thou  wcrt  not  sent  for  slumber !   let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  !)ortioii  of  the  tein[)est  and  of  thee ! 
IIow  t!ie  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea. 
An  1  the  big  rain  come-s  dancirrg  to  the  earth! 
At!  1  now  again  'tis  black, — and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
\.--  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

XCIV. 

Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  wav  between 
fleiglits  which  app  ar  as  lovers  who  have  |)arted 
III  h;ile,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervc-iie, 
That  thev  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted  ; 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other  thwarted, 
L')V';  was  the  v(!rv  root  of  the  fond  rage 
\Vbl(di  bligliled  their  life's  bloom,  and  then  dejiarted  ; 
Itself  <!\|(ired,  l)ut  leaving  f.iiem  an  age 
Df  vears  all  winters, — war  within  themselves  to  wage. 


xcv. 

Now,  where  the  qiilJi  Rhone  thus  has  cleft  h,s  way 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand* 
For  h(M-e,  not  one,  but  many,  make  tlieir  plav. 
And  ding  their  thunder-bolts  from  hand  to  hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around :   of  all  the  band, 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  f^)rk'd 
His  liglitniiigs, — as  if  he  did  understand, 
That  in  sr.ch  gaps  as  desolation  work'd. 
There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein  lurk'd 


XCVL 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  hghtnings !  ye' 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thurider,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful  j  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  Knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests  !   is  the  goal? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  hke  eagles,  some  high  nest? 

xcvn. 

Could  I  embod}^  and  unbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  within  me, — could  I  wreak 
INIy  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thu='  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak 
All  that  I  would  have  souglit,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe — into  one  word, 
And  that  one  word  wen;  Lightning,  I  would  speak; 
But  as  it  IS,  I  live  and  die  unheard 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing 


[/ 


The  morn  is  \\\^  again,  the  dewy  morn, 
With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom. 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn, 
And  living  as  if  earth  contain'd  no  tomb, — 
And  glowing  into  day :    we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence :   and  thus  I, 
Still  on  thv  shores,  fair  Leman !   may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  jiass  by 
Much  that  may  give  us  jiause,  if  poiidcr'd  fittingly. 


XCIX. 

Clarens!   sweet  Clarens,  birth-place  of  deep  lo/e!     ^^ 
Thine  air  is  the  young  breath  of  passionate  thought,  b 
Thy  trees  take  root  in  love  ;   the  snows  above     ^- 
The  very  ghnners  have  his  colours  caught,   O 
And  sunset  into  rose-hues  sees  ihem  wrouiiht^-  ^" 
By  rays  \vhi<;!i  sleep  there  lovir.gly:    the  rocks,    - 
The  piirmaiient  cr;igs,  toll  here  of  love,  who  sought    '^ 
In  them  a  rc'.'uge  fi-(jiu  the  worldlv  shocKs,    ■» 
Whi(  h  stir  and  sting  the  soul  wilh  hope  tiial  woos,  theu 

mocks.  ^  ^' 

1       ^ 
C 

Clarens !    by  heavi-nlv  f-et  thy  paths  are  trod, — 
IJudving  love's,  who  licrf  asc<'nds  a  ihrone 
To  which  the  stiq.s  arc  mounlains  ;    wl„-re  the  goj 
Is  a  [itTVading  iili'  to  ligitt, — so  shr.wu 
Not  on  llios(;  suiiuiiiis  solciv,  nor  alone 
In  the  si  ill  cave  and  forest  ;    o'er  the  thjwer 
His  eve  is  sparkling,  and  his  breath  bath  blown, 
His  soil  and  suiniiicr  hrf-ath,  whose  tender  power 
Passes  the  strength  ofsiorius  in  their  mosldesokue  iioui. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


198 


CL 

Afi  tilings  are  .lere  of  him  ;  from  the  black  pii  es, 
Wliicli  are  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud  roar 
Of  lorrerits,  where  he  listenelh,  to  the  vines 
Which  slope  his  gi'ben  path  downward  to  the  shore, 
Wht;re  'lie  bowM  waters  meet  him  and  adore, 
Kissing  K.s  f(;et  witti  murrjurs ;   and  the  wood, 
The  covert  of  oM  trees,  witii  tranks  all  hoar. 
But  light  leaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where  it  stood, 
OiTenng  to  him,  and  h:s,  a  populous  solitude. 


cn. 

A  populous  solitude  of  bees  ai  d  birds. 
And  fairy-fonn'd  and  many-cobur'd  things. 
Who  worsliip  him  with  notes  more  sweet  than  words, 
And  innocently  open  their  glad  wings, 
Fearless  and  full  jf  life:   the  gush  of  springs. 
And  fall  of  lofty  fountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirr-.ng  branches,  and  the  bud  which  brings 
The  swiftest  thoui:;ht  of  beauty,  here  extend, 
mingling,  and  made  by  love,  unto  one  mighty  end. 

cin. 

He  who  liaih  loved  not,  here  would  learn  that  lore, 
And  make  his  heart  a  sjiirit ;   ho  who  knows 
That  tend<;r  mvsterv,  will  love  the  more. 
For  this  is  love's  recess,  where  vain  men's  woes, 
AikI  the  worlii's  uaste,  have  driven  him  far  from  those 
For  't  H  his  luitiire  to  advance  or  die ; 
tie  staiuU  not  still,  !)ut  or  decavs,  or  grows 
Into  a  hounllcss  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity  ! 

CIV. 

T  was  not  for  fiction  chose  Rousseau  this  spot, 
Peo[)ling  It  with  affections  ;   but  he  Ibund 
It  was  the  scene  which  passion  must  allot 
To  the  mind's  purified  beings  ;   'twas  the  ground 
Where  earlv  love  his  Psyche's  zone  unbound, 
And  hallow'd  it  with   loveliness:   'tis  lone, 
And  wonderful,  and  deep,  and  hath  a  sound, 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness  ;   here  the  Rhone 
Jlath  spread  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps  have  rear'd  a 
throne. 

cv. 

Lausanne  !   and  Ferney  !   ye  have  been  the  abodes^' 
Of  names  which  unto  you   becjueath'd   a  name  ; 
INIortals,  who  sought  and  found,  by  dangerous  roads, 
A  i)atli  to  per])etuity  of  fame  • 
They  were  gifjantic  minds,  and  their  steep  aim 
Was,  Titan-like,  on  daring  doubts  to  pile 
Thoughts  which  should  call  down  thun«t3^  and  the    ' 

flame  ^^ 

Of  Heaven,  again  as'sailM,  jife-Heaven  the  while 

f 'n  man  irid  man's  research  could  deign  do  more  than 
amile. 

CVI. 
Tfto  one  was  fire  ami  fickleness,  a  child, 
Moot  mutable  in  wishes,  but   in  mind 
A  wit  as  various, — nay,  orave,  sage,  or  wild, — 
Historian,  bard,  philosopher  co;iiliin(!d  ; 
He  multiplied  hnnself  among  mankind. 
The  Proteus  of  their  talents  :    bi;t  his  own 
Breathed  inosr  in  ridicnle,— which,  as  the  wind. 
Blew  where  it  listed,  lavmir  ail  thiiu's  prone, — 

N'ovA-  to  o'erthrovv  a  fool,  and   now  to  shake  a  throne, 

13 


CVII. 

The  other,  deep  and  slow,  exhausting  thougnt, 
And  hiving  wisdom  with  each  studious  year, 
In  meditation  dwelt,  with  learning  wrought. 
And  shaped  his  weapon  with  an  edge  severe, 
Sapping  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer  : 
The  lord  of  irony, — that  master-spell. 
Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew  from  tear, 
And  doom'd  him  to  the  7,eaIot's  ready  hell, 
Which  answers  to  all  uoubts  so  eloquently  well. 

CVIIL 

Vet,  peace  be  with  their  ashes, — for  by  them. 
If  merited,  the  penalty  is  paid ; 
It  is  not  ours  to  judge, — far  less  condemn  ; 
The  hour  must  come  when  such  things  shall  be  madf 
Known  unto  all, — or  hope  and  dread  allay'd 
By  slumber,  on  one  pillow, — in  the  dust, 
Which,  thus  much  we  are  sure,  must  lie  dccay'd ; 
And  when  it  shall  revive,  as  is  our  trust, 
'T  will  be  to  be  forgiven,  or  suffer  what  is  just. 

CIX. 

But  let  me  quit  man's  works,  again  to  read 
His  Maker's  spread  around  me,  and  suspend 
This  page,  whi(;h  from  my  reveries  1  ked^ 
Until  it  seems  prolonging  without  end. 
The  clouds  above  me  to  the  white  Alps  tend, 
And  I  must  pierce  them,  and  survey  whute'er 
May  be  permitted,  r.s  mv  steps  I  bend 
To  their  most  great  and  growing  region,  ^^here 
The  earth  to  her  embrace  compels  the  power  of  air. 

ex. 

Italia  !   too, — Itdia  !   looking  on  thee, 
Full  flashes  on  the  sou!  the  light  uC  ages, 
Since  the  fierce  Carthaginian  almost  won  thee. 
To  the  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages. 
Who  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages  ; 
Thou  wert  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires  ;  still, 
The  fount  at  which  the  panting  mind  assuages 
Her  thirst  of  knowledge,  quailing  there  her  fill. 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  Rome's  ini[jerial  hiti 


A 


CXI. 


t^/ 


Thus  far  I  have  proceeded  in  a  theme 
Renew'd  with  no  kind  auspices  : — ttt^fcel 
We  are  not  what  \ve  have  been,  and  to  deem 
We  are  not  wli;it  we  sliould  be, — and  to  steel 
The  hearf  against  itself;   and  to  conceal. 
With  a  proud  caution,  love,  or  hate,  or  aught,— 
Passion  or  fi.eling,  purpose,  grief  or  zeal, — 
^^  hich  is  the  tyrant  spirit  of  our  thought ; 
Is  asiern  task  of  soul : — No  matter, — it  is  taught. 

cxn. 

And  for  these  words,  thus  woven  inio  song, 
It  may  be  that  they  are  a  harmless  wile, — 
The  colouring  of  the  scenes  which  fleet  along, 
\^^hich  I  would  seize,  m  piissing,  to  be!,nhl<; 
My  breast,  or  that  of  others,  for  a  while. 
Fame  is  the  thirst  of  vouth, — but 


l.r 


V 


ao  vounty  as  to  rci^ard  men's  frown  or  smile^ 
Ati  l(KS'  or  .<>ucr<lon  ol   a  {dorious  lot : 
stood  and  stand  alone, — remember'd  or  forgoU 


194 


rsmON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


CXIIl. 


I  have  not  lovod  the  world,  nor  the  world  me ;      \ 
I  hiive  not  Hatler'd  its  rank  broatli,  nor  bow'd 
To  Its  !(iolatr)es  a  patient  knee, — 
Nor  coin'd  mv  cheek  to  smiles, — nor  cried  aloud 
li   worshi}'  of  an  eeho  :   in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  ine  one  of  such  ;   I  stood 
Ainono  them,  but  iiot  of  them  ;   in  a  shroud 
(){'  thougiits  which  were  not  their  thoughts,  and  stil 
could, 
/Hud  I  not  filed  ^^  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued 


CXIV. 


■ 


have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me, — 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes  ;   I  do  believe 
Though  I  have  found  them  ndt,  that  there  may  be 
Words  which  are  things, — ho|)es  which  will  not  de- 
ceive, 
And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor  weave 
Snares  for  the  failing  :   I  would  also  deem 
0\r  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerel}'  grieve  ;  ^^ 
That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem, — 
V.VA^  gctouness  is  no  tiame,  and  happiness  no  dream. 

cxv. 

"    lV1>'  (lauiihter  !   with  thy  name  this  song  begun — 
Mv  daughter!   with  thy  name  thus  much  shall  end— 
I  see  thee  not, — I  hear  thee  not, — but  none 
Can  be  so  wrajtt  in  thee  ;   thou  art  the  friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  years  extend : 
Allieit  my  brow  thou  never  shouldst  behold, 
M^  voice  shall  with  thy  future  visioift  blend. 
And  reach  into  thy  heart, — when  mine  is  cold, — 

^  toHcn  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy  father's  mould, 

CXVI. 

To  aid  thy  mind's  developement, — to  watch 
Thv  dawn  of  little  joys, — to  sit  ^md  see 
Almost  thy  very  growth, — to  view  thee  catch 
Kno\\!edg(    of  objcjcts, — wonders  yet  to  thee  ! 
To  hold  ihee  lightly  on  a  gentle  knee, 
And  |)ri!!i  on  thy  soft  clieek  a  parent's  kiss, — 
This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  reserved  for  nie  ; 
Yet  this  was  in  my  nature: — as  it  is, 
I  knuw  not  what   is  tliere,  yet  something  hke  to  this. 

CXVII. 

Vet,  though  dull  hate  as  duty  should  be  taught, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me ;   though  my  name 
Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as  a  spell  still  fraught 
With  desolation, — and  a  broken  claim: 
Though  the  grave  closed  between  us,  't  were  the 

same — 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me  ;  though  to  drain 
Ml/  hiood  from  out  thy  being,  were  an  aim. 
And  an  attainment, — all  would  be  in  vain, — 
7t{'l  thiMi  wouldst  love  me,  still  that  more  than  life  retain. 

CXVIII. 

The  child  of  love, — though  born  in  bitterness, 
A  lid  nunur<Ml   in  convulsion.      Of  thy  sir*' 
Th<  se  were  the  elements, — and  tiiine  no  less. 
A«  vet  such  are  around  thee, — but  thy  fire 
Shall  be  more  1emp<n-'d,  and  thy  hope  fiir  higher. 
Sweet  be  thy  cradled  slumbers!    O'er  the  sea, 
And  from  tiie  mountains  wliere   I  now  respire, 
Fam  would  I  waft  -.-ik^i  biessing  ujiou  thee;, 
As,  \Mtli  a  s;(jh,  I  dcjem  thou  tiunht'sl  have  been 


CANTO  IV. 


Visto  hoToscana,  Lombarclta,  llomagno. 
Quel  nioiite  cho  divide,  e  quel  che  serra 
ItaliK,  o  uii  mare  e  1'  aitro,  die  la  4)!igna. 

ARIOSTO,  Sattra  iH 


JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ.  A.M.  F.R.S. 

etc.  etc.  etc. 

i\l\      DEAR     rioBHOrsE, 

Akteh  an  interval  of  eight  years  between  the  com 
positi(>n  of  the  first  and  last  cantos  of  Childe  Harold, 
the  conclu:5ion  of  the  poem  is  about  to  be  submitted  tc 
the  public.  In  parting  with  so  old  a  friend,  it  is  not  ex- 
traordinary that  1  should  recur  to  one  still  older  and 
better, — to  one  who  has  beheld  the  birth  and  death  of 
the  other,  and  to  whom  I  am  far  more  indebted  for  ihf> 
social  advantages  of  an  enlightened  friendsliij),  than — 
tliouwh  not  uiiirratefiil — I  can,  or  could  be,  to  Childe 
Harold,  for  any  pubhc  favour  reflected  thiough  the 
poein  oil  t!<.e  poet, — to  one,  whom  I  have  known  long, 
and  accompanied  far,  wlioni  f  have  foun<l  wakeful  over 
mv  sickness,  and  kind  in  my  sorrow,  glad  m  my  pros- 
perity, and  firm  in  mv  adversity,  true  in  covuisel,  anu 
trusty  in  peril — to  a  friend  often  tried,  and  never  found 
wanting  ; — to  yourself. 

In  so  doin<z,  I  retnii'  from  fiction  to  truth,  and  in  dedi- 
catins  to  vnu  in  its  complete,  or  at  least  conchidod 
state,  a  poetical  work  which  is  the  longest,  the  m  )St 
thoughtlul,  and  conijirehensive  of  my  compositions,  F 
wish  to  do  honour  to  myself  by  the  record  of  many 
years'  intimacy  with  a  man  of  learning,  of  talent,  of 
steadiness,  and  of  honour.  It  is  not  for  minds  like  ours 
to  give  or  to  receive  flattery  ;  yet  the  praises  of  sin- 
cerity have  ever  been  permitted  to  the  voice  of  friend- 
ship, and  it  is  not  for  \oii,  noi  even  for  njhers,  but  to 
relieve  a  heart  vn  hicli  has  out  (;!sewher(^,  or  lately,  been 
so  much  accustomed  to  the  encou.nter  of  good-will  as 
to  withstand  tlie  shock  firmly,  that  !  thus  jitiemp?  to 
commemorate  your  good  (]ua!iti(>s,  or  r;ifiier  tlie  nd- 
vantayes  wliich  I  have  derived  from  their  exertion. 
Even  the  recurrence  i>f  the  date  of  this  letter,  the  an- 
niversary of  tiie  most  unfortunate  day  of  my  past  ex- 
istence, but  which  (Cannot  poison  u.y  future,  while  I 
retain  the  resourci;  of  vour  friendship,  and  of  my  own 
faculti(is,  will  hencetiirth  have  a  more  agre(  able  recol- 
lection for  both,  inasmuch  as  it  will  reinind  us  of  this 
my  attempt  to  tliMuk  vori  for  an  indefatigable  regard. 
such  as  Uiw  men  have  experienced,  and  no  one  could 
experience  without  thinking  better  of  his  species  and 
of  iiimself. 

It  has  been  our  fortune  to  traverse  together,  at  v;u'i- 
ous  periods,  the  (;ountnes  of  chivalry,  historj',  and 
fable — Spain,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  Italy :  iiid 
what  Ath(>ns  and  Constantinople  were  to  us  i  few  years 
ago,  \"erii"(!  and  Rome  liave  been  moie  recently.  Thn 
jKxin  al^o,  or  the  pilirrim,  or  both,  have  accom[)anie(l 
ine  from  first  to  last  ;  and  iierhaps  it  may  be  a  pardon- 
able vanity  winch  induces  iiiq  to  refect  with  compla 
ceih-v  on  a  composition  whicdi  in  some  degree  couikm-Is 
me  with  the   spot 

ma'.-  be  deemed  of  those  ma<iical  i'.nd  mi'iuorable  ab(j 


here   it  was     irodiiced,  and   the   ob- 
lescribe  :    and    howevtT  unworthv  it 


G 


le! 


howe 


fall   of  out   distant    conceuli< 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


195 


an.i  ininie(ii:ite  impressions,  vet  as  a  mark  of  respect 
for  uiiat  IS  veiieralile,  iind  a  feeli  ig  for  what  is  <.'lcrious, 
It  if,!-:-  hecii  to  mo  a  source  of  pleasure  in  the  prcu'.uc- 
tioii,  ami  I  part  uiili  it  with  a  kind  oi"  re>:n  t,  which  I 
liarlly  stispccied  that  events  could  iiave  left  me  for 
im:ii:i!!,:rv  nliiccts. 

\Vi;!i  reouiti  to  the  conduct  ot  tne  .ast  canto,  tliere 
will  be  i'onnd  less  of  the  pilgrim  tlian  in  any  of  the 
prr.ediiiij,  and  that  little  sri<:litly,  if  at  ail,  separated 
from  the  author  speaking  in  his  own  person.  The  fact 
w,  ihatTl  li.id  become  weary  of  drawing  a  line  v.hith 
.'verv  one  seemed  determined  not  to  perceive  :  like  the 
Chinese  in  Goldsmith's  "  Citizen  of  the  World,"  whom 
tiobodv  would  believe  to  be  a  Chinese,  it  v  as  in  vain 
th;a  1  assertetl,  and  imagined,  that  I  had  drawn  a  dis- 
tinction between  the  author  and  the  pilgrim  ;  and  tlie 
very  an.xiety  to  preserw  this  ditierencc,  and  .disap- 
pointment at  finding  it  unavailing,  so  lar  crushed  my 
etibrts  in  the  composition,  that  I  determined  to  abandon 
it  altoizother — and  have  done  so.  Tiie  oi)inions  which 
have  been,  or  may  be,  formed  on  that  subject,  are  notv 
a  matter  of  inditference  ;  the  work  is  to  depend  on  it- 
self, and  not  on  the  writer  ;  and  the  author,  v.  ho  has  no 
resources  in  his  own  mind  beyond  the  reputation,  tran- 
sient or  permanent,  which  js  to  arise  from  his  literary 
otforts,  deserves  the  fate  of  authors. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  canto  it  was  my  inten- 
tion, either  in  the  text  or  In  the  notes,  to  have  touched 
upon  the  jiresent  state  of  Italian  literature,  and  [lerluips 
ol  mann(>rs.  Hut  tbe  text,  within  the  limits  I  |)roposed, 
I  soon  lo.nid  harJi'v  sutticient  for  the  labyrinth  of  ex- 
tt'rnal  ohiecls  and  the  conseijuent  retit  ctions  ;  and  for 
the  whole  of  the  notes,  except  inir  a  few  of  the  shortest, 
I  am  iiidebted  to  yoursclt",  and  these  were  necessarih 
imited  to  the  elucidation  of  the  text. 

It  '.s  also  a  delicate,  aii,i  no  very  grateful  task,  to 
di-sert  uuon  the  literature  and  manners  of  a  nation  so 
dissimilar  ;  and  reijuires  an  attention  and  impartiality 
which  would  induce  us, — though  perhaps  no  inatten- 
tive observers,  nor  ignorant  of  the  kuiguage  or  customs 
0*'  the  peo[ile  amongst  whom  we  have  recently  abcnle, 
— to  distrust,  or  at  leagt  defer  our  judgment,  and  more 
narrowly  examine  our  information.  The  state  of  lite- 
rary, as  well  as  political  party,  appears  to  run,  or  to 
hace  run,  so  high,  that  for  a  stranger  to  steer  impar- 
tial'v  between  them  is  next  to  impossible.  It  may  be 
enouah,  then,  at  least  for  my  purpose,  to  (juote  from 
Ih.-ir  own  beautiful  language — "  M'l  pare  che  in  un 
paese  tiitio  poetico,  che  vanta  la  lingua  la  piti  nobile  ed 
nisnine  ia  \)\i.  di-la.',  Mittc;  tutte  le  vie  diverse  si  possonc 
t-'Utare,  e  che'  siix-h'"'  la  patr;a  di  Alfieri  e  di  INIonti  non 
ha  pcrtiuto  fautn'O  valore,  in  Uitte  essa  dovrebbe  essere 
la  prima."'  I^aiv  lias  ^n-eat  names  still — Canova,  Monti, 
l.'il')  Foscnlo.  I'ladeiiiuiiti,  \'iscoiiti,  Morelii,  Cicognara, 
A.iirizzi,  Nez/ofuiti.  .Mai,  Mustoxidi,  Aglietti,  and 
Vacca,  will  secure  to  the  present  generation  an  hon- 
ourable place  in  most  of  the  departments  of  art,  sci- 
ence, and  belitis-lettres ;  and  m  some  the  very  highest; 

Eiiroj)e — tlift  world — has  but  one  Canova. 

It  lias  been  somewhere  said  by  Aiiieri,  that  "  La 
piun'.a  uomo  iiasce  piii  robusta  in  Italia  che  in  qualiin- 
r.m;  ;t'.r"a  terra — e  else  gli  stessi  atroci  delitti  che  vi  si 
co;ii:iieitono  ne  soiio  una  prova."  Witiiout  subscribing 
o  the  la'ter  part  of  his  proposition,  a  dangerous  doc- 
trine, the  trutii  of  which  may  bo  disputed  on  better 
lirouiids,  nanieiN,  that  the  Italians  are  in  no  respect 
aiorc  ferocious  tlKUi  their  neighbours,  that  man  must 
be  wiifuUv  blind,  or  ignorantly  heedless,  who  is  not 
struck  with  the  exlraordinarj-  capacity  <:f  this  people, 
ir,   if  such   a  word  be    admissible,   their   ca^atu'iiies. 


the  facility  of  their  aiquisitions,  the  rapidity  of  thcii 
conccjitions,  the  fire  of  their  genius,  their  sense  oi 
beauty,  and,  amidst  all  the  disadvantages  of  repeatca 
revolutions,  the  desolation  of  battles,  and  the  des{)air 
of  ages,  their  still  unqiienched  "  longing  after  immor- 
tality,"— tlie  immortality  of  independence.  And  wlien 
we  ourselves,  in  riding  round  the  walls  of  Rome,  he.-.rd 
thi>  simple  lament  of  the  labourers''  chorus,  "Roma! 
K<tma  I  Roma!  Roma  none  piij  come  era  prima,"  it 
was  ditticiilt  not  to  contrast  this  melancholy  dir^e  with 
the  bacchanal  roar  of  the  songs  of  exultation  still  yelled 
ft-om  the  London  taverns,  over  the  carnage  of  Mont  St. 
Jean,  and  the  betrayal  of  Genoa,  of  Italy,  of  Fran<X', 
atid  of  the  world,  by  men  whose  conduct  you  joiirself 
have  exjiosed  in  a  work  worthy  of  the  better  days  of 
our  liistory.     For  me, 

"  \on  inovero  niai  corda 

Ove  la  turba  di  sue  cianco  assorda." 

What  Italy  has  sained  by  the  late  transfer  of  nations, 
it  werf^  useless  for  Enslishmen  to  inquire,  till  it  becomes 
ascertained  that  England  has  acquired  something  more 
tlian  a  permanent  army  and  a  suspended  Habeas  Cor- 
pus ;  it  is  enough  for  tliem  to  look  at  home.  Foi  whal 
thcv  ha\e  done  abroad,  and  especially  in  the  South, 
"  verily  they  irill  lime  their  reward,"  and  at  no  very 
distant  period. 

\^'ishiiiJ  vou,  mv  dear  Ilobhouse,  a  safe  and  acree- 
able  return  to  that  country  whose  real  welfare  can  Ik- 
dearer  to  none  than  to  yourself.  I  dedicate  to  you  this 
poem  in  its  completed  state  ;  and  repeat  once  more  how 
truly  I  am  ever 

Your  obliged 

And  afTeciionatc  friend, 

BYR()N 

Venire,  Jnnunri/  2,  IS18. 

I.       L^         A 

I 

I  STOOD  m  Venice,  on  the   Bridiie  of  Sigl.s  ;  ' 
A  palace  iuid  a  prison  on  each  hand  : 
I  saw  from  out  tlic  wiive  her  structures  rise 
As  from  tlie  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand  . 
A  thousand  years  tiieir  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  glory  smiles 
O'er  the  f"ar  time--   when  many  a  subject  land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
W^here  Venice  sate  m  state,  throned  on  her  hundred 
isles  ! 

IL 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fnfcsh  from  ocean,  ^ 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motio'i, 
A  ruler  of  tlie  waters  and  their  j^owers. 
And  such  she  was  ; — her  daughters  had  their  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  Easi 
PourVi  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers : 
In  purple  was  she  rotied,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  d(;em'd  their  dignity  ncre.'isttfl 

III. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more,' 
And  silent  ••ows  the  songiess  gondolier; 
Her  palaces  arc  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  alv^ays  n<nv  the  ear: 
Those  (lavs  are  gone — but  beauty  still  is  hero. 
States  fall,  arts  fade — but  Nature  doth  not  die* 
Nor  yet  forget  how  \'enice  once  was  dear 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity 
The  revel  of  the  ei^rth,  the  masque  of  Ital\  ! 


196 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    TORKS 


IV 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  be}-ond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 
Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanish'd  sway ; 
Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto  ;   Shy  lock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  awav — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch !   though  all  were  o'er, 
for  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 


^  V. 

The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay ; 
Ess(,ntially  immortal,  they  create 
Anu  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
Anl  more  beloved  existence;   that  which  fate 
Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  tliis  our  state 
Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  suuplied 
First  exiles,  then  replaces  what  we  hate  ; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have  died, 
And  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishmg  the  void.. 


VI. 

Such  is  the  refuge  of  our  youth  and  age, 
The  first  from^'hope,  the  last  from  vacancy  ; 
And  this  worn  feeling  peoples  many  a  pa^e, 
And,  may  be,  that  which  grows  beneath  mine  eve : 
Yet  there  are  things  whose  strong  reality 
Outsliiiics  our  fairy-land  ;   in  sliape  and  hues 
More  beautiful  tlran  our  fantastic  sky. 
And  the  strange  constellations  which  the  muse 
O'fjr  her  wild  universe  is  skilful  to  ditTuse  : 

VII. 

(  saw  or  dream'd  of  such, — but  let  them  go — 
They  came  like  truth,  and  disappear'd  like  dreams ; 
And  whatsoe'er  they  were — are  now  but  so : 
1  could  replace  them  if  I  would,  still  teems 
My  mind  with  many  a  form  which  ajjdy  seems 
Such  as  1  sougiit  for,  and  at  moments  found ; 
Let  these  too  go — for  waking  reason  deems 
Such  overweening  phantasies  unsound. 
Ajid  other  voices  speak,  and  other  siglus  surround. 


VIII. 

I  've  taught  me  other  tongues — and  in  strange  ey< 
Jl:ive  maue  me  not  a  stranger;   to  the  mind 
Which  is  itself,  no  changes  bring  surprise  ; 
Nor  is  it  liarsh  to  make,  nor  hard  to  find 
A  country  witn — ay,  or  wifiioul  mankind  ; 
V'.ti  was  I  born  where  men  are  proud  to  be. 
Not  without  cause;   and  should  I  leave  behind 
'I'hc  inviolate  island  of  the  sage  and  free. 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea? 


IX. 

P.-rhaps  1  loved  it  ^vHl  :    and  shoul.i  I  lay 
My  ashes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine, 
My  spirit  shall  resume  it — if  we  may 
riibodiod  choos(;  a  sanctuary.      I  iwme 
Mv  hopes  of  luMiii.'  rcru(  Milxr'd   m   mv  line 
Witli  my  land's  langiia;;!; :    if  too  fond   and  far 
These  aspirations  in  their  scope   incline, — 
?l  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  ;ire, 
Oi  h;i?'y  gn  wth  and  blight,  and  dull  oblivion  bar 


My  name  from  out  the  temple  wliere  the  dead 
Are  honour'd  bv  the  nations — let  it  bo — 
And  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier  head ! 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitaph  on  me — 
"  Sparta  ha'.h  many  a  worthier  son  than  lie."* 
Meantime  I  seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need  ; 
The  thorns  which  I  have  reap'd  are  of  the  tree 
I  planted  ; — they  have  torn  me,— and  I  bleed  : 
1  should  have  known  what  fruit  would  sprint  from  sn€h 
a  seed. 

XI. 

The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord  : 
And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renew'd, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored. 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widon  hood  ! 
St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood  * 
Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  wither'd  power, 
Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  emperor  sued. 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  uncquall'd  dower. 

XII. 

The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reicns • 

An  emperor  tramples  where  an  em[)eror  knell  ; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities  :   nations  meh 
From  power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have  felt 
The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go 
Like  lauwine  loosen'd  from  the  momuam's  belt ; 
Oh  for  one  hour  of  t)lind  old  Dandolo !  ' 
Th'  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  foo. 

XIII. 

Beiore  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brasa^ 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sua  ; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pasj  ?  ' 
Are  they  not  bridled  ? — Venice,  lost  and  won, 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done, 
Sinks,  like  a  sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose ! 
Better  be  whelm'd  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreisn  toes, 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  reuost  . 


XIV. 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory, — a  new  Tyre, — 
Her  very  by-word  sprung  from  victory. 
The  "  Planter  of  the  Lion,"  ^  which  through  fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea ; 
Thouijh  making  manv  slaves,  herself  still  free, 
yVud  Kuro;)e's  bulwark  'gamst  the  Otiomite  ; 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Candia!    \"ouch  ii,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  tight  ! 
For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  ))li|tlt 


XV. 

Statues  of  class — all  shiver'd — the  long  nlc 
Of  her  dead  doges  are  declined  to  dust  ; 
But  whrre  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  siimptuony  p.'So 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  sj.lendid  tni  :t  ; 
Tlie'ir  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  m  rust, 
Have  yielded  to  the  stran;:er  :    empty  halls, 
Tluu  streets,  and  Ibreigu  aspi-cts,  sncli  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what   ent!i-a!^,  '** 
Have  tluii!'  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Vtnice'  lovely  walls 


CPIILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


197 


XVL 

Wht-n  Atheii:*'  armies  fell  ai  Syracuse^ 
And  fettcr'd  thousands  bor(3  the  yoke  of  war, 
Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  iNIuse,  " 
Her  voice  ttieir  only  ransom  trom   afar; 
See!    as  they  chant  the  trairic  hymn,  the  car 
Of  liie  o'erniaster'd  victor  stops,  tlie  reins 
Fall  fi-om  his  hands — liis  idle  scimitar 
Starts  tVoin  its  belt — he  rends  his  captive's  chains, 
And  bids  him  thank  the  bard  tor  freedom  and  his  strains. 

XVII. 

Thus,  Vei.ice,  if  no  stronger  claim  were  thine. 
Were  all  tiiv  proud  historic  deeds  forgot, 
Thv  clioral  memorv  of  the  bard  divine, 
Tiiy  love  of  Tasso,  should  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants;   and  thy  lot 
1=1  shameful  to  the  nations, — most  of  all, 
Albion  !   to  thee  :   the  ocean  queen  should  not 
Abandon  ocean's  children ;   in  the  fall 
or  Venice  think  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery  wall. 

XVIII. 

I  loved  hf^r  from  my  boyhood — she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart ; 
And  Otwav,  Radclitfe,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art,'^ 
Hh.l  stamp'd  her  imaire  in  me,  and  even  so, 
Ahhoush  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part. 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  0/  woe. 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 

XIX. 

I  can  cepeople  with  the  past — and  of 
The  present  there  is  still  tbi  eye  and  thought, 
And  meditation  chasten'd  down,  enough! 
And  more,  it  may  be,  than  I  hoped  or  sought: 
And  of  the  happiest  moments  which  were  wrought 
Within  the  web  of  my  existence,  some 
Fro-n  thee,  fliir  Venice  !   have  their  colours  caught  ■ 
Tliere  are  some  feelings  time  cannot  benumb, 
Nur  torture  shake,  or  mine  would  now  be  cold  and  dumb. 


XX. 

But  from  their  nature  will  the  tannen  grow  '■« 
Lollifst  on  loft-est  and  least  shelter'd  rocks, 
Rooted  ui  barrenness,  where  nought  below 
Of  soil  supports  them  'gainst  the  Alpine  shocks 
Ot'  ed'lyin:;  storms  ;   yet  springs  the  trunk,  and  mocks 
The  howl-.n'i  tempest,  till  its  height  and  frame 
Are  wort'iv  of  the  mountains  from  whose  blocks 
Of  bleak,  jrrav  granite,  into  life  it  came, 
And  grew  a  giant  tree ; — the  mind  may  grow  the  same. 

XXI. 

Exist'^nce  may  be  borne,  and  the  deep  root 
Of  life  and  sutTerance  make  its  firm  abode 
In  bare  and  desolated  bosoms  ;   mute 
The  camel  labours  with  the  heaviest  load, 
And  the  wolf  dies  in  s.ience, — not  bestow'd 
In  vain  should  such  example  be  ;   if  they, 
Things  of  i?nv)l)le  or  of  savage  mood. 
Endure  and  shrink  not,  we  of  nob'er  clay 
Mav  teiniMT  it  to  bear,--'t  is  but  for  a  day 


XXII. 

All  sufferins  doth  destroy,  or  is  destrov'd. 
Even  by  the  sutTcrer  ;   and,  in  each  event 
Ends: — some,  with  hope  replenish'd  and  rcbiiov'rt. 
Return  to  whence  they  came  —with  like  intent, 
And  weave  their  web  again  •,   some,  bow'd  and  bcc: 
Wax  gray  and  ghastly,  witherinsr  ere  their  time. 
And  perish  with  the  reed  on  which  they  leant; 
Some  seek  devotion,  toil,  war,  good  or  crime. 
According  as  their  souls  were  forin'd  to  sink  or  climb: 

XXIII. 

But  ever  and  anon  of  grief  subdued 

There  comes  a  token  like  a  scorpion's  sting. 

Scarce  seen,  but  with  fresh  bitterness  imbued  ; 

And  slight  withal  may  be  the  thiuirs  which  bring 

Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 

Aside  for  ever:   it  may  be  a  sound — 

A  tone  of  music, — summer's  eve — or  spring, 

A  flower — the  wind — the  ocean — which  sb.all  wound, 

Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  quii^kly 

bound ;  1 

XXIV.  \J 

And  how  and  why  we  know  not,  nor  can  trace 
Home  to  its  cloud  this  lightning  of  the  mind. 
But  feel  the  shock  renew'd,  nor  can  efface 
The  bliijiit  and  bfackening  which  it  leaves  behind, 
Which  out  of  things  familiar,  undesisn'd. 
When  least  we  deem  of  such,  calls  uj)  to  view 
The  s[)ectres  whom  no  exorcism  can  bind, 
The  cold — the  changed — perchan«e  the  dead — anew, 

The  monrn'd,  the  loved,  the  lost — too  many!   yet  iiuw 
few !  (\p 

XXV. 

But  my  soul  wanders  ;   I  demand  it  back 
To  meditate  amongst  decay,  aud  stand 
A  rum  amidst  rums  ;   there  to  track 
Fallen  states  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a  land 
Which  vcas  the  mightiest  in  its  old  command, 
And  is  the  loveliest,  and  must  ever  be 
The  master-moukl  of  nature's  iieaveril)'  hand. 
Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the  ^xa^^  " 
The  beautiful,  the  brave — the  lords  of  eartli  and  soa 


XXVI. 

The  commonwealth  of  kings,  the  men  of  Rome ! 
And  even  since,  and  now,  fair  Italy  ! 
Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  home 
Of  all  art  yields,  and  nature  can  decree; 
Even  in  thy  desert,  what  is  hke  to  thee? 
Thv  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thv  waste 
.More  rich  than  other  climes'  fertility ; 
Thy  wreck  a  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With  an  immaculate  charm  which  cannot  be  defaccJ 


XXVII. 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night- 
Sunset  divides  the  skv  with  her — a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  heisht. 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains :   heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colours  seems  to  be 
IVItilted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  west, 
W'lere  the  day  joins  the  past  eternity  ; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Disn's  cresi 
Floats  through  tlie  azure  air — an  island  of  the  blest ' 


198 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XXVIII. 

A  sirisle  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven  ;   br.t  still   * 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  briohtly,  and  remains 
Roil'd  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhiuuan  hill, 
As  day  and  night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  rerlaini'd  her  order: — gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brcnta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose, 
^  hioh  streatns  upon  her  stream,  and  glass'd  within  it 
glows, 

XXIX. 

Fill'd  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar, 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters  ;   all  its  hues. 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star. 
Their  magical  variety  diffuse  : 
And  now  they  change ;   a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  manlle  o'ei  the  mountains  ;   parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  colour  as  it  gasps  away, 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till — 't  is  gone — and  all  is  gray 

XXX. 

There  is  a  tomb  in  Arqua  ; — rear'd  m  air, 
Pillar'd  in  their  sarco|)hagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura's  lover ;   here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes, 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.     He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  d4ill  yo]^e  of  her  barbaric  foes : 
Walering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name  '* 
With  iiis  meiodicius  tea.rs,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 

XXXI. 

They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died;  '^ 
The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
Went  down  the  vale  of  years  ;   and  'tis  their  pride— 
An  honest  pride — and  let  it  be  their  praise. 
To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 
Plis  mansion  and  his  sepulchre  i  both  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Than  if  a  pyramid  form'd  his  monumental  fane. 


XXXII. 

And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwelt 
Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 
For  ihose  who  their  mortality  have  felt. 
And  sought  a  refuge  from  their  hoi^es  decay'd 
In  the  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade, 
Which  shows  a  distant  prospect  far  away 
Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  display'd. 
For  they  can  lure  no  further  ;   and  the  ray 
Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday. 

XXXIII. 

Poveloping  tne  mounlains,  leaves,  and  flowers, 
Ai'd  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  where-l)y. 
Oil  a"  as  its  current.,  glide  the  saimtcTiMg  hours 
With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlcssc  it  seem,  hath  its  morality. 
If  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 
'T  is  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die  ; 
It  hath  no  flatterers  ;   vanity  can  give 
No  hol>o'.v  aid:   alone—  mim  with  his  God  must  strive. 


XXXIV. 

Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  '''   who  impair 
The  strength  of  better  thoughts,  and  seek  thee  prej 
In  melancholy  bosoms,  such  as  were 
Of  moody  texture  from  tliiiir  earliest  dav, 
And  loved  to  dwell  in  darkness  and  dismay. 
Deeming  themselves  predestined  to  a  doom 
Wliich  is  not  of  the  pangs  that  pass  awav  ; 
Waking  the  sun  like  blwjd,  the  earth  a  tomb. 
The  tomb  a  hell,  and  hell  itself  a  murkier  olooni. 


XXXV. 

f  Ferrara  !   in  thy  wirle  and  grass-grown  streets, 
Whose  syminetry  was  not  for  solitude, 
There  seems  as  't  were  a  curse  uf)on  the  seats 
Of  f()rmer  sovereigns,  and  the  antiipie  brood 
Of  Este,  which  for  many  an  age  made  irood 
Its  strensth  within  thy  walls,  and  was  of  yore 
Patron  or  tj'rant,  as  the  changing  inooa 
Of  petty  power  in^peli'd,  of  those  who  wore 
The  wreath  which  Dante's  brow  alone  iiad  worn  befor 


XXXVI. 

And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  their  shame, 
riark  to  his  strain  !    and  then  survey  his  cell ! 
And  see  how  dearly  earn'd  Torquato's  fame, 
And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell : 
The  miserable  despot  could  not  (piell 
The  insulted  nnnd  he  sought  to  quench,  and  blenti 
With  the  surroJinding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  lie  had  plunged  it.      Glory  without  end 
Scatter'd  the  clouds  away — and  on  that  "ame  attend 

XXXVII. 

The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time  ;   while  thine 
Would  rot  in  its  oblivion — in  the  sink 
Of  worthless  dust,  which  from  thy  boasted  line 
Is  shaken  into  nothing  ;   but  the  link 
Tliou  fonnest  in  his  fortunes -nids  us  think 
Of  thy  poor  malice,  naming  thee  with  scorn — 
Alfonso!    how  thy  ducal  pageants  shrink 
From  thee!   if  in  another  station  born, 
Scarce  fit  to  be  the  slave  of  Mm  thou  mad'st  to  moinn. 

XXX  VIII. 

Thou  !  form'd  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and  die, 
Even  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  save  that  thou 
Hadst  a  more  sjileodid  trough  and  wider  sty : 
He !  with  a  glory  round  his  furrow'd  brow, 
Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzles  now 
In  face  of  all  ins  foes,  the  Cruscan  (juire. 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  could  allow  '^ 
No  strain  which  shamed  his  country's  creaking  .yr« 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth — monotony  in  wire  I 

XXXIX.     \ 

Peace  to  Tor(|uato's  injured  shade  !   't  was  his 
In  life  and  death  to  be  the  mark  where  Wrong 
Aim'd  with  her  poison'd  arrows;   but  to  miss. 
Oh,  victor  unsurpass'd  in  m'^d(,'rn  song! 
Each  year  brings  forth  its  millions  ;    •>tit  how  .ono 
The  tide  of  generations  shall  roll  on. 
And  not  the  whole  combined  and  counties?  throng 
Compose  a  mind  like  thine  !  though  all  in   me 
Condensed  their  scatter'd  rays,  they  would  not  form  a 
sun. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


199 


XL. 

(.Jrcat  as  thou  art,  yc*  parullelM  by  those, 
Thy  couiilryrneii,  before  thee  bom  to  shine, 
The  l)ar.ls  of  heli  ai;d  (chivalry:   first  rose 
V\ir.  T\\<c:\\i  father's  Comedy  Divine  ; 
TiKMi,  [H<f  iiiie(nial  to  the  Florentine, 
The  southern  Scott,  the  minstrel  uho  call'ci  forth 
A  r.'Mv  creation  with  his  nia^^ic  Hne, 
And,  hke  the  Ariosto  of  tlie  north, 
sanj;  lad}(;. love  and  war,  roniaucc  and  knightly  \vorth 

XLI. 

The  !i<,d>.tnin<i  rent  from  Ariosto's  bust  " 
Tlie  non  erown  of  laurel's  mimick'd  leaves ; 
Nor  was  tl'.e  oininous  element  unjust. 
For  li»e  true  laurel-wreath  wliich  glory  weaves  ^"^ 
Is  of  the  tree  no  l)olt  of  thunder  cleaves. 
And  the  false  semblance  but  disgraced  his  brow; 
Vet  still,  if  fondly  superstition  grieves. 
Know  that  the  lightning  sanctifies  below  2' 
VYhate'er  it  strikes  ; — yon  head  is  doubly  sacred  now. 

XLII. 

Italia!  oh  Italia!   thou  who  hast-^ 
The  fatal  sift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  funeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past. 
On  thv  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  plough'd  by  shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 
Oh  God !   that  thou  wert  in  tny  nakedness 
Less  lovelj'  or  more  powerful,  and  couklst  claim 
Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back  who  press 
To  shed  thv  blood,  and  dnnk  the  tears  of  thy  distress  ; 

XLII!. 

Then  misht'st  thou  more  appal  ;  or,  less  desired,    , 
Be  homely  and  be  peaceful,  nndeplored 
For  thv  destructive  charms  ;   then,  still  untired, 
Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents  pour'd 
Down  the  deep  Alps  ;   nor  would  the  liostile  horde 
Of  maiiv-nation'd  spoilers  from  the  Po 
Quaff' blood  and  water  ;   nor  the  stranger's  sword 
Be  thv  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 
Vjctor  or  vanquish'd,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe. 


XLIV. 

Wandering  in  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of  him,^' 
The  Roman  fr!(;nd  of  Rome's  least  mortal  mind, 
The  friend  of  Tully:   as  mv  bark  did  skim 
The  hrii'hi  blue  waters  with  a  fanning  wind, 
Canif»  ."Mcsiara  Ixifore  me,  and  behind 
A\ii'n\^  lay,  Piraeus  on  the  ri<jht, 
And  Corinth  on  the  left;   I  lay  rechned 
Along  the  prow,  and  saw  all  these  unite 
II  ruin,  even  as  he  had  seen  the  desolate  sight ; 

XLV. 

For  time  hath  not  rebuilt  them,  but  uprear'd 
Barbaric  dwellings  on  their  shatter'd  site. 
Which  only'  make  more  mourn'd  and  more  ende.ar'd 
The  lew  last  rays  of  their  far-scatter'd  light. 
And  the  crush'd  relics  of  their  vanish'd  might. 
The  Roman  saw  th(!se  tombs  in  his  own  age, 
These  sepulchrc^s  of  cities,  which  excite 
Sad  wonder,  and  his  yet  surviving  page 
The  moral  lesson  bears,  drawn  from  such  pilgrimage. 


XLVL 

That  page  is  now  '.lefore  me,  and  on  mine 
His  country's  ruin  added  to  the  mass 
Of  perislvd  states  he  mourn'd  in  their  decline. 
And  I  in  desolation :   all  that  wan 
Of  then  destruction  is;   and  now,  alas! 
Rome — Rome  imperial,  bows  iier  to  the  storm, 
In  the  same  dust  and  blackness,  and  we  |)ass 
The  skeleton  of  her  Titantic  form,'-^* 
U'' recks  of  another  world,  whose  ashes  still  axe  warm. 


XLVil. 

Vet,  Italy  !   through  every  other  land 
Thy  wronirs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side  tc  siao 
Mother  of  arts!   as  once  of  arms;   thy  hand 
Was  then  our  guardian,  and  is  still  our  guide ; 
Parent  of  our  religion  !  whom  the  wide 
Nations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys  of  heaven ! 
Europe,  repentant  of  her  parricide, 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee,  and,  al'  backward  driven, 
Roll  the  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be  Ibrgiven. 

XLVIII. 

But  Arno  wins  us  to  the  fair  white  walls, 
Where  the  Etrurian  Athens  claims  and  keeps 
A  softer  feeling  for  her  fairy  halls. 
Girt  bv  her  theatre  of  hills,  she  reaps 
Her  corn,  and  wine,  and  oil,  and  plenty  leaps 
To  laughing  life,  with  her  redundant  horn. 
Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Arno  sweeps 
Was  modern  luxury  of  commerce  born, 
And  buried  learning  rose,  redeem'd  to  a  new  mon*. 

XLIX. 

There,  too,  the  goddess  loves  in  stone,  and  fills" 
The  air  around  with  beauty  ;   we  inhale 
The  anioronia!  aspect,  winch,  beheld,  instils 
Part  of  its  immortality  ;  the  veil 
Of  heaven  ;s  half  undrawn  ;   within  the  pale 
We  stand,  and  in  that  form  and  face  behold 
What  mind  can  make,  when  nature's  self  would  fail, 
And  to  the  fond  idolaters  of  old 
Envy  the  innate  tlash  wliich  such  a  soul  could  mould 

L. 

We  gaze  and  turn  away,  and  know  not  where, 
Dazzled  and  drunk  with  beauty,  till  the  heart 
Reels  with  its  fiilness ;   there — for  ever  there — 
Chain'd  to  the  chariot  of  triumphal  art. 
We  stand  as  captives,  and  would  not  depart. 
Awav! — there  need  no  words,  nor  tjrins  precise. 
The  paltry  jargon  of  the  marble  mart. 
Where  pedantry  gulls  folly^— we  have  eyes: 
Blood — f»ulse — and  breast,  confirm  the  Dardan  shcp« 
herd's  prize. 

LI. 

Appear'dst  thou  not  to  Paris  in  this  guise? 
Or  to  more  deeply  blest  Anchises?  or, 
In  all  thy  perfect  goddess-ship,  wlien  lies 
Before  ihce  thy  own  v.ancjuish'd  lord  of  war? 
And  sa/.ing  in  thv  face  as  toward  a  star. 
Laid  on  thy  lap,  his  eyes  to  thee  upturn. 
Feeding  on  thy  sweet  ciieekl  ^"^  wnile  thy  lijis  are 
Whh  lava  kisses  melting  while  they  burn, 
Shower'd  on  Ins  i  yelids,  brow,  and  mf^ith,  as  from  ai 
urn? 


200 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LII. 

Glowina,  and  circumfiiscd  in  s|)f,Rchless  love, 
Their  full  divinity  inadequate 
Tha:  feeling  to  express,  or  to  improve, 
The  jrods  become  as  mortals,  and  man's  fate 
Fins  moments  like  their  brightest;  but  the  weight 
Of  earth  recoils  upon  us: — lei  it  go! 
We  can  recall  such  visions,  and  create. 
From  what  has  been  or  might  be,  things  which 
Into  ihy  statue's  form,  and  look  like  gods  below. 


grow 


Lin. 

I  lea\  3  to  learned  fingers,  and  wise  hands, 
The  artist  and  his  ape,  to  teach  and  tell 
How  well  his  connoisseurship  understands 
The  graceful  benfl,  and  the  voluptuous  swell : 
Let  these  describe  the  undescribable  : 
I  would  not  their  vile  breath  should  crisp  the  stream 
Wherein  that  image  shall  for  ever  dwell ; 
The  unruffled  mirror  of  the  loveliest  dream 
T\iat  ever  left  the  sky  on  the  deep  soul  to  beam. 

LIV. 

In  Santa  Croce's  holv  precincts  lie  2'' 

Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 

Even  in  itself  an  immortality. 

Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and  this. 

The  particle  of  those  sublimities 

Which  have  rela[>sed  »o  chaos  : — here  repose 

Angelo's,  Alfieri's  bones, ^^  and  his, 

The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes  ; 

ere  Machiavelli's  earth  returned  to  v,'hence  it  rose.^^ 

LV. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 

Might  furnish  forth  creation  : — Italy  I 

Time,  which  hath  wrong'd  thee  with  ten  thousand 

rents 
Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny. 
And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky, 
Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin  : — thy  decay 
Is  still  impregnate  with  divinity, 
Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray ; 
Such  as  tlie  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day, 

LVI. 

But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three — 
Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit !   he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love — where  did  they  lay 
Their  bones,  distinguish'd  fi-om  our  common  clay 
In  death  as  life  ?   Are  they  resolved  to  dust, 
And  have  their  country's  marbles  nought  to  say  ? 
Could  not  her  v]uarries  furnish  forth  one  bu.^t? 
'■'•d  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  entrust'? 

LVIL 

Ungratefiil  Florence!   Dante  sleeps  afar,^° 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore  ;^' 
Thy  fac.ti(jns,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war, 
P-oscril.ed  the  bard  whose  name  for  evermore 
Their  '-hildren's  children  would  in  vain  adore 
With  tlie  remorse  of  ag(!S ;   and  th.e  cro-.vn-'^ 
Which  Petrarch'-  iaunale  brow  suiircmely  wore, 
('l)or  a  far  and  foriii.jn  soil  had  grown. 
His  life,  his  fame,  Ins  grave,  though   rilled — not  thine 
«,  vn 


LVIII. 

Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeath'd" 
His  dust, — and  lies  it  not  her  great  among. 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  requiem  brealhec' 
O'er  him  who  forrn'd  the  Tuscan's  siren  torj^^ae? 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song, 
The  poetry  of  spe(;ch  ?  No  ; — even  his  tomb 
Uptorn,  must  bear  the  hy;cna  bigot's  wrong, 
No  more;  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room, 
Nor  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for  inhom  f 

LIX. 

And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust; 
Yet  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
The  Caisar's  pageant,  shorn  of  Brutus'  bust, 
Did  but  of  Rome's  best  son  remind  her  more : 
Happier  Ravenna  !   on  thy  hoary  shore, 
Fortress  of  falling  empire  !  honour'd  sleeps 
The  immortal  exile; — Arqua,  too,  her  store 
Of  tuneful  relics  proudly  claims  and  keeps, 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  her  banish'd  dead  and  wecju 

LX. 

What  is  her  j)yramid  of  precious  scones?  ^'* 
Of  porphyry,  jasper,  agate,  and  all  hues 
Of  gem  and  marble,  to  encrust  the  bones 
Of  merchant-dukes  ?  the  momentary  dews 
Which,  sparkling  to  th';  twilight  stars,  infiiso 
Freshness  in  the  green  turf  that  wraps  the  daiJ, 
Whose  names  are  mausoleums  of  the  muse, 
Are  gently  pr''st  with  far  more  reverent  tread 
Than  ever  paced  the  slab  which  paves  the  p-mcely  hecul 

LXI. 

There  be  more  things  to  greet  the  heart  and  eyes 
In  Arno's  dome  of  art's  most  princely  shniie, 
Where  scul])lurd  witli  her  rainbow  sister  vies  ; 
There  be  more  marvels  yet — but  not  for  mine ; 
For  I  have  been  accustom'd  to  entwine 
My  thoughts  with  nature  rather  in  the  fields, 
Than  art  in  galleries :   though  a  work  divine 
Calls  for  my  spirit's  homage,  yet  it  yields 
Less  than  it  feels,  because  the  wea|)on  which  it  wieloa 

LXII. 

Is  of  another  tenijier,  and  I  roam 
By  Thrasimene's  lake,  in  the  defiles 
Fatal  to  Roman  rashness,  more  at  home  ; 
For  there  the  Carthaginian's  warlike  wiles 
Come  back  before  me,  as  his  skill  beguiles 
The  host  betwe<;n  the  mountains  and  the  shore, 
VYhere  courage  falls  in  her  despairing  files, 
And  torrents,  swolii  to  riv(;rs  with  their  gore, 
Reek  through  the  sultry  [)laiii,  with  legions  s<;alter'd  j'or 

LXIII. 

Like  to  a  forest  fell'd  by  mountain  winds; 
And  such  the  storm  of  battle  on  this  day. 
And  such  the  phrenzy,  whose  (convulsion  blinds 
To  all  save  carnage,  tliat,  beneath  the  fra\ , 
An  earth(|uake  reel'd  unheededly  av.  ay  !  ^■ 
None  felt  stern  nature  ro-king  at  lis  feet. 
And  vawning  forth  a  grave  for  those  who  la/ 
Upon  their  bucklers  for  a  winding-sheet; 
Such  is  the  absorbing  hate  when  vvarring  nations  mi'Ol  I 


CHILBE    HAROLD'S    PILG-R  IM  AG  E. 


201 


LXIV. 

Trie  oartM  to  them  was  as  a  rolling  bark 
Wliich  boro  lluMii  to  ettTiiity  ;   they  saw 
Ttie  ucfau  roiiini,  hut  liad  no  time  to  mark 
Tlie  motions  of  their  vessels  ;    nature's  Uiw 
In  thnn  suspeiultnl,  reekM  not  of  the  awe 
Which  reiiTiis  wlieii  mountains  tremole,  and  the  bird? 
Phiiije  in  the  eUiuds  for  refii<re,  and  withclraw 
From  iht'ir  down-toppling  nests  ;  and  bellowing  herds 
Sinmble  oVr  heaviuij  plains,  and  man's  dread  hath  no 
words. 

LXV. 

Far  other  scene  is  Thrasimene  now  ; 
Her  lake  a  sheet  of  silver,  and  licr  p.lain 
Rent  bv  no  ravage  save  the  gentle  plough;    . 
Her  aged  trees  rise  thick  as  once  the  slain ' 
Lav  where  tlu-ir  roots  are  ;   hut  a  brook  hath  ta'en— 
A  little  rill  of  scanty  stream  and  Ix-d — 
A  name  of  blood  from  that  day's  sanguine  rain ; 
And  S;iMi:uuKito  tcils  ye  where  the  dead 
Made  the  earth  wet,  and  turn'd  the  unwiUing  waters  red. 

LXVI. 

Put  thou,  Clitiinmus  !   in  thy  sweetest  wave'* 
Of  the  most   liviiii;  crystal  that  was  e'er 
The  haunt  of  river  nvniph,  to  <:a/,e  and  lave 
Tier  iuiihs  w!ier«!  noihiiiii  hid  them,  tliou  dost  rear 
Tiiy  ^ia<sy  bunks  whereon  the  niilk-white  steer 
Glazes:   the   purest  szod  of  gentle  waters  ! 
And  most  serene  of  aspect,  and  most  clear; 
Snreiy  *hat  stream  was  unirofaned  bv  slanijliters — 
A  mirror  and  a  batli  for  beauty's  youngest  daugiiters  ' 

LXVII. 

And  on  thv  happy  shore  a  temple  still. 
Of  s!nall  and  lielicate   proportion,  keeps., 
U|>on  a  mild  declivity  of  hill. 
Its  !nemor-v  of  thee  ;   beneatli  it  sweeps 
Thv  current's  calmness  :   oil  from  out  it  le  tps 
The  tinny  darter  with  th.e  glittering  scales, 
Wli.>  tlwefls  and  revels  m  thy  glass;,- deeps ; 
While,  chance,  some  scatter'd  water-lily  sails 
Down  \vnere  tne  shallower  wave  still  tells  its  bubbling 
tales. 

LXVIII. 

Pas=  not  unblest  the  jrenuis  of  the  place! 
If  throiiiih  the  air  a  zephyr  more  serene 
Win  to  the  bro'.v,  'i  is  his  ;    and   if  ye  trace 
AioiiLi  his  m;tri.'ui  a  more  eloquent  green, 
If  on  the  heart  the  freshness  of  the  scene 
Soriiikle  its  coolness,  and  from  the  dry  dust 
O!   weary  life  a  moment  lave   it  clean 
With  Nature's  bai)tism,— 't  is  to  him  ye  must 
Pz''  orisons  for  this  suspension  of  disgust. 


LXIX. 

Tlie  ri\ar  of  waters! — from  the  headlong  height 
Velmo  cleave-^  the  wave  worn   jireripice  ; 
The  fall  of  waters !   rapid  as  the  liiiht 
The  trashing  mass  foams  shaking  the  abyss  ; 
Tile  hell  of  waters  !    where  thVy  howl  and  luss, 
\nd  bod  in  en  Hess  torture  ;   wliile  the  sweat 
Of  t|-  .>ir  HI  eat  agonv,  wnins  out  from  ih.is 
Th-ii  Phlegetiion,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
lliul  gird  th*-  g.ilf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 


LXX. 

And  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence  agiia 
Returns  in  an  unceasing  shower,  which  round, 
With  its  unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain. 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground. 
Making  it  all  one  emerald  : — how  profound 
The  gulf!    and  liow  the  giant   element 
From  rock  to  rock  leaps  v.ith  delirious  bound, 
Crushing  the  clitis,  winch,  downward  woni  and  ren 
With  his  tierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  fearful  vent 

LXXI. 

To  the  broad  column  wnich  rolls  on,  and  shovru 
More  like  the  fountain  of  an   infant  sea 
Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  bv  the  throes 
Of  a  new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 
Parent  of  rivers,  wliich   flow  cushinalv. 
With  many  windings,  through  the  vale  ; — look  back! 
Lo!   where  it  comes  like  an  eternitv. 
As  if  to  sweep  down  all  tiiinors  in  its  track. 
Charming  the  eye  with  dread, — a  matchless  cataract, '' 


LXXII. 

Horribly  beautiful!   but  on  the  vcr^e, 
From  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  morn, 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surire,  ^^ 
Like  hope  upon  a  deaih-bed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  all  their  Ix^ams  unshorn: 
Resembling,  'mid  the  torture  of  the  scene, 
Love  watching  madness  with  unalterable  mien. 

LXXIII. 

Once  more  upon  the  woody  Apennine, 
The  infant  Alps,  which — had  I  not  bel"ore 
Gazed  on  their  mightier  parents,  where  the  pine 
Sits  on  more  shaggv  summits,  and  where  roar 
The  thundering  lauwine  '"^ — might  be  worshipp'd 

more ; 
But  I  have  seen  the  soaring  Jungfrau  rear 
Her  never-trodden  snow,  and  seen  the  hoar 
Glaciers  of  bleak  Mont- Blanc  both  far  and  near, 
And  in  Chiinari  heard  the  thunder-hills  of  fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th'  Acroceraunian  mountains  of  old  name  ; 
x\nd  on  Parnassus  se«»'n  the  eagles  flv 
Jjike  spirits  of  the  spot,  as 't  were  for  fame, 
For  still  they  soar'd  unutterably  high: 
I  've  look'd  on  Ida  with  a  Trojan's  eye; 
Athos,  Olvmpus,  ^Etna,  Atlas,  made 
These  hills  seem  things  of   esser  dignity, 
All,  save  the  lone  Soracte's  height,  display'c' 
Not  now  in  snow,  which  asks  the  lyric  Roman's  aid 

LXXV. 

For  our  remembrance,  and  from  out  the  plain 
Heaves  like  a  long-swept  wave  aoinit  to  break, 
And  on  the  curl  hangs  paiisinu:   not  in  vain 
May  he,  who  will,  his  recollections  rake 
And  tpiote  in  classic  raptures,  and  awake 
The  hills  with  Latian  echoes  ;   I   abh.orr'd 
Too  much,  to  conipier  for  the  poet's  sake, 
T'he  driird  dull  lesson,  forced  down  word  by  word' 
In  my  repugnant  youth,  with  pleas-ire  to  r-:;cord 


202 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LXXVI. 

Aught  that  recalls  the  daily  drug  whicn  turn'd 
My  sickening  memory  ;  and,  though  time  hath  taught 
INly  mind  to  meditate  what  then  it  learnM, 
i'^ef  such  tlie  ti.x'd  inveteracy  %vroi:ght 
J3y  the  impatience  of  my  early  thouglit, 
That,  with  I  he  freshness  wearing  out  before 
ISIy  mind  oor.id  relish  what  it  nv'ght   have  sought, 
li'  free  to  choose,  I  cannot  now  restore 
f  -  health  ;   but  what  it  then  detested,  still  abhor. 

LXXVII. 

Then  farewell,  Horace  ;   whom  I  hated  so, 
Nor  for  thy  faults,  but  mine  ;    it  is  a  curse 
To  understand,  not  feel  thy  Ivric  flow, 
To  comprehend,  but  never  love  thy  verse, 
Althouah  no  deeper  moralist  rehearse 
Our  little  life,  nor  bard  prescribe  his  art. 
Nor  livelier  satirist  the  conscience  pierce, 
Avv  iikening  without  wounding  the  touch'd  heart, 
Vet  fare  thee  well — upon  Soracte's  ridge  we  part. 


LXXVIII.        ^ 

Oh  Rome  !   my  country  !   citv  of  the  soul ! 
Tlie  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  !   and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?   Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  ye ! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

LXXIX. 

The  Niobe  of  nations !   there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe, 
An  emj)ty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scatter'd  long  ago ; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now  ;  *' 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers  :   dost  thou  flow. 
Old  Tiber!    through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress  ! 

LXXX. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  time,  war,  flood,  and  fire. 
Have  dealt  ujjon  the  seven-hill'd  city's  pride  ; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  b}'  star  expire. 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride. 
Where  the  car  climb'd  the  capitol  ;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site:  — 
Chaos  of  ruins  !   who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  li-agments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And  say,   "  here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doubly  night? 

LXXXI. 

The  double  nijiht  of  ages,  and  of  her, 
Night's  daughter,  ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and  wrap 
All  round  us  ;   we  but  fcCi  our  wav  to  err  : 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map. 
And  knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  wln^re  we  steer 
Stuml)ling  o'«;r  recollections;   now  \\(\  cla|) 
Our  hands,  and  cry   "  Kiireka!"   it  is  <-lear — 
When  bu»  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  ri«es  near. 


LXXXII. 

Alas  !   the  lofty  city  !    and  alas ! 
Tiie  trebly  hundred  triuinphs  !  ^'■^  and  the  day 
Vv  hen  Brutus  niaJe  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  coiuiueror's  swoid  in  bearing  fame  away! 
Alas,  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay. 
And  Livy's  pictured  page  ! — but  these  shad  be 
Her   resurrection  ;   all  beside — decay. 
Alas,  lor  earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was 
t>ee ! 

LXXXIII. 

Oh  thou,  whose  chariot  roll'd  on  fortune's  wheel,  '^* 
Triumphant  Sylia!   thou  whu  didst  subdue 
Thy  country's  foes  ere  thou  would  pause  to  I'eel 
The  wrath  of  thy  own  wrongs,  or  reap  the  due 
Of  hoarded  vengeance  till  thine  eagles  flew 
O'er  ])rostrate  Asia; — thou,  who  with  thy  frown 
Annihilated  senates — Roman,  too. 
With  all  thv  vices,  for  thou  didst  lay  down 
With  an  atoning  smile  a  more  than  earthly  crown- 

LXXXIV. 

The  dictatorial  wreath, — couldst  thou  divine 
To  what  svould  one  day  dwindle  that  which  made 
Thee  more  than  mortal  ?   and  that  so  supine 
Bv  auizht  than  Romans  Rome  should  thus  be  laid  ? 
She  who  was  named  eternal,  and  array'd 
Her  warriors  but  to  conquer — she  who  veil'd 
Earth  with  her  haiujlity  shado^v,  and  display'd. 
Until  the  o'er-canopied  horizon  fail'd. 
Her  rushin?  wings — Oh  !    she  who  was  ahnighty  hail'd 

LXXXV. 

Svlla  was  first  of  victors  ;   but  our  own 
The  sagest  of  usni-pers,  Cromv.ell;   he 
Too  swept  off  senates  v.hiie  he  hew'd  the  tnrone 
Down  to  a  block — immortal  rebel !    See 
What  crimes  it  costs  to  be  a  moment  free 
And  famous  through  all  ages  !   but  beneath 
His  fate  the  moral  lurks  of  destiny; 
His  (lav  of  double  victory  and  death 
Behold  hiin  win  two  realms,  and,  haj)pier,  yield  his 
breath. 

LXXXVI. 

The  third  of  the  same  moon  whose  former  course 
Had  all  but  crown'd  him,  on  the  selfsame  day 
De])Osed  him  gently  from  his  throne  of  force, 
And  laid  him  with  the  earth's  preceding  clay.  '"'■ 
And  show'd  not  fortune  thus  how  fame  and  sway, 
And  all  we  deem  delightliil,  ami  consume 
Our  souls  ro  compass  tlirough  each  arduous  way. 
Are  in  her  eyes  less  happy  than  the  tomb? 
Were  they  but  so  in  man's,  how  diti'erenl  were  hisdoon> 

Lxxxvn. 

And  thou,  dread  statiK! !   yet   existent   in 
The  austerest  f.rm  of  naked   majesty,'** 
Thou  who  beh,■ld.•^^,  'mid  the  assassins'  din, 
At  thv  bathed  base  the  bloo.ly  Ca'sar  lie. 
Folding  his  robe  in  dying  dignity, 
An  offering  to  thine  altar  fr(»m  the  (;(ieen 
Of  gods  and  men,  great  N*-mesis  ?  did  he  die, 
And  thou,  too,  perisli,  Pompey  ?  have  ye  been 
Victors  of  countless  kings,  or  puppets  ol  a  scene? 


CIIILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


203 


LXXXVIIL 

AiKl  Ihou,  tlif  tluiiuiti-sttK-kcu  iiui^L  of  Rome!  -^^ 
She-wolf!    whose  bnizeii-imageci  dugs  impart 
The  milk  of  coiujiiesl  yet  within  tlie  dome 
Where,  as  a  monument  of  antique  art, 
Tiiou  standest: — mother  of  the  mighty  heart, 
Whicli  the  great  fountler  suck'd  from  thy  wild  teat, 
Scorch'd  by  the  Roman  Jove's  ethereal  dart. 
And  tiiy  limbs  black  with  lightning — dost  thou  yet 
(iruai'd  thine  immortal  cubs,  nor  thy  fond  charge  forget? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou  dost  ; — but  all  thv  foster-babes  are  dead — 
The  men  of  iron  ;   and  the  world  hath  rear'd 
Cities  from  out  their  sepulchres  :   men  bled- 
In  imitation  of  the  things  they  fear'd, 
And  fought  and  conquered,  and  the  same  course  steer'd, 
At  apish  distance  ;   but  as  yet  none  have. 
Nor  could,  the  same  supremacv  have  near'd, 
Save  one  vain  man,  who  is  not  in  the  grave. 
But,  vanquish'd  by  liimself,  to  liis  own  slaves  a  slave — 


xc. 

The  fool  of  flilse  dominion-^and  a  kind 
Of  bastard  CiKsar,  following  him  of  old 
With  ste[)S  unequal;   for  the  Roman's  mind 
Was  modcll'd  in  a  less  terrestrial  mould,-*'' 
Willi  passions  fiercer,  yet  a  judgment  cold. 
And  an  immortal  instinct  which  redecni'd 
The  frailties  of  a  heart  so  soft,  yet  bold ; 
Al(;ides  with  the  distaff  now  he  seem'd 
At  Cleopatra's  feet, — and  now  himself  he  beam'd, 

XCL 

And  came — and  saw — and  conquer'd  !   But  the  man 
Who  would  have  tamed  his  eagles  down  to  flee. 
Like  a  train'd  falcon,  in  the  Gallic  van. 
Which  he,  in  sooth,  long  led  to  victory, 
With  a  deaf  heart  w  liich  never  seem'd  to  be 
A  listener  to  itself,  was  strangelv  framed; 
With  but  one  weakest  weakness — vai  ity, 
Cnqiiettish  in  ambition — still  he  aim'd — 
At  what?  can  he  avouch — or  answer  what  he  claim'd  ? 

XCIL 

And  would  be  all  or  nothing — nor  could  wait 
For  the  sure  grave  to  level  him ;   few  \-ears 
Had  tix'd  him  with  the  Caesars  in  his  fate. 
On  whom  we  tread  :   for  this  the  conqueror  rears 
The  arch  of  triumph !   and  for  this  the  tears 
And  blood  of  earth  flow  on  as  they  liave  flow'd, 
A  universal  delude,  which  appears 
Without  an  ark  for  wretched  man's  abode, 
A.nd  ebbs  but  to  reflow  ! — Renew  thy  rainbow,  God  ! 

XCIIL 

W'hat  from  this  barren  being  do  we  reap  ? 
Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail,*^ 
liife  short,  and  truth  a  gem  which  loves  the  deep, 
Ann  all  thi  ;£s  weigh'd  in  custom's  falsest  scale ; 
Opinion  and  omnipotence, — whose  veil 
iVIantles  the  earth  with  darkness,  untu  right 
And  wrong  are  accidents,  and  men  grow  pale 
Lest  their  own  judgments  should  becoiYie  too  bright, 
And  their  free  thoughts  be  crimes,  and  earth  have  too 
much  lisht. 


XCIV. 

Alii  thus  iliov  plod  in  sluggish  misery, 
koniu'i  tioiM  sire  to  son,  and  age  to  age, 
Proud  of  tluir  tr.unpled  nature,  and  so  die, 
Bc(liu'athiiiir  tli"ir  lu,-reditary  rage 
To  the  new  rac*,'  of  in!)orn  slaves,  who  wagn 
War  for  their  chains,  and,  rather  than  be  iefc, 
Bleeti  gladiator-like,  and  still  engage 
Within  the  same  arena  where  they  see 
Their  fellows  fail  before,  like  leaves  of  the  same  Ireo. 


XCV. 

I  speak  not  oj"  men's  creeds — they  rest  between 
IVL-in  and  his  *Liker-^but  of  thinos  allow'd, 
Averr'd,  and  known, — and  dailv,  honrlv  seen, — 
Tlie  voke  that  is  uiion  us  doubly  bow'd. 
And  the  intent  of  tvrannv  avow'd, 
The  edict  of  earth's  rulers,  \^  ho  are  srown 
The  apes  of  him  who  humbled  once  the  proud. 
And  shook  them  from  their  s'umlx^rs  on  the  throne; 
?oo  glorious,  were  this  all  his  miahty  arm  had  done. 


XCVL 

Can  tyrants  but  bv  tvrants  conquer'd  be, 
And  freedom  find  no  champion  and  no  child 
Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  wlicn  she 
Sprung  forth  a  Pallas,  arm'd  and  undefiled  ? 
Or  must  such  minds  be  nourish'd  in  the  wild, 
Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest,  'muist  the  roar 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing'  Nature  smiled 
On  infi\nt  Washington  /    Has  earth  no  more 
Such  seeds  w  ithm  her  breast,  or  Europe  no  such  shot  o  J 

xcvn. 

But  France  got  drunk  nith  blood  to  vomit  crime, 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To  freedom's  cause,  ui  every  ;i<ie  and  clime  ; 
Because  the  deadly  days  which  we  have  seen, 
And  vile  ambition,  that  built  up  b(;tvtcen 
Man  and  his  hopes  an  adamantine  wall. 
And  the  base  pageant  hist  iqion  the  scene, 
Are  grown  the  pretext  for  the;  eternal  thrall 
Which  nijis  life's  tree,  and  dooms  n.^n's  worst— lug 
second  fall. 

XCVIIL 

Yet,  freedom!   vet  thy  banner,  torn,  hut  flvins. 
Streams  like  the  thunder-storm  ni^dinst  the  wind: 
Thv  trumpet  voice,  tho'ugh  broken  now  and  dyiny. 
The  lovidest  still  the  tempest  leaves  behind; 
Thv  tree  hath  lost  its  blossoms,  and  the  rind, 
Chopp'd  by  the  axe,  looks  rough  and  little  wortti, 
But  the  sap  last-s, — and  still  the  seed  we  find 
Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of  the  north  ; 
So  shall  a  better  spring  less  bitter  fruit  bring  fortii. 


XCIX 


;?r  of  other  days,* 


There  is  a  stern  round  towi 
Firm  as  a  fortress,  with  itj  fence  of  stone, 
Such  as  an  army's  baffled  strength  delays, 
Standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone. 
And  with  two  thouoand  years  of  ivy  grown, 
The  garland  of  eternitv,  where  wave 
The  green  leaves  over  all  bv  time  o'erthiown  ;- 
What  was  thi^s  tov\(!rof  streni'th?   within  its  cave 
What  treasure  lay  so  lock'd,  so  hid  ? — A  woman's  grave 


204 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Bu    who  was  she,  the  .ady  of  the  dead, 
Toiiib'd  in  a  palace?  Was  she  chaste  and  fair? 
^Vot•^hy  a  king's — or  more — a  Roman's  bed  ? 
What  race  of  chiefs  and  heroes  did  she  bear? 
What  daughter  of  her  beauties  was  the  heir? 
Ht)\v  ii\  ed-  how  loved — how  died  she  ?  Was  she  not 
So  hoii'^ur'd — and  conspicuously  there, 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot, 
.aced  to  commemorate  a  more  Uian  mortal  lot? 


CI. 

Was  she  as  those  who  love  their  lordsjj  or  they 
Who  love  the  lords  of  others  ?   such  have  been, 
Even  in  the  ol  len  time,  Rome's  annals  say. 
Was  she  a  matron  of  Cornelia's  mien. 
Or  the  li^ht  air  of  E^vpt's  graceful  queen, 
Profuse  of  joy — or  'gainst  it  did  she  war, 
Inveterate  in  viitue?   Did  she  lean 
To  tiie  soft  side  of  the  heart,  or  wisely  bar 
Lt.»ve  from  amongst  her  griefs  ? — for  such  the  affections 
are. 

CII. 

P(;rchance  she  died  in  youth:   it  may  be,  bow'd 
Wit!i  woes  far  heavier  than  the  [jonderous  tomb 
That  wei;ilfd  upon  her  ^entle  dust,  a  cloud 
iMi^ht  gatlier  o'er  her  beauty,  and  a  gloom 
In  her  dark  eye,  prophetic  of  the  doom 
Heaven  gives  its  favourites — earlv  death  ;  *"  yet  shed 
A  sunset  charm  around  h^r,  and  ilhmie 
Wi  h  hectic  lisrht,  the  Hesperus  of  the  dead. 
Of  her  consunnng  cheek  the  aulunmal  leaf-like  red. 

cm. 

Perchance  she  died  in  age — survivinfr  all, 
Chan  IS,  kmdrfid,  children — with  the  silver  gray 
On  her  long  tresses,  which  iniijhl  yet  recall, 
it  may  be,  stiil  a  something  of  the  day 
AVhen  they  were  braided,  and  her  proud  array 
An!  'ovely  form  were  envied,  praised,  and  eyed 

By  Rome But  whither  would  conjecture  stray? 

Thus  much  alone  we  know — Metella  died. 
The  w  .althlest  Roman's  wife  ;  behold  his  love  or  pride  ! 


CIV. 

i  know  not  why — but  standing  thus  by  thee 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  thine  inmate  known. 
Thou  tomb !   and  other  days  come  back  on  me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is  changed  and  solemn,  like  the  cloudy  groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind: 
Yet  coulii  I  seat  me  l)v  this  ivied  stone 
Till  I  had  bodied  forth  the  heated  mhid 
orms  from  the  Hoatin<r  wreck  which  ruin  leaves  behind: 


And  fron:  che  planks, 
Built  me  a  littlf  hark 
To  battle  witli  the  oc 
Of  t'li;  lou<i  l.i-eak<-rs 
Winch  rushes  on  the 
Where  all  lies  fouu  l( 


CY. 

far  slu-.ttf  r'd  o'er  the  rocks, 
of  hojic,  oTK'e  more 
;an  and  the  shocks 
and  I  be  ceaseless  roar 
solitary  shore 
r'd  that  was  ever  d(;ar : 


Bu'  could  I  gather  from  the  wave-worn  store 
Enough  for  mv  ri>fie  boat,  where  should  1  st(!er? 
lliore  vvdos  n(    lome,  nor  hr/>e,  nor  life,  save  what  is  here. 


rvi. 

Then  let  the  wiiids  howl  on  I    their  harmony 
Shall  heneefortli  be  my  music,  and  the  riiijht 
The  sound  shall  temper  v.ith  the  owlet's  cry. 
As  1  now  hear  them,  in  the  fading  light 
Dim  o'er  the  bird  of  darkness'  nalne  site, 
Answering  each  other  on  the  Palatine, 
\Yith  their  large  eyes,  all  glistening  gray  and  br  gni, 
And  sailing  pinions. — Ujioii  such  a  shrine 
What  are  our  petty  griefs  ? — let  me  not  number  mine, 

CYII. 

Cypress  and  ivy,  weed  and  wall-flower  orrown 
INIatted  and  mass'd  together,  hillocks  heap'd 
On  what  were  chamb(M-s,  arch  crush'd,  column  strowii 
In  fragments,  choked-up  vaults,  and  frescos  stceji'd 
In  subterranean  damt)s,  where  the  owl  pecp'd. 
Deeming  it  midnight: — temples,  baths,  or  halls? 
Pronounce  who  can  ;   for  all  that  learning  reap'd 
From  her  research  hath  been,  that  these  are  walls  — 
B(;hold  the  Imperial  Mount !  't  is  thus  the  mighty  falls.'' 

CYIII. 

There  is  the  moral  of  ;d!  human  tales  ;  ^^ 
'Tis  but  the  same  reliearsal  of  the  past. 
First  freedom,  and  tlien  glory — when  tliat  fails, 
Wealtli,  vice,  corruntion, — liurljarism  at  last. 
And  history,  with  ;dl  !ier  volumes  y;ist. 
Hath  but  one  page, — 'i  is  !h  Iter  v.  ritten  here, 
Where  gorgeous  tyranny  harl  thus  amass'd 
All  treasures,  all  delights,  that  eve  or  ear. 

Heart,  soul,  cou.ld  seek,  tongue  ask Awny  with  words 

draw  near, 

CIX. 

Admire,  exult— despise — laugh,  weep, — for  here 
There  is  such  matter  for  all  feeling  : — man! 
Thou  pen  iuliim  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear, 
Aucs  anj  realms  are  crowded  in  this  rjian, 
Tills  mmmtaiii,  whose  obliterated  plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  ])innacled, 
Of  glory's  ^Jewgaws  shining  in  the  van. 
Till  the  sun's  rays  with  added  flame  were  fill'd  ! 
Wliere  are  its  golden  roofs  ?   where  those  who  dared  *o 
build? 

ex. 

Tullv  was  not  so  elofpient  as  thou. 
Thou  nameless  column  with  the  buried  base! 
What  are  the  laurels  of  the  Caesar's  brow? 
Crown  me  wl  h  ivv  from  his  dwellinu-place. 
Whose  arch  or  pillar  meets  me  in  the  face, 
Titus,  or  Trajan's?   No— 'tis  that  of  time  : 
Triumph,  arch,  j)illar,  all  he  doth  displace 
Scoihng;   and  apostolic  stitues  climb 
To  crush  the  imperial  urn,  whose  ashes  slept  subnnie,** 

CXI. 

Buried  in  ai',  the  deep-blue  sky  of  Rome,  / 

And  lookiuir  to  tne  stars:   they  had  contain''d 
A  spirit  which  with  these  would  find  a  homo, 
Tlie  last  of  those  w!io  o'er  the  whole  earth  reigii'd, 
The  Roman  globe,  for  after  none  sus'ain'd, 
But  yielded  back  his  coniinests  : — lie  was  more 
Than  a  mere  Alexander,  and,  unstain'd 
With  household  blood  and  wine,  seremtiv  wore 
His  sovereign  virtures — still  we  Trajan's  name  adore." 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGR  I  :\r  AG  E. 


205 


cxn. 

Where  i«  the  rock  of  trintnph,  the  high  place 
Where  Rome  embraced  her  heroes  /  u  liere  the  steep 
Tarpeiaii?   hltcst  goal  of  treason's  race, 
The  |)ronioiitorv  whence  tht;  'rraitor's  Leap 
Cured  a!!  auibitiori.     Ditl  the  cDiicpierors  heap 
Their  spoils  here  7    Yes  :   aiul  m  yon  Held  below, 
A  thousand  vears  of  silenced  factions  sleep — 
The  forum,  where  the  immortal  accents  glow, 
\ni  still  the  eio(iuent  air  breathes — burns  with  Ciceio! 

CXIII. 

The  field  of  freedom,  faction,  fame,  and  blood : 
[[ere  a  ])roiid  people's  passions  were  exhaled, 
[-"rom  the  first  hour  of  empire  in  the  bud 
To  that  when  further  worlds  to  conquer  fail'd  ; 
But  long  before  had  freedom's  fiice  been  veilM, 
And  anarchy  assumed  lier  attributes  ; 
Till  every  lawless  soldier  who  assail'd 
Trod  on  the  trembling  senate's  slavish  mutes. 
Or  laised  the  venal  voice  of  bas-"r  prostitutes. 

cxiy. 

Then  turn  we  to  her  latest  tribune's  name, 
Fro!n  her  ten  thousand  tvrants  turn  to  thee, 
Rcd^'emer  of  dark  centuries  of  shame — 
The  friend  of  Petrarch — hope  of  Italv — 
Rienzi !   last  of  Romans  ! '^     Whii3  the  tree 
Of  freedom's  wither'd  trunk  puts  forth  a  leaf, 
Eron  for  thy  tomb  a  garland  let  it  be — 
TI. ^  fr-jm's  cliampion,  and  tlie  people's  chief — 
Her  new-born  Numa  thou — with  reign,  alas!   too  brief, 

cxv. 

Egeria!  sweet  creation  of  some  heart  *^ 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast ;   whate'er  thou  art 
Or  wert, — a  young  Aurora  of  the  air. 
The  n\-mpho!epsy  of  some  fond  despair*^— 
Or,  it  might  be,  a  beauty  of  the  earth, 
Who  found  a  more  th.an  common  votary  thert 
Too  much  adorinii ;   whatsoe'er  thy  birth, 


CXVI. 

The  mosses  of  thy  fountain  still  are  sprinkled 
With  thine  Elysian  water-drops:   the  face 
Of  thy  cave-guarded  spring,  with  years  unwrinkled, 
Rellectsthe  meek-eyed  genius  of  the  place, 
Whose  green,  wild  margin  now  no  more  erase 
Art's  works  ;   nor  must  the  delicate  waters  sleep, 
Pnsoii'd  in  marble  ;   bubliling  from  the  base 
Ol'  the  cleft  statue,  witii  a  ijentle  leap 
Hi-  •"ill  runso'jr,  and  round,  fern,  flowers,  andivycreej 

CXVTl. 

Pantasticaliy  tangled  ;   the  green  hills 
Are  cSoihe  i  with  early  blossoms,  through  the  grass 
The  (p lick-eyed  lizard  ni-^tles,  and  the  bills 
Of  summer-birds  sing  welcome  as  ye  pass  ; 
Flow'Ts  flesh  in  hue,  and  many  in  their  class, 
Im  )!o'-e  itic  i>aiising  step,  and  with  their  dves 
D;ui'-e  in  the  soft  breeze  in  a  fairv  mass; 
The  sweetness  of  the  violet's  deep-blue  eyes, 
tCiss'd  by  the  breath  of  heaven,  seems  colour 'd  by  its 
skies. 


C  XVIII. 

Here  didst  thou  dwell,  in  this  enci.:  mod  cover, 
Eizeria  !    thy  all-heavenly  bosom  beating 
For  tlie  far  footsteps  of  tiiy  mortal  lover  ; 
The  purple  midnight  veiiM  that  mystic  meeting 
Wit\i  her  most  starry  canopy,  and  sealing 
Thyself  by  llune  ador<;r,  what  liefell  / 
This  cave  was  surely  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 
Of  an  enamour'd  goddess,  and  the  cell 
Haunted  by  holy  love — the  earliest  oracle! 

^  CXIX. 

And  didst  thou  not,  thy  breast  to  nis  repljnng, 
Blend  a  celestial  with  a  liumaii  heart  ; 
And  love,  which  dies  as  it  was  born,  m  siirhing, 
Share  with  immortal  tran.-ports  /   could  thine  art 
Make  them  indeed  immortal,  and  imparl 
The  purity  of  heaven  to  earthly  joys. 
Expel  the  venom  and  not  blunt  the  dart — 
The  'lull  satii'iy  which  all  destrovs — 
And  root  from  out  the  soul  the  deadly  weed  which  ck  ys 

cxx. 

Alas!   our  young  affections  run  to  waste, 
Or  water  but  the  desert  ;    whence  arise 
But  weeds  of  dark  luxuriance,  tares  of  haste. 
Rank  at  the  core,  though  temptinH  to  the  eves, 
Flowers  whose  wild  odours  breatiie  but  agonies, 
And  trees  whose  gums  are  poison  ;   such  the  planta 
Which  spring  beneath  her  steps  as  passion  flicj 
O'er  the  world's  wilderness,  and  vainly  pants 
For  some  celestial  fruit  forbidden  to  our  wants. 

cxxi 

Oh  love  I   no  habitant  of  earth  thou  an— 
An  iiASCcn  Ser"aj)h,  we  believe  in  thee, 
A  faith  whose  martyrs  are  the  broken  heart, 
But  never  yet  hath  seen,  nor  e'er  shall  see 
The  naked  eve,  thy  form,  as  it  siiould  be  ; 
The  mind  hath  made  thee,  as  it  [leopled  heaven, 
Even  with  its  own  desiring  pliaiitasv, 
And  to  a  thought  such  shape  and  inif.se  given. 
As  haunts  the   unipiench'd   o,ju1  — parch'd — uearied- 
wrung — and  riven. 

cxxn. 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  mind  diseased, 
And  fevers  into  false  creation: — where, 
Where  are  the  forms  the  sculp'.or's  sou!  hath  seized  ! 
In  b.im  alone.     Can  nature  sliow  so  fair  / 
Wiiere  are  the  charms  and  virtues  which  we  dare 
Conceive  in  bovhood  and  jmrsue  as  men — 
The  unreach'd  paradise  of  our  despair, 
i         Winch  o'er-infonns  the  pencil  and  the  pen, 

And  overpowers  the  page  where  it  would  blooni  ugair 

j  cxxni. 

I         Who  loves,  raves — 't  is  vouth's  frenzy — but  the  ."ur^ 
I         Is  bitterer  sli!! ;   as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 

Which  robed  our  idols,  and  we  sec  too  sure 
;         Nor  worth  noi  beauty  dwells  from  out  the  mind's 
i         Ideal  shape  of  such,  yet  stil!  it  biuil* 
;         The  fatal  snell,  and  still  it  draws  us  on, 
j         Reaping  tne  uhirldwind  from  the  oft-sown  wnius  , 
'.         The  stubborn  heart,  its  alc'hemy  be^i  n, 

Seems  ever  near  the  prize, — wea'thiest  \vlien  most  \v 
done. 


206 


EYEON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


CXXIV. 

Wt  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away — 
Sick — sick  ;   mifdund  the  hoori — unslaked  the  thirst. 
Though  to  tlie  last,  in  ver;;e  of  our  decay, 
Some  phantom  lures,  sucli  iis  we  sought  at  first — 
But  all  too  late, — so  arc;  s\  <;  doubly  curst. 
Love,  Tame,  auiljition,  av;u-ice — 't  is  the  same, 
Each  idle — and  idl  ill — aiui  none  the  worst — 
For  all  ar(!  meteors  with  a  dilferent  name, 
And  death  the  sable  smoke  where  vanishes  the  flame. 

cxxv. 

Few — none — find  what  they  love  or  could  have  loved, 
Though  accident,  blind  contact,  and  the  strong 
Necessity  of  loving,  have  removed 
Antipiithics — but  to  recur,  ere  long, 
Envenom'd  with  irrevocable  wrong  : 
And  circumstance,  that  unspiritual  god 
Aiid  miscreator,  makes  and  helps  along 
Our  coming  evils  with  a  crutch-like  rod, 
^"^hose  touch  turns  hope  to  dust — the  dust  we  all  have 
trod. 

CXXVI. 

Our  life  is  a  false  nature — 't  is  not  in 
The  harmony  of  things, — this  hard  decree, 
This  unerhd'.cable  taint  of  sin, 
This  boundless  upas,  this  all-blasting  tree, 
XYhosc  root  is  earth,  whose  leaves  and  branches  be 
The  skies  which  rain  their  plagues  on  men  like  dew — 
Disease,  death,  t>ondage — all  the  woes  we  see — 
And  worse,  the  woes  we  see  not — which  throb  through 
The  immedicable  soul,  with  heart-aches  ever  new. 

cxxvri. 

Yet  let  us  ponder  boldly  ^' — 't  is  a  base 
Abanilonment  of  reason  to  resign 
Our  right  of  thought — our  last  and  only  place 
Of  refuge  ;   this,  at  least,  shiill  still  be  mine  : 
Though  from  our  birth  the  faculty  divine 
Is  chained  and  tortured — cabm'd,  cribb'd,  confined, 
And  bred  in  darkness,  lest  the  truth  should  shine 
Too  brightly  on  the  unprepare<l  mind, 
The  beam  [jours  in,  for  time  and  skill  will  couch  the 
bhnd. 

C  XX  VIII. 

Arches  on  arches  !   as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  tlie  chief  trophies  (>['  h<  r  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome, 
Hi!r  Coliseum  stands;   the  moon-beams  shine 
As  't  v/ere  Its   natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  thi;  liglit  which  streams  here,  to  illume 
Tills  long-explored  hut  still  exhaiistless  mine 
Of  contemplation ;   and  the  a/iire  gloom 
Or  an  Italian  night,  where  the  dcej)  skies  assume 

CXXIX. 

flues  which  have  words,  ami  speak  to  vc  of  heaven. 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument, 
And  shadows  forth  its  glorv.     There  is  triven 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  time  hnth  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  wlicre  he  h;itli  hviut 
Ilis  hand,  but  iirokc  his  scylhi,',  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  m  the  ruiniid  baliiemeni. 
For  which  the  palace,  of  the  p;(!sint   liotir 
Mi  st  vioid  Its  ponip,  an  I  \v:iii  till  a:;'  s  ar.;  its  (it>wer. 


cxxx. 

Oh  time  !   the  beautifier  of  the  dead, 
Adorner  of  t!ie  ruin,  comforter 
And  only  healer  when  the  heart  hath  bled — 
Time !   the  corrector  where  our  judgments  err, 
The  test  of  truth,  love, — sole  philosopher. 
For  all  beside  are  sofjhists,  from  thy  thrift, 

Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer 

Time,  the  avenger  !   unto  thee  I  lift 
iMy  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart,  and  .  fave  of  thee  a  gift : 

CXXXI- 

Amidst  this  wreck,  \vhere  thou  hast  made  a  shrino 
And  temple  more  divinelv  desolate. 
Among  thy  mightier  offerings  here  are  mine, 
Ruins  of  years — though  few,  yet  full  of  fate  : — 
If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate, 
Hear  me  not:   but  if  calmly  I  have  borne 
Good,  and  reserved  my  pride  against  the  hate 
Which  shall  not  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have  worn 
This  iron  in  my  soul  in  vain — shall  they  not  mourn  ? 

CXXXII. 

And  thou,  who  never  j'et  of  human  wrong 
Lost  the  unbalanced  scale,  great  Ner"-sis  !  *® 
Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long- 
Thou,  who  didst  call  the  furies  from  the  abyss, 
And  round  Orestes  bade  them  howl  and  hiss 
For  that  unnatural  retribution — ^.just, 
Had  it  but  been  from  hands  less  near — in  this 
Thy  former  realm,  I  call  thee  from  the  dust  ! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  my  heart  ? — Awake  !  thou  shalt,  and 


C  XXXIII. 


^ 


It  is  not  that  I  may  not  have  incurr'd 

For  my  ancestral  faults  or  mine  the  wound 

I  bleed  withal,  and,  had  it  been  conterr'd 

With  a  just  weajjon,  it  had  tiow'd  unbound; 

But  now  my  blood  shall  not  sink  in  the  ground ; 

To  thee  I  do  devote  it — t/iou  shalt  take 

The  vengeance,  which  sliall  yet  be  sought  and  found 

Which  if  /  have  not  taken  for  the  sake 

But  let  that  pass — I  sleep,  but  thou  shalt  yet  awake. 

C  XXXIV. 

And  if  my  voice  brc^ak  fortli,  't  is  not  that  now 
I  shrink  !i-oni  v»  hat  is  siitfer'd :   let  him  speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow, 
Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave  it  weak  ; 
But  in  this  pag(!  a  record  will  I  seek. 
Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  \vords  disperse^ 
Though  I  b(;  ashes ;   a  far  hour  shall  wreak 
The  de(;p  prophetic  fulness  of  this  verse. 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountc..ii  of  mv  curse' 

cxxxv. 

That  curse  shall  he  forgiveness — Have  1  not- 
Hear  me,  my  mother  Earth!   behold  it,  Heaven*— 
Have  I  not  had  to  wrestle  with  my  lot? 
Hiive  1  not  sull'er'tl  things  to  be  forgiven? 
Have  I  not  had  mv  brain  sear'd,  my  htarf  riven 
I{o;>(>s  siippM,  name  bliihted,  life's  life  hed  away  ( 
And  oniv  not  to  desperation  dnvc.-n 
P.fcau^c.  Mdt  all!>i,'eiher  of  such  clay 
As  rots  uuo  t.'ie  souls  of  those  whom  I  suivev. 


CIIILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGHIMAGE. 


20' 


CXXXVI. 

From  mi^Iity  wrorurs  to  ju'ttv  perfidy, 
Have  1  not  seen  v. hat  Imiiian  thinos  could  do? 
From  tlio  loud  roar  oi"  IbainiM^  caluinuy 
To  tli(!  s?nall  whisixT  of  \hr  as  paltry  few, 
And  subtler  vh-uoui  of  the  reptih;  erew, 
The  Janus  i,daiice  of  whoso  sii,'nitieant  cvo, 
Ijcarnni<i  to  lie  with  silence,  would  .syy?»  true. 
And  witb.oui  utteran<-e,  save  the  shru<i  or  sijih, 
Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  speechless  oblo(piy. 


CXXXVIT. 


l?iit  I  have  lived,  and  have  riot  lived  in  vain: 
INly  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its  fire, 
And  my  frame  perish  even  in  con(juerin<j  pain, 
But  there  is  that  within  me  v.hich  shall  tir-e  ' 
Torture  and  time,  and  breathe  when  I  exj)ire  ; 
So:nethin<r  unearthly,  which  tlieydcfni  not  of, 
Like  the  remember'd  tone  of  a  mute  lyre. 
Shall  on  their  soften'd  spirits  sink,  and  move 
In  hearts  all  rocky  now  the  late  remorse  of  love. 

cxxxvni. 

The  seal  is  set. — Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk's!  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
With  a  deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  from  fear  ; 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  wb.ere  th.c;  dead  walls  rear 
T'heir  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solrmn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear 
Tl(at  we  become  a  part  of  what   has  been, 
An-l  c-:(uv  unto  the  spot,  all-seeinir  but  unseen. 

cxxxix. 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eaijer  nations  ran, 
In  muruftir'd  pity,  or  loud-roar'd   applause. 
As  nuin  was  slautrhterVl  by  his  tellow  man. 
And  wherefore  slau^ihterM  ?   whereiore,  hut  because 
Such  were  the  bloodv  Circus"  jjeni:'.!  "laws, 
And  the  impc^rial  pleasure. — Wh(.'reforc  not?  . 

What  nuitters  where  we  fall  to  li!l  the  maws 
Of  worms — on  battle-phiius  or  listed  spot? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

CXL. 

[  see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie  :  ^^ 
lie   leans  upon  iiis  hand — his  manlv  brow 
('■onseuts  to  i!(;ath,  but  conquers  airony. 
And  his  drooii'd  heatl  sinks  gradually  low — 
All'!  l!iroiit;h  his  side  ;he  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  tlie  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shov  er  ;   and  now 
The  arena  swims  aroun<l  him — he  is  gone, 
E»r  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  wliich  hail'd  the  wretch 
who  won. 

CXLL 

He  henrd  it,  but  he  heeded  not — liis  eyes 
Wore  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away; 
rie  r.Tcx'd  not  of  the  lif(.>  he  lo-a  nor  prize. 
Hut  where  iiis  rude  hut  bv  the   Danube  lay 
T!ii:re  wert!  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
Tiwrr  was  their  Dacian   mother — Ik;,  their  sire, 
But<Jier'd  to  make  a  Roman  hulidav — "^^ 
All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood— Shall  he  exi)ire, 
\ntl   mavenwed? — Arise!  ye  Gotlis,  and  glut  your  ire. 


CXLIL 

But  here,  where  murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam  , 
And  here,  where  buzzing  natit)ns  clioked  the  ways. 
And  roar'd  or  murmur'd  like  a  mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays  ; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd,' 
INIy  voice  sounds  much — and  fall  the  stars'  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void — seats  crush'd — walls  bow'd — 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely 
loud. 

cxun. 

A  ntin — yet  what  ruin  !   from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  rear'd ; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass 
And  ma"  ^el  where  the  spoil  could  have  a])pear'd. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plunder'd,  or  but  clear'd? 
Alas !   developed,  o[)ens  the  decav. 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is   near'd  j 
It  will  not  bear  the  bri<ihtness  of  the  dav. 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have  reft 
away. 

CXLIV. 

But  \vhen  the  '■ising  moon  beizins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and   gently  pauses  there; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And.  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  v.hich  the  gr;iv  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Ca'sar's  head  ;  ^^ 
When  the  light  shines  serene  hut  doth  not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead  : 
Heroes  have  trod  this  s})ot — 't  is  on  their  dust  ye  tread. 

CXLV..  ,} 

"Wliile  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand  ;  *** 

When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Roriu;  shall  fall; 

And,  when   Rome  falls — the  world."     From  oui  own 

land 
Tlius  sp'iike  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient  ;   and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unalter'd  all ; 
Rome  and  her  ruin  i)ast  redemption's  skill, 
The  world,  the  same  wide  den — of  jhieves,  or  what  ye 

will.  ^ 

CXL 

Sim|)le,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime — 
Shrine  of  all  saints,  and  temple  of  all  gods. 
From  .love  to  Jesus — spared  arid  blest  by  time  ,•   * 
Lookmji  triinipiillity,  while  falls  or  nods 
Arch,  empire,  e-.ich  thing  round  thee,  and  man  ploas 
His  wav  t'lrouizh  thorns  to  ashes — glorious  dome! 
Shalt  thou  not  last?    Time's  scythe  and  tyrants'  rodt 
Sliiver  upon  thee — sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  i)!ety — Pantheon! — pride  of  Rome! 

CXLVII. 

Relic  <>f  nobler  days,  and  noblest  arts; 
Despo.rd  vet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spieatls 
A  holiness  app<'aling  t»all  hearts — 
To  art  a  model  ;    and /o  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages,  glory  sheds 
Her  li«:ht  through  thy  sole  aperture;   to  thoso 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  for  their  beads ; 
And  they  who  feel  for  genius  mav  repose 
Th<>'.r  eves  on  hononr'd  forms,  whose  busts  arounJ 
Lhom  jlose.  ** 


le  aen — oi  miev 

Co 

IXLVL     ^-' 


208 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


CXLVIII. 

T'-iOre  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light  ^* 
What  do  I  gaze  on  '>   Nothing  :    Look,  again! 
Two  forms  are  slowly  shadow'd  on  my  sight — 
Two  insu  ated  phantoms  of  the  brain: 
It  is  not  so  ;   I  sec  them  full  and  plain — 
All  old  man,  and  a  female  young  and  fair 
Fresh  as  a  nursing-mother,  in  whose  vein 
The  bluod  is  nectar: — but  what  doth  she  there, 
With  her  unmamled  neck,  and  bosom  white  and  bare! 

CXLIX. 

Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  yormg  life, 
W'here  on  the  heart  nnAfrom  the  heart  we  took 
Our  first  and  sweetest  nurture,  when  the  wife 
Blest  into  mother,  m  the  innocent  look. 
Or  even  the  pipintr  cry  of  lips  that  brook 

•   No  pain  and  small  suspense,  a  joy  perceives 
Man  knon-s  not,  when  from  out  its  cradled  nook 
SI<e  s^es  her  little  bud  put  forth  its  leaves — 

What  may  the  fruit  be  yet? — I  know  not — Cain  was 
Eve's. 

CL.        1      :        ■ 

Rut  here  youth  offers  to  old  age  the  food, 
The  milk  of  his  own  gift : — it  is  her  sire, 
T'o  >Ahom  she  renders  back  the  debt  of  blood 
Horn  with  her  birth.     No  ;    he  shall  not  expire 
Wliile  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  fire 
Of  health  and  holy  feelitHT  can  j)rovide 
Great  Nature's  Nile,  whose  deep  stream  rises  higher 
Than  Errvpt's  river: — from  that  gentle  side 
Drn  k,  drink  and  live,  old  man  ^   Heaven's  realm  holds 
no  such  tide. 

The  starry  fable  of  the  milky  way 
Has  not  thy  stor\'s   purity;   it  is 
A  cou?«ellatiun  t)f  a  sweeter  rav. 
And  sacred   Nature  triumphs  more  m  tms 
"everse  of  her  decree,  than   m  thft   abyss 
Where  sparkle  distant  worlds: — (Jh,  lu-liest  nurse' 
No  drop  of  that  clear  stream  its  wav  shall  miss 
To  thy  sire's  heart,  replenishing  its  source 
With  hf'e,  as  our  freed  souls  rejoin  the  universe. 

CLII. 

Turn  to  the  mole  which  Adrian  rear'd  on  high,  ^' 
lu'.perial  mimic  of  old  Egypt's  piles, 
Colossal  copyist  of  deformity, 
W'hose  travell'd  phantasy  from  the  far  Nile's 
Enorn'ous  model,  doom'd  the  artist's  toils 
To  build  for  giants,  and,  for  his  vain  earth, 
His  shrunken  ashes  raise  this  dome :   How  smiles 
The  gazer's  eye  with  philosophic  mirth. 
To  view  the  hu^e  design  which  sprung  from  such  a  birth. 

CLIII. 

But  lo  !   the  (ionn — the  vast  and  wondrous  dome,  ^' 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  C(.'ll — 
f/hrist's  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr's  tomb! 
I  have  beheld  the  Ephesian's  miracle — 
Its  columns  strew  the  wildenuiss,  niid  dwell 
The  hy:ena  and  the  jackal  in  their  shade  ; 
t  have  beheld  Sophia's  briglit  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun,  and   havi'  survey'd 
lis  «anctuary  the  uhi'e  the  usurping  INIoslem  pray'd  ; 


CLIV. 

But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altars  new, 
Standest  alone — with  nothing  like  to  thee — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  Irm.. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,  when  that  He 
Forsook  his  former  city,  what  could  be. 
Of  earthly  structures  ip  his  honour  piled, 
Of  a  sublimer  aspect?    Majesty, 
Power,  glory,  strength,  and  beauty,  all  are  ai»lec 
In  this  eternal  ark  of  worship  undefiled. 

CLV. 

Enter:   its  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  not. 
And  why  ?   it  is  not  lessen'd  ;   but  thy  mind, 
Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot^ 
Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 
A  fit  abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  immortality  ;   and  thou 
Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,  so  defined, 
See  thy  God  face  to  ilice,  as  thou  dost  now 
His  Holy  of  Holies,  nor  be  blasted  by  his  brow. 

CLVI. 

Thou  movest — but  increasing  with  the  advance. 
Like  climbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still  doth  r  se, 
Dec^eived  by  its  gigantic  elegance  ; 
Vastness  which  grows — but  grows  to  harmonize — 
All  musical  in  its  immensities  : 

Rich  marbles — nclier  painting — shrines  where  flamr 
The  lamps  of  gold — and  hau^htv  dome  which  vies 
In  air  with  earth's  chief  stnictnrcs,  thoutrh  theirframf 
Sits  on  the  firm-set  ground — and  this  the  clouds  miial 
claim. 

CLVII. 

Thou  seest  not  all ;  but  piecemeal  thou  must  break. 
To  separate  coiiteinjjlation,  the  great  whole  ; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bavs  v\ill  make, 
That  ask  the  eye — so  here  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  immediate  objects,  and  control 
Thy  thoughts  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 
Its  eloquent  proportions,  and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  part  by  part. 
The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart, 


CLVIII. 

Not  by  its  fault — but  thine  :   our  outward  sen&c 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp — and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 
Outstri[)s  our  faint  expression ;  even  so  this 
Outshining  and  o'ervvhelinins  edifice 
Fools  our  fond  gaze,  and,  greatest  of  the  great 
Defies  at  first  our  nature's  littleness. 
Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  the  size  of  that  they  contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then  pause,  and  be  enlighten'd;   fhere  is  more 
In  such  a  survey  than  the  sating  gaze 
Of^  wonder  pleased,  or  a\ve  which  would  adore 
The  worshi])  of  the  place,  or  the  mere  praise 
Of  art  and  its  un>al    masters,  who  could  raise 
What  former  lime,  nor  skill,  not  ihought  could  plar 
The  fountain  of  suliliiiiily  displays 
Its  depth,  and  iheuce  may  draw  the  mind  of  man 
Its  golden  sands,  and  learn  uhai  great  conceptions  car 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE 
\. 

Hr,  turning  to  the  Vatican,  go  see 
Laocoon-s  torture  dignifying  pain — 
A  fatlitr's  love  and  mortal's  agony 
Witli  an  immortal's  patience  blending  : — vain 
The  struggle  ;   vain,  against  the  coiling  strain 
Ai'.d  gri[)C,  and  deepening  of  the  dragon's  grasp, 
The  old  man's  clench  ;   the  Ion<r-envenom'd  chain 
ixivets  Ihe  living  links, — the  enormous  asp 
nforces  pang  on  jjang,  and  stiHes  gasp  on  gasp. 


209 


CLXI. 

Or  view  the  Lord  of  the  unerrmg  bow, 
The  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light- 
The  sun  in  human  limbs  array'd,  and  brow 
All  ridiant  from  his  triumph  in  the  fight ; 
The  shaft  hath  just  been  shot — the  arrow  bright 
With  an  immortal's  vengeance  ;   in  his  eye 
And  nostril  bcautifu!  disdain,  and  might, 
\nd  majesty,  flash  their  fldl  lightnings  by, 
Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity. 


CLxn. 

But  in  his  delicate  form — a  dream  of  love, 
Shaped  by  some  solitary  nymph,  whose  breast 
Long'd  for  a  deathless  lover  from  above,* 
And  madJen'd  in  that  vision — are  exprest 
All  that  ideal  bcautv  ever  bless'd 
The  mind  with  in  its  most  unearthly  mood, 
When  each  conc.eption  was  a  heavenly  guest — 
A  ray  of  immorlality — ami  stood, 
Star-like,  around,  i.ntil  they  gather'd  to  a  god! 

CLXIII. 

And  if  It  be  Prometheus  stole  from  heaven 
The  fire  ^vhich  we  endure,  it  was  repai  . 
Hy  him  to  whom  the  energy  v,as  given 
Which  this  poetic  marble  hath  array'd 
With  an  eternal  gluiy — which,  if  made 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought ; 
And  Time  himself  hath  hallow  d  it,  nor  laid 
One  rinsrlet  in  the  dust — nor  hath  it  caught 
A  tinge  of  vears,  but  breathes  the  flame  with  which 
't  was  wrought. 

ULXIV. 

But  where  is  he,  the  Pilgrim  of  my  song. 
The  being  who  upheld  it  throush  the  past? 
Methinks  he  cometh  late  and  tarries  long. 
He  is  nr  more — these  breathings  are  his  last; 
IIis  v.'andcrin2s  done,  his  visions  febbing  fast, 
And  he  himself  as  nothing : — if  he  was 
Au<zht  but  a  phantasy,  and  could  be  class'd 
With  forms  which   live  and  sufTer — let  that  pass — 
n  s  shallow  fades  away  into  destruction's  mass, 

CLXV. 
W"a/x^  gathers  shadow,  substance,  life,  and  ail 
That  we  inherit,  in  its  mortal  shroud, 
And  spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall 
Through  which  all  things  grown  phantoms  ;    atid  tl 

cloud 
Between  us  sinks,  and  all  which  eve  glow'd, 
Till  glory's  self  is  twilight,  and  liisplays 
A  melancholy  halo  scarce  allow'd 
To  hover  en  the  ver^e  ot'  darkness  ;   ravs 
''addci  than  saddest  niiiht,  for  ihey  lii^tract  the  oar.e 


CLXV 


A.nd  send  us  prying  into  the  abyss, 
To  gatner  \^  hat  we  shall  be  when  the    xime 
Shall  be  resolved  to  something  less  than  this 
Its  wretched  essence  ;   and  to  dream  of  fame, 
And  wipe  the  dust  from  otf  the  idle  name 
We  never  more  shall  hear, — but  never  more. 
Oh,  happier  thought!   can  we  be  made  the  same  ; 
It  is  enough  in  sooth  that  once  we  bore 
I'hese  fardels  of  the  heart — the  heart  whose  sweat  wb 
gore. 


cLxvn. 

Hark !   forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds, 
A  long  low  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound. 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound  ; 
Through  storm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rending  ground 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 
Seems  roval  still,  though  with  her  head  discrown'd, 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a  babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no  relief 

CLxvin. 

Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thou  ? 

Fond  hope  of  many  nations,  art  thou  dead? 

Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lav  low 

Some  less  majestic,  less  beloved  head  ? 

In  the  sad  mulnight,  while  thy  heart  si  ill  bled, 

The  mother  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  boy. 

Death  hush'd  that  pang  for  ever:   with  thee  fled 

The  present  hap-jiiness  and  promised  joy 

Which  tili'd  the  imperial  isles  so  full  itseem'd  tc  cloy, 

CLXIX. 

Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety. — Can  it  be, 
O  thou  that  wert  so  happv,  so  adored ! 
Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee. 
And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavj',  cease  to  noaid 
Her  many  griefs  for  One  ;   for  she  had  pour'd 
Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Ins. — Thou,  too,  lonely  lord, 
And  desolate  consort — vainly  wert  thou  wed! 
The  husband  of  a  year  !   the  father  of  the  dead  ! 

CLXX. 

Of  sackcloth  was  thv  weddinii  garment  made} 
Thy  bridal's  fruit  is  ashes :    in  the  dust 
The  fair-hair"d  daughter  of  the  isles  is  L-d, 
The  love  of  millions !     How  v\e  did  intrust 
Futurity  to  her!    and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  our  bones,  yet  (bndly  deein'd 
Our  children  sliould  obey  her  child,  and  bless'd 
Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  promise  seeni'd 
Like  stars  to  shepherds'  eyes : — 't  was  but  a  meteoi 
beam'd. 

CLXXI. 

W^oe  unto^iis,  not  her  ;   for  she  sleeps  well: 
The  fickle  wreath  of  popular  bri-ath,  the  tonguo 
Of  lioilow  coinisel,  tiie  fiKe  oracle, 
\Yhich  from  the  birth  of  monnrchy  hath  rung 
Its  knell  in  p*-  '  celv  ears,  till  the  o'erslnng 
Nations  have  arm'd  in  madness,  the  strnnire  fate 
W^hich  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,*^-'  and  liath  flung 
Against  tucir  blind  onmipotence  a  weuiht 
Within  the  opposing  scale,  which  crushes  sooner  'ate,— 


210 


BYRON'S    POETICAl/WOriKS. 


CLXXTI. 

These  in'ght  have  been  her  dnstiny  ,  but  no, 
Our  hearts  deny  it :   and  so  young,  so  fair. 
Good  without  effort,  great  without  a  toe ; 
Rut  now  a  bride  and  mother — and  now  there  f 
How  many  ties  did  tliat  stern  moment  tear : 
From  thy  sire's  to  his  humblest  subject's  iireast 
Is  link'd  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair, 
Vv  hose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake's,  and  opprtist 
The  land  A-hich  loved  thee  so  that  none  could  love  the* 
best, 

CLXXFI. 

Lo,  Nemi !  ""^  navell'd  in  the  woody  hills 
Sb  far,  thai  the  uprooting  wind,  which  tears 
The  oak  from  his  foundation,  and  which  spills 
The  ocean  o'er  its  boundary,  and  bears 
Its  foam  against  the  skies,  reluctant  spares 
The  oval  mirror  of  thv  glassy  lake; 
And,  calm  as  cherish'd  hate,  its  surface  wears 
A  deep  cold  settled  aspect  nought  can  shake, 
All  coil'd  into  itself  ana  round,  as  sleeps  the  snake. 

CLXXIV. 

And,  near,  Albany's  scarce  divided  waves 
Shine  from  a  sister  valley  ; — and  afar 
The  Tiber  winds   and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latian  coast  where  sprung  the  Epic  war, 
"Arms  and  the  man,"  whose  re-ascending  star 
Ro-:e  o'er  an  empire  ; — but  beneath  thy  right 
Tully  reposerl  from  Romr- ; — and  where  yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight, 
The  Sabine  farm  was  till'd,  the  weary  bard's  dehght.' 

^^  CLXXV.  "■- 

But  I  forget. — My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won, 
And  he  and  I  must  part, — so  let  it  be, — 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done  ; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea  ; 
The  midiand  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me, 
And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  ocean,  which  when  wt 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
I '.lose  waves,  we  follow'd  on  till  the  dark  Euxine  roll'd 


CT.XXVI. 

Upon  the  blue  Symplegades  :   long  years — 
Lon2,  though  not  very  many,  since  have  done 
Their  work  on  both ;   some  suffering  and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun  : 
Yat  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run. 
We  have  had  our  reward — and  it  is  here  ; 
That  we  can  yet  feel  gladden'd  by  the  sun, 
And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as  dear 
As  ■•'  i';ere  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is  clear. 


CLXXVII. 

Oh !  ihst  the  desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 
With  one  fair  spirit  for  my  minister, 
T'.iat  1  might  all  forget  the  human  race. 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her! 
Ye  eleuKints  ! — in  whose  ennohliug  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted — can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  b<;in<;  '     Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  iiiliabif  many  a  sjtot? 
rhoiitih  wiUi  ihem  lo  converse  can  rarclv  he  f>ur  lot. 


CLXXVIII. 


There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore. 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes. 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  beibre. 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  confe&i. 


K 


CLXXIX 


./) 


Roll  on,  thou  dee£_and  dark-blue  ocean — roll ! 
Ten  nToiis'afi'T^  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain"; 
.Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore; — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own. 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
Fie  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown, 

CLXXX. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths, — thv  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him, — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee  ;  the  vile  strength  he  wiekig 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  des])ise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  plavfu!  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bav, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth : — there  let  him  lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The  iirmanient'' which  thunder-strike  the  walls 
or  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  cajntals. 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Ttu-ir  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war  ; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar, 

cLxxxn. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  •' 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  vshile  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;   their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage;   their  decay 
Has  dried  up  njalnis  to  deserts  : — not  so  thou. 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 
Such  as  cr(,'ation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  roUesl  now. 


CLXXXIII. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  lem] tests  ;   in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed — m  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storni, 
Icmg  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  dime 
Paik-heaving  ; — boundless,  eiulleas,  and  subliino— 
The  iina<re  of  eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible;    even  from  out  thy  slime 
Th(!  monsttrs  of  the  deep  are  made  ;   each  zone 
Obevs  thee  •  thou  ooesi  tiath,  dread,  falhcm'css,  alone 


CniLDE    HABOLD-S    PTLGP.TMAGE. 


ni 


CLaXXIV. 

And  I  have  loved  tlie.-,  (n^ean!  and  my  joy 
or  yoiitlit'nl  spoi-rs  was  ..n  thy  breast  to  be 
BuMie.  like  thy  bubble-,  onward:  from  a  boy 
I  wautou'd  with  thy  breakers —they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror  — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  band  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do  here. 


CLXXXV. 

My  task  is  done  — my  song  hath  ceased— my  theme 
Has  died  into  an  echo:  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dream. 
The  torch  shall  be  extinguish'd  which  hath  lit 
My  midnight  lamp  — and  what  is  writ,  is  writ, — 
A\c)uld  it  were  worthier!  but  I  am  not  now 
That  which  I  have  been — and  my  visions  flit 
Less  palpably  before  me  — and  the  glow 
Wliich  in  my  spirit  dwelt  is  fluttering,  faint,  and  low. 


CLXXXVI. 

Farewell !   a  word  that  rnusl  be,  and  hath  boen— 
A  sound  which  makes  us  hnger, — yet — farewel.'. 
Ye!   who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  tlxr.ight  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  sint;le  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  »v<.re  his  sandal-shoon,  and  scallori-shell ; 
Farewell !  with  Idm  alone  may  rest  the  pain, 
If  such  there  were — with  you,  the  moral  of  his.  strain 


NOTES. 


>^ 


CANTO  1. 

Note  1.   Stanza  i. 
Yes  I  sigh'd  o'er  Delphi's  long-deserted  shrine 

The  little  village  of  Casiri  stands  partly  on  the.  site  of 
Oelphi.  Along  the  path  of  the  mountain,  from  Cnrvsso, 
are  the  remains  of  sepulchres  hewn  in  and  from  the 
rock:  "One,"  said  the  t»uide,  "of  a  king  who  broke 
his  ner^  huntini:."  His  Majesty  had  certauily  chos(!n 
:he  fittest  snot  lor  such  an  achievement. 

A  little  abiive  ('a-tri  is  a  cave,  supposed  the  Pvthian, 
of  immense  (ieijth  :  the  u|H)er  [)art  of  it  is  paved,  and 
now  a  cow-house. 

On  the  other  side  of  Castri  stanrls  a  Greek  monas- 
tery ;  some  way  above  which  is  the  cleft  in  tlie  rock^ 
with  a  ranire  of  caverns  dilhcu.ll  of  ascent,  and  ap- 
parently leaduig  to  the  iiiterinr  of  the  mountain  ;  prob- 
ablv  to  the  Cf)rvcian  Cavern  mentioneii  bv  Pausamas. 
From  this  part  descend  the  fountaui  and  the  "Dews  of 
Castalie." 

Note  2.   Stanza  \x. 
And  rest  ye  at  "our  Lmly'.-;  liniso  of  woe." 

The  convent  of  "Our  Lady  of  Punishment,"  iVo.s.^a 
Stnora  de  Pent,  '  on  the  summit  of  the  rock.      Below, 

1  Since  the  publication  of  this  ixxiin  I  have  been  informed 
of  the  llu^a||preilen.sl.)n  of  tiii-  ti^rin  .Vf(.-.vrt  Saiara  de  Pinia. 
lt^vas  owins:  to  the  want  of  the  ti!il',i>r  iiiirk  over  the  w, 
which  alters  the  siffUiticaliiiii  of  tlie  word  ;  widi  ir,  Pfna  si^- 
nilies  a  lock;  without  it,  Pt^^na  lias  tiie  scn.-^e  1  a('iipte(i.  I  do 
Hot  tiiink  it  necessary  to  alter  the  passa'ie,  as,  tliouuh  liie  com- 
mon iicceptatioii  affixed  to  it  is  "our  Lady  of  the  Rock,"  I  may 
well  assume  the  other  sense,  from  ihc  severities  practised  there 


at  some  distance,  is  the  Cork  Convent,  where  St.  Ho 

nunus  dui  his  lien,  over  \*^ich  is  his  (jpitaph.     Fr.im 

the  hills,  the  sea  adds  to  the  beauty  of  the  view. 

Note  3.   Stanza  .\.\i. 

Throuirhoul  this  purple  land,  where  law  secures  not  life. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  in  the  year  1809,  th« 
assassinations  in  the  streets  of  Lisbon  and  its  vicit  ity 
were  not  coiilined  by  the  Portuguese  to  tluir  country- 
men, but  that  En<'lishmen  were  daily  hutcliered  :  atid, 
so  far  f'-om  redress  being  obtained,  we  were  re()uested 
not  to  interfere  if  we  perceived  any  compatriot  def(  nd- 
ing  hims(;lf  against  his  allies.  I  was  once  stopped  in 
tlie  way  to  tlie  theatre  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
when  the  streets  were  not  more  empty  tliaii  they  gener- 
ally are  at  that  hour,  opposite  to  an  open  shop,  and  in 
a  carriage  with  a  friend  ;  had  we  not  fortunately  been 
armed,  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  we  should  have 
adorned  a  tale  instead  of  telling  one.  The  crime  of 
assassination  is  not  confined  to  Portugal:  in  Sicily 
and  Malta  we  are  knocked  on  the  head  at  a  handsome 
average  nightly,  and  not  a  Sicilian  or  Maltese  is  evei 
pumshed ! 

Note  4.   Stanza  xxiv. 
Behold  tlie  hall  where  chiefs  were  late  convened  ! 

The  convention  of  Cintra  was  signed  in  the  palan^ 
of  the  Marchese  Marialva.  The  late  exploits  of  Lorii 
Wellington  have  effaced  the  follies  of  Cintra.  He  has, 
indeed,  done  wonders:  he  has  perhaps  changed  the 
character  of  a  nation,  reconciled  rival  superstitions, 
and  baffled  an  enemy  who  never  retreated  before  his 
predecessors. 

Note  5.   Stanza  xxix. 
Yet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay. 

The  extent  of  Mafra  is  prodigious  ;  it  contains  u  na.l- 
ace,  convent,  and  most  superb  church.  The  six  organs- 
are  the  most  beautifiil  I  ever  beheld  in  point  of  deco- 
ration ;  we  did  not  hear  them,  but  were  told  that  theii 
tones  were  correspoiident  to  their  splendour.  Mafra  is 
termed  the  Escunal  of  Portugal. 

Note  6.  Stanza  xxxiii. 

Wei]  doth  the  Spani.=h  hind  the  difiV-renct  know 
'Twi.\l  him  and  Lusian  slave,  the  lowest  of  the  low. 
^  As  I  found  the  Portuguese,  so  I   have  characterized 
iriem.     That  they  have  since  improved,  at  least  in  cou- 
r.cge,  is  evident. 

Note  7.   Stanza  xxxv. 
When  Civa's  traitor  si^e  first  call'd  the  hand 
That  dyed  thy  mountam  streams  with  Gothic  „ore? 
Count  Julian's  daugTiter,  the  Helen  of  Spain.    Pe!a- 
gms  preserved  his  independence  in  the  fastnesses  of  the 
Asturias,  and  the  descendants  of  his  followers,   after 
some  centuries,  completed  their  struggle  by  th.-  conquest 
of  Grenada. 

Note  8.   Stanza  xlviii. 
No  I  as  he  speeds  he  chaunts : — "  Viva  el  Rey  !" 
"Vivi  e!  Rey  Fernando !"— Long  live  King  Ferdi- 
nand !   is  the  chorus  of  most  of  the  Sfianish  patriotic 
.=ou£s;   they  are  chiefly  in  dispraise  of  ihe  old  King 
Charles,  the  Queen,  and  the  Prince  of  Peace.     1  have 
heard  manv  of  them;   some  of  the  airs  are  beautiful. 
Godov,  the  Prinrijjc  de  la  Paz,  v>  as  born  at  Badajoz, 
on  the  frontiers  of  Portugal,  and  was  originally  in  the 
raiikj  of  the  S;)anish  Guards,  till  h's  person  attracted 
the  queen's  eyes,  and  raised  him  to  the  dukedom  of 
Alciidia,  etc.  etc.     It  is  to  this  man  *hat  the  Spanianls 
universally  impute  the  ruin  of  their  country. 
Note  9.   Stanza  1. 
Bears  in  his  cap  the  badsre  of  crimson  hue. 
Which  tells  you  whom  lo  shun  and  whom  to  zreet. 

The  red  cockade,  wit!/  "Fernand'  Septimo"  :n  tfie 
centre. 


BYRON'S  POETICAL  WORKS 


Note  10.  Stanza  li. 
The  ball-piled  pyramid,  the  ever-hlazing  match. 
All  who  nave  seen  a  battery  will  recollect  the  pyra- 
midal form  in  which  shot  and  shells  are  piled.     The 
Sierra  Morena  was  fortified   in   every  defile   through 
which  I  jiassed  in  my  way  to  Seville. 

Note  11.   Stanza  Ivi. 

Foil'd  by  a  woman's  hand  beforf  a  battnr'd  wall. 

Such  were  the  exploits  of  the  Maid  of  Saragoza. 

When  the  author  was  at  Seville  she  walked  daily  on  the 

Prado,  decorated  with  medals  and  orders,  by  command 

f  the  Junta. 

Note  12.   Stanza  Iviii. 
The  seal  love's  dimpling  finger  hath  impressed 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  tliat  bears  his  touch. 
"Sigillain  mento  impressa  amoris  digitulo 
Vestigio  denionstrant  mullitudinem."— .^jj.  Gel. 

Note  13.  Stanza  Ix. 
(3h,  thou  Parnassus ! 
These  Stanzas  were  written  in  Castri  (Delphos),  atthe 
fiiot  of  Parnassus,  now  called  KiuKvpa — Liakura. 

Note  14.   Stanza  Ixv. 
Fair  is  proud  Seville;  let  her  country  honst 
Her  strength,  her  wealth,  her  site  of  ancient  days. 

Seville  was  the  Hispalis  of  the  Romans. 

Note  15.  Stanza  Ixx. 
Ask  ye,  BtEotian  shades  !  the  reason  wliy  ? 
This  was  written  at  Thebes,  and  conse(|uently  in  the 
best  situation  for  askmg  ami   answering  such  a  ques- 
tion ;  not  as  the  birth-place  of  Pindar,  but  as  the  capital 
c^  Bceotia,  where  the  first  riddle  was  propounded   and    I 
solved. 

Note  16.   Stanza  Ixxxii.  j 

Some  bitter  o'er  the  (lowers  its  bubbling  venom  flings.  | 

"Medio  de  foiile  lepr>riiin 
Snrgit  amarialiquid,quod  in  ipsis  floribus  angat." — /aic 

Note  17.   Stanza  Ixxxv. 
A  traiior  only  fell  beneath  f+)e  feud. 
Alluding  to  the  conduct  and  death  of  Solano,  the 
Govern jr  of  Cadiz. 

Note  18.  Stanza  Ixxxvi. 
"  War  even  to  the  kiiiti;  I" 
'•War  to  the  knife  ;"  Palafox's  answer  to  the  French 
General  at  tba  siege  of  Saragoza. 

Note  19.   Stanza  xci. 
And  thou,  my  friend  I  etc. 
The  honourable  I*.  W**.  of  the  Guards,  who  died  of 
!i  fever  at  Coimbra.     I  had  known  him  ten  years,  the 
beUer  half  of  his  life,  and  the  hai)piest  part  of  mine. 

Ill  the  short  space  of  one  month  I  have  lost  her  who 
gave  me  being,  and  most  of  those  who  had  made  that 
being  tolerable.  To  rne  the  lines  of  Young  are  no 
fiction  • 

■'  Insatialo  arcbcir!  could  not  one  suffice  ? 

Tliy  -lial'i  iV'w  thrice,  and  tlirice  my  i>cace  was  slain, 

Anil  tiirice  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  fill'd  her  horn." 

1  should  have  venttired  a  verse  to  the  memory  of  the 
'iite  Charles  Skinner  Matthews,  Fellow  oi'  Downing  Col- 
ege,  Cambridge,  were  he  not  too  much  above  all  praise 
of  mine.  His  ])o\vers  of  mind,  shown  in  the  attainment 
of  greater  lionrMirs,  a^'aiiist  tlic  a'ilesl  candidates,  than 
ihi.'^e  of  any  gradual;;  on  ri^eord  at  Cambridge,  have 
suilicicntly  (jsiablisbcd  his  fame  on  the  spot  where  it 
was  .acquired,  while  ids  solnr  (jualitics  live  in  the  recol- 
lechon  of  friends  wnr  oved  lysm  too  \^  ell  to  envy  his 
Htiperionty. 


CANTO  II. 

Note  1.   Stanza  i. 
— despite  of  war  and  wasting  3re — 
PARTof  the  Acropolis  was  destroyei  by  the  ex[».ositr 
of  a  magazine  during  the  Venetian  sie^e. 

Note  2.  Stanza  i. 

Rut  worse  than  steel,  and  flame,  and  ages  slow, 
Is  tlie  dread  sceptre  end  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  felt  the  sacred  glow 
That  thoughts  of  thee  and  tliiiie  on  polish'd  breasts  bestow. 

We  can  all  feel,  or  imagine,  the  regret  with  whic)" 
the  ruins  of  cities,  once  the  capitals  of  empires,  art 
Deheld  ;  the  reflections  suggested  by  such  objects  art 
too  trite  to  require  recapitulation.  But  never  did  the 
littleness  of  man,  and  the  vanity  of  his  very  best  virtues, 
of  patriotism  to  exalt,  and  of  valour  to  defend  his 
countr}',  appear  more  conspicuous  than  in  the  record 
of  what  Athens  was,  and  the  certainty  of  what  she  now 
is.  This  theatre  of  contention  between  mightv  factions, 
of  the  struggles  of  orators,  the  exaltation  and  depositior 
of  tyrants,  the  triumph  and  punishment  of  generals,  is 
now  become  a  scene  of  petty  intrigue  and  jierpetual 
disturbance,  between  the  bickering  agents  of  certain 
British  nobility  and  gentry.  "  The  wild  foxes,  the  ov.  Is 
and  serpents  in  the  ruins  of  Babylon,"  were  surely  less 
degrading  than  such  inhabitants.  The  Turks  have  the 
plea  of  conquest  for  their  tyranny,  and  the  Greeks  have 
only  suffered  the  t"ortune  of  war,  incidental  to  the 
bravest;  but  how  are  the  mighty  fallen,  when  two 
painters  cotitest  the  iirivilege  of  plimdering  t!ie  Par- 
thenon, and  triuiniih  in  turn,  according  to  the  tenor  of 
each  succeeding  firman!  Svlla  could  but  punish,  Pluhp 
subdue,  and  Xerxes  burn  Athens ;  bid  it  remained  for 
the  paltry  antiquarian,  and  his  des|)icable  agents,  (o 
render  her  contemptible  as  himself  and  his  pursuits. 

The  Parthenon,  before  its  destruction  in  part,  by  fnc, 

during  the  Venetian  siege,  had  been  a  temple,  a  churc!  , 

and  a  mosque.     In  each  point  of  view  it  is  an  object  o' 

regard:   it  changed  its  woi shippers  ;   but  still  it  w;is  a 

place  of  worship  thrice  sacred  to  dvivoiion :  its  violation 

is  a  triple  sacrilege.     But 

"  Man,  vain  mar, 
Drestin  a  little  i)i  ief  autlio-ivy. 
Plays  such  t'antaslic  tricks  be'b.  e  b,gi)  heavon, 
As  make  tbi^  angels  weep." 

Note  3.  Standi  ^\ 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  be  sleeps. 
It  was  not  aluavs  the  custom  of  *he  Greeks  to  burn 
ttieir  dead  ;  the  greater  Ajax  in  jiartic  ilai  was  interred 
entire.  Almost  all  the  chiefs  became  ^<^^^.'i  after  their 
decease,  and  he  was  indeed  neglected  .vho  bad  not  an- 
nual games  near  his  tomb,  or  festivals  in  honour  of  his 
memorv  by  his  countrymen,  as  Achilles,  iJint'idas,  <.'(•., 
and  at  last  ev(>n  Antinous,  whose  death  was  as  hero-i'  -ju; 
his  life  was  infamous. 

Note  4.   Stanza  x. 

Here,  son  of  Saturn  1  was  thy  lav'rite  tbrotie. 

The  tem|)le  of  .lupiter   Olyinpius,  of  which  sixteen 

columns  tmtirelv  of  marble  vet  survive:  orii.nnally  tlirrp 

were  150.     These;  columns,  however,  are  by  many  si^p- 

po;ed  to  have  belrng'u!  to  the  Pantheon. 

^   Note  \   Stanza  \i. 
And  l)ear  tln>e  altar--  o"er  \\w  long-rfluctaiit  brino 
The  ship  was  wrecked  in  the  .Arrh'.pt  !age. 

Note  ti.   Sti.nza  .\ii. 
To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  time  bath  -pared. 
At  this  moment  (.lanuary  3,  ISO'J),  besides  what  hnt 


CIIILDE    HAKOLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


213 


iKicn  already-  deposited  in  Loudon,  a  Ilydriot  vessel  is 
•n  the  Pn-iiMis  to  receive  every  possible  relic.  Tlius,  as  I 
heaiil  a  young  Cireek  observi',  in  eoninion  vs  itii  many  of 
Ins  <;(),,ntryinen — lor,  lost  as  thev  ar-,',  they  yel  i'et.'l  on 
this  occasion — thus  mav  Lord  Klgui  boast  of  having 
rnnieii  Alliens.  An  Italian  painter  of  the  first  eminence, 
na:ued  Liisieri,  is  the  aizent  of  devaslati  m  ;  and,  like 
tiic  Grc.;k  Ji,t<ltr  of  Verres  in  Sicilv,  \%li<)  t"ollowcd  the 
same  pruiVssi')!!,  hi>  has  |)ro\ed  the  a'nle  iiistniiiKmt  of 
pluiiiier.  Hclwccu  this  artist  ami  the  French  consul 
FuuNcl,  who  wishes  to  rescue  the  remains  for  iiia  own 
gi.'Vcrnm'.jui,  lUere  is  now  a  violent  dispute  concerning 
a.  car  employed  in  their  jonveyance,  the  wheel  of  which 
— f  v.lsh  tiuw  were  both  broken  upon  it — has  been 
locked  lip  by  the  consul,  and  Lusieri  has  laid  his  coiu- 
phiiut  before  the  \Vay\vode.  Lord  Elgin  has  been  e.\- 
tremelv  ha[)|)v  in  his  choice  of  Signer  Lusieri..  During 
a,  residence  of  ten  years  in  Athens,  he  never  had  the 
curiosity  to  proceed  as  far  as  Sunimn,  '  till  he  accom- 
panied us  m  our  second  excursion.  However,  las  works, 
as  far  as  they  go,  are  most  beautiful :  but  they  are  al- 
most all  nnriiiished.  While  he  and  his  patrons  confine 
themselves  to  lasting  medals,  appreciating  cameos, 
sketching  columns,  and  cheapening  gems,  their  little 
absurditii's  are  as  harm!(*ss  as  insect  or  fox-hunting, 
rnaiden-speechlfviii2,  barouche-driving,  or  any  such 
pastime;  but  v.iun  tiiey  carry  aw  nv  three  or  four  ship- 
loads of  the  mo.,t  valuable  and  massy  relics  that  time 
and  barbarism  have  lel't  to  tlie  most  injured  and  most 
cell  braled  of  cities ;  when  they  destroy,  in  a  vain  at- 
tein;)t  to  tear  down,  those  works  which  have  been  the 
admiration  ot  ages,  I  Know  no  niodve  wnich  can  ex- 
ju-^e,  no  name  which  can  designate,  the  perpetrators  of 
ih"s  dastardly  devastati^^.n.  It  was  not  the  least  of  the 
crimes  lai  i  to  the  charge  of  Verres,  tiiat  he  had  plun- 
de'ed  Sicily,  in  the  manner  since  imitated  at  Athens. 
The  most  unblushing  impudence  could  hardly  go  fur- 
ther than  to  affix  the  n;ii'2e  of  its  plunderer  to  the  walls 
of  the  Acropolis  ;  while  the  wanton  and  useless  deface- 
tnent  ot"  the  whole  range  of  the  basso-relievos,  in  one 
compar'ment  oi' the  temple,  will  never  permit  that  name 
to  be  [ironounced,  by  an  observer,  without  execration. 
On  this  occasion  I  speak  impartially  :  I  ara  not  a  col- 
lector or  admirer  of  collections,  consequently  no  rival ; 

1  Now  CaiKf  (Joloniia.  In  all  Attica,  if  we  except  Atlien;- 
itscl;"  ;iii(i  .M;irall)on,  (iiere  is  no  scene  more  intero-itiiij;  than 
Cipc  (N)li)nna.  To  iho  antiquary  and  artist,  sixteen  colutnn3 
are  an  iucxiiaiisiiblc  source  of  observation  and  desisin;  to  the 
piiil()si>|i|i-r,  the  siippuscd  scene  of  some  of  Plato's  conversa- 
tions will  not  ill'  nnwelronie:  ;iiid  tiie  tmvcl!t>r  will  be  struck 
Willi  th(  l)(;aii:y  of  liie  prosix.-rt  over  "  I.<lcs  tk'it  crown  t/ie 
X^i'iii  'I'rrj;"  but  for  ;in  Enijr'isliman,  C<»-!oniia  has  yet  an 
a(iiiri<in:i  I  iiaer^  st.  -.v^  the  actual  spotof  Falroner'sShipwrHck. 
['alius  unci  I'iiitoure  forgotten  in  ilie  recollection  ol'  Falconer 
an,i  L'lmiplH'li  : 

_    II.  11'  m  the  (lead  of  nicht,  by  Loiina's  steep, 
'["in-  st:onan\s  cry  was  heard  a'.onu'  the  deep." 
Thi>  tfinp.e  of  Minerva  may  be  seen  at  sea  frotii  a  great  dis 
taiice.   In  t'.vo  journeys  wliicli  I  made,  and  one  voyage  toCape 
^^)lonna.  the  view  from  eitli(>r  side,  by  land,  was  less  striking 
thainh' approach  t'rom  the  i>'es.  fn  our  socoikI  land  excursion, 
we  hud  ii  nirro\vos('ape  from  a  party  of  Mainotes,  concealed 
in  the  caverns  beneath.   We  were  told  afterwards,  by  one  of 
'.heir prisoners  subsefiuently  ran-omed.  lint  they  vvitp  rleterred 
fiorn  att  ickin^  us  by  the  appearance  of  my  two  Albanians 
tonjefU.riii;;  very  sasp.ciously,  but  falsely,  that  we  had  a  com- 
plete guard  c''tbese  Arnaoms  at  hand,  they  remained  station- 
arv.  and  ihin  ^aved  our  party    wlii;;h  was  too  small  to  have 
Dl'Poscd  any  effectual  resistance. 

Colonna  i>  no  less  a  rescrt  of  painters  than  of  pirates-  there 
"'I'he  hirelinsr  artist  plants  hih  paltry  de,-k, 
And  makes  degraded  Nature  picmrescpie." 

(■Soe  rlodgBon's  Lady  .lane  Grey,  etc.) 
But  the.o  Nature,  with  tht  aid  of  art,  iias  done  that  for  h(!r- 
Bcif.  1  was  fortunate  enom  I  to  eni:a<_'e  a  very  sup'  'ior  Ge- man 
artist;  and  hope  to  renew  my  ,ic<iuaintance  wdh  this  and  many 
rtiier  Levantine  scenes,  by  the  arrival  of  Jtis  performances 


but  f  have  some  early  prcposs.  •  yions  in  favour  of  Gree<:e, 
and  do  not  think  the  honour  of  England  advanced  b}! 
plunder,  whether  of  India  or  Attica. 

Anotlier  noble  Lord  has  done  bettcM-,  because  he  has 
done  less :  but  some  others,  more  or  less  noble,  yet 
"  all  honourable  men,"  have  done  heal,  because,,  after 
a  d(;al  of  exciavation  an<l  execiaiion,  bribery  to  the 
VVayuode,  mining  and  countermining,  they  have  done 
nothing  at  all.  We  had  sucli  ink-shi.'d,  and  wine-shed, 
which  almost  ended  m  blood-shed  !  Lord  E.'s  "  prig," 
— see  .Jonathan  \Vv  Ide  for  the  definition  of  "  priggism," 
— quarrelled  with  another,  Grupius^  byname  (a  verj 
good  name  too  for  his  business),  and  muttered  soine- 
'hiiig  about  satisfaction,  in  a  verbal  answer  to  a  note  of 
the  poor  Prussian  :  this  was  stated  at  table  to  Gropius, 
who  laughed,  but  could  cat  no  dinner  afterwards.  The 
rivals  were  not  reconciled  when  I  left  Greece.  I  have 
reason  to  remember  their  squabble,  for  tiiey  wanted  to 
make  me  their  arbitrator. 

Note  7.   Stanza  xii. 
Fler  sons  too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  to  guard. 
Yet  tell  some  portion  of  their  mother's  pains. 

I  cannot  resist  availing  myself  of  the  permission  of 
my  friend  Ur.  Clarke,  whose  name  reiiuires  no  com- 
ment with  the  public,  but  whose   sanction  will  add   ten- 

'     fold  weight  to  my  testimony,  to  insert  the  following  ex- 

i    tract  from  a  very  obliging  letter  H'  his  to  me,  as  a  note 

j     to  the  above  lines: 

j  "  Whe;i  the  last  of  the  Metojies  was  taken  from  the 
Parthenon,  and,  in  moving  of  it,  great  part  of  the  su- 
perstructure, with  one  of  the  triglyphs,  was  thrown 
down  bv  the  workmen  whom  Lord  Elgin  employed  ; 
the  Disd.ar,  who  beheld  the  mischief  done  to  the  build- 
ing, took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  dropped  a  tear,  and, 
in  a  supplicating  tone  of  voice,  said  to  Lusieri,  TAe-  * 
— I  was  present.  ' 

The  Disdar  alluded  to  was  the  father  of  the  prcsen. 
Disdar. 

Note  8.    Stanza  xiv. 

Wlicre  was  thine  iPiris,  Pallas  I  that  appall  d 
Siern  Aluric  and  iiavoc  on  tiieir  way? 

According  to  Zozimus,  Minerva  and  Achilles  fright- 
ened Alaric  from  the  Acro|)olis  ;  but  others  relate  that 
the  Gothic  king  was  nearly  as  mischievous  as  the  Scot- 
tish peer. — See  Chandler. 

Note  9.   Stanza  xviii. 

die  netted  canopy. 

The  netting  to  prevent  blocks  or  splinters  from  fall- 
ing on  deck  during  action. 

Note  10.   Stanza  xxix. 

But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso's  isles. 

Goza  is  said  to  have  been  the  island  of  Calypso. 

Note  11.   Stanza  xxxviii. 
Ijand  ol'  Albania  I  let  me  b«!nd  none  eyes 
On  tho(!,  thou  ru;.'ged  nurse  of  savage;  men! 

Albania  comprises  part  of  Macedonia,  Illyria,  Cha- 
onia,  and  E[)irus.  Iskan  ler  is  the  Turkish  woid  tor 
Ale-xaiider  ;    and  the  celei)rat(.'d   Scanderl)eg  (Loni  A!- 

1  This  Sr.  Gropius  was  employed  by  a  noble  Lord  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  sketching,  in  which  he  (  xcels  :  but  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  ihiit  he  has,  through  the  abused  sanction  of  that  mos 
respectaliK;  name,  been  treading  ut  an  hunible  distance  in  thfl 
steps  of  Sr.  Lusieri.  A  shipbdl  of  his  irophies  was  detained, 
and.  1  believe,  confiscated  at  (.'.mstantiiiDple.  in  IHIO  1  ai» 
most  happy  to  be  now  (-nabled  to  state,  that  "this  was  not  ii' 
his  bond  ;"  that  he  was  (Mnpleyi^d  solely  as  a  painter,  and  that 
his  noble  patron  disuvows  ali  connexion  with  hun,  except  as 
an  artisl.  If  tlie  i^rror  in  the  f^r^l  and  second  edition  of  tlua 
poem  has  given  the  noble  Lord  a  moment's  pain.  I  am  very 
sorry  for  it;  Sr.  Gropius  hiis  assumed  for  ye;irs  the  name  of 
bis  a:.'ent  :  and.  though  1  cannot  much  condemn  myself  for 
sliarinjr  in  tin;  mistake  of  so  many,  I  a;ii  happy  in  beini:  one 
of  the  rtrsi  to  be  undeceived.  Indeed,  1  have  as  much  pleasurt' 
iin  contradicting  this  as  1  felt  regret  in  stuting  it. 


214 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


sxander)  is  alluded  to  in  the  third  and  fourth  lines  o( 
the  thirly-fjigluh  stanza.  I  do  not  know  whetl^er  I  am 
correct  ni  making  Scanderbeg  the  countryman  of  Alex- 
ander, wiiu  was  born  q,t  Peila  in  Macedoii,  but  Mr. 
Gibbon  terms  him  so,  and  adds  Pjrriins  to  tiie  list,  in 
aneaking  ot  his  exploits. 

Of  Albania,  Gibbon  remcuks,  that  a  country  "  within 
sight  of  Italy,  is  less  known  than  the  interior  of  Ame- 
rica." Circumstances,  of  little  consequence  to  men- 
tion, led  Mr.  Hobhouse  and  myself  into  that  country, 
bef! )re  we  visited  any  other  part  of  the  Ottoman  domin- 
ions ,  and  with  the  exception  of  Major  I^eake,  then 
ottiinally  resident  at  Joannina,  no  other  Englishmen 
have  ever  advanced  beyond  the  capital  into  the  interior, 
as  that  gentleman  very  lately  assured  me.  All  Pacha 
was  at  that  time,  (October,  1809),  carrying  on  vva,r 
against  Ibrahim  Pacha,  whom  he  had  driven  to  Berat, 
a  strong  fortress,  which  he  was  then  besieging  :  on  our 
arrival  at  Joannina  we  were  invited  to  Tepaleni,  his 
Hijrhness's  birth-place,  and  favourite  Serai,  only  one 
day's  distance  from  Berat;  at  this  juncture  the  Vizier 
had  made  it  his  head-quarters. 

After  some  stay  in  the  capital,  we  accordingly  fol- 
lowed ;  but  though  furnished  with  every  accommoda- 
tion, and  escorted  by  one  of  the  Vizier's  secretaries,  we 
were  nine  days  (on  account  of  the  rains)  in  accom- 
olishing  a  journey  which,  on  our  return,  barely  occu- 
pied four. 

On  our  route  we  passed  two  cities,  Argyrocastro  and 
Libochabo,  apparently  little  inferior  to  Yanina  in  size ; 
and  no  pencil  or  pen  can  ever  do  justice  to  the  scenery 
m  the  vicinity  of  Zitza  and  Delvinachi,  the  frontier  vil- 
lage of  Epirus  and  Albania  Proper. 

•  On  Albania  and  its  inhabitants,  I  am  unwilling  to 
Jescant.  because  this  will  be  done  so  much  belter  by 
eny  fellow-traveller,  in  a  work  which  may  probably 
pr(!cede  this  in  publication,  that  I  as  little  wish  to  follow 
as  I  v.oulil  to  anticii)ate  him.  But  some  few  observa- 
tions are  necessary  to  the  text. 

The  Arnaouls,  or  Albanese,  sttruck  me  forcibly  by 
their  resemblance  to  the  Highlanders  of  Scotland,  in 
dress,  figure,  and  manner  of  living.  Their  very  moun- 
tains seemed  Caledonian,  v/ith  a  kinder  climate.  The 
kilt,  though  white ;  the  spare,  active  form;  'heir  dia- 
iec*,  Celtic  in  its  sound,  and  their  hardy  habits,  all  ear- 
ned me  back  to  Morven.  No  nation  are  so  detested 
and  dreaded  by  their  neighbours  as  the  Albanese  :  the 
Greeks  hardly  regard  them  as  Christians,  or  the  Turks 
as  Moslems  ;  and  in  fact  they  are  a  mixture  of  both, 
and  sometimes  neither.  Their  habits  are  predatory : 
all  are  armad  ;  and  the  red-shawled  Arnaouts,  the 
Montenegrins,  Chimariots,  and  Gegdes,  are  treacherous; 
the  others  differ  somewhat  in  garb,  and  essentially  in 
charact(;r.  As  far  as  my  own  experience  goes,  I  can' 
speak  favourably.  I  was  attended  by  two,  an  Infidel 
and  a  Mussulman,  to  Constantino|)le  and  every  other 
part  of  Turkey  which  came  within  mv  observation  ;  and 
more  faithful  in  peril,  or  indefatigalile  in  service,  are 
rarely  to  be  found.  The  Infidel  w  as  named  Basilius,  the 
Moslem,  Dervish  Tahiri  ;  the  former  a  man  of  middle 
age,  and  the  latter  about  my  own.  Basiii  was  strictly 
charged  bv  Ali  Pacha  in  pt-rsoii  to  attend  us  ;  and  Der- 
irish  was  one  of  fifty  who  ac<,'ompan:ed  us  through  the 
"brests  of  Acarnania  to  the  banks  of  Achelotis,  and  on- 
ward to  Messalunghi  in  Jl^tohn.  Th(>re  I  took  him  into 
mv  own  service,  iin  i  never  had  occasion  to  repent  it  till 
'.he  moment  of  my  <l<!parture. 

VVhen  in  1810,  aft(T  th(!  departure  of  my  friend  Mr. 
H.  tor  England,  I  was  seized  with  a  severe  fever  m  the 
Morea,  tiiese  men  saved  my  life  by  frightening  away 


my  i)hysician,  whose  throat  they  threatened  to  cut  if  I 
was  not  cured  within  a  given  time.  To  tliis  consola- 
tory assurance  of  iiostlninious  retribution,  and  a  reso- 
lute refusal  of  Dr.  Romanelli's  prescriptions,  I  attrihnted 
my  recovery.  I  had  left  my  last  remaining  English 
servant  at  Athens;  my  cb-agoman  was  as  ill  as  myself, 
and  my  poor  Arnaouts  nur-ed  me  with  an  attenticr 
which  would  ha'e  done  hor.o jr  to  civilization. 

They  had  a  variety  of  adventures  ;  for  the  iMoslem 
Dervish,  being  a  remarkably  handsome  man,  was  al 
ways  squabbling  with  the  husbands  of  Athens  ;  inso 
much  that  four  of  the  principal  Turks  paid  me  a  visit 
of  remonstrance  at  the  Convent,  on  the  subject  of  his 
having  taken  a  woman  from  the  bath — whom  he  had 
lawfiillv  bought  however — a  thing  (juite  contrary  to 
etiquette. 

Basil]  also  was  extremelv  'iallanl  amongst  liis  ow-r 
persuasion,  and  had  the  gre.itest  veneration  for  thr 
church,  mixed  with  Ihe  highest  contempt  of  church- 
men, whom  he  cuffed  upon  occasion  in  a  most  hetero- 
dox manner.  Yet  he  never  passed  a  church  withoul 
crossing  himself;  and  I  rememlier  the  risk  he  ran  ir 
entering  St.  Sophia,  in  Stamboi,  because  it  hiid  oncfc 
been  a  place  of  liis  worship.  On  remonstratmij  vviti' 
him  on  his  inconsistent  proceedings,  he  invariably  ar>- 
sweretl,  "our  church  is  holy,  our  priests  are  thieves;" 
and  then  he  crossed  himself  as  usual,  and  boxed  the 
ears  of  the  first  "papas"  who  refi'sed  to  assist  in  any 
required  operation,  as  was  always  found  to  he  neces- 
sary where  a  pr'est  had  any  influence  with  the  (^ojiu 
Bashi  of  his  village.  Indeed  a  more  abandoned  race 
of  miscreants  cannot  exist  than  the  lower  orders  of  the 
Greek  clergy. 

Wh(!n  preparations  were  made  for  my  return,  my 
Albanians  were  summoned  to  receive  their  pay.  Ba:^il 
took  his  with  an  awkward  show  of  regret  at  my  In- 
tended deimrture,  and  marched  away  to  his  quarters 
with  his  bag  of  piastres.  I  sent  for  Dervish,  but  fo! 
some  time  he  was  not  to  be  Ibund  ;  at  last  lie  entered, 
just  as  Signor  Logotheti,  fatlierto  the  ci-devant  Anglo 
consul  of  Athens,  and  some  other  of  m}^  Greek  ao- 
(]uaintances,  paid  me  a  visit..  Dervish  took  the  money, 
but  on  a  sudden  dashed  it  to  the  ground  ;  and  clasping 
his  hands,  which  he  raised  to  his  forehead,  rushed  out 
of  the  room  weeping  bitterly.  From  that  moment  to 
the  hour  of  my  embarkation,  he  continued  his  lament- 
ations, and  all  our  efforts  to  console  him  only  produced 
this  answer,  "  M'  n(p€ivet,^^  "  He  leaves  me."  Signor 
Logotheti,  who  never  wept  before  for  any  thing  less 
than  the  loss  of  a  [jara,  '  melted  ;  the  padre  of  the 
convent,  mv  attendants,  my  visitors — and  I  verily  be- 
lieve that  even  "  Sterne's  foohsh  fat  scullion"  would 
have  left  her  "  fish-kettle"  to  sympathize  with  ihe  un- 
affected and  unexpected  sorrow  of  this  barbarian. 

For  my  own  part,  when  I  remembered  thai,  a  short 
time  before  my  de|)arture  from  England,  a  noble  and 
most  intimate  associate  had  excused  himself  tVorn  t,ik 
ing  leave  of  me  because  he  had  to  attend  a  relatio 
"to  a  milliner's,"  I  felt  no  less  sur{)rised  than  humili 
ated  by  the  present  occurrence  and  the  past  recollec 
lion. 

That  Dervish  would  leave  me  with  some  regret  wafl 
to  be  expected :  when  master  and  man  have  been 
scrambling  over  the  mountains  of  a  dozen  provinces  to- 
gether, they  are  unwilling  to  separate;  but  his  presen 
feelings,  contrasU^d  with  his  native  ferocitv,  improved 
my  opinion  of  ihe  human  heart.  I  believe  this  almosi 
feudal  fidelity  is  fre(]uent  amongst  them.     One  day,  on 

1  Para,  uiiout  the  fourth  of  a  furthipg. 


CIIILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


215 


CTH  io»rn<.'y  over  Parnas';ns,  an  Englishman  in  tny  ser- 
vice gave  hini  a  push  in  some  dispme  about  the  bag- 
gage, whifh  he  uiihu'Uilv  mistook  for  a  blow  ;  he  spoke 
not,  but  sat  tlown,  leaning  his*  head  upon  his  hands. 
Foreseeing  tlio  conscciuence.s,  we  endeavourei  to  ex- 
plain away  the  aHVont,  whieh  produced  the  following 
answer:  —  "I  have  /)^t/(  a  ro!)ber,  I  am  a  soldier ;  no 
captain  ever  struck  me  ;  //"'<  ''^^'^'  '">'  master,  I  have  eaten 
/our  bread  ;  but  bv  tlhd  bread  !  (a  usual  oath)  had  il 
Dcen  otherwise,  I  would  have  stabbed  tiie  dog  your  ser- 
vant, and  2one  to  the  mountains."  So  the  atiair  ended, 
but  from  that  day  forward  he  never  thoroughly  forgave 
fhe  thoughtless  fellow  who  insulted  him. 

Dervish  excelled  in  the  dance  of  his  country,  conjec- 
tured to  be  a  remnant  of  the  ancient  Pyrrhic  :   be  that  as 

it  niav,  it  is  nianlv,  and  requires  wonderful  agility.   It  is 

-  '  •  '  '  ^  .  -^  j 

very  distinct  from  the  stupid  Romaika,  the  dull  round-  i 
about  of  the  Greeks,  of  \\ hich  our  Athenian  party  had  t 
BO  many  specimens.  j 

The  Albanians  in  general  (I  do  not  mean  the  cultiva-    I 
tors  of  the  earth  in  the  provinces,  who  have  also  that    j 
appellation,  but  the  mountaineers)   have  a  fine  cast  of    j 
countenance  ;   and  the  most  beautiful  women  I  ever  be-    I 
held,  in  stature  and  in  features,  we  saw  levelling  the 
road  broken  down  bv  the  torrents  between  Delvinachi 
and  Libochabo.    Their  manner  of  walking  is  truly  the- 
atrical ;   but  this  strut  is  |)robably  the  etlect  of  the  ca- 
pote, or  cloak,  depending  from  one  shoulder.     Their 
long  hair  reminds  you  of  the  Spartans,  and  their  cour- 
age in  desultory  warfare  is  unquestionable.     Though 
they  have  some  cavalry  amongst  the  Gegdes,  I  never 
6aw  a  good  Arnaout  riorseman  :   my  own  preferred  the 
Ersglish  saddles,  which,  however,  they  could  never  keep. 
But  on  foot  they  are  not  to  be  subdued  by  fatigue. 

Note  12.  Stanza  xxxix. 

-and  pass'd  the  barren  spot, 


Where  sad  Fuiielupe  o'eriotik'd  tl.e  wave. 
Ithaca. 

Note  13.   Stanza  xl. 

Actium,  Lepanto,  fatal  Trafalgar. 

Actiuni  and  Trafalgar  need  no  further  mention.  The 

battle  of  Lepanto,  eciually  bloody  and  considerable,  but 

ess  knov.n,  was  fought  in  the  gulf  of  Patras ;   here  the 

author  of  Don  Quixote  lost  his  left  hand. 

Note  14.   Stanza  xli. 
And  hail'd  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love. 
Leucadia,  now  Santa  Maura.    From  the  promontory 
•^the  Lover's  Leap)  Sapj)ho  is  said  to  iiave  thrown  her- 
self. 

Note  15.     Stanza  xlv. 

many  a  Roman  rhiel'  and  Asian  king. 

It  is  said,  that  on  the  day  previous  to  the  battle  of 
Actium,  Anthony  had  thirteen  kings  at  his  levee. 

Note  16.   Stanza  xlv. 
Look  where  the  second  Cajsiir's  trophies  rose. 
Nicopolis,  whose  ruins  are  most  extensive,  is  at  some 
distance  from   Actium,  where  the  wall  of  the  Hippo- 
drome survives  m  a  few  fragments. 

Note  17.    Stanza  xlvii. 

Acheriisia's  lake. 

According  to  Poutpieville,  the  Lake  of  Yanina  ;  but 
Pouqueville  u  always  out. 

Note  18.   Stanza  xlvii. 
'I'o  Kreet  Albania's  chief. 
The  celebrated  Ali  Pacha.   Of  this  extraordinary  man 
tliere  is  an  incorrect  account  in  Pouqueville's  I'ravels. 


Note  19.   Stanza  xlvii. 

Yet  hero  and  thcrf!  some  liarin::  mountain  hand 
Disdain  hin  power,  ami  from  their  r,..-ky  hold 
Hurl  their  (ieti:ince  fur.  nor  yield,  unless  lo  gold. 

Five  thousand  Suliotes,  among  the  rocks  and  in  the 

castle  of  Suli,  withstood  30,000  Albanians  for  eighteen 

years:   inj  castle  at  last  was  taken  by  bribery.    In  this 

contest  thore  were  several  acts  performed  not  unworttiy 

of  the  better  days  of  Greece. 

Note  20.  vStanz:i  xlviii. 
I\Ii)iiaslic  '/atza,  etc. 
The  convent  and  village  of  Zitza  are  four  hours'  jour- 
ney froi.i  Joannina,  or  Yani?ia,  the  cap'tal  of  the  Pa- 
chalick.  In  the  valley  the  rivei  Kalamas  (--nee  the  Ache- 
ron) tlows,  and  not  far  from  Zitra  forms  a  (ine  cataract. 
The  situation  is  perha[)s  the  hi  >£t  in  Greece,  though 
the  approach  to  Delvinachi  and  p<  rts  of  Acarnania  and 
iEtolia  may  contest  the  palm.  D<.lphi,  Pavnabsus,  and, 
in  Attica,  even  Gape  Colonna  a.<d  Port  Raphti,  are 
very  inferior  ;  as  also  every  scene  in  Ki'a  o\  the  Troad  : 
I  am  almost  inclined  to  add  the  ap|ir».ach  to  Gonstanti- 
nople,  but,  from  the  diftifjrent  featured  oi  the  last,  a 
comparison  can  hardly  be  made. 

Note  21.   Stanza  xlix. 
Here  dwells  the  caloyer 
The  Greek  monks  are  so  called. 

Note  22.   Stanza  li. 
Nature's  volcanic  amphitlieatre. 
The  Chimariot  mountains  a[)pear  to  have  ceen  ?cl- 
camc. 

Note  23.   Stanza  li. 
behoid  black  Acheron  I 


d  Ka 


Note  24.  Stanza  Hi. 
ill  his  white  capote — 


Albanese  cloak. 

Note  25.   Stanza  Iv. 
I'he  sun  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomerit. 
Anciently  Mcunt  Tbmarus. 

Note  26.  Stjftiza  Iv, 
And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roarinsr  by. 
The  river  Laos  was  full  at  the  time  tlie  author  passed 
It ;  and,  immediately  above  Tepaleen,  was  to  the  eye  ae 
wide  as  the  Thames  at  ^Vestminster ;  at  least  in  tne 
opinion  of  the  author  and  his  fellow-traveller,  Mr. 
Hobhouse.  In  the  summer  it  must  be  much  narrowei. 
It  certainly  is  the  finest  river  in  the  Levant ;  neither 
Acheloiis,  Alpheus,  Acheron,  Scan.ander,  nor  Cayster, 
approached  it  in  breadth  or  beauty. 

Note  27.  Stanza  Lxvi. 
And  fellow-corntrymen  have  stood  aloof. 
Alluding  to  the  wreckers  of  Cornwall. 
Note  28.   Stanza  Ixxi. 

the  red  wine  circling  fast. 

The  Albanian  IMussulmans  do  not  abstain  from  wire, 
and  indeed  very  few  of  the  others. 

Note  29.  Stanza  Ixxi. 

Each  Palikar  his  sabre  from  him  cast 

Palikar,  shortened  when  addressed  to  a  single  person, 

from  Uu'SiKapi,  a  general  name  for  a  soldier  amongst 

the  Greeks  and  Al!)anese  who  speak  Romaic — it  means 

properly  "  a  lad." 

Note  30.    Stanza  Ixxii. 
While  thus  in  concert,  etc. 
As  a  specimen  of  the  Albanian  or  Arnaout  dialect  dl 


216 


BYHON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


he  Illyric,  I  here  insert  two  cf  their  most  popular  choral 
Fonr^s,  which  are  generally  chaunted  in  dancing  \>y  men 
r>r  -^(vinen  indiscriminately.  The  tirst  words  are  merely 
a  kind  of  chorus,  without  meaning,  like  some  in  our 
own  and  all  other  languases. 


Bn,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo, 

Naciarura,  popuso. 
Nac;arura  na  civin 
Ha  pe  uderini  ti  Inn. 
Ha  pe  udcri  escrotiui 
Ti  vin  ti  mar  servetini. 

Caliriore  me  siirme 
Ea  ha  pe  pse  dua  tive. 

Buo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo, 
Gi  egem  spirta  esimiro. 
Caliriote  vu  le  funde 
Ede  vete  tunde  tunde. 

Caliriote  mc  surtne 
Ti  mi  put  e  poi  mi  le. 
Se  ti  puta  citi  mora 
Si  mi  ri  ni  veti  udo  gia. 


Vu  le  m  il  che  cadale 
Celo  more,  more  celo. 
Plu  han  ti  tirete 
Plu  huron  cia  pra  «eti. 


Lo,  Lo,  I  come,  I  come ; 
he  thou  silent. 

I  come,  I  rim ;  open  the 
door  that  I  may  enter. 

Open  the  door  by  halves, 
that  1  may  take  my  tur- 
ban. 

Caliriotes'  with  the  dark 
eyes,  open  the  gate  that 
I  may  enter. 

I   hear   thee, 


my 


Lo,    lo, 

soul. 
An  Arnaout  girl,  in  costly 

garb,  walks  with  graceful 

pride. 
Caliriot    maid  of  the  dark 

eyes,  give  me  a  kiss. 

If  I  have  kissed  thee,  what 
hast  thou  gained?  My 
soul  is  consumed  with 
fire. 

Dance  lightly,  more  gently, 
and  gently  still. 

Make  not  so  much  dusv  to 
destroy  your  embroidered 
hose. 


The  last  stanza  would  puzzle  a  commentator :  the  men 
have  certainly  buskins  of  the  most  beautiful  texture, 
hut  'he  ladies  (lo  whom  the  above  is  supposed  to  be 
addressed)  have  nothing  under  their  little  yellow  boots 
and  slippers  but  a  well-turned  and  sometimes  very  white 
ancle.  Tlie  Arnaout  girls  are  much  handsomer  tlian  the 
Greeks,  and  their  dress  is  far  more  picturesque.  They 
preserve  their  shape  much  longer  also,  tmm  being  al- 
ways m  tiie  open  air.  *It  is  to  be  observed  that  the 
Arnaout  is  not  a  ivriUen  language  ;  the  words  of  this 
song,  therefore,  as  well  as  tlie  one  which  follows,  are 
spelt  according  to  their  pronunciation.  They  are  copied 
by  one  who  speaks  and  understands  the  dialect  per- 
fectly, and  who  is  a  native  of  Athens. 


Niii  sef  ia  tinde  ulavossa 
Veitimi  upri  vi  lofsa. 

Ah  vaisisso  mi  privi  lofse 
8i  uii  rini  mi  la  vosse. 

Uti  t.'isa  rol)a  stua 
Sitli  eve  tulati  dua 

Roba  stinori  ssidua 
Qu  mi  sini  vetti  dua. 
(^uiinini  dua  civiicni 
Roba  ti  siarnn  tildi  eni. 

Utara  pisa  vaisisso  mc  sin 

nn  ti  bapti. 
Vyi    mi    inrc  a  juslt    si   gi 

.Wiudro)  Ii!t;'*i. 

\    Ttic-   AII):m\c«'-.   piirticul; 
termed  '  t^uliriotcs  "  lor  v>l 


I  am  wounded  by  thy  love, 
and  have  loved  but  to 
scorch  myself. 

Thou  hast  consumed  me  ! 
Ah,  maid !  thou  hast 
struck  me  to  the  heart. 

I  have  said  I  wish  no  dow- 
ry, but  thine  eyes  and 
eyelashes. 

The  accursed  dowry  I  want 
not,  but  thee  only. 

Give  me  thv  charms,  and 
let  the  portion  feed  the 
flames. 

11  I  hav(!  loved  thee,  maid, 
wiili  a  sinc(Mt:  soul,  but 

u  thou  hast  left  nn;  like  a 
uilhcifd  tree. 


irly  tin;  wouumi,   ;irp    frcfiucntly 
;it  rrasuii  1  iiKiuired  in  vuin. 


Udi  vura  udorini  udiri  ci-  If  I  have  placea  mv  nh,no 

cova  cilti  mora  on  thy  bosom,  what  have 

Qdorini   talti    hollna  u  ede       I    gained?   my   hand   is 

caiinoni  mora.  withdrawn,   but  retaiuii 

the  tlame. 
I  believe  the  two  las.  stanzas,  as  they  are  m  a  diflei- 
ent  measure,  ought  to  belong  to  another  ballad.  An 
idea  something  similar  to  the  thought  in  the  last  lines 
was  expressed  by  Socrates,  whose  arm  having  come  in 
contact  with  one  of  his  "  v-okoX-ioi,'''  Critobulus  or 
Cleobulus,  the  philosopher  complained  of  a  shootins 
pain  as  far  as  his  shoulder  for  some  days  after,  and 
therefore  very  pro;)erly  resolved  to  teach  his  dis^'-iples 
in  future  without  touching  them. 

Note  31.     Song,  stanza  1. 

Tanibourgi  I  Tambouisi  I  thy  ''arum  afar,  etc. 

These  stanzas  are  partly  taken  from  different  Alba 

nese  songs,  as  far  as  I  was  able  to  make  them  out  by 

the  exposition  of  the  Albanese  in  Romaic  and  Italian. 

Note  3-2.   Song,  stanza  8. 
Remember  the  mometU  when  Previsa  fell. 
It  was  taken  by  storm  from  the  French. 

Note  33.   Stanza  Ixxiii. 
Fair  Greece  ;  sad  relic  ofdeparted  worth,  etc. 
Some  thoughts  on  this  subject  will  be  found  in  the 
subjoined  papers. 

Note  34.     Stanza  Ixxiv. 

Spirit  of  freedinr  !  when  on  Phylc's  hrnw 
Tliou  s;it'st  with  TiirasyhuUis  ami  his  tram. 

Phyle,  which  commands  a  beautiful  v.t;w  of  Athena 

has  still  considerable  remains  ;  it  was  seized  by  I'lirapy* 

bulus  previous  to  the  expulsion  of  the  Thirty. 

Note  35.  Stanza  Ixxvii. 
Receive  the  iiery  Frank,  her  former  guest 
When  taken  by  tlie  Latins,  and  -etamed  for  severa' 
vcars.     See  Giijbox. 

Note  3i).   Stanza  Ixxvii. 
The  prophet's  tomb  of  ali  its  pions  spoil. 
Mecca  and  Medina  were  taken  some  time  ago  by  the 
Wahabees,  a  sect  yearly  increasing. 

Note  37.    Stanza  Ixxxv. 

Thy  vales  ofever-^'reeti,  thy  hills  of  snow — 

On  many  of  the  mountains,  particularly  Liakura,  the 

snow  never  is  entirely  nielt(;d,  notwithstanding  the  in 

tense  heat  of  the  summer;   bull  never  saw  it  lie  on  the 

plains,  even  in  winter. 

Note  38.  Stanza  Ixxxvi. 
Save  wlieresome  solitary  column  mournb 
Above  iis  prostrate  bretiiren  of  tlie  cave. 

Of  IVIount  Pentelicus,  from  whence  the  marble  wa? 
ducr  that  constructeil  the  public  edifices  of  Ath'  ns. 
Tlie  mo.lern  name  is  Mount  Mendeli.  An  inniv-iinf-; 
cave  formed  by  the  (juarries  still  remains,  and  will  till 
the  end  of  time. 

Note  39.  Stanza  Ixxxix. 
When  Marathon  became  a  ma^nc  word — 
"  Siste,  viator — heroa  calcas  !"  was  the  ejiitapli  or 
the  famous  Count  .Merci  ; — what  then  must  be  oiu 
feelini's  when  standing  on  the  tumnhis  of  the  two 
hundr<;d  (Greeks)  who  fell  on  Marathon?  The  prin- 
cipal barrow  has  rectuitly  been  opened  by  Fauvel ;  tew 
or  no  relics,  as  vases,  etc.  were  fc»iind  by  the  excavator., 
The  plain  of  INIarathon  was  ofii-red  to  me  fi)r  sale  ai 
the  sum  of  sixteen  thousand  piastres,  about  nine  hun- 
dred pounds  !     Alas  ! — "  Kxpende — quot  librcu,  in  du'^o 


CIIILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


217 


kinimo — invcnios?" — was  the  dust  of  IVIiltiailcs  worth 
no  more ''  it  could  scarcely  iiave  fetched  less  if  sold  by 

PAPERS  REFEllRED  TO  BY  NOTE  33. 

Ri  tore  I  sav  any  tiling  about  a  city  of  which  every 
^ot^,  ir:i\.'ller  or  a;>t,  lias  thonjiht  it  necessary  to  say 
sonu'thin^',  I  uil!  request  Miss  Oweiison,  when  she  next 
Dorrows  un  AUieuiau  heroine  for  her  four  volumes,  to 
have  th(>  mio.hicss  lo  tnarry  her  to  soniebody  more  of 
a  aeiitleman  than  a  "  Disdar  A^^a"  (who  l)y  the  l)y  is 
not  an  a^a),  the  most  nnpolite  of  i)elty  oiho'rs,  tlie 
crieutesl  patron  oflarceny  Athens  ever  saw  (except  Lord 
E.),  and  \hv  unworthy  o(:cui)ant  of  the  Acropolis,  on  a 
haiuisome  aimuai  stipend  of  151)  piastres  (cighi  pounds 
sterling),  out  of  which  he  lias  onlv  to  pay  histininson, 
the  most  ill-regulated  corps  m  the  ill-rei;ulatfd  Otto- 
man Empire.  I  speak  it  tenderly,  seeing  I  was  once 
the  cause  of  the  husband  of  "Ida  of  Ath<-ns"  nearly 
sutferitia  the  !)astina(io;  and  because  the  said  ''Disdar" 
Is  a  turlu'lent  husband,  and  beats  his  wiib,  so  that  1 
e\!iort  and  beseech  Miss  Owenson  to  sue  for  a  separate 
maintenance  in  bt-half  of  "Ida."  Having  premised 
thus  much,  on  a  matter  of  such  import  to  the  readers 
of  romances,  I  may  now  leave  Ida,  to  mention  her 
birtli-place. 

Scttini;  aside  'he  magic  of  the  name,  and  all  those 
associations  which  it  would  be  p!,'<lantic  and  super- 
Huous  to  recaiutiihite,  the  verv  situation  of  Athens 
would  render  it  tlie  favourite  of  all  who  have  eyes  for 
irt  oi  nature.  Tlie  cliiaate,  to  me  at  least,  appeared  a 
perp(  tua!  spring' ;  during  eiiiht  months  I  mver  passed  a 
dav  without  bciuir  a-^  mraiy  liours  on  horseback:  rain 
;e  extremely  rare,  snov-.-  never  lies  in  tiie  )i!ains,  and  a 
cloudy  day  is  an  agreeable  rarity.  In  Spam,  Portugal, 
and  everv  pan  of  the  East  which  I  visited,  except  Ionia 
and  Attica,  I  perceived  no  siiuh  superiority  of  climate 
lo  our  oAii  ;  and  >it  Constantinople,  where  I  i>assed 
Mav,  .hme,  and  part  of  .July  (1810),  you  might  "damn 
the  <'.hmate,  ami  comiilain  of  spleen,"  hve  days  out  of 
seven. 

The  air  of  the  Morea  is  heavy  and  unwholesome,  but 
the  moiH'  lit  vou  [lass  the  isthmus  in  the  direction  of 
IMciiari,  the  change  is  strikingly  perceptilile.  Hut  I  fear 
Ilesiod  uiU  still  be  found  correct  in  his  description  of 
a  Ba'ofiati  winter. 

We  found  at  Livadia  an  "esprit  fort"  in  a  Greek 
bishop,  of  idl  free-thmkers !  This  worthy  hypocrite 
rallied  his  nwn  rdigi'iu  with  great  intrepidity  (but  not 
before  h'.s  dock),  and  talked  of  a  mass  as  a  "  coglio- 
ne-ia."  It  was  impossible  to  tliink  better  of  him  for 
this:  but,  for  a  P,a':>tia!!,  he  was  brisk  v.ith  all  his  ab- 
surditv.  '"iiis  phenomenon  (with  the  exception  indeed 
of  Thebes,  the  remains  of  Chirronea,  the  plain  of 
Plalea,  Orchomeiius,  Livadia,  and  its  nominal  cave  of 
Tr  .nhonius),  was  the  onlv  rtnuarkable  thing  wc  saw 
before  we  passed  Mount  Citha'ron. 

The  fountain  of  Dlrce  turns  a  mill :  at  least,  my  com- 
panion (who,  resolving  to  be  at  once  cleanly  and  clas- 
sical, bathed  in  it)  pronomiced  it  to  be  the  foiiiUam  of 
D.rce,  and  any  holy  who  thinks  it  worth  uhile  may 
c..iiiradi(  t  him.  At  Castri  \.e  drank  of  hah"  a  dozen 
streamlets,  some  not  of  the  purest,  b<-lore  we  decided 
to  our  satisfaction  which  was  the  true  Castahan,  and 
Rveii  tliat  had  a  villanous  twang,  prol)ably  from  the 
snow,  tliouLdi  it  did  not  throw  us  into  an  epic  fever 
like  poor  Doctor  Chandler. 

From  P^>ft  Phvle,  of  which  b-ge  remains  still  exist, 
(he  Plain  ot  Aniens,  Penlehcus,  Uy melius,  the  A\oea.n, 


and  the  Acrojiolis,  burst  upon  (he  eye  at  owce ;  m  my 
t»()inion,  a  more  glorious  prospect  than  ev(;n  Cintra  or 
Istambol.  Not  the  view  from  the  Tioad,  with  Ida, 
the  Hellespont,  aii<l  the  more  distant  Mount  Athos,  can 
coual  if,  though  so  superior  in  extent. 

I  heard  much  of  the  beauty  of  Arcadia,  but,  except- 
ing the  view  fi-om  the  monasterv  'yi  Megaspolion  (which 
is  inferior  to  Zit/.a  in  a  command  of  country),  ;iiid  the 
descent  from  the  mountains  on  the  way  from  Tri|iolit7.ri 
to  Argos,  Arcadia  has  little  to  recommend  it  Ujyond 
the  name. 

"  Stcinitur,  ct  ilulrrs  morions  reminiscilur  Ariios-" 
V^ir^il  could  have  put  this  into  the  mouth  of  none  hut 
an  Argive  ;  and  (with  reverence  b(!  it  spoken)  it  does 
not  deserve  the  epithet.  And  if  l!ie  Polynices  of  Sta- 
tins, "  In  me  liis  audit  duo  littora  cain|)!s,"  did  actually 
h(;ar  both  shores  in  crossing  the  isthmus  of  Corinth,  he 
had  better  ears  tlian  have  ever  been  worn  in  such  a 
journey  since. 

"Athens,"  says  a  celebrated  topoiirapher,  "  is  still  the 
most  polished  city  of  Greece."  Perha,)s  it  may  of 
(jrec-^c,  but  not  of  the  Greeks;  for  .loannina,  in  Epirus, 
is  universally  allowed,  amongs'  themselves,  to  be  supe- 
rior in  the  wealth,  reiinement,  learning,  and  dialect  of 
its  inhabitants.  The  Athenians  are  remarkable  for 
their  cunning  ;  and  the  lower  orders  are  not  im|)roperly 
characterized  in  that  proverb,  which  classes  tlusn  with 
"  the  Jews  of  Salonica,  and  the  Turks  of  the  iS'egro- 

[)Oht." 

Among  the  various  foreigners  resident  in  Athens, 
French,  Italians,  Germans,  Ragusans,  etc.,  there  was 
never  a  dide'rence  of  ophiion  in  their  estimate  of  the 
Greek  charactei,  though  on  all  other  topics  they  dis- 
ouied  with  <.'reai  acrimony. 

M.  Fiuvel,  'he  F'-eiM-h  consul,  who  has  passed  Jiiny 
years  principally  at  Athens,  and  to  whose  talents  as  a 
artist,  and  manners  as  a  gentleman,  none  who  havo 
known  him  can  refuse  their  testimony,  has  freciuently 
declared  in  my  hearing,  that  the  Greeks  do  not  deserve 
to  be  emancipated ;  reasoning  on  the  grounds  of  their 
"  national  and  individual  depravity,"  while  he  forgot 
that  such  dejiravity  is  to  oe  attributed  to  causes  which 
can  only  be  removed  by  the  measure  he  reprobates. 

IM.  RcKiue,  a  Frencii  merchant  of  respectability  long 
settled  in  Athens,  asserted  with  the  most  amusing 
i,nMVitv:  "Sir,  they  are  the  same  c«/iaiZ/e  that  existed 
i;i  the  (hi.i/s  of  Tliennstocles .'"  an  alarming  remark  to 
the  "  Laudator  temporis  acti."  The  ancients  banished 
Tli(!mistocles ;  the  moderns  cheat  Monsieur  Ro(}ue  : 
thus  i^real  men  have  ever  been  treated! 

In  short,  all  the  Franks  who  are  fixtures,  and  most 
of  the  Eiiglisiimen,  Germans,  Danes,  etc.  of  passage, 
came  over  bv  degrees  to  their  opinion,  on  much  the 
same  grounds  that  a  Turk  in  England  would  condemn 
t!ie  nation  by  v.holesale,  because  he  was  wronged  bj 
his  lac(piey,  and  overcharged  by  his  washerwoman. 

Certainly  it  was  not  a  little  staggering,  when  Kio 
SieursFauvel  and  Lusieri,  tiie  two  greatest  demagog  les 
of  the  day,  who  divide  beUveen  them  the  power  ol 
Pericles  and  the  popularity  of  Cleon,  and  puzzle  tho 
poor  Waywode  with  perpetual  ditferences,  agreed  lU 
th(!  utter  condemnation,  "  nulla  virtute  redemptum," 
of  the  Greeks  in  general,  and  'f  tiie  Athenians  in  par 
ticular. 

For  my  own  humlile  opinion,  I  am  loth  to  hazard  it, 
knowing,  as  I  do,  that  there  be  now  in  MS.  no  less 
than  hve  lonrs  -.  f  tlie  lirst  magnitude  and  of  the  most 
threatening  aspect,  all  in  typographical  array,  by  per 
sons  of  wit,  and  honour,  and  regular  commoiiDiace 
books :  hut,  if  I  may  say  .his  without  olfence,  it  seems 


:i8 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


to  me  ralhcM-  hard  to  declare  so  positively  and  pertina- 
ciously, as  almost  every  body  has  declared,  thai  the 
Greeks,  because  they  are  very  bad,  will  never  be  better. 

Eton  and  Sonnini  have  led  us  astray  by  their  pane- 
gyi  ics  and  projects  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  De  Pauw 
and  Thornton  have  debased  the  Greeks  beyond  their 
demerits. 

The  Greeks  will  never  be  independent;  they  will 
net'er  be  sovereigns,  as  heretofore,  and  God  forbid  they 
evei  sh'juid  !  but  they  may  be  subjects  without  being 
skives.  Our  colonies  are  not  independent,  but  they 
are  free  and  industrious,  and  such  may  Greece  be 
hereafter. 

At  present,  like  the  Catholics  of  irp-land,  and  the 
Je'.vs  throughout  the  world,  and  such  other  cudgelled 
and  heterodox  [)eople,  they  suffer  all  the  moral  and 
physical  ills  that  can  afflict  humanity.  Their  life  is  a 
struc^h;  against  truth;  they  are  vicious  m  their  own 
defence.  Thev  are  so  unused  to  kindness,  that  when 
tliey  occasionally  meet  with  it,  they  look  upon  it  with 
suspicion,  as  a  dog  often  beaten  snaf)s  at  your  fingers 
if  you  attempt  to  caress  him.  "  They  are  ungrateful, 
notoriously,  abominably  ungrateful!" — this  is  the  gen- 
eral crv.  Now,  in  the  name  of  Nemesis  !  for  what  are 
they  to  be  grateful?  Where  is  the  human  being  that 
ever  conferred  a  benefit  on  Greek  or  Greeks  ?  They 
are  to  be  grateful  to  the  Turks  for  their  fetters,  and  to 
the  Franks  for  their  broken  promises  and  lying  coun- 
sels. Thev  are  to  be  grateful  to  the  artist  who  engraves 
their  ruins,  t.ud  to  the  antiquary  who  carries  them 
away:  to  the  traveller  whose  janissary  flogs  them,  and 
to  the  pcribbler  whose  journal  abuses  them  !  This  is  the 
amount  of  their  obligations  to  foreigners. 


II. 

FranrAscan  Convent,  Athens,  January  23,  1811. 

Ami.ngst  the  remnants  of  the  barbarous  policy  of  the 
earlier  ages,  are  the  traces  of  bondage  which  yet  exist 
in  dillerent  countries  ;  whose  inhabitants,  however  di- 
vided in  religion  and  manners,  almost  all  agree  in  op- 
pression. 

The  English  have  at  last  compassionated  their  ne- 
groes, and,  under  a  less  bigoted  government,  may 
orobably  one  day  release  their  Catholic  brethren:  but 
llie  interposition  of  foreigners  alone  can  emancipate  the 
Greeks,  who,  otherwise,  appear  to  have  as  small  a 
chance  of  redemption  from  the  Turks,  as  the  Jews  have 
from  mankind  in  general. 

Of  the  ancient  Greeks  we  know  more  than  enough  ; 
at  least  the  younger  men  of  Europe  devote  much  of 
their  time  to  the  study  of  the  Greek  writers  and  history, 
which  would  be  more  usefully  spent  in  mastering  iheir 
own.  Of  the  moderns,  we  are  perhaps  more  negi.ctfu! 
than  tliey  deserve  ;  and  while  every  man  of  any  pre- 
tensiuns  to  learning  is  tiring  out  his  youth,  and  ofu  a  his 
Hi'c,  m  the  study  of  the  language  and  of  the  harangues 
of  the  Athenian  demagogues,  in  favour  of  freedom,  the 
;eal  or  supposed  df3scendants  of  these  sturdy  republicans 
are  left  to  the  actual  tyranny  of  their  masters,  although 
a  vcrv  slight  effort  is  rfupiired  to  strike  off  their 
chains. 

To  talk,  as  the  Greeks  tuf'niselves  do,  of  their  rising 
again  to  their  pristine  superiority,  would  be  ridiculous; 
as  tne  restof  the  world  must  resume  its  barbarism,  after 
••e-asserting  the  sovereignty  of  Greece  :  but  there  seems 
to  be  no  very  great  pbstacle,  except  in  the  apathy  of  the 
Pranks,  to  iheir  becoming  a  us(;ful  dependency,  or 
wen    a   free   state  with   a  prop  r   guarantee  ; — under 


correction,  however,  be  it  spoken,  foi   many  and  well 
informed  men  doubt  the  practicability  even  oi  this. 

The  Greeks  have  never  lost  their  hope,  though  ihev 
are  now  more  divided  in  opinion  on  the  subject  of  then 
probable  deliverers.  Religion  recommends  the  Russians; 
but  they  have  twice  been  deceived  and  abandoned  by 
that  power,  and  the  dreadful  lesson  they  received  after 
the  IVIuscovite  desertion  in  the  Morea  has  never  been 
forgotten.  Tne  J^rench  they  dislike  ;  although  the 
subjugation  of  tho  rest  of  Europe  will,  probably,  be 
attended  by  the  deliverance  of  continental  Greece 
The  islanders  look  to  the  English  tor  succour,  as  they 
have  very  lately  possessed  themselves  of  the  Ionian 
republic,  Corfu  excepted.  But  whoever  appear  with 
arms  in  their  hands  will  be  welcome  ;  and  when  that 
day  arrives.  Heaven  have  mercy  on  the  Ottomans;  they 
cannot  expect  it  from  the  Giaours. 

But  instead  of  considering  what  they  have  been,  and 
speculating  on  what  they  may  be — let  us  look  at  them 
as  they  are. 

And  here  it  is  impossible  to  reconcile  the  contrariety 
of  opinions  :  some,  particularly  the  merchants,  decry- 
ing the  Greeks  in  the  strongest  language  ;  others,  gen- 
erally travellers,  turning  periods  in  their  eulogy,  and 
publishing  very  curious  speculations  grafted  on  their 
former  state,  which  can  have  no  more  effect  on  their 
present  lot,  than  the  existence  of  the  Incas  on  the  fu- 
ture fortunes  of  Peru. 

One  very  ingenious  person  terms  them  the  "natural 
allies"  of  Englishmen  ;  another,  no  less  ingenious,  will 
not  allow  them  to  b(;  the  allies  of  luiy  body,  and  denies 
their  very  descent  from  the  ancients ;  a  third,  more  in- 
genious than  either,  builds  a  Greek  emjiire  on  a  Russian 
foundation,  and  realizes  (on  paper)  all  the  chimeras  of 
Catherine  II.  As  to  the  question  of  their  de-<ent,  what 
can  it  import  whether  the  Mainotes  are  liie  lineal  La- 
conians  or  not  ?  or  the  present  Athenians  as  indigenous 
as  the  bees  of  Hymettus,  or  as  the  grasshoj.pers,  to 
which  ihey  once  hkened  themselves?  What  English- 
man cares  if  he  be  of  a  Danish,  Saxon,  Norman,  or 
Trojan  blood  ?  or  who,  except  a  Welchman,  -s  afflicted 
with  a  desire  of  being  descended  from  Caractacus? 

The  poor  Greeks  do  not  so  much  abound  in  the  good 
thmgs  of  this  world,  as  to  render  even  their  claims  to 
antujuity  an  object  of  envy  ;  it  is  very  cruel  then  in  INIr. 
Thornton,  to  disturb  them  in  the  possession  of  all  that 
time  has  left  them;  viz.  their  pedigree,  of  which  they 
are  the  more  tenacious,  as  it  is  all  they  can  call  their 
own.  It  would  be  worth  while  to  publish  together,  and 
compare,  the  works  of  Messrs,  Thornton  and  De  Pauw, 
Eton  and  Sonnini ;  paradox  on  one  side,  and  jirejudice 
on  the  other.  Mr.  Thornton  conceives  himself  to  have 
claims  to  public  conlid(;nce  from  a  fourteen  years"  resi- 
dence at  Pera  ;  perha[)S  he  may  on  the  subject  of  the 
Turks,  but  this  can  give  him  no  more  insight  into  the  real 
state  of  Greece  and  her  inliabitants,  than  as  many  years 
spent  in  Wapping,  into  tliat  of  the  Western  Highlands. 

The  Greeks  of  Constantinoph!  live  in  Fanal  ;  and  if 
Mr.  Thornton  did  not  oftener  cross  the  Golden  Horn 
than  his  brothe.-  merchants  are  accustomed  to  do,  I 
should  place  no  greai  reliance  on  his  mtormation. 
actually  heard  one  of  diese  gentlemen  boast  of  their 
little  general  intercourse  with  the  city,  ami  assert  of 
himself,  with  an  air  of  triumph,  that  he  bad  been  bul 
four  times  at  Constantinople  in  as  many  years. 

As  to  Mr.  Thornton's  voyages  in  t!ie  Black  Sea  witr 
Greek  vessels,  they  gave  him  the  same  idea  of  Greece 
as  a  cruise  to  Berwick  in  a  Scotch  smack  would  of 
Johnny  Grot's  house.  I;po»  what  grountls  then  doc? 
he  arrogat  i  the  right  of  condemning  by  wholesale  a  bi,dy 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


219 


of  nini.,  ,)f  whum  he  can  krow  livtle  ?  It  is  rather  a  cu- 
rious circumstance  that  JMr.  'rhornton,  who  so  lavislily 
disjir;i;s('s  Ptucjucvi'lc  on  cvcrv  o(;casion  of  mentioning 
the  T'lrks,  has  vet  recourse  to  him  as  authority  on  the 
Greeks,  a:nl  ternv>  luin  an  iin|i;irtial  ohservi'r.  Now  Dr. 
Pouiju«'vii!<'  is  as  hlt'.e  entitled  to  that  appellation,  as 
Mr.  'I'h()!i,:on  to  confer  it  on  him. 

Tiie  (act  is,  we  are  tii.'plorahly  in  want  of  information 
on  llie  suliject  of  the  Greeks,  and  in  particular  their 
Ht<!;.t.;ri' ;  nor  is  there  any  probability  of  our  being  bet- 
ter a.cjjuaintRl,  till  our  intercourse  becomes  more  inti- 
mate, or  their  inde[)endence  confirmed :  the  relations  of 
passini;  travellers  are  as  little  to  be  depended  on  as  the 
invectives  of  angry  factors;  but  till  something  more 
can  be  attained,  we  must  be  content  with  the  little  to 
be  acquired  from  similar  sources.' 

However  defective  these  may  be,  they  are  p/eferabJe 
to  the  paradoxes  of  men  who  have  read  superficially  of 
the  ancients,  and  seen  nothini;  of  the  moderns,  such  as 
De  Pauw  ;  who,  when  he  asserts  that  the  British  breed 
of  horses  is  ruined  by  Newmarket,  and  that  the  Spar- 
tans were  cowards  in  the  field,  betrays  an  e(jual  know- 
ledge of  English  horses  and  Spartan  men.  His  "phi- 
losophical observations"  have  a  much  better  claim  to 
the  title  of  "  poetical."  It  could  not  be  expected  that 
he  who  so  liberally  condemns  some  of  the  most  cele- 
brated institutions  of  the  ancient,  should  have  mercy  on 
the  modern  Greeks :  and  it  fortunately  happens,  that 
the  absurdity  of  his  hypothesis  on  their  forefathers  re- 
futes his  sentence  on  themselves. 

Let  us  trust,  then,  that  m  ?\nte  of  the  prophecies  of 
De  Pauw,  and  the  doubts  of  Mr.  Thornton,  there  is  a 
reasonable  l>>?  of  the  redemption  of  a  race  of  men, 
wiio,  w  hatever  may  be  the  errors  of  their  religion  and 
policy,  have  been  amply  punished  by  three  centuries 
and  a  half  of  captivity. 

III. 
A'hefis,  Frann^ran  Convent,  March  17,  1811. 
.niist  have  some  talk  with  this  learned  Tbeban." 

Some  time  after  my  return  from  Constantinople  to 
this  city,  I  received  the  thirty-first  number  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  as  a  great  favour,  and  certainly  at  this 
di^tance  gn  acceptable  one,  from  the  Captain  of  an 
English  friiiate  olf  Salamis.  In  that  number.  Art.  3, 
containiniT  the  review  of  a  French  translation  of  Strabo, 

I  A  word,  en  pussatit,  with  Mr.  Thornton  and  Dr.  Pouque- 
vifie,  who  have  been  guilty  between  them  of  sadly  clipping 
the  Sultan's  Turkish. 

Dr.  PiMKincvillc  tells  a  lone  story  of  a  Moslem  who  swal- 
lowed p<irr;>sivc  sublimate,  in  such  quantities  that  he  acquired 
the  na;iie  of  "  Suli-iu/itiii  J>i/f7j,"  i.  o.  quoth  the  doctor, 
*'  Sidei/iiiiiii.  the.  eater  of  carrosive  siiMiniat.e.'"  "Aha," 
thinks  .Mr.  Tliornton,  (an^ry  with  the  doctor  for  the  fiftieth 
tin)e)  "  have  1  cautrht  yoe  7" — Then,  in  a  note  twice  the 
thickno>s  of  the  doctor's  anecdote,  he  questions  the  doctor's 
prefi'ieiicy  in  the  Turkish  tonfiue,  and  ids  veracity  in  his  own. 
— "  Tor."  ohservcs  Mr.  Thornton,  (after  intlictin??  on  us  the 
lofiL'h  p  irticipie  of  a  Turkish  verb),  "it  means  nothin?  more 
tlian  Siilciniuin  the  eaier,^^  and  quite  cashiers  the  supple- 
mentary ■'  siihli  III  lite.''  Now  both  are  right  and  both  are 
wrong.  If  Mr.  Thornton,  when  ho  next  resides  "fourteen 
vears  in  tke  factory,"  will  consult  his  Turkish  dictionary,  oi 
ask  any  of  nis  Stamboline  acquaintance,  he  will  discover  that 
"  Siil">i,iiii'ii  i/ei/ni,"  put  together  discreetly,  mean  the 
"  Sirnll  'ii-pr  of  subliiiinte,''  without  any  "  Sylevman"  in  the 
case  "  Sidri/iiia"  signdying  "  corrnsive  suhlhiiate,"'  and  not 
bein  J  y  proper  name  on  tiiis  occasion,  although  it  be  an  or 
thodox  name  enough  with  the  addition  o!"  n.  After  Mr 
Thonii. Ill's  iVequent  hints  of  profound  orientalisrn,  he  michl 
have  fo  id  this  out  befbrn  he  sang  sue!'  pieans  over  Dr. 
Pouq<ieville. 

After  this.  I  think  "  Travellers  versus  Factors"  shall  be 
our  motto,  thougfi  the  above  .Mr.  Thornton  has  condemned 
"hoc  genus  oinne,"  for  mistake  and  niisrepres'^ntation.  "  Ne 
Butor  ultra  crepidam,"  "No  merchant  beyond  liis  bales." 
N.  B.  For  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Thornton  "  Sutor"  's  not  a 
proner  name. 


there  are  introduced  some  remarks  on  the  inodem 
Greeks  and  their  literature,  with  a  short  account  of 
Coray,  a  co-translator  m  the  French  version.  On  those 
remarivs  I  mean  to  ground  a  few  obst.rvations,  and 
the  spot  wlure  1  now  write  will,  1  hope,  be  suthciem 
excuse  for  introducing  them  in  a  work  in  some  degree 
connected  with  the  subject.  Coray,  the  most  L^elebratcd 
of  living  Greeks,  at  least  among  the  Franks,  was  born 
at  Scio  (in  the  Review  Smyrna  is  stated,  I  have  reason 
to  think,  incorrectlv),  and,  besides  the  translation  of 
Heccaria,  and  other  works  mentioned  by  the  review(;r, 
has  published  a  lexicon  in  Romaic  and  Frencli,  if  I  may 
trust  the  assurance  of  some  Danish  travelb  rs  lat(dy 
arrived  from  Paris  ;  but  the  latest  we  have  seen  here 
in  French  and  Greek  is  that  of  Gregory  Zo!ikn;:looii.  • 
Coray  has  recentlv  been  involved  in  an  i:ii|)leasant 
controversy  with  M.  Gail,-  a  ParisKiu  commciit.vtor  and 
editor  of  some  translations  from  the  Greek  poets,  in 
consequence  of  the  Institute  having  awarled  him  the 
prize  for  his  version  of  Hi|)])Ocrates  "  !!?,;(  m'«T-wv," 
etc.  to  the  disparagement,  and  conseiiueiitl\  (lis]de;^sure, 
of  the  saivlGail.  To  liis  exertions,  literiuy  an  '  j'airiotic. 
great  praise  is  undoubtedly  due,  but  a  part  of  that  praise 
ought  not  to  be  withheld  from  the  two  brothers  Zosimado 
(merchants  settled  in  Leghorn),  who  sen'  him  to  Paris, 
and  maintained  hiin,  for  the  express  purpose  ol'  eluci- 
dating the  ancient,  and  adding  to  the  modern  rese;u-ches 
of  his  countrymen.  Corav,  however,  is  not  considered 
by  his  countrymen  ecpial  to  some  w!io  lived  in  the  two 
last  centuries  :  more  particidarly  Dorotlieiis  of  Mitj'- 
lene,  whose  Heilenic  writings  are  so  nicrh  esteemed  by 
the  Greeks,  tliat  .Meieiuis  terms  him,  "  Mtr  i  rb\ 
OovKvcirriv  Ku]  "Ezi'Oil'm'rn  iiiuaroq  'EAa)'/kj)1'."  (P.  224. 
Ecclesiastical  liistorv,  vol.  iv.) 

Panagiotes  Fvodnkas,  the  translator  of  Fontenelle, 
and  Kainarases,  who  translated  Ocellus  Lucanus  on 
the  Universe  into  French,  Christodoulus,  ami  more 
particularly  Psalida,  whom  i  have  conversed  with  in 
Joannina,  are  also  in  high  repute  among  their  literati. 
The  last-mentioned  has  ptd^lished  in  llomaic  and  Latin 
a  work  on  "  True  Happiness,"  dedicated  to  C;;therine 
11.  B'.t  Polyzois,  who  is  stated  by  the  reviewer  to  be 
the  only  modern  except  Coray,  who  has  distinguished 
himself  by  a  knowledge  of  Hellenic,  if  he  be  the  Poly- 
zois Lampanitziotes  of  Yanina,  who  has  pubiished  a 
number  of  editions  in  Romaic,  was  neither  more  nor 
less  than  an  itinerant  vender  of  books  ;  with  the  con- 
tents of  which  he  had  no  concern  beyond  his  name  on 
the  title-page,  placed  there  to  secure  his  ])roperty  in  tlie 
publication,  and  he  was,  moreover,  a  man  utterly  des- 
titute of  scholastic  acquirements.  As  the  name,  how- 
ever, is  not  uncommon,  some  other  Polyzois  may  have 
edited  the  Epistles  of  Arista;netus. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  system  of  continental 
blockade  has  closed  the  few  ciiaimels  through  which 
the  Greeks  received  their  publications,  particularly 
Venice  and  Trieste.  Even  the  common  grammars  fo* 
children  are  become  too  dear  for  the  lo\N('r  orders. 
Amongst  their  original  works,  the  Geography  of  iNIele- 
tius,  Archbishop  of  Athens,  and   a  multitude  of  theo 

1  1  have  in  my  possession  an  excellent  Lexieen  ^p** 
j'Au)<7(rov,  which  I  received  in  exrliang»  from  S.  G — ,  Esq. 
for  a  small  gem  :  my  antiquarian  friends  have  never  forgotten 

t,  or  forgiven  me. 

2  In  Gail's  pamphlet  against  (.'oray,  he  talks  of  "  throwmg 
tiie  insolvent  Helleniste  out  ol'  the  windows."  On  this  a 
French  critie  exclaims,  ".Ah,  my  Ge.d  1  throw  a  Heiieniste 
out  of  the  window!  what  sacrilege  !"  It  .eriainly  would  bo 
a  serious  business  for  those  authors  who  u.veil  in  tlie  attics: 
but  1  have  quoted  the  passage  merely  to  prove  me  =miilaritj 
<d' style  among  the  controversialists  of  all  polished  countries 
London  or  Edinburgh  could  nanWy  parallel  this  Par  8U> 
ebuUitioa 


220 


BYEON'S    rOETTCAL    WORKS 


■oaicjil  qicartos  and  pootica.  pamphlets,  are  to  be  met 
\vrtb  •  their  grimmars  and  lexicons  of  two,  three,  and 
four  languages,  are  numerous  and  excellent.  Their 
poetry  is  in  rhyme.  The  most  singular  piece  I  have  lately 
se<!n,  is  a  satire  in  dialague  between  a  Russian,  Eng- 
lish, and  French  traveller,  and  the  Waywode  of  VVal- 
lachia  (or  Blackbey,  as  they  Icrni  him),  an  archbishop, 
a  merchant,  and  Cogia  Bachi  (or  primate),  in  succes- 
sion ;  to  all  of  whom  under  the  Turks  the  writer  attrib- 
utes their  present  degeneracy.  Then-  songs  are  some- 
times pretty  and  pathetic,  but  their  tunes  generally 
nnpleasing  to  the  ear  of  a  Frank  :  the  best  is  the  famous 
•*  Afi'Ts:  n-:?fkj  Twv  'EXXvvwv,"  by  the  unfortunate  Riga. 
But  from  a  catalogue  of  more  than  sixty  authors,  now 
before  me,  only  fifteen  can  be  found  who  have  touched 
on  any  theme  except  theology. 

I  am  intrusted  with  a  commission  by  a  Greek  of 
Athens,  named  Marmarotouri,  to  make  arrangements, 
if  possible,  for  printing  in  London  a  translation  of  Bar- 
ihelenii's  Anacharsis  in  Romaic,  as  he  has  no  other 
opportunity,  unless  he  despatches  the  MS.  to  Vienna 
by  the  Black  Sea  and  Danube. 

The  reviewer  mention.s  a  school  established  at  Heca- 
tonesi,  and  suppressed  at  the  instigation  of  Scbastiani; 
he  means  Cidonies,  or,  in  Tm-kish,  Haivali  ;  a  town 
on  the  continent  where  that  institution,  for  a  hundred 
students  and  three  professors,  still  exists.  It  is  true, 
that  this  establishment  was  disturbed  by  the  Porte,  under 
the  ridiculous  pretext  tliat  the  Greeks  were  constructing 
a  fortress  instead  of  a  college;  })nt  nn  investigation, 
and  the  payment  of  some  purses  to  the  Divan,  it  has 
been  permitted  to  continue.  The  f)rin{-i|)al  professor, 
amed  Veniamin  (i.  e.  Benjamin),  is  stated  to  be  a 
man  of  talent,  but  a  free-thinker.  He  was  born  in 
Lesbos,  studied  in  Italy,  a^id  is  master  of  Hellenic, 
Latin,  and  some  Frank  languages,  besides  a  smattering 
of  the  sciences. 

Though  it  IS  not  my  intention  to  enter  farther  on  this 
tojiic  than  may  allude  to  the  article  in  question,  1  can- 
not but  observe  that  the  reviewer's  lanKutation  over  the 
fall  of  the  Greeks  apfiears  singular,  when  he  closes  it 
with  these  words  :  "  the  change  2s  to  be  nllrUnded  to  their 
nihfortimes,  rather  than  to  any  physical  degradation.^'' 
It  may  be  true,  that  the  Greeks  are  not  physically  de- 
generated, and  that  Constantinople  contained,  on  the 
day  when  it  changed  masters,  as  inanv  men  of  six  feel 
and  u|)wards,  as  in  the  hour  of  prosperity  ;  but  ancient 
history  and  modern  politics  instruct  us  that  something 
more  than  physical  perfection  is  necessary  to  preserve 
a  state  in  vigour  and  independence  ;  and  the  Greeks, 
,n  particular,  are  a  melancholy  example  of  the  near  con- 
nexion b(;tween  moral  degradation  and  national  decay. 
The  reviewer  mentions  a  |)lan,  "  we  Ijelievt,^''  by  Po- 
temkin,  foi  the  purification  of  the  Romaic,  and  I  have 
endeavoured  in  vain  to  |)rocure  any  tidings  or  traces  of 
its  existence.  There  was  an  academy  in  St.  Petersburg 
for  the  Greeks:  liut  it  was  supjjressed  by  Paul,  and  has 
not  been  revived  by  his  successor. 

There  is  a  slij)  ofthc  [len,  and  it  can  only  be  a  slip  of  the 
pen,  in  p.  58,  No.  xxxi,  of  the  Kdmburgh  Review,  where 
these  w( vjs  occur  : — "  We  arc  told  that  v.lien  the  (capi- 
tal of  tl»'  East  yielded  to  SnlyiDiuP'' — It  niay  be  jire- 
sumed  tnat  this  last  word  will,  ui  a  future  edition,  bf 
altered  to  Mahomet  II. '  The  "  ladies  ..f  Constantinople," 
it  seems,  at  tlial  |)eriod  s  loke  a  dialect,  "  whith  woula 


I  In  a  former  nuinbiir  of  tlw  I'diiiliurch  Ifi'vicu,  IHIS,  it  is 
obsi^rvcfl,  "Lord  IJyron  pasKc^d  smrK'  ol"  his  t:\r\y  yens  in 
■^f.oliaiid,  wlicni  Ik;  tiiidlil  Iihv<'  Iciuiicd  lli:il  inhi-nrli  ddcs  not 
mean  a  Im^'/ii/ir.  any  mori?  ihiw  diitt  nii  aiis  wfuhlic."  (iiiciy, 

'Yas  It  ivi  Sc<iliaiiJ  that  Uie  young  Keiitletnoii  of  ilie  Kdin 


not  have  disgraced  the  h[)s  oi  m  Athenian-"'  I  Jo  no, 
know  how  that  miglit  be,  hut  am  sorry  to  say  the  ladiei 
in  general,  and  the  Athenians  in  !>art;cu;ar,  are  much 
altered;  being  ar  li-om  ciioice  e.lher  in  tlieu- diali.'Ct  or 
exjiressions,  as  the  whole  Attic  race  are.  barb .vroiis  to  a 
proverb : 

''  ii  Ad>]va  -fiuD]  ;^w,/a 

Ti  yai()a[jovi  rpziptii  rMfja  y^ 

In  Gibbon,  vol.  x.  p.  161,  is  the  following  sentence:— 
"  The  vulgar  dialect  of  the  city  was  gross  and  barbarous, 
though  tlie  compositions  of  the  church  and  palace  some- 
times affected  to  copy  the  purity  of  the  Attic  models." 
Whatever  may  be  asserted  on  the  subject,  ii  is  diHicuit 
to  conceive  that  the  "  ladies  ol"  Constantiuoide,"  in  the 
reign  of  the  last  Caisar,  spoke  a  purer  dialect  then  Anna 
Comnena  wrote  three  centuries  before  :  and  those  royal 
pages  are  not  esteemed  the  best  model.-;  orco:uj;osition, 
although  the  ()rmcess  yXbOTTuv  cix^v  .Mvi'lBiZX  Attiki- 
^ovddv.  In  the  Fanal,  and  in  Vanina,  the  best  Greek 
is  spoken:  in  the  latter  there  is  a  tlourishmg  ochooi 
under  the  dir(^ction  of  Psalida. 

There  is  now  in  Alliens  a  pupil  of  Psalida''-.  v  ho  is 
making  a  tour  of  observation  through  Greec  ;  '  e  is  in- 
telligent, and  better  ediKMted  than  a  fellow  c'/ininoiiei 
of  most  colleges.  I  mention  this  as  a  \)ro  n  that  t.^ie 
spirit  of  iiujuiry  is  not  doiinaiit  amongst  th'   Greeks. 

The  reviewer  menlioiis  Mr.  Wright,  the  .r.llio;- of  (he 
beautiful  poem  "  Horif  louica;,"  as(|ualiriei  to  give  de- 
tails of  these  nominal  R-jtuans  and  degeii(.;ate  Greeks, 
and  also  of  their  language:  but  Mr.  Wri,;jhi,  ihouijb  a 
good  poet  and  an  able  man,  has  made  a  mistake  "  here 
he  states  the  Albanian  dialect  of  the  Rc-maic  to  app.oxi- 
mate  nearest  to  the  Hellenic:  for  the  Albanians  speak 
a  Romaic  as  notoriously  corrupt  as  the  Scotch  of  Aber- 
deenshire, or  the  Italian  of  Naples.  Vanina  (wjiere, 
next  to  Fanal,  the  Greek  is  purest),  although  tliu 
capital  of  All  I'acha's  dominions,  is  not  in  Al!)ania  bal 
Epirus;  and  Ixn'ond  Delvinachi  in  Albania  Prcpc.  up 
to  Argyrocasfro  and  Tenaleen  (beyond  uhich  I  i;d  not 
advance),  they  speak  worse  Greek  than  i  ven  the  Athen- 
ians. I  vas  attended  for  a  year  and  a  half  bv  two  ol 
these  singular  mountaineers,  whose  mother  toii<rue  is 
Illyric,  and  I  never  heard  them  or  their  countrymen 
(wiiom  1  liiiv(!  seen,  not  only  at  home,  bi.t  to  the  amount 
of  twenty  thousand  in  thi!  army  of  Veli  ?ac!ia)  praised 
for  their  Greets,  but  often  laughed  a*  for  their  provintaal 
barbarisms. 

I  have  in  my  ])ossession  about  twenty-five  letters, 
amongst  v.hicli  some  from  the  Pey  of  Corintli,  written 
to  me  by  Notaras,  llie  Cogia  B.'jLi,  and  others  by  the 
dragoman  of  the  Caimacam  ol  ine  Morea  (which  last 
govern'^  in  Veli  Pacha's  abs'.;nc.-)  are  said  to  be  favour- 
able speciuH^ns  of  their  epiSUj^ary  style.  I  also  received 
some  at  ConstantiiiopU  f.-cm  private  persons,  writter 
in  a  most  hyperbolic".!  style,  but  in  the  true  anticjiie 
character. 

The  reviewer  proceeds,  after  some  re.  «irks  on  the 
tongue  in  its  i)a,>t  and  present  state,  to  a  paradox  (page 
59)   on  the  great   mischief  the  knowledge  of  his  o-vn 


btii-i:li  llrv-aw  l,i,rnnl  th 


que 


Th. 


Siiliimiiii  nutans  .Malmmit  II.  any 
'nJaUi!.,ln!j?—\>n\  thus  it  is, 
itn  prii'beiiius  crura  sai,Mliis." 
iiipli'tidv  a  hi[)se  ol'  tht;  pen  (from 


tl'c  iiroal  .■'iiiiihl.r/li/  lit'  Wut  Iwo  words,  and  llii-  lot.il  ,il, 
(if  rr.  iir  Irv.m  llw  ibrincr  pa;res  of  llic  lilciary  Icviallian),  iIhU 
1  sliould  iiavt"  [)as.~fd  it  ovrr  as  in  llic  i.^xi.  had  I  not  pi'r«-fivc(l 
in  the  Kdnd.nisrh  Kwicw  much  laceiions  .■xultaiion  o.i  all 
sncli  (h'lfciiof.r,  carlicala.riy  a  rfci-ni  one,  wiicre  words  and 
syllai)lcs  ari'  stilijrcis(;f  d:s(iuisiii(in  and  triinspo.silion  ;  and  tho 
al)ovc-mcnlioiii'd  f)arah('l  |)assaL'c  in  my  own  cast!  irrcsislihly 
propi'll('(i  uic.  to  hint  liow  much  riisicr  it  is  to  he  critical  Iliau 
corrcil.  Thi'  ^intliiiien,  liavinu'  enjoyed  miiiiy  ;i  triinti/ih  or 
nuch  viclorie.s,  will  hardly  ht):;rud(jc  me  a  glijjht  ovation  fo 

lliU  DlUSliUt. 


CIIILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGU  IMAGE. 


221 


jangiiage  has  done  ic  Corav,  nho,  it  seems,  is  less  likely 
to  uudt  rstaiid  the  auoiein  GreeU,  l)ecause  he  is  p(Mi'ecl 
f'laster  oi'the  iiiu  iei.i !  'J'his  obserwitioii  t'olloAs  a  pora- 
iffapli,  riMH):ijmeii<lii);j,  in  explicit  terms,  the  study  o!' 
the  Ivoiiiaie,  as  •'  a  powerful  auxiliurv,"  not  only  to  the 
traveller  and  iorci^rn  merchant,  hut  also  to  the  classical 
scholar;  in  short,  to  every  body  except  the  only  person 
Vsli.)  c;in  he  t!i(>roii:j;h.ly  accpiauited  witii  its  uses:  and 
b-  ;',  [Mr:;y  orri^isoninir,  our  old  hm^niage  is  conjectured 
to  iie  prii'.iahly  UKM-e  altainahle  hy  "  foreii^ners"  than 
b\  o'as>  !vi>  !  Now  I  am  inclined  ui  thnik,  tliat  a  Dutch 
Tyro  in  our  tongue  (albeit  himsell  of  Saxon  bloood) 
would  be  sadly  perplexed  with  "  Sir  Tristreni,"  or  any 
other  given  "Aucliinlech  IMS."  with  or  without  a  gram- 
mar or  glossary  ;  and  to  most  apprehensions  it  seems 
evi(k'nt,  that  none  but  a  native  can  aecjuirewcompetent, 
far  less  complete,  knowledge  of  our  obsolete  idioms. 
We  may  give  the  critic  credit  lor  his  in<ieiiuity,  but  no 
more  believe  him  than  we  do  Smollett's  Lismahago,  who 
mainfaiiis  (hat  the  purest  English  is  spoken  in  Edin- 
burgh. That  Coray  may  err  is  very  possible  ;  but  if  he 
does,  the  fault  is  in  the  man  rather  than  in  his  mother 
tongue,  which  is.  as  it  ought  to  be,  of  ihe  greatest  aid 
to  the  native  student. — Here  the  Reviewer  proceeds  to 
business  on  Strabo's  translators,  and  here  I  close  my 
remarks. 

Sir.  W.  Drummond,  I\Ir.  Hamilton,  Lord  Aberdeen, 
Dr.  Clarke,  Captain  Leake,  Mr.  Geli,  Mr.  Walpole, 
and  manv  others  now  m  England,  have  all  the  requisites 
to  fiiriiisli  details  of  this  fallen  people.  The  few  obser- 
vaiioiis  1  have  offered  I  should  have  left  wliere  I  made 
hem.  had  not  the  article  in  question,  and,  above  all, 
ne  spot  where  I  read  it,  induced  me  to  advert  to  those 
pages,  which  the  advantage  of  my  jtresent  situation 
er.abieu  me  to  clear,  or  at  least  to  make  ti;e  attempt. 

1  have  endeavoured  to  waive  the  personal  feelmgs 
which  rise  in  despite  of  me  in  touching  ujion  any  part  of 
the  E  linburgh  Rc\'iew  ;  not  from  a  wish  to  conciliate 
the  favour  of  its  writers,  or  to  cancel  the  remembrance 
of  a  syllable  I  have  formerly  published,  but  simply  from 
a  sense  of  the  impropriety  of  mixing  up  private  resent- 
ments w  ith  a  dis(juisition  of  the  present  kind,  and  more 
particularlv  at  this  distance  of  time  and  place. 

ADDITIONAL  NOTE,  ON  TliP.  TIUIKS. 

The  difficulties  of  traveUing  in  Turkey  have  been  much 

exaggerated,  or  rather  have  considerably  diminished  of 

late  years.     The  Mussulmans  have  been  beaten  into  a 

kind  of  sullen  civility,  very  comfortable  to  voyagers. 

It  is  hazardous  to  say  much  on  t!ie  subject  of  Turks 
an  I  Turkey;  since  it  is  possible  to  live  amongst  them 
tw(  iitv  veyrs  without  acquiring  information,  at  least 
froH  themselves.  As  far  as  my  own  slight  experience 
carried  me,  I  have  no  complaint  to  make;  but  am  in- 
(h.l.t'-d  for  many  civilities  (1  might  almost  say  for 
fr,(:i:!s'iiij)),  and  much  hospitality,  to  Ah  Pacha,  his  son 
Voli  Piirha  of  the  More;i,  and  several  others  of  high  rank 
ii.  the  provinces.  Suleyman  Aga,  late  Governor  of 
Athens,  and  now  of  Thebes,  was  a  ban  liinnt,  and  as 
social  a  being  as  ever  sa'  cj5)ss-legged  at  a  tray  or  a 
t.i>ile  During  the  carnival,  when  our  English  party 
WCT  3  .nasquerading,  both  himself  and  his  successor  were 
more  happy  to  "receive  masks"  than  any  dowager  in 
G  ros  verior-scpiare. 

Oii  one  )cc.ision  of  his  su[)ping  at  the  convent,  his 
fricnil  :u>d  visitor,  the  Cadi  of  Thebes,  was  carried  ii-oni 
l.nijle  perfectly  (jualified  for  any  club  in  Christendom, 
while  the  worthy  Waywode  himself  triumphed  in  his 
.hll. 

Ir.  ill  money  transactions  with  ihe  Moslems,  1  ever 


found  the  strictest  lionf)ur,  the  highest  disinterestedness. 
In  transacting  business  wiiii  them,  there  are  none  d 
those  dirty  pe<;u!at:ons,  under  the  name  of  interest,  dif- 
ference of  exchaiijfe,  commission,  etc.  etc.,  umtbrmly 
found  in  applying  to  a  Greek  consul  to  cash  bills,  even 
on  the  first  houses  in  Pera. 

With  regard  to  presents,  m  jstablishf'd  custom  in 
the  East,  ycu  will  larelv  find  vonr.^clf  a  loser;  as  oiie 
worth  acceptance  is  generally  returned  by  aiu)iht;r  cf 
similar  value — a  horse  or  a  sha\vl. 

In  thw  ca]  ital  and  at  court  the  citizens  and  courtiers 
are  formed  in  the  same  school  with  those  of  Christian 
ity ;  but  there  does  not  <  xist  a  more  honourablo 
friendly,  and  high-  spirited  character  than  the  true  Turk 
ish  provincial  Agu,  or  Moslem  countrv  g(Titleman.  It 
is  not  meant  herf  to  designate  the  govern(>rs  of  towns, 
but  those  Agas  who,  by  a  kin.i  of  feudal  tenure,  possess 
lands  and  houses,  of  more  or  less  extent,  in  Greece  and 
Asia  Minor. 

The  lower  orders  are  in  as  tolerable  discipline  as 
the  rabble  in  co  intries  with  greater  liietensions  to 
civilization.  A  Moslem,  in  walking  the  streets  of  <Hir 
country  towns,  would  be  more  incommoded  in  England 
than  a  Eran!;  in  a  siniilar  situation  in  Turkey.  Regi- 
mentals are  the  best  travellini^  dress. 

The  best  accounts  of  the  religion,  and  different  sects 
of  Islaimsm,  mav  be  found  in  D'Olisson's  French  ;  ol 
their  manners,  etc.,  perhat>s  in  Thorton's  English.  The 
Ottomans,  w  ith  all  their  defects,  are  not  a  people  to  be 
despised.  Equal,  at  least,  to  the  Spaniards,  tlipy  are 
superior  to  tlie  Portuguese.  If  it  be  difficult  to  pronounca 
what  they  are,  we  can  at  least  say  w  hat  they  are  not . 
they  are  not  treacherous,  they  are  no!,  cowardly,  they 
no  not  burn  her  ?tics,  they  are  not  assassins,  nor  has  an 
enemy  advanced  to  i/(t'/r  capital.  Thev  are  faichful  U 
their  sultan  till  he  becomes  unfit  to  govern,  and  devou 
to  their  God  wilhout  an  inquisition.  Were  they  driven 
from  St.  Sophi  i  to-morrow,  and  the  French  or  Russians 
enthroned  in  their  stead,  it  would  become  a  question, 
whether  Europe  would  gain  by  the  exchange.  England 
would  certain  y  be  the  loser. 

With  rega  d  to  that  ignoran<-u  ui  which  they  are  so 
generally,  ard  sometimes  justly,  accused,  it  may  be 
doubted,  alw&ys  excepting  France  and  England,  in  what 
useful  points  of  knowledge  they  are  excelled  by  other 
nations.  Is  it  in  the  common  arts  rf  life  ?  In  tlieir 
manufactures  "^  Is  a  Turkish  sabre  inferior  to  a  Toledo  ? 
or  is  a  Turk  worse  clothed  or  lodged,  or  fed  and 
taught,  than  a  Spaniard  ?  Are  their  Pachas  \^orse  edu- 
cated than  a  grandee''  or  an  Et'.ndi  than  a  Knight  ol 
St.  .Jago?     I  think  nrt. 

I  remembf^r  IMahmout,  the  nrandson  of  Ali  Pacha, 
askiuij  whether  my  fellow-travelh  r  and  nnself  were  m 
the  upper  or  lowt  r  House  of  Farliament.  Now  this 
question  from  a  bov  of  ten  yiars  old  proved  that  his 
education  h^d  not  been  neglect(\l.  It  may  he  double 
if  an  English  boy  at  that  age  knows  tlie  difference  of 
the  Divan  from  a  College  of  Dervises  ;  hut  I  aiif  verj 
sure  a  Spaniard  does  not.  How  little  Mahmo-  t.  snr 
rounded,  as  he  had  been,  entirely  b}-  his  Turkish  tutors 
had  learned  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  parlia- 
ment, It  "ere  useless  to  conjecture,  unless  we  suppose 
that  his  instructors  did  not  conhne  his  studies  to  the 
Koran. 

In  all  the  rnosques  there  are  scnods  estnl-lisl'.efi 
which  are  very  regularly  attended;  and  the  poor  are 
tauglit  without  the  church  of  Turkex  being  put  into 
peril.  I  believe  the  system  is  not  yet  printed  (tnougn 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  Turkish  press,  and  books 
piiwted  on  the   late  mililarj    institution   jf  the  Nizan 


222 


BYEOX'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Gedidd):  nor  have  I  heard  whether  the  Mufti  and  the 
.Mollas  have  subscribed,  or  the  Caimacam  and  the 
Tefterdar  taken  the  ahirm,  for  fcar  the  ingenuous 
youth  of  the  turban  should  be  taught  not  to  "  pray  to 
(iod  ilieii  way."  The  Greeks,  also — a  kiijd  of  Eastern 
Irish  papists — have  a  college  of  ^hcir  own  a*  ^laynooth 
— no,  at  Haivali ;  where  the  heterodox  receive  much 
the  same  kind  of  countenance  from  the  Ottoman  as 
the  Catholic  college  from  the  English  legislature.  Who 
shall  then  affirm  that  the  Turks  are  ignorant  bigots, 
when  they  thus  evince  the  exact  proportion  of  Chris- 
tian charity  which  is  tolerated  in  the  most  prosperous 
and  orthodox  of  all  possible  kingdoms  ?  But,  though 
they  Lillow  all  this,  they  will  not  suffer  the  Greeks  to 
participate  in  their  privileges:  no,  let  them  fight  their 
battles,  and  pay  their  haratcb  (taxes),  be  drubbed  in 
this  world,  and  damned  in  the  next.  And  shall  we 
then  emancipate  our  Irish  Helots?  Mahomet  forbid ! 
We  should  then  be  bad  Mussulmans,  and  worse  Chris- 
tians ;  at  present  we  unite  the  best  of  both — ^Jesuitical 
faith,  and  something  not  much  inferior  to  Turkish 
toleration. 

APPENDIX. 


AMoxf5ST  an  enslaved  people,  obliged  to  have  recourse 
vO  foreign  |)resses  even  for  their  books  of  religion,  it  is 
less  to  he  wondered  at  that  we  find  so  few  publications 
on  general  subjects,  than  that  we  find  any  at  all.  The 
whole  number  of  the  Greeks,  scattered  up  and  down 
the  Turkish  empire  and  elsewhere,  may  amount,  at 
most,  to  three  millions;  and  yet,  for  so  scanty  a  num- 
oer,  it  IS  impossible  to  discover  any  nation  with  so 
great  a  pro[)Ortion  of  books  and  (heir  authors,  as  the 
Grt-eks  of  the  present  century.  *' Av,"  but  say  the 
generous  advoCiaes  of  oppression,  who,  while  they  as- 
sert the  ignorance  of  the  Greeks,  wish  to  prevent  them 
frot;i  dispelling  it,  "  ay,  but  these  are  mostly,  if  not 
all,  e("clesiasli(;al  tra  ;ts,  and  consequently  good  for 
nothing."  Well!  and  pray  what  else  can  they  write 
abt)ut?  It  is  pleasant  enough  to  hear  a  Frank,  partic- 
ularly an  Englishman,  who  may  abuse  the  govern- 
ment of  his  own  country ;  or  a  Frenchman,  who  may 
abii-^e  every  government  excep't  his  own,  and  who  may 
range  at  will  over  every  philosophical,  religious,  scien- 
tific, sceptical,  or  moral  subject,  sneering  at  the  Greek 
legends.  A  Greek  mttst  not  write  on  politics,  and  can- 
not touch  on  science  for  want  of  instruction;  if  he 
doubts,  he  is  excommunicated  and  damned  ;  therefore 
nis  countrymen  are  not  poisoned  witli  modern  philoso- 
phy ;  and,  as  to  morals,  thanks  to  the  Turks!  there  are 
no  such  things.  What  then  is  left  him,  if  he  has  a  turn 
''or  scribbling  ?    Religion  and  holy  biography  :   and  it  is 

utural  (mough  that  those  who  have  so  little  in  this  life 
should  look  to  the  next.  It  is  no  great  wonder  then  that 
in  a  catalogue  now  before  me  of  fifty-five  Greek  wri- 
ters, many  of  whom  were  lately  living,  not  above  fifteen 
should  have  touched  on  any  thing  but  religion.  The 
catalogue  alluded  to  is  contained  in  the  twenty-sixth 
fliapterof  the  fourth  volume  of  Meletius's  Ecclesiastical 
History.  From  this  I  subjoin  an  extract  of  those  who 
lave  written  on  general  subjects  ;  winch  will  he  followed 
by  some  specimens  of  the  Romaic. 

LIST  OF  ROMAIC  AUTHORS.' 

Neophitus,  Diakonos  (the  deacon)  of  the  Morea,  has 
lul'lished  an  extensive  grammar,  an'.l  also  some  [>olici- 

1  It  is  to  li<!  <)l)Sf'r\"(l  that  the  naiui  «  ir'Vfti  an-  not  n  oliro 
noimif.-il  order,  but  coii-isi  (if  swinc  selrctcd  .-if  ii  vciiiiirf?  (Voin 
diiMir.L'st  those  who  H'.iiri-li'd  ''r.i;)i  fhu  inking  of  Ci.h-tuiitj 
'"•••lie  'o  till!  t  lie  oC  Mck'ini;, 


cal  regulations,  which  last  were  left  unfinished  at  his 
death. 

Prokopitis,  of  Moscopolis  (a  town  in  Epirus),  haa 
written  and  [lublished  a  catalogue  of  the  learned  Greeks. 

Seraphin,  of  Periclea,  is  the  author  of  many  works 
in  the  Turkish  language,  but  Greek  char-icter,  for  the 
Christians  of  Caramania,  who  do  not  speaK  RomalC; 
but  read  the  character. 

Eustathius  Psalidas,  of  Bucharest,  a  physician,  made 
the  tour  of  England  for  the  purpose  of  stndj-  {ydf  :v 
fiadrjcTEws)  :  but  though  his  name  is  enumerated,  it  is 
not  stated  that  he  has  written  any  thing. 

Kallinikus  Torgeraus,  Patriarch  of  Consluntinoplo 
many  poems  of  his  are  extant,  and  also  prose  tracts, 
and  a  catalogue  of  patriarchs  since  the  last  takin^  oi 
Constantinofjrle. 

Anastasius  Macedon,  of  Naxos,  member  of  the  royal 
academy  of  Warsaw.   A  church  biographer. 

Demetrius  Pamperes,  a  Moscopolite,  has  written 
many  works,  particularly  "  A  Commentary  on  Hesiod's 
Shield  of  Hercules,"  and  two  hundred  tales  (of  what  ig 
not  specified),  and  has  published  his  correspondence 
with  the  celebrated  George  of  Trebizond,  his  contem- 
porary. 

Meletius,  a  celebrated  j'eographer ;  and  author  of  the 
book  from  whence  these  notices  are  taken. 

Dorotheus,  of  Mitylenc,  an  Aristotelian  pliiloso])her  : 
his  Hellenic  works  are  in  great  repute,  and  he  is  esteemed 
by  the  moderns  (I  quote  the  words  of  Meletius)  jjicra 
rbv  OovKvoi()r]v  Kat  'Ecvo<pC)vTa  dpi<rog  fcAA?/j'wv.  1 
add  further,  on  the  authority  of  a  v,ell-informed 
Greek,  that  he  was  so  famous  amongst  his  countrymen, 
that  they  \\ere  accustomed  to  sav,  if  Thucvdides  and 
Xeiiophon  were  wanting,  he  was  capable  of  repairing 
the  loss. 

Marinus  Count  Tharboures,  of  Cephaloma,  professor 
of  chemistry  in  the  academy  of  Padua,  and  member  of 
that  academy  and  those  of  Stockholm  and  Ujisal. 
He  has  published,  at  Venice,  an  account  of  some 
marine  animal,  and  a  treatise  on  tlie  properties  of 
iron. 

Marcus,  brother  to  the  former,  famous  in  mechanics. 
He  removed  to  St.  Petersburg  the  immense  rock  on 
which  the  statue  of  Peter  the  Great  was  fixed  in  1769. 
See  the  dissertation  which  he  published  in  Paris,  1777. 

George  Constantino  has  published  a  four-longued 
lexicon. 

Geor^'e  Ventote ;  a  lexicon  in  French,  Italian,  and 
Romaic. 

1'here  exist  several  other  dictionaries  in  Latin  and 
Romaic,  French,  etc.,  besides  grammars,  in  every 
modern  language,  except  English. 

Amongst  the  living  authors  the  following  are  mos 
celebrated  :' — 

Athanasius  Parios  has  written  a  treatise  on  rhetoric 
in  Hellenic. 

Christodoulos,  an  Acarnanian,  has  published,  in  Vi- 
enna, some  physical  treatises  in  Hellenic. 

Panagiotes  Kodrikas,  an  Athenian,  the  Romaic  trana 
later  of  Fontenelle's  "  Plurality  of  Worlds  "  (a  favourite 
work  amongst  the  Greeks),  is  stated  to  be  a  teacher  of 
the  Hellenic  and  Arabic  languages  in  Paris,  in  both  uf 
which  he  is  an  adept. 

Athanasius,  the  Parian,  author  of  a  treatise  on  rhet 
oric. 

Vicenzo  Damodos,  of  Cephalonia,  has  written  "tis 
rd  /..f7()^V/'/-^)rj/)r)r,"  on  ktgic  and  physics. 

.John   Ka;iiaras<;s,  a   By/.ai:tine,   has  translated  intt 


HIS  are  not  uik.(;r  t'roia  any  pablicaUoO' 


CTTTLDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


223 


French  Ocellus  on  the  Universe.  He  is  said  to  be  an 
'excellent  Hellenist  and  Latin  scholar. 

Greo-orio  DonKMnus  i)ui)lislied,  in  Vienna,  a  geo- 
^ra[)liical  work :  In  has  also  translated  several  Italian 
authors,  and  printed  his  versions  at  Venice. 

Of"  Coray  and  Psalida  some  account  has  been  aheady 
(riven. 


GREEK  WAR  SONG.i 
L 

AEY  TE  T:nUsi  ru>i'  'EXMv^v, 

As  </>()Kli/j£i'  u^iui  Iksivcov 
~ov  ^/rtj  (iwaav  rijv  apy)jv> 

Af  iTaT)i(Tu>nev  nvrpeidjs 
Tov  C^vybv  Ti)<;  rvpiivvihos. 

Kfide  ovciSug  atayijov. 
T«  OTrXu  (7?  \dl>u)ii£v' 

naloss  'EAXvi'itiv,  ayioficvm 
TloTnnii'dv  f^OjjuJv  rd  aJ/ia 

a'{  Tpf^lj   vzo  TTO^uiv. 

2. 
Odev  tlaBz  tQv  K^\/jv'J)v 

kSkkuXii  itv^penoufva  J 
Tli'ei'paTu  f(TKo,:-i(rpifva^ 

~(i)p(i  Ai/^'frr  TTvorjv  ; 
S   n)v  <pujl'))y  -r/c  (T(i\T7iyy6s  {iOV 

crvvayOttTE  n\(t  oi^ov. 
Tiiv  f 77 r «' A o (/)(>!•  y/rf?r£;, 

Kal  ViKare  rrpd  Truvror. 

Ta  5-Xa  (?j  XdCuipiEv^  etc. 
3. 
Y'dpra,  'E.zapTii,  t'i  Koifiaaat 

VTTVQV  \i']9iipyov,  0advv  ; 
^oTTi'tiaov,  Kpd!^e  Adi'n'iiSf 

(Tvpptiy^ov   -(iirnreiv/jV. 
ilvOvpijCuv    AiMi'Si'W 

TOV  ai'^'/s  {-at.i£f.iiviiv, 

p()t)£pUV    Knl    TpOptfjOV. 

Td  orrXa    tTj    XaSiD/jicv,   etC 


6  77011  fh  rdi  OqtpoTzx'Xiis 

TToXEpov  tivroi   Kporel, 
Kiu  Toi  s  n£pnni  ndavi^ci 

K'U  (ivru>v  KUTtiKparu. 
Mf  TpKiK'icriovs  di'?ipag, 

elg  TO  Kfi'TpDv  -po^wpel, 
Km,  us  Xiiov  $-ifjn,>fifvogj 

£jj  rd  (upd   rioi    flovTEi. 

Td  -jTrXa  aj  Xdf'i'jyptv,  etc. 


ROMAIC  EXTRACTS. 

4jcans,  AyyXo?,  koi  YdXXog  Kapvovrrq  ti]v  TTCpiTJyyaLv 
TTJs  'EAAui^os,  Kal  i^Xi-ovres  rt)v  cidXiuv  t!']v  Knrd-f 
ffT'iTtv,  elpiorrjaav  K(iTiip-)^d.s  'iva  VpaiKOV  <pi\(XXr]va 
?.id  vn  nd'^ovv  Tin'  aiTtnv,  p£T  (ivtov  £pii  i-riTpnr:i)Xirr]v, 
tiTi  'iva  iiXdxpi-tilVi  l-£iTii  £va  irpuypaT£VTiiv  Kul  aev 
TpoEtrrcDra. 

EtVf  /las,  o;  (piXiXXr]V(i,  77ws  (pfp£ti   Triv  (TitXaSiav 
khI  rhi  nraprjydpriTDv  tiov  TovpXtj)v  rvptiyviav, 
tC?  Tills  ^v'^'iU  Kai  vf)piap'>vs  *"'  aihiipnhcapiav 


I  A  translation  of  this  song  will  be  found  in  vol.    ii.  p. 


TTHf'Awv,  TrapOfvuyv,  yvvat»cuiv   avrJKovarTov  ipOopctnv 
Afv  £7X6'  fCTfTs  d^oyovoi  iK£ivo)v  rail'  EXAjji'wv 
rail'  fX£vdfpijt)v  ku\  co^pdv  kuI  tuiv  (piXoTTiiTpu'iMv, 
Kal  77Ws  (Kilvd,.  d-iOvtiOKOv  yid  -iiv   tX£vd£piav 
Kul  Tu)pa  [(Tili    v-uKuadi  Eis  TiT-jiav  rvpai'iiav, 
Kal  -olov  yivoc  Jjj  htls  iarddi]  '^:>iTiapivov 
tti  rfiv  aujUiv,  (^.vvapiv,  eh  K    6\(.  i,<iKovcu^i'OV 
TTU)^  vrr  inarii(Tr)'](j(tT£  ti)v  <pijJTivi]v   'E.XXdha. 

ihll'li  !      .')?    'iva     (TKlXtdi^DV,    I'lS    (TKOTtll'l)v     A(I(i77a^a.-> 

O/u'Aft,  'pi\T.iT£  rpiiiKi,  £i-i  pas 

Htl   KuV-T]li    TITTUTLS     t'lpHVf    Xv£   T()» 


6  'MAE-AAH^OS. 


TuiCT-ayyXo-ydXX 

nror.  hx;  A/rt,  -oan 

vhv  If  dOXia,  Kill  dva^ia 

«:/)'  III'  np^iaiv  rj  ajxaOia. 

oa'  iiu-itpit^n^iv  vd  Tt]v  t,v~i'tjaj] 

TiwT  fiV  ~"  x^^i""' ''"'''''  ^'^'/yor^ffj. 

avrti     (TT£l'd^£l,    TU    TlKVa     Kpdi^ll, 

arb  in  ■7puK6~rovv   liXa   Trpncrrd^Ei, 

Kal   rCT     fX-l(^£l    OTl     K£p^il^£l 

l'p£1i  fK£h'o  -oTi  TTjv  (pXoyi^ci. 


■      k 


,    EAAiZJ,    Kill    0)(^l 

p£y'iXi/. 


jaA;<^ 


M.J  b(7Tis  ToXp)'ia£i  vd  niv  ^VT:vi]ar] 
xdy£i  crbv  uhiV  X^i^i-S  riva   Kpiaiv. 

The  above  is  the  conimencenient  of  a  long  dramatic 
satire  on  the  Greek  priesthood,  princes,  and  gentry  ;  it 
is  conteinptible  as  a  composition,  but  |)erhaps  curious 
ai.a  specimen  of  their  rhyme  ;  I  have  the  whole  m  MS. 
but  ihis  extract  v.il!  be  foimd  sufficient.  The  Romaic 
in  this  composition  is  so  easy  as  to  render  a  version  an 
insult  to  a  scholar ;  but  those  who  do  not  understand 
the  original  will  excuse  the  following  bad  translation  of 
what  is  in  itself  indifferent. 

TRANSLATION. 

A  Russian,  Enghshman,  and  Frenchman,  making  the 
tour  of  Greece,  and  observing  the  miserable  state  of 
the  country,  interrogate,  in  turn,  a  Greek  patriot,  to 
learn  the  cause  ;  afterwards  an  Arclibishop,  then  a 
Vlackbey,'  a  Merchant,  and  Cogia  Bachi  or  Primate. 

Thou  friend  of  thy  country!  to  strangers  record 

Why  bear  ye  the  yoke  of  the  Oiioman  lord  ? 

Wliy  bear  ye  these  fetters  thus  tamely  display'd, 

The  wrongs  of  the  matron,  the  slripliiij?,  and  maid! 

Tlie  descend.-mts  of  Hellas's  race  are  not  ye  ! 

T'le  puiiot  sons  of  the  sage  and  the  free. 

Thus  ^prung  from  the  blood  of  the  noble  and  brave, 

To  vilely  exist  as  the  Mtissulmon  slave! 

\ot  sii.-h  wt're  the  fath2rs  your  annals  can  boast, 

Wlio  (MHiiiier'd  and  died  for  the  freedom  vou  lost ' 

Notsiicli  was  your  land  in  her  earlier  hour. 

The  il  ;y  star  of  nations  in  wi^dom  and  power! 

And  •^lill  will  you  thus  unresisting  increase. 

Oh  shaiiieful  dishonour !  the  darkness  of  Greece'.' 

Then  !t  .1  us,  beloved  Achapan  !  reveal 

The  cause  of  the  woes  which  you  cannot  conceal. 

The  reply  of  the  Philellenist  I  have  not  translated,  as 
it  is  no  better  than  the  question  of  the  travelhng  trium- 
virate ;  and  the  above  will  sufficiently  show  with  what 
kind  of  composition  the  Greeks  are  now  satisfied.  1 
trust  I  have  not  much  injured  the  original  in  the  few 
lines  given  as  faithfully,  and  as  near  the  "  Oh,  Mists 
Bailey!  untortiinaie  Miss  Bailey!"  measure  of  the 
Romaic,  as  I  could  make  them.  Almost  all  their  pieces, 
above  a  song,  which  aspire  to  the  r  ame  of  poetry,  con- 
tain exactly  the  quantity  of  feet  of 
"  A  captain  bold  of  Halifax  who  lived  In  country  quarters 

which  is,  in  fact,  the  present  heroic  couplet  of  the  Ro 
maic. 


1  Vlackbey,  Prince  of  Wallachia 


224 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


SCENE  FROM  'O  KA^I-EN^S. 

T:^ANSf.ATED    FROM    THE    ITALIAN    OF    GOLDONI 
BY    SPIRIDQN     VLANTI. 

I'KHNH    KF. 

flAATZIAA  £(?  rm'  rroprav  tov  '^aviov.,  Koi  o'l  aviuQtv. 

ITAA.  il  Gff !  aiTO  to  -apaOvpi  fiov  f(//«i'>/  va  aKo>'"r{)) 
ir,\  fioi'fiv  Tcv  av(\i6i  poV  nv  ahroi;  clvui  f(5w,  £(l>Oao  f 
xaijjbv  i-a  rhv  ^evTjjo-mnryu}.  [Kvyaii'ei  £i'a?  ^oTiXog  «,.j 
ro  ijiyaari'ifn.]  lln^iKiijii.,  tt/s  /.luv,  ci  T:up(tKa\u),  rrotbs 
7v<n  tKu  els  iKiivovs  rovg  oprdSsg; 

AOTA.  Tjjui  ^(pi'jcni'.oi  ai'(\pcg.  Kvui  b  Kvp  Evyt 
V(Of,  h  rVXAos  h  Kvp  yidp-iog  NEaTroXtraros,  Ka]  b  rpirns 
6  Klip  KdvTC  AiiiV^po<  Kp?.(VTrig. 

IIAA.  Kvajxcaa  dg  avrovs  (5lv  eivat  b  '\}\ap\viog,  av 
'5f.iwg  (Vif  aAA'r^Ei'  oiopa. 

AEA.  ?^^.^  '^i)  ]:  KuX))  ri';^??  rov  Kvp  Kvyciiov.  [Jli- 
Vu:vTag.] 

OAOI.      N«  (f/,  va  ^7j. 

IIAA.  AvTog  liv'u  h  (iv^oai;  jxov  •y^wp'ti;  «AAo.  Ka\( 
aV9uir£,  KiijU  jxov  njv  X'lph  ^n  ^f  (nvTuoipdxrrjg  a-dvm 
tls  avTovg  tuvs  (5(,'j£v-^'i'^j,<;,  o-oFi  &i\w  vd  Tovg  irai^u}  piav. 

[ripOf   TOV   OOrAoi'.] 

AOY.  Opiapos  era';'  {avvrjOioph'nv  dtpcpiKiov  rdv  Sov- 
\£vtCjv.)  \Trjv  ip-ni^Ei  d-b  to  cpyucTi'ipi  tov  ~ai- 
yv^ho^A 

PI  A.    Knphin,  Kapihn,  KapcTe  Ka'Xfiv  Kitp^tdv,  ^fv  ilvai 

TlyOTFg.     [Tlpbg  T1]V    BiTTopmv.] 

BIT.  i-lyio  (iladih'opm  -o);  aTreQuivLO.  [Y.vvip-^ETai 
'Ig  701'  (avTOV  Trjg.] 

[A~b   Tfi    -iipdOvpa    Tfov    dvTnhu)v    ctxilvovTai    !)\oi, 
OTToTi  ai/Kovu'VTui  d~b  to  Tpurrt^i  cvy^icrpivoi.  Sid 
TOP    (a^hrKTi^ov    TOO     Ardvi^pov     lS}fVMvrag     Tf]v 
XWdit^thii,  Kill   (^lut]  avTog  hii-^vzi   ttws  3-Af(  vd 
Tnv  c'xn'ti'fT!/.! 
Etr.      6x',  aradTjTt. 
MAP.      Mi>  KdpvcTt... 
AEA.    Sz/K-w,  (,6)'yf  «"'  f''^'^- 

nAA.  B().>;Oaa,  /3o.>/6aa  {'\nvyti  d-b  t>iv  (tkuXuv,  b 
Kiavhp'^g^i\n  vd  r,ji'  aKoAouO//(r//  pf  to  (T7:no9i,  kui  h  Evy. 
Tiiv  (jnard.] 

[TPA.  Mf  eva  ridTo  pe  (payl  ng  /"''H'  "fr^'-a  nrjS^ 
d-b  -rb  -apnOvpi,  Kiu  (l,ei)yu  ui  tov  Ka^peri.] 

rjAA.  Khyaivec  dzb  to  ipyr.ffTtipi  tov  T:aiyvi6iov 
rpix'^vTag,  K<n  ^ivya  eh  to  X"''''-J 

'Etr.  Mf  nppaTu  dg  rA  x^P^  'i'°^  oin(f>ivT£vaiv  Trig 
nAar^((k?,  havnov  .roT'   Acdvt^pov,    h-ou    Tnv   KUTciTpi- 

[MAP.  F.hyn'ivei  Km  avTbg  (Tiya  aiyn  a^o  tO  ipya- 
(TT^pi,  Ki\  (pevyei  Xiyivvrag-  Rumores  fuge.j  [Vovpdpeg 
peoye.]  ' 

[0(  Aor,A';(  d-b  Tb  epyaaTfioi  drepvovv  dg  r3  x^vi, 
Kol  KXeLorv  rhv  rop-rav.] 

[HIT.       Mh'zi    elg    rbv    Ka-pzv}    PorjOiipivr]    drrb    rbv 

Pj(^r5X(/)0V.] 

AEA.  AAffCTE  t6zov'  •SfAw  vd  eixPm  vd  epSu)  dg 
hdvo  70  x"'"''-     l^^^  ^^  °''^''^'  "^  '^  ^'''^'   havriov  tov 

Etr.  ()Xh  /")  yivoiTO  TTOTi-  dam  cvng  cKKrjpoKdp^og 
rav>iov  rTig  yi.vmK6g  cov,  Kui  iyd)  Se\u  Tf]v  SiapevrevaL. 
I.  dg  Tb  ''icrepov  (ilpa. 

\EA.  >JoD  K-ifi Vio  ODKOV  TTrjg  -S-f'Afi  Tb  pETavoiu)(Tt]g. 
[r.vviiyi}  ibv  IZhyivLov  /if  rb  a-(iOi.] 

fitr.  Aiv  Of  (liolUwpm.  [K«Tarpf:^££  rbv  Aiav^pov, 
Ku  rbv  (itd^Ei  vd  avpOi'i  OTriad)  t6(tov,  brov  EVp'iaKU)VTas 
avo  cr/V  Tb  c-iin  rTig  p^;o/)£urpia5,  epOaivei  dg  avrb,  #coi 
jm-:c  .] 


TRANSLATION. 

Plnt2idn,from  the  door  of  the  Hotel,  and  the  Otliei<>. 
Pla.  Oh  God  '  from  the  window  it  secmou  that  I 
heard  rnv  husband's  voice.  If  he  is  here,  I  have  arrived 
in  lime  to  make  him  ashamed.  {A  servant  enters  f^om 
the  Shop.]  Boy,  tell  me,  pray,  who  are  in  those  ch.  m- 
hers  ? 

Scrv.  Three  Gentlemen :  one  Signor  Eugenio ;  the 
ofh<!r  Signor  Martio,  the  Neapolitan;  and  the  tliirdj 
my  Lord,  the  Count  Leander  Ardenti, 

Pin.  Fiaminio  is  not  amongst  these,  unless  he  has 
clianged  his  name. 

Leander.  [JVithin,  drinking.]  Long  live  the  good 
fortune  of  Signor  Eugenio. 

[The  whole  company.]  Long  hve,  etc.  (Literally, 
Nri  ^',,  vd  C,f!,  May  he  hve.) 

Pla.  Without  doubt  that  is  my  husband.  [To  the 
Sen-.]  INIy  good  man,  do  me  the  ftivour  to  accomj)any 
me  above  to  those  gentlemen  :   I  have  some  business. 

Scrr.  Ai  your  commands.  [Aside.]  The  oid  office 
of  us  waiters.      [He  goes  out  of  the  Gaming-honse.] 

Ridolpho.  [To  Victoria  on  another  part  of  the  stage.] 
Courage,  courage,  be  of  good  cheer,  it  is  nothing. 

Victoria.  I  feel  as  if  about  to  die.  [leaning  on  him 
as  if  fainting.] 

[From  the  vAndoivs  above  all  v.ithin  are  seen  rising 
from  the  table  in  confusion :  Leander  starts  ai 
the  sight  of  Platzida,  and  appears  hy  his  gestures 
to  threaten  her  life.] 

Eif^enin.      ^n^  stop 

]M(trlio.      Don't  attempt 

Leander.     Aw  ay,  fly  from  hence  ! 
Pla.  Help!  ■H(;lp!    [Flies  down  the  stairs  :   Leander 
attempting  to  follow   with  his  sword,    Eugenio  hindcra 
him.] 

['JVappola  leith  a  plate  of  meat  leaps  over  the  balcony 
from  the  window,  and  runs  into  the  C'l/fee-tunise. 

[Platzida  nins  out  of  the  Gaming-house,  and  take 
shelter  in  the  Hotel.] 

[INIartio  steals  softly  out  of  the  Gaming-house,  and 
goes  oj/'exclrnming,  "Rumores  fugc."  The  Seriants 
from  the  Gn.ming-house  enter  the  Hotel,  and  shut  the 
door.  ] 

[Victoria  remains  in  the  Cq/ffC-house  assisted  by 
Rido'.plio.] 

[Lc-dnL\e\;sv)ordinhnnfl,  opposite  Eugenio,  exchnms,] 
Give  way — I  will  enter  that  hotel. 

Eugenio.  No,  that  shall  nev(!r  be.  You  are  a  scoun- 
drel to  vour  wife,  and  I  will  defend  her  to  the  last  drop 
of  my  blood. 

Leander.  I  will  give  you  cause  to  repent  this.  [Men- 
acing a-ith  his  sirord.] 

Eu<j,enio.  I  fear  you  not.  [He  attacks  Leander,  aiid 
makes  him  give  bark  so  much  that,  fading  the  door  oj 
the  dancing  girPs  house  open,  Leander  escapes  through, 
and  sofnisl'cs.]^ 


'    A6yo(  \aTtnKbg,   hirov  &i\ti   vd   d-rr-jj-    -pcvys  raic 


'  'Eoyverm — "fiiiislics" — awkwardly  cnotiiih,  but  it  \a 
the  literal  truiisl:iti(>n  of  the  Romaic.  The  ori^'iniil  of  thi» 
comedy  of  Goldoiii's  I  never  read,  but  it  does  not  appear  one 
of  his  best.  "II  iJusriardo"  is  one  of  the  most  lively,  bull 
do  not  rhiiik  it  has  Ikmmi  liiinsiaicd  into  Romaic  :  .t  13  much 
■  more  amiisins:  di;in  our  own  "  l.iar,"  by  Foole.  'Jlie  char- 
acter of  l.clio  is  better  drawn  diau  Youni;  Wildiuir.  Gol- 
(loni's  comedies  amount  to  fifty-  some  perhaps  the  best  in 
Europe,  and  others  the  worst.  IIis  U'h.  is  also  out;  of  the  best 
specimens  of  auiohiotrraphy,  and,  11s  Cibbnii  has  observed, 
"more  dramatic  than  an\  of  his  plays."  The  ahove  sci  lie 
was  selected  as  conliiinmu'  some  of  tne  most  fnmiliar  Romaic 
id.iome,  not  for  any  wit  which  it  displays,  since  there  is  mora 
df.iu'  than  said,  the  itreaterpart  <:.,iisistiii!;  of  stafze  directions. 
The  oiipiniil  a  one  of  tb<^  few  cpuiedies  by  (Joldoni  which  »o 
without  the  bufToonery  of  the  speaking  Harlequin. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRI^IAGE. 


225 


AlA'Al^rOl    OIKlAKOt.  PWMILIAR  DIALOGUES. 

lia  i'«c|?/r>}(T)/?  h'd  TTpayna.  To  a.-^k  for  any  thing. 
Y.d<;  vupdKiiACo,  i)6at:Ti  jxc  av  I  pray  yon,  give  me  if  you 

(Sfji^fTf.  please. 

tijiirt  ue.  Bring  mo. 

Aitjfo^rf  u£  Lend  me. 

n  ;y  livi  rf  vn  i^iiT)i<Tcre.  Co  to  seek. 

T  :>jn  tilli'i.  Now  directly. 

il  -iKi'ilit,  fiuv  Ki'inE,  K(insTi  My  dear   Sir,  do  me  this 

u£  (niriw  Tiiv  xdiHV.  favoin". 

E/(i)  (Jui  -npuKdXiT).  I  entreat  you. 

Kyo  las  ii,oiiK<i^io.  I  conjure  you. 

E)'u  ffas"  ~o  (,'1''^  1^"'  xtipiv.  I  ask  it  ofyou  as  a  favour. 

Yr:(>y^j)ii,[)iji:r(  jiL  dg  rocov.  Oblige  me  so  much. 

A6yia  ti)ijriKa,  i]  ayd-)]s.  AjTectionatc  expressions. 

Zo;v  /"h;.  INIy  lite. 

AKjiiiiii  poll  4'VX''''  ^^y  '-^^'^^  ^^"^' 

Ay<i->iTt  pov,  (iKiJiGf  Liov.  INly  dear. 

Kr(/>('(7^a  fAov.  INIy  heart. 

Ayu-'ii  1.10b.  iNly  love. 

Aia     I'd    Ev^apiar'iaiig,    vH  'I'o  thank,  paij  comphnients^ 

Kilpiji      viiu-oiiiirci,     Kat  and  testify  regard. 
^nXiKiHi  (^ei^ibjGeg. 

Eyo  ailg  £t/;^a/ncTa}.  I  thank  you. 

Y.(1i  ynoj/i^io  xiiptv.  I  return  you  thanks. 

"Hui    uivu     h-6xi>Eog    Kara  I  am  much  obliged  to  j^ou. 
TToyA.i. 

E/w   c-f'Aw    TO    Ki'ipei    fxcTa  I  will  do  it  with  pleasure. 

Mj  y'>';i  pov  r>]v  Kn(,()iav.  With  all   my  heart. 

Mf  Ktiy  'v  iurj  Kupoiav.  JMost  cordially. 

Sic  Jp  ti  hTij^iJCog.  I  ain  ohhat^d  to  you. 

Qiji .(  c,Vo§-  f^KOi  (Tui.  I  am  wholly  yours. 

FT^.u  ojvXog  aag.  I  am  your  servant. 

T-t.:f(i  ('•rarog  fiorAoc  Your  most  humble  servant. 

E.ff7i  A-.cra  -oXAd  ti'iyEviKOf.  You  are  too  obliging. 

IIvAAd  -tijuii^tadc.  You  take  too  much  trouble. 

To  hv'j   cki  ;^'«/ytij/  iiov   vd  I  have  a  pleasure  in  serv- 

Tug  i)niA€\)Gu).  ilig  you. 

ETart  evyt.  iKog  Kui  ci-iTpoa-  You  are  obliging  and  kind. 

vyopjg. 

Al'Ti)  <h,u  -npi-nov.  That  is  right. 

T(  cf  Airi  ;  What  is  j-our  pleasure? 

T(  o,j(i|;-r4: ;  What  are  your  commands? 

Shs    -ap(iK(i\ui    vd   f.u  fXE-  I    beg  you   will   treat   me 

Tiij^Etiji^iffOi  fXivGcpa.  freely. 

Xiij/tg  -cjjt-oi>i(r;g.  Widiout  ceremony. 

^dg  dya-uj  f(  oXr/g  fxov  icap-  I    love    you    with    all   my 

ciug.  heart. 

K.'/(  eyib  hpoiijog.  And  I  the  same. 

Tijii'icnri   pE   pf    raig   izpo-  Honour     me     with     your 

rrTuyatg  crag.  commands. 

E  XETS  Ti-oTEg  vu  ne  -rpo-  Have  you  any  commands 

crdi,ETi  i  for  me? 

1\iio<r-rdi,iTi  Tov  ^oTfXov  aag.  Command  your  servant. 

Ofoo-z/f i!j      rag      npoaaydg  i  wait  your  commands. 

M«  icdi.vETe  ynydXiiv  ti^u'jv.  You  do  me  great  honour. 

iid-jcj^]l    Tzeoi-oiijatg,    adg  N<j1  so  much  ceremony,  I 

-ruf  :iKa\u).  beg. 

Q/.i-o-zc'v/yotri       fV      fxepovg  Present  my  respects  to  thj 

pod    rbv    dpx'~>^''''h   ')    ''""*'  gentleman,  or  his  lord- 

Ki'pii.v.  ship. 

bEGaiiocrEri     tov    ttcDj     rbv  A'^sure  liim  of  my  remem 

h'dvpovpai.  brunce. 

iiiliiudxjETi     "iv     ffdjj     Tini  Assure  mm  of  my  friend 

aya'irC:.  ship. 

15 


Afv  -SAo)   ^EtxpCL  va  Tou  rd  \   wil  not  fail  to  ttll  hiin 

ciTTU).  of  it. 

npoaKvi'npard   pov    tig   r^jv  JNly    compliments     to    her 

dp^ovTiaffiiv.  ladyship. 

riiiytiivETE  (pirpoaOd  Kai  cdg  Go  before  and  I  willf>ll>w 

aKuXovOCii.  you. 

U^zh^u>  KdXdTo  Y/'fo?  pov.  I  well  know  mj  duty 

Il|tii/jco  TO  iJi'iii  puv.  I  know  my  situation. 

Me   KuuvETE   vd   ipTpfTdipui  You  coiifouiid  me  witf  as 

pi  Tulg   Tocraig    <pi\o(.ppo-  mucli  civility. 

avvmg  c(ig. 

OeXete  XoiTTov  vd  Kapiji)  piav  Would  you  hrne  me  tlion 

dxpti-<'>r>iT(i\  be  guiltv  of  an  incivility? 

Y-dyii)  Ip-poaOd  Jtd  vd  aug  I  go  beiort  to  obey  you. 

v~aKu('aij). 

Aid  vd  Kupu)  Tr,v  -pocxTayr/v  To  comply  with  your  com- 

aag.  maiid. 

Aiv  (iya-ijij  Tofsaig  rEpi-oi-  I  do  not  like  so  much  cer- 

ricreg.  emony. 

Aiv     Elpai     TE\ciu)g     iTEpi-  I  am  not  at  all  ceremoni- 

-oirjTiKog.  ous. 

AvTO  Elvai  TO  Ka\)'iTEpov.  This  is  better. 

Toaov  TO  Ka\>';TEpuv.  So  much  the  better. 

'E.^^TE  Xoyov,  E^^TE  StKuiov.  You  are  in  tne  right. 

Aid    I'd   /3i6''U(.j(T;/?,   vd    dp-    To  affirm^  deny^   consent^ 
v/jOi'ig,  vd   (TvyKaruvEvcjjgf  etc. 

ktX. 

EnvH   dXiiOiiov,  civai  dXrj-   It  is  true,  it  is  very  true. 

di(TT(lT'IV, 

Aid   I'd  adg  £t-w   rnv  aXr'r  To  tell  you  the  truth. 

Oeuiv. 

OvTdjg,  ctC/i  EivuL.  Really,  it  is  so. 

Xlolog  dpipdidXXEi  •  Who  doubts  it? 

Aiv  Eivai  TTuaCjg  dpcfjiCyoXia.  There  is  no  doubt. 

T«    -i(7TEV(jj,    c)£v    TO   Kia-  i  belicve   it,  1   do   not  bo- 

ra'uj.  lieve  it. 

Aiyu)  TO  vni.  I  say  \es. 

A/yw  TO  (ixi.  I  say  no. 

BdAAw  (jTiyijpn  on  eIv^i.  I  wager  it  is. 

BdXXojarixi/pii  otl  6iv  shai  I  wager   it  is  not  so. 

Nai,  pd  t>'iv  TTiaTiv  pov  Yes,  i)y  my  faith. 

Etg  T)iv  avvi.ii'^Jiiaiv  pov  In  conscience. 

Md  Tiiv  ^iD>'iv  pou.  By  my  life. 

Nut,  adg  opvv^).  Yes,  1  swear  it  to  you. 

Ydg    npvvb)   mguv  np^pivog  1  swear  to  you  as  aP  hon- 

dvOp^ii-og.  est  man. 

Y.dg    dpvvio    fzdvd)    e'lg  t^jv  I  swear  to  you  on  my  hon- 

Ttpi'ii'  puv.  our. 


YliaTEvacTE  u£. 


Believe  me. 


Hp-opio  I'd  crag  T(i  (^ECaLfoais).  I  can  assure  you  of  it. 

HOeXu   |3dAj/   aTix'lva   S,  n  I  would  lay  what   bet  you 

■S-iXete  (-id  TovTo.  please  on  this. 

Mrj     Tv^ri    Ka't    ddaTd^iaOi  You  jest  by  chance? 

{XoparevLTE); 

OpiXuTE  pi  rd  !')\n  crag  ;  Do  you  speak  seriously? 

EyioadgopiXCJ  pi  TdoXapov,  I  speak   seriously  to   yen, 

Kai  (Tag  Xiyin TnvdXrjOEiav.       and  tell  you  the  truth. 

Kyo)  crag  rd  (hiianhvij).       *  I  assure  you  of  it. 

To  izp()(ljiiTcv(XET£.  ■  You  have  guessed  it. 

To  f7ri7-ii')Y£~£-  You  have  hit  upon  it. 

'^dg  ^laTEVio.  I  believe  you. 

Upi-Ei  vd  cng  tictex'Chb.    '  I  must  believe  you. 

AvTo  oiv  Elvai  d()vvaTov.  This  is  not  impossihlfl 

T')  Xoi^bv  dg  eJvui  pi  KaXriv  Then  it  is  very  wcli. 

lojjav. 

K<iXd,  KaXA.  Well,  well, 

Aiv  tii'iu  dXijOi  6v.  It  IS  not  tiu«. 

Ehai  ip£v6is.  It  IS  false. 


226 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Afv  elvai  TizoTZi  aT:i  j.It6. 

T£va). 
flyio  7  0  iiTTucid  va  yeXddd), 
Tt)  a\>}Ou<f. 

Mf  UfjlGil    KUTtl    ToAArt. 

^vyKuTai'Cvio  clg  roTiTO, 
Ai^oi  ~hi'  ij-riOoifxav. 
Aev  di'TicTfKoudi  ug  tuvto. 
Kilj-iai     (ni^((/)(iJioj,    tK     avu' 
6u)vov. 

\-Zyu)  (v<ivTL<j)iofxai  tl;  rouro. 

Aid     I'd    ai'i^itjovXevOrj;,     vd 

CTo-^aadTii,   ij    vd  d-o(pa- 

Ti  -pf-£i  vd  Kdfxwpzv  ; 

Tj  i^re  K-jpiopev  ; 

T/  /(f  (jvptlovXevtTe  vd  Ka- 

/(w  ; 
O~owi'  rp6-nv  &i\o[iev  [jtera- 

X!:iin(jdij  t'lftih  ; 
"Aj  ndpiopzv  ET^rj. 

Elvai  KuXi'iTcpov  iyu)  vd 

ZraOnTC  oMyov. 

Aiv  iiOeXcv  ELvai   KaXt'jTipov 

vd ; 

Kyw  dya-ov<ya  KaXi'/Tcpa. 
OtXzTe  Kapci  KuXijTcpa  av — 
A.tprjacTf  pc, 
Av  i'lpavv  ch  TOP  t6-ov  oag^ 

{yib 

Elvai  TO  'Ihiov. 


There  is  nothing  of  this. 
It  is  a  falsehood,  an  impos- 
ture. 
I  was  in  joke. 

I  said  it  to  laugh. 

Indeed. 

It  pleases  me  much. 

I  agree  with  vou. 

I  ^ive  my  assent. 

I  do  not  oppose  this. 

I  agree. 

I  will  not. 
I  object  to  this. 
jTo  consult,  consider,  or  re- 
solve. 

What  ought  we  to  do  ? 
What  shall  we  do? 
What  do  you  advise  me  to 

do? 
What  part  shall  we  take  ? 

Let  us  do  this. 

It  is  better  that  I 

Wait  a  little. 

Would    it   not    be    better 

that ? 

I  wish  it  were  better. 

You  will  do  belter  if 

Let  me  go. 

If  I  were   in  your  place, 

It  is  llie  same. 


The  reader  by  the  specimens  below  wilt  he  enabled  to 
compare  the  modern  with  the  ancient  tongue. 

PA.RALLEL    PASSAGES  FROM   ST.  JOHN'S 
GOSPEL. 

fifOV.  kvOtVTlKVV. 

Kf(/)rt'A.  d  KecpdX.   d. 

1.  EIS  Tt)v  (ip)(i)v  tJTov  h  1.  EN  dp-)^r]  tjv  5  Xdyog, 
Xdyof  Kai  h  Xoyug  r'/Tov  pcrd  Kal  5  Xoyog  i)v  ~pdg  rov 
Seov'  K(H  Qtog  nrov  b  Adyof.    Qebv,  Kai  <3ebi  rn'  b  Adyoj. 

2.  ErovTog  r/Tov  £15  Ti]v  2.  Orrof  T/f  tv  dp')(rj 
ipX''^  //£ra  Qeou.  i^pbi  rov  Qcov. 

3.  OXii  \rd  TTpdypara^  lid  3.    Ylnvra  hi    avrov    iyi 
ufaov  Tov  [Xoyov]  iyivr]aav,  veto'  kuI  ^difAg  aiiTuTi  iyiv- 
Kal   X^l''^   (li'Tov    ii(v    eyive  era  ov6e  yv,  b  yiyovtv. 
Kuviva  t'lTL  eyivz. 

4.  Elf  iihrbv  tJTov  ^tori'  4.  Ev  avrip  ^w»)  >/)',  Ka) 
KOI  h  ^w))  7iTov  rd  (pdi  tu)v  t]  ^oji]  ijv  to  (pGis  tu)v  diBpui- 

vOp(s)~U)V.  TTWV. 

5.  Knl  TO  (p(Zg  eU  rfiv  5.  Kni  to  (pCjg  fv  T))  cko- 
Korziai  ij-fyyci,  K(i\  7/  (tko-  Tia(p<iti'fi,  KiUTjaKOTriaaiTi 
fia  tfh  'b  KuTdXtittc.  ov  KuTiXallev. 

fi.  Eyu  £^  'ivng  uvOpdi—og  C>.  Kyh'tTo  dvOpDirog  oitt- 
inceTaXptKJi  i-b  tov  Ocbv,  ccTaXpfvog  napd  (dfov,  dvn- 
vi  d%opd  Tmj  >KA.dvvrii.  pa  avT^p  Itadwiis. 


riJE  INSirRl/TIOXS  AT  ORCIIO.MHNUS,  FROM 

RIELKTILS. 

6PXOMENOS,  Koiviog  'ZKpi-::oTi,  rdAij  voti  TrXovcito- 

Att]    Kill    taxvii'^fdrrj,    rrpdrepov    KdXaviJivTi    BmiuTtKa] 

idiivai,  tii  r/;»    iifjuv   tJTOv  b    Nuuj   tu)v    XapiTujv,  clg 


rbv  brrolov  lizXtipbivov  riXi]  ol  Or,S  iloi,  ovrivos  t3  f.fiaq,o< 
avcaJcdijjOri  ~oTi  hirb  tlov  Aa-aXdyKijov.  E-raviiyvpii^oi 
eii  avTt]v  TYjv  tt<xXlv  Td  XapiTrjiria,  tov  b-rzoiox  ayii>vuc 
evpov  e-iypa<J)di  h  aTi'jXaig  'ivHov  tov  rcriaOivTOi  vuov  iv 
ovouuTi  Tt]s  OeuTOKov,  v-b  TOV  -pLOToa-aOapL'v  Aeavro^, 
f-j  TU)i'  IjcKTiXfiov  BaaiXsiov,  AiovTog,  <cul  KifveTarrLvoTf 
tX<JV(Tac:  ovTu)s'  £v  pfi  tTj  pid  Koiviog. 

"  Oi'<'£  fi'iVwi'  Tbv  dyiopu  TuJv  XapiTjcitav. 

YiiX-ziffTi'ig. 
'MTliig  A-oXXwviov  AvTiox^vg  d-b  Maidv6pou, 

K>'ipv^. 
Zui'iXog  ZuJiXov  Uddiog. 

Pu4u)66g.' 
ISovpfjviog  T\oi<priviov  A.9Tjva7os. 

noir]Tt]g  (-(jv. 
^ Apnviag  ArjpoKXiovg  6)]6a7og. 

AvXtin'ig. 
ATToXXocorug  ArroXXohdrov  Ko^yj. 

A  vX(jj(^6g- 
FoSi-rrog  Pui'I-ttov  Apyrjog. 

KiOnptfTTi'ig. 
^aviag  AznWoroTov  tov  't'aviov  AioXevg  d~»  K-j/^Vv 

KiOapciirdg. 
Arjpy'iTpiog  UiippniaKov  KaXx>]l6viog. 

Tpnyuu'^ng. 
In-OKpdnig  Apiarupivovg  Fociog. 

Kuji.upc6g. 
KaXXiarptiTug  Ei,nKfarov  Q>i6a7og. 

noiriT))g  YuTvpuiv. 
Aprjviag  Ar/poKXiovg  QijiJalog. 

Y-oKpiTi'ig. 
Aa>puOcog  AujpaO fov  TapavTwdg. 

U.(nri-))g  'Voayiohiwv. 
'Zo'poKXTig  Y.Q(poKX(ovg  A^Orjvalog. 

YTTOKpirng. 
KalnpLXog  Ocooujpuv  0)/H(uog. 
Uoi}]rng  KiLipoj(]i(JJv. 
AXii,,.vSpog  Apiariovog  AOijvalog. 

Y~0KpiT)'ig, 

ArTiiXug  ArrdXov  AOiivtuog. 

O'ict:  IviKMv  TOV  vi'ipijrov  dyuJva  tSv  h^MiiKuV 

Yldiong  (liiXrjcTTdg. 
AioKXrjg  KaXXip>'irov  Otiliaiog. 

YlalSag  yyipovag. 
HrpuTlvog  Kvvikov  Gr/t)aiog. 

Avi^'png  avXijUTdg. 
AuKXjjg  KiiX\ip)'i()ov  QiiSaiog. 

Avhpag  j'lyepdvag. 
PoSi-iTog  ro(^[--ov  Apyelog.  ^ 

Tpay,o(^6g. 
iTT-oKpaTrjg  Apiffroph'ovg  FdSiog. 

Kiiiptiit'og. 
KaXXtaTpuTog  K^<ik((ttov  QtjSalog. 
Td  l-LilKia. 

Ki»p(^)(hu)v  YloirjTi'jg. 
AXf(av<^pog  Apiariu)Pog  kOiivalog. 

El'  hi  tT]  iTiiut  i')wpiK(og, 
Mi'aoM'O)  dp^oi'Tog  dynovodiTiuVTog  rb 
XapiTciTiov,  tiiapioGTu)    TrdvTujv  ol  rvi  It  ivLkO    n  ^d 
XapiTiiria. 

■   Y.aX-::iyKTng.- 
^iXivog  <I'jA<'yaj  kOdvEiog. 

Eipt!)6ag  "LuyKpanog  6tt'»£(oy. 

Wncirdg. 
M?/OT(j)p  'S\}'iGTuiiog  '^u)/cat£^5J. 

KpdTii)v  KX'uorog  Ottfi'^os. 

AvXnTdg. 
Xlcptycviig  WuuKXcihau  Kou^t*t7vds» 


CIIILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


227 


rduarpii  A/ciAwcj  A(.)£i)f  arrb  Morpn'af. 
A(7«A(jr'.5r^<o,H);  U'lvOido  TapavTivo;. 
N(»:(5o-rj)(jT-o>,-  'I'tXixrrjtdrw  QuSziog. 
'Evap^og  Vlpo^uru)  KopcDvevg.^^ 

'  Mi'pt^o?  T\u\vKpdrovg  laptoivpog  ^loyinovog  ai'^pccrai 
y^Ojja)iic<trrEg  viKticavreg  hovvaiiv  avfBvKdv  Tipu)vos  up- 
•j^oirng  avXiovTos  K^iog  tu^ovrug  a'XKioOiiiog.'''' 
El'  iTipi^  \i9u). 

^&vidp^(j}  ap^oi'Tog,  pcti'og  &u\ovOi(0,  apy^i-.,'..(l)g  Eil- 

6u)\i    apyeSdpiij  (}i(j)Kz7a og  dzicLOKa  d-b  rag  covy~ 

ypadHi)  ~i^a  ruii'  ~o\t:pdp';^ij}V,  /o)  ru)v  KaroTrrdwv,  dv(\''i- 
fiii'ng  rag  <rovyypa(,'>(j}g  rug  Kipivng  -lift  cvtppnva,  Kn  tpii'inv 

Ki'i  TTatrtvXfii' Kr]  rij.i6p€i^ov  (puiKciag,  Ky]  Capo- 

reXeli    XvGi^^dpio,  k>)  Hovvgov  Kcupitjucnouj'  ^!]pij}i'e7a  Kd~ 
rb  -^diptffpa  ru)  £du(jj. 


wi^>JvET>ni 


^'vdp^io  ap-^ovrog,  peiibg  uAuAvofUi't'uj  F  apvGJv,  roAi'- 
ic\ciug  rauiag  a-ivu)K£  tvSu)\v  Ufj^ecdpu)  ipu}K£Ti  d-b  rag 
(rovyypu'l)(o  rb  KuraXinruv  Kar  rb  i^ddaupn  rd  hlpw,  dve- 
\bitivug  rag  covyypaiputg  rag  Kipevag  -dp  aiOipiXoi',  Krj 
evdjjora  oioKiag.  K/)  -dp  ciujivaiov  Ka>l>iaOi\op'j)  ^r]i)wvia, 
Ki)  \vGi5apov  (^:aporiXtog  i:i^a  rSiv  ■n(j\zpdp-)(iiiv,  ki]  r(i>v 
KuTO-rdiov. 


'^  Ap;;^oi'rog  fv  ip')(^opzvb  5-ui'apYW,  p^rbg  kXaXKopsviut, 
Iv  ("(  F  iXarhi  Mfi'oiVao  ^Ap^cXdto  peiibg  -pdru).  OpoX- 
oyd  KiUlwXv  F  eXurir],  o  ki)  rfj  -oXi  Ipy^opeviuiv.  il-tJyi] 
KiKoplari}  Ei'fiwAo?  i:dp  ri)g  voXiog  to  Idviiov  drrav  Kur 
rag  hpoXoyiag  rag  rcStaag  S-vvdp-jj^u)  np^oirog,  puibs 
S-(tXovOiii),  Kit  ohr  d^puXiry;  a^rih  en  ovOli'  -dp  rdv  -yA(r, 
aAA'  ii-(X'  ~di'ra  -£pi  Travrbg,  k^,  n-oSiroaidi  rj)  -oXi  rb 
e^ovrsg  rag  hpoXoytag,  d  p(v  -r.ori  ^t^opivov  ')^p6i'ov 
Ki'fiivXv  i-i  vopiag  F  en  d-irrapa  (ioveaai  aoiir  'iz-vg  6id 
Kiirirjg  F(  Kan  TTpofjdrvg  ovv  );7i'>,  •^iiXuig  a/3;^t  rd)  -^povw 
0  triavrbg  0  psrd  divapj^ov  dpy^ovra  ip^opeviug  d-oypa~ 
^laOtj  (?f  E'j;3wAov  Kar  ivinvrbv  cKacrov  Trap  rbv  rapiav 
K>)  rbv  loptjjv  iiv  ran  Kafipara  ru)v  izpofjdruiv.,  Kt'i  rwv 
i/ywr,  KI)  rijji'  povuiv,  Kr)  rCjv  jrrrrwv,  x))  Kama  daapa'nov 
S-iKti  rb  -XiWog  pd  d-oypd(pc(jo  iLSt   TrXiova  rHv  yeypap- 

ufiwi'  iv  rij  aovy-j^uypdai  ij  ('(Kiing rj  rb  ivropioi' 

tLujiiuXov  OfptiXei Xig    rwv    ep^opciiuiv    dpyovpiu) 

rerrapdKovra  Ei'ficoAv   kuO'  cKuarov  iviavrbv, 

tci)  roKov  (pepiTo)  SpaT(pdg...t rag  pvdg  Udurag  Kara 

piiva rev    Kt]    ep-paKTog  earw  rbv   tp)^opivioi 

Kat  rd  'f^s." 

Ev  dXXoig  Xidoig. 
"Avo^cupa  (7v%(pOjjOV  ■^a'tpe^^  ISOKTES.     ^'  KaXXi-iroi 
aii(^idptx^og,  Kal  uAAui."   Ei/  ov()tpiq  (TTiypacpfi  'iiov  rovov, 
n  iTV£Lpaf  u  i  F  I'/pelg  VTroypd(poixcVf  o'l  TzaXaioi  Trpociypa- 
0'.'v.    Kal  rd  f^r/j. 


The  f()llo\viti2  is  llie  prosiie-^lns  of  a  translalion  ol 
Anachursis  into  Rninaic,  by  ni\  I\(/niai ;  master,  INlar 
niarotoiiri,  wlio  wished  to  publish  it  in  England. 

EIAIISIS   TrnorPA'MKH. 

ri/^oj  rovg  (V  (piXoytvdg  Kal  ■^iXiXXrivag, 

05]0I  elg  i^tf'iXia  TravTui^a-d  iirpvipCoaiv,  ii^cvpcvy 
rocov  iliai  rb  -^pr'iatpov  r^jg  Icrofdag,  a'  avrTjg  yip 
i^tVjJi'tjKerai  1]  rrXiov  pi,  uKpvapivrj  -aXai6rt]g,  k(U  ^euy 
povvrai  djg  ev  Karorrrpi^  'jOi^  -jid^ctg  Kal  ^loiKi'/ocig  roA- 
Awi'  Kal  (''KKpdpojv  idrwv  Kal  yeiu)yu)v  r)}v  pirju'iv  <' nc j)(T~ 
aro  Kal  Siacuiaci  y  [sropiKij  Sii'iytjcig  cig  u'lHia  rbv 
drzavra. 

M('«  riroia  t-tari'iprj  eti  Jt  eva-OKri^rog,  Kat  ev  ruvr(7i 
U)(piXip)],  t'l  Kpurrov  t'nrdv  dvayKuia'  oiarl  Xoi-bv  I'lpag 
povoi  vd  rt)v  vanpoipeOa,  pi]  iji^iVj^uvrtg  orn  rdg  a  '\di 
ribv  r-poy6vu)V  pag,  -odcv  T:6rt  Kal  -utg  evj.fDyicrav  eig  rdg 
-arpicag  pitg,  ovrs  rd  I'lO'i,  -a  KarDfiOuipnra  <al  riji 
StoiK'icriv  riov  ;  Xv  f(^wr/;c(o/.({:i  rnvg  aXXoyirclg,  !ii,€i'puvv 
vd  pdg  ^(oauvv  oy'  p^^'"^  '''"'■'•■  iKiog  r/jv  a^jyiiv  Kal  r))i 
zpoohov  7(01'  r:poy6i"jiiv  pag,  dAA(i  Kal  rorroyjUioiKUig  pdg 
SlI^vovv  rdg  i'fcrsig  rCov  —arj)ii:^uv  pag,  Kal  uonl  \>:ip' 
ayuyyol  ytvdusvoi  pi  rovg  y  iwypaipiKoi'g  ruiv  -t'vuKirg,  ^idg 
Xiyovv,  icio  dvn  al  Adfivai,  icw  ;'/  ^-.ijiri!,  iku  a't  OTjflai, 
riiaa  crdha  i)  ^.Xia  (It/ y-'  ')  f  <"  i'ajr^ia  d~b  riiv  aX- 
Xtjv.  Td'rug  wKncopnui  rijv  ptav  rroAii',  iKth'ig  r^iv  dX- 
X>iv,  Kal  rX.  Upocriri  av  ii,wr>icuju.n'  avru'-g  rubg  pri 
EAAz/rns  y^iipaytoyui-g  pag,  -otkv  i-r  ij)nKivi'iOiiaav  vd 
li^iplvvKCOVV  dp^dg  rocov  rraXuidg,  dvv-ocrroXuig  pdg 
d~oKpivo]'rai  pi  avruvg  rovg  Xoyovg.  "  KadCog  b  m 
S',i.'0('(i?  Avd^ajia-:,  (iv  civ  f  rrf/ufj.' Y' ■'"  "''  -ai  ivij-jiomva 
iKilva  KXipara  ryg  KXXdrog,  av  Civ  lu'^opdro  rd  il^iw^a- 
Ta,  rd  rjdt]  Kal  ruhg  voiiovg  rwv  EAAj/I'WI-,  j'i'iiA?  pfiv^ 
^Kvdr/g  Kal  rb  dvuua  Kal  'n  -fidyjta'  o'vrw  Kal  o  r;;: f 7f /" ',-5 
larpbg,  ilv  civ  ipdvOavi  rd  rov  \-r-oKjtdrovg,  Civ  i(h'ivaT" 
vd  ■:Tpoy^wpr}Cij  dg  r>]v  rf  yi''/''  ~ov-  Av  o  iv  I'lplv  voi'oBirnS 
c'lv  i^ira(j€  rd  rov  '^oXwvog,  AvKov^jyuv,  Kal  UirraKou. 
civ  ici'varo  vd  piOp/iCJi]  Kal  vd  KaXtqjy/jffyj  rd  I'jihi  rwv 
hpoyivwv  rov  Av  b  Pi'/rwp  I'lv  d-)ivPi^tro  rdg  d^'ipa^iiag 
Kal  rovg  -jt/apiivrirrnuvg  rov  Aitpoaaiiovg,  (^iv  ivipyuraiv 
iig  rdg  -^v^^dg  rin  uKpoarwv  rov'  Av  b  "Slog  Avd^ap- 
cig,  b  K-Vj/iog  Af)t)dg  BajtOuXopalog  civ  dviyivwaKi  pi 
peydXijv  i-ipi)vi}v  Kal  CKi\liv  rovg  -Xiov  lyK^jirovg  avy- 
ypaipdg  rwv  EAA;/i'(oi',  i^<-pivvwv  ai'rovg  Kurd  piiOog  i-t 
rpkiKovra  cvw  irrj,  civ  tjOcXiv  ii\i.pdv!j  roxr>;v  rt)v  ~f.pi 
E\X/ivwv  'icrooiav  rov,  '))rig  Tlipu'i)]]Ctg  rov  7\io-  Ava- 
j^dpaiwg  Trap'  <tlrov  -poawvopdcrOy;,  Kal  iig  bXag  rdg 
£vpw-a'iKdg  ^taXiKrovg  pcriyXwrrhOi/.^^  Kal  iv  ivi  Xoyip, 
o'l  viwnpoi,  dv  liv  iTipvav  cid  b^rjyovg  rovg  Trpoyovovg 
pag,  i]diXav  'icrwg  rcpioipwvrai  paralwg  /if,Y/-'  ti'v  vvv. 
Aiir,^- Siv  dvai  Xoyia  ivQovciacpivov  bid  rb  (piXoyeiig 
rpaiKo^',  iivai  ci  (ptXaXi'iOoi'g  Vcppavov,  bang  ipirdi^'paai 
rbv  ISiov  Avdyapciv  d~b  rov  TaXXiKov  itg  rb  VippaviKov. 

Av  Xoi~bv  Kal  )';/(i7f  &iXwpev  vd  piOi^wptv  r7]g  yvwCTiwg 
rwv  Xap-pwv  KCt  ipBwp-irwv  b-ov  iKapav  o'l  ^avpacroi 
(Kuvoi  -po—drop  g  I'lpwv,  uv  i-iOvuwpiv  vd  pdOwuiv  rtjy 
rpoobov  Ka"'  aij^iiaiv  rwv  tig  rdg  ri^vag  Kal  iiricr/jpag  Ka\ 
dg  KaOe  dXXo  d()og  paOijcewg,  uv  ey^wmv  iripiipynav  va 
yvwpiawpi'v  -oOiv  KaraydpcOa,  Kut  h-oiovg  ^avpacrovi 
Kal  pzydXovg  dvhpag,  ii  kuI  -poydvovg  ijpwv,  (ptv,  jj^ii? 
6iv  yvwpiC,op£v,  itg  Kaipbv  bznv  ol  dXXoyivdg  &ax'pdCovaiV 
avrovg,  kal  di?  -aripag  -avroiacrovv  paO/jmwg  (Tfl'iovrai^ 
■Ig  cvv(]pduwp£v  ii-avr£g  -zpoOvpwg  dg  rhv  iKCoaiv  ruv 
■^avpaaiov  rovrjv   crvyypdpparoc  rov  "Siov  Avu^dpaiws 

Hpilg  uvv  ol  v-oytypappivoi  &iXouiv  iKriXiaii  -r^o' 
dvpwg  rt]v  ptrdilpaaiv  rov  Bd.Xiov  pi  rhv  Kara  rb  6vvu 
rdv  ijplv  KaXijV  <l>pdc^iv  rrjg  vTiv  kuT  rjfxdg  bf.nXiag,  ko' 
iK^6vT£g  rovTo  dg  rvT^v,  SiXopev  r?  viAAu-iatt  ui  rjv 


228 


~"N., 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


■xpayfjifi'o 'g   dg'iciiKii   f.tag  yjxinjxaTa,  irpoaTioivTCS  o  ■)  tl 
aW'j  ■)^|Ji^<J^^xov  Ka\  apj.woiuv  dg  Ttiv  tarujAav. 

(')Xoi'  ro  ax'iyyfian^xa  &e\r.i  yivzi  dg  rofiovg  IbihtKa  Kara 
iiliurjaiv  Ti'is  i'-aAt/v-r/j  (K(]6u€b)g.  H  r;//;)  hXov  rov  ffvyypdji- 
fttirog  tJuii  (ptOjilvia  SeKai^rj  Tt^g  Bifvi'rig  ^id  rtjv  -rrpoa- 
r'lKijv  t5v  yco}ypii(piKU)v  ttiviikuv,  O  (pi\oy^.v>ig  ovv  avv- 
fnpyjTu;  TTpi-ci  va  r-Xrjpojcrrj  elg  KaOi  ropov  cpinpivi  eva 
ifrtf  Kapinravid  UKoai  TTjg  Biivvijg,  Ka'c  r goto  ■yu) pig  Kap- 
^linv  Tzpohoatv,  lAA'  evOvg  b-ov  OiXei  rip  -apahoOi,  '}  ropog 
Tv-u)pii();  Ka'i  heph'og. 

Fij'jl'wpfi'ui   Kiu  cv<)<ilpoicg  (^inftiMoiTC,  EAAj^kov  Tra'iSes. 
T'f'ig  vntTfpag  ayu->]g  (^iTpnjpfiat, 

iuxivrrjg   yiappaporovprjg. 
Avpi'irpiog  B£vtipr,g. 
Y-vjji(^tov  YlpilifTog, 
t.v  TpiCdTiu),  Ttj  -p(j')rr]  OKT'o'jpiov,  1799. 


THE  LORD'S  PRAYER   IN  ROMAIC. 

Q,    IlATlOPA    png    h~ov   dcrai    dg   rovg   ovpavovg,   ug 
aytn(Tr)ij    rb   ovopd    aov.      A?   fAOr/  i)  [hiciXda    gov.      Ag 


yivri 


Ci\>]p(i  G'lVj  K(iOu)g  dg  tuv  olparbv,  ir^}/  xal  etc 
r/)i  y>ii'.  To  ij-'oiii  luig  ro  KnOtipepivbv,  hog  pug  to  ai';p- 
tpov.  Kiu  avyyi!)ii>jGf  pug  rn  Xl'^'l  A"'?'  ^'^■''^i  '*^"'  ^pdg 
irvy^iDpoT'psi'  rovg  Kpeoibei'Xfrag  pa;.  Ka(  ptji'  pdg  <!>ip£ 
dg  rrfipnGpbi',  (LvAa  i^ti'dipMaf  png  a-ru  rov  ~oinip6v. 
bri  trtKi'i  GOV  eli'iii  1/  [SuGiXda  St,  1)  hvvupig,  kuI  1)  ooqa, 
dg  rovg  aiihi'ag.   kpi'iv. 

IN  GREEK. 

IIa'TEP  )'^<wi',  (')  ev  ring  ohpavolg,  ayina9r/-r,,,i  rd  ovnfia 
fffct.  KA6fTw  1)  ii'lGi'XFta  GOV  yev>if//jTi,i  ro  -^fXiTpd  aov, 
is  fi'  ovpav^),  Kill  i-l  rTjg  yrjg.  Tbv  dp  rov  I'lpujv  rov  hiov- 
ci.  V  ros,  riplv  G'>pepov.  Kui  dijieg  iip7v  rd  oipctXi'ipiirn  ijpihv, 
(ui  Kill  t'lpilg  liipiepev  r^lg  o'peiXtraig  ijpwv.  K.ii  prj 
ihii/fyKyg  I'/pdg  dg  TTcipuapdv,  dXXd  pvGiH  r/pag  a-b  rov 
zonjpov.  ()ri  ojv  tarlv  fj  j3aaiXda,  Kal  i]  oi'ivupig,  kui  t) 
5o^a,  tig  TOijg  altovag. 


CANTO  IIL 


Note  1.    Stanza  XVI ii. 

In  "pride  of  place"  liere  lust  the  ciurle  flow 

"  Pride  of  place"  is  a  term  of  falconry,  and  means 
the  liighest  ikitcli  of  flight. — See  Machelh,  etc. 

"  An  encle  toweriii'i  id  lii^  pride  o''  rd.'ice 
VViis  by  ii  niousiiitr  owl  liiiwk'd  al  and  kill'd." 

Note  2.   Stanza,  xx. 

Such  ns  Iliiriiiodiiis  drew  on  Athens'  tyrnnt  lord. 

See  the  famous  Son;,'  on  IlarnioiHus  iuid  Aristogiton. 
—The  hesl  En^'liish  translation  is  m  Hland's  Authologv, 
bv  INlr.  Dcriinari: 

"With  tnyrtli'  niy  sword  will  !  wreathe,"  etc. 

Note  3.    Stanza  xxi. 

And  ill!  w(!nt  merry  as  a  niarriaf,'c-bell. 

Un  the  night  j)revioiis  to  the  action,  it  is  said  that  a 
itiW  was  si\  ■^n  at  Hrussels. 


I  Notes  4  and  ).     Stanza  kxvi, 

An()  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  m  each  clar.sman  i  ears 

Sir  Evan  Cameron,  and  his  descendant  Dona  d,  the 
"gentle  Loclnel"  of  the  "  forty- five." 

Note  P.   Stanza  xxvii. 
And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  gieim  ioavos. 

The  wood  of  Soignies  is  snp[)osed  to  he  a  remnant  ol 
the  "forest  of  Ardennes,"  famous  in  Boiardo's  Orlando, 
and  immortal  in  Strakspeare's  "As  you  like  it."  It  ii 
also  celebrated  in  Tacitus  as  being  the  spot  of  successful 
defence  by  the  Germans  against  the  Roman  eucroacli 
ments. — I  have  ventured  to  adopt  the  name  connected 
with  nobler  associations  than  those  of  mere  slaughter. 
Note  7.      Stanza  xxx. 

I  turn'd  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not  bring. 

]Mv  guide  from  Mont  St.  Jean  over  the  Held  seem<d 
intelligent  and  accurate.  The  place  where  Major  How- 
ard fell  was  not  far  from  two  tall  and  solitary  trees  (there 
was  a  third  cut  down,  or  shivered  in  the  battle)  which 
stand  a  few  vards  from  each  otlier  at  a  |)athway's  side. 
— Beneath  these  he  di(nl  and  was  buried.  The  i)ody 
has  since  been  removed  to  England.  A  small  hollo\% 
for  the  present  marks  w  here  it  lay ;  but  will  probably 
soon  be  etiaced ;  !he  plough  has  been  upon  it,  and  the 
grain  is. 

After  pointing  out  the  dilTerent  spots  where  Picton 
and  other  galiant  men  had  perished,  the  guide  said, 
"  Here  Major  Howard  lay  ;  I  was  near  him  when 
wounded."  I  told  him  my  relatiousiiip,  and  he  seemed 
then  still  more  anxious  to  point  out  the  particular  spot 
and  circumstances.  The  place  is  one  of  the  most 
marked  in  the  fie'J,  from  the  fjeculianty  of  the  two 
trees  above-mentioned. 

I  went  on  horseback  twice  over  tlie  field,  comparing 
it  with  mv  recollection  of  similar  scenes.  As  a  plain, 
\Vaterloo  seems  marked  out  tor  the  scene  of  souic  great 
action,  though  this  maybe  mere  imagination :  I  have 
viewed  with  attention  those  of  Plutea,  Troy,  Manlinea, 
Lftuctra,  Cha'ronea,  and  Marathon;  and  the  field  around 
Mont  St.  .Jean  and  Hougoumont  ap[)ears  to  want  little 
hut  a  better  cause,  and  that  undetinable  but  impressive 
halo  which  the  lapse  of  ages  throws  around  a  celebrated 
spot,  to  vie  in  interest  with  any  or  all  of  these,  excepf 
perhaps  the  last  mentioned. 

Note  8.     Stanza  xxxiv. 
Like  to  the  aiii)les  on  the  Dead  Sea's  shore. 

The  (fa!)!ed)  a|)ples  on  the  brink  of  the  lake  Asphaltrs 
were  said  to  be  fair  without,  and  within  ashes. — Yido 
Tacit.  Histor.  1.  v.  7. 

Note  9.   Stanza  xli. 
For  sceptred  cyni('s  earth  were  far  too  wide  a  den. 

The  great  error  of  Napoleon,  "if we  have  writ  our 
annals  true,"  was  a  continued  obtrifsion  on  mankind 
of  his  want  of  all  community  of  feeling  for  01  with 
them;  perhaps  more  otiensive  to  human  vanity  than 
the  active  cruelty  of  more  trembling  and  suspicious 
tyranny. 

Such  were  his  speecluis  to  public  assemblii^s  as  well 
as  individuals;  and  the  sinijle  expiossicm  which  he  i3 
said  to  have  used  on  returning  to  Paris  after  the  Russian 
winter  had  destroyed  liis  army,  rubbing  his  liands  over 
a  tire,  "  This  is  pleasantcr  than  INloscow,"  would  prob- 
r.bly  alienate  more  favour  from  his  cause  than  the 
destruction  and  reverses  which  led  to  the  remark. 

Note  10.   Stanza  xlviii. 

What  want  thes('  outlaws  coininerors  siunild  have  ? 

"  What  wants  that  knave 

'J'hat  a  king  slnmld  iiave  ?" 

was  King  James's  question^  on  meeting  Johnny  Arm- 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


228 


stiang  and  his  followers  in  full   accoutrements. — Sef>    ] 
tne  Ballad. 

Note  11.  Song,  stanza  1. 
Theci\stlo  cms  of  Driichenlbls. 
The  castle  of  Drachenfels  stands  on  the  highest  sum- 
mit of  "  the  Seven  INlountuins,"  over  the  Rhine  banks; 
d  IS  in  ruins,  -aid  connected  wilii  some  singular  tradi- 
tions :  it  is  tne  first  in  view  on  the  road  from  Bonn, 
hut  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  ;  on  this  bank, 
nearly  facing  it,  are  the  remains  of  another  called  the 
Jew's  Castle,  and  a  large  cross  commemorative  of  the 
murderof  achief  by  his  brother.  The  number  of  castles 
and  cities  along  the  course  of  the  Rhine  on  both  sides 
IS  very  great,  and  their  situations  remarkably  beautiful. 

Note  12.    Stanza  Ivii. 

The  whiteness  of  his  sotil,  and  thus  men  o'er  him  wept. 

The  monument  of  the  young  and  lamented  General 
Marceau  (killed  by  a  rifle-ball  ai  Alterkirchen,  on  the 
last  day  of  the  fourth  year  of  the  French  republic)  still 
remains  as  described. 

The  inscriptions  on  his  monument  are  rather  too 
■>ng,  and  not  reciuired  ;  his  nanie  was  enough  ;  France 
adored,  and  her  eiuMnies  admired  ;  both  \\e\>\.  over  him. 
— His  funeral  was  attended  by  the  generals  and  detach- 
ments from  both  armies.  In  the  same  grave  General 
Hoche  is  interred,  a  gallant  man  also  in  every  sense  of 
the  word  ;  but  thouoh  he  distinguished  himself  greatly 
m  battle,  he  had  not  the  good  fortune  to  die  there ;  his 
death  was  attended  by  suspicions  of  poison. 

A  separate  monument  (not  over  his  body,  which  is 
buried  by  INlarceau's)  is  raised  for  him  near  Andernach, 
opi)osite  to  which  one  of  his  most  memorable  exploits 
was  performed,  in  throwing  a  bridge  to  an  island  on 
triD  Rhine.  The  shape  and  style  are  different  from 
that  of  Marceau's,  and  the  inscription  more  simple  and 
pleasing : 

"Tlie  Army  of  the  Sambre  and  Meuse 

to  its  CoiTii!iaM(l('r-in-Cliiuf, 

HOCHE." 

This  is  all,  and  as  it  shomd  be.   Hoche  was  esteemed 

among  the   first  of  France's   earlier    generals,   before 

Buonaparte  monopolized  her  triumphs. — He   was  the 

destined  commander  of  the  invading  army  oi  Ireland. 

Note  13.   Stanza. Iviii, 

Here  Ehienbreitstein,  with  lier  shatter'd  wall. 

Ehrenbreitstein,  i.  e.  "  the  broad  Stone  of  Honour," 
one  of  the  strongest  fortresses  in  Europe,  was  dis- 
mantled and  blown  up  by  the  French  at  the  truce  of 
Leoben. — It  had  been  and  could  only  be  reduced  by 
famine  or  treacherv.  It  yielded  to  the  former,  aided 
by  surprise.  After  having  seen  the  fortifications  of 
Gibraltar  and  ^Nlalta,  it  did  not  much  strike  by  compar- 
ison, but  the  situation  is  comtmrtiding.  General  jNIar- 
ceau  besieged  it  in  vain  for  some  time,  and  I  slept  in  a 
room  where  I  was  shown  a  window  at  which  he  is  said 
to  have  been  standinir,  observing  the  progress  of  the 
siege  by  moonligiit,  when  a  ball  struck  inmuuliately 
below  it. 

Note  14.    Stanza  Ixiii. 
Crnseoutchrcd  tlioy  roiiin'd,  iind  shi'ek'd  e;ich  wanderinc phost. 

The  chapel  is  destroved,  auil  the  pyramid  of  bones  di- 
Tiinished  to  a  small  number  by  the  Burgundian  legion  in 
he  service  of  France;,  wlu)  anxiously  efl'aced  this  record 
of  their  ancestors'  less  successful  invasions.  A  few  still 
email),  r.otwiihstanding  the  pains  taken  by  the  Biirgun- 
dians  for  ages  ( il  w  ho  passed  that  way  moving  a  bone  to 
their  own  country)  and  the  less  jnstifiuble  larcenies  of  the 
Swiss  postilions,  who  carried  them  olf  to  sell  for  knife- 
liandles;  a  purpose  for  which  the  whiteness  inibilied  by 
tho  bleaching  of  years  had  rendered  them  in  great  re- 


quest. Of  these  relics  I  ventured  to  bring  away  f.s  mnc> 
as  may  have  made  llu;  (]uart(;r  of  a  hero,  for  which  the 
sole  excuse  is,  that  if  1  had  not,  the  next  passer-liy  might 
have  perverted  them  to  worse  uses  than  tj'e  careful  pre- 
servation which  I  intend  for  them. 

Note  15.  Stanza  Ixv, 
Lcvcll'd  Aventicini!,  hath  strew'd  lier  snhjeci  .nnds. 
Aventicum  (near  Morat)  was  the  Roman  capita!  of 
Helvetia,  where  Avenches  now  stands. 

Noie  l(i.  Stanza  lx\i. 

And  held  within  their  urn  one  mind,  oiw  heart,  one  dust. 

.Julia  Alpinula,  a  young  Aventian  priestess,  died  sonn 
after  a  vain  endeavour  to  save  her  father,  condenmed 
to  death  as  a  traitor  by  Aulus  Cajcina.  Her  enitaph  was 
discovered  many  years  ago  ; — it  is  thus — 

Julia  Alpinula 

Micjaco, 

Infelicis  patris  iiifelix  proles, 

Dea;  Avcnii:.'  sarcrdos. 

Exorare  puliis  nt'Ccin  iion  potui; 

Wale  niori  in  falis  ilie  erat. 

Vixi  AnnosAXIlI. 

I  know  of  no  human  comjiosition  so  affecting  as 
this,  nor  a  history  of  deeptT  interest,  "^llifisc  are  the 
names  and  actions  which  ought  not  to  perisli,  and  lO 
which  we  turn  with  a  true  and  healthy  tenderness,  from 
the  wretched  and  glittering  detail  of  a  confused  ma^s 
of  conquests  and  battles,  with  which  the  mirFd  is  roused 
for  a  time  to  a  fiilse  and  feverish  sympathy,  from 
whence  it  recurs  at  length  with  all  the  nausea  conse- 
quent on  such  intoxication. 

Note  17.  Stanza  Ixvii. 
In  the  son's  face,  Hko  yonder  Alpine  snow. 
This  is  written  in  the  eye  of  Mont  Bhmc  (June  3d, 
I81('i),  which  even  at  this  distance  dazzles  mine. 

(July  20th.)  1  this  day  observed  tor  some  time  the 
distinct  reflection  of  Mont  Blanc  and  INIonl  Argentiere 
in  the  calin  of  the  lake,  which  I  was  crossing  in  my 
boat ;  the  distance  of  these  mountains  from  their  mir- 
ror is  sixty  miles. 

Note  18.  Stanza  Ixxi. 

By  the  blue  rushing  of  tiie  arrowy  Khone. 

The  colour  of  the  Rhone  at  Geneva  is  hlue,  to  a  depth 

of  tint  which  I  have  never  seen  equalled  in  water,  salt 

or  fresh,  eAcept  in  the  Mediterranean  and  Archipelago. 

Note  19.  Stanza  Ixxix. 
Than  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  ihey  seek  pnssest. 
This  refers  to  the  account  in  his  "  Confessions"  of  Ins 
passion  for  the  Comtesse  d'Houdetot  (the  mistress  of  St. 
Lambert),  and  his  long  walk  every  morning  for  the  sake 
of  the  single  kiss  which  was  the  common  salutation  of 
French  aciiuaintance. — Rousseau's  description  of  his 
feelings  on  this  occasion  may  be  considered  as  the  most 
passionate,  yet  not  impure  description  and  expression 
of  love  that  ever  kindled  into  words;   which  afler  all 
must  be  felt,  from  their  very  force,  to  be  inadequate 
!    to  the  delineation :   a  painting  can  give  no  suliicienl 
I    idea  of  the  ocean. 

Note  20.  Stanza  xci. 
Of  earth  o'er-gazing  mountains. 
It  is  to  be  recollected,  that  the  most  beautiful  an 
impressive  doctrines  of  the  divine  Founder  of  Chris- 
tianity  were  delivered,  not  in   the  Ttniple,    but  on  inc 
iMovnt. 
j         To  waive  the  question  of  devotion,  ?nd  turn  to  human 
elo(]uence,  the  most  effectual  and  so  e^ndid   sp'cimenr 
were  not  pronounced  within  walls.     Demoslfj-'ues  ao- 
dressed    the  public  and   popu.ar  asseniblles.      Cicjiro 
s[joke  in  the  forum.     That  this  added  to  their  efiici  on 


230 


BYRON'S    rOETICAL    WOP.KS. 


tliC  iDind  of  both  orator  and  hearers,  maj-  be  conceived 
Svjni  tlie  diti'ereuce  between  what  we  read  of  the  enio- 
jons  then  and  there  produced,  and  those  we  ourselves 
experience  m  the  perusal  in  the  closet.  It  is  one  thing 
to  read  the  Iliad  at  Sig;eum  and  on  the  tumuli,  or  by 
die  springs  witii  mount  Ida  above,  and  the  plain  and 
rivers  and  Archipelago  around  you  ;  and  another  to  trim 
your  taper  over  it  in  a  snug  librar}- — thif!  I  know. 

Were  the  early  and  rapid  progress  of  what  is  called 
Methodism  to  be  attributed  to  any  cause  beyond  the 
enthusiasm  excited  by  its  vehement  faith  and  doctrines 
(the  trutii  or  error  of  which  I  [)re»uine  neither  to  canvass 
nor  to  question),  I  should  venture  to  ascribe  it  to  the 
practice  of  preaching  in  the  Jidds,  and  the  unstudied 
and  extemporaneous  etfusions  of  its  teachers. 

The  Mussuhnans,  whose  erroneous  devotion  (at  least 
in  the  lower  orilers)  is  most  sincere,  and  therefore  im- 
pressive, are  accustomed!  to  repeat  their  prescribed 
orisons  and  prayers  wherever  they  may  be  at  the  staled 
hour.-; — of  course  frequently  in  the  open  air,  kneeling 
upon  a  light  mat  (which  they  carry  for  the  purpose  of 
a  bed  or  cushion  as  required);  the  ceremony  lasts  some 
minutes,  during  which  they  are  totally  absorbed,  and 
onlv  livini;  in  their  supplication  ;  nothing  can  disturb 
tiiem.  ()u  me  the  simple  and  entire  sincerity  of  these 
men,  and  tiie  s[)irit  which  appeared  to  be  within  and 
upon  them,  made  a  far  greater  impression  than  any 
general  rile  wliich  was  ever  performed  in  places  ol 
worship,  of  which  I  have  seen  those  of  almost  every 
,»ersuasion  under  the  sun  ;  including  most  of  our  own 
sectaries,  and  the  Greek,  the  Catholic,  the  Armenian, 
tile  Lutheran,  the  Jewish,  and  the  Mahometan.  IMany 
cf  the  negroes,  of  whom  there  are  numbers  in  the 
Turkisli  em(.ire,  are  idolaters,  and  have  free  exercise  ol 
ihci'-  belief  and  its  rites:  some  of  these  I  had  a  distan 
new  of  at  Patras,  and  from  what  I  could  make  cut  of 
tliem,  tliev  appeared  to  be  of  a  truly  Pagan  descr:j> 
liou,  and  not  veiv  agreeable  to  a  spectator. 
Note  21.  Stanza  xcii. 
The  sky  i*:  cliaiiiicd  1 — aii.i  such  a  change!  Oh  nicht. 

Tlie  thunder-storms  to  which   these  lines   refer  oc- 
curred on  the  13lh  of  June,  1816,  at  midnight.     I  have 
Been  among  the  Acroceraunian  mountains  of  Chimari 
several  more  terrible,  but  none  more  beautiful. 
Note  22.  Stanza  xcix. 
And  sunset  into  roso-huts  sees  them  wrought. 

Rousseau's  Helo'se,  Letter  17,  part  4,  note. — ''Ces 
rnontagnes  sont  si  hautes,  (ju'une  demi-heure  aprt's  le 
solcil  couchc,  leurs  sommefs  sont  encore  t'claircs  de  ses 
ravons  ;  dont  le  rouge  tbrme  sur  ces  cimes  blanches 
une  helle  couieur  de  rose  qu'on  apercoit  de  fort  loin." 
This  applies  more  particularly  to  the  heights  over 
Meillerie. 

"  J'allai  a  Vevavloger  a  la  Clef,  et  pendant  deux  jours 
que  j"y  restai  sans  voir  personne,  je  pris  pour  cette 
ville  un  amour  qui  m'a  suivi  dans  tons  mes  voyages, 
et  (pii  m'v  a  fait  etablir  entin  les  heros  de  mon  ronian. 
Je  dir  »is  volontiers  a  ceux  qui  ont  du  gout  et  qui  sont 
sensibles  :  Allez  a  Vevay — visit  ez  le  pays,  examinez  les 
•tcs,  pro:neue/-V()US  sur  le  lar,  et  dites  si  la  nature 
n'a  pas  fait  ce  beau  pays  pour  une  Julie,  pour  une 
C  lire  ei  pour  un  Saini-Preux;  inais  ne  les  y  cherchez 
p,3.'  J  es  Confessions,  Here  iv.  page  306.  JjI/ou, 
I  '9G. 

In  Jul\  181  f',  I  made  a  voyage  round  the  lake  of 
Geneva;  a.nd  as  f ir  as  my  own  ohservaiions  have  led 
me  in  a  not  uninterested  nor  inattentive  survey  of  ai' 
tl  e  scenes  most  celebrated  by  I'ousseau  in  his  "  Hc- 
loise."  I  can  safilv  s;i  y,  that  in  this  there  is  no  e\ag<>e- 
ratJon      It  would  be  uiftii:ull  to  see  Chirens  (with  the 


scenes  around  it,  Vevay,  Chillon,  Bfueiet,  St.  Ginga 
Meillerie,  Evian,  and  tlie  entrances  oi  the  Rhone),  with 
out  being  forcibly   struck   with  its  peculiar  adap^atior. 
to  the  persons  and  events  with  wiiiidi  it  has  been  peo 
pled.     But  this  is  not  all;   the,feehng  with  which  aL 
around  Clarens,  and  tiie  o})[)osit«i  rocks  of  Meillerie,  is 
invested,  is  of  a  still  higher  and  more  comi)rehensivfe 
order  than  the  mere  sym[)athy  with  individual  passion 
it  is  a  sense  of  the  existence  of  love  in  its  most  extendeu- 
and  sublime  cajiacity,  and  of  our  own  participation  o* 
Its  good  and  of  its  glory  :    it  is  the  great  |)rinciple  of  the 
universe,  which  is  there  more  condensed,  but  not  less 
manifested;   and  of  which,  though  knowing  ourselves  a 
[>arl,  we  lose  our  individuality,  and  mingle  in  the  beaut> 
of  the  whole. 

'  If  Rousseau  had  never  written,  nor  lived,  the  same 
associations  would  not  less  have  belonged  to  such 
scenes.  He  has  added  to  the  interest  of  his  works  by 
their  adoption  ;  he  has  shown  his  sense  of  their  beauty 
by  the  selection ;  but  they  have  done  that  for  hnn 
which  no  human  being  could  do  for  tlu'in. 

I  had  the  fortune  (good  or  evil  as  it  might  be)  to  sail 
from  JMeillerie  (where  we  landed  for  some  time)  to  St. 
Gingo  during  a  lake-storm,  which  added  to  the  masni- 
ficence  of  all  around,  alilicugh  occasionally  accompa- 
nied by  danger  to  the  boat,  which  was  small  and  over- 
loaded. It  was  over  this  very  part  of  the  lake  that 
Rousseau  has  driven  the  boat  of  St.  Prcux  and  Madame 
VVolmar  to  JMeillerie  for  shelter  during  a  tempest. 

On  gaining  the  shore  at  St.  Gingo,  I  found  that  the 
wind  had  been  sufficiently  strong  to  blow  down  some 
fine  old  chesnut  trees  on  the  lower  part  of  the  moun- 
tains. On  the  opposite  height  is  a  seat  called  the  Cha- 
teau de  Clarens,  Tiie  hills  are  covered  with  vinev5>-ds, 
and  interspersed  vi'I.  .-.uuiv  small  but  beautiful  woods; 
one  of  these  was  named  the  "  Bosquet  de  Julie,"  and 
is  remarkable  that,  though  long  ago  cut  down  by  tha 
brutal  selfishness  of  the  monks  of  St.  Bernard  (towlioin 
the  land  appertained),  that  the  ground  might  be  in- 
closed into  a  vineyard  for  the  miserable  drones  of  an 
execrable  superstition,  the  inhabitants  of  Clarens  still 
point  out  the  spot  where  its  trees  stood,  calling  it  by 
the  name  which  consecrated  and  survived  them. 

Rousseau  has  not  been  particularly  fortunate  in  the 
preservation  of  the  "local  habiuitions"  he  has  given  to 
"  airy  nothings."  The  Prior  of  Great  St.  Bernard  hat. 
cut  down  some  of  his  woods  for  the  sake  of  a  few 
casks  of  wine,  antl  Buonaparte  has  levelled  part  of  the 
rocks  of  Meillerie  in  imj)roving  the  road  to  the  Siuiplon. 
The  road  is  an  excellent  one,  but  I  cannot  quite  agree 
with  a  remark  which  I  heard  made,  that  "  La  route 
vaut  niieux  que  les  souvenirs." 


Note  23 
Lfiusanne  and  Forney 
Voltaire  and  Gibbon. 


Stanza  cv. 

yc  have  been  the  abodes 


Note  24.  Stanza  cxiii. 
Had  I  not  filed  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued 

-; "  if  it  be  thus,  ^ 

For  Ban(iuo's  issue  have  \Jiltd  niy  mind.'' 
jMacbcth. 

Note  25.  Stanza  cxiv. 
O'er  others'  gritifs  that  some  sincerely  grieve. 
It  is  said  by  Rochefoucau.t  that  "there  is  cdwnj 
something  in  the  misfortunes  of  men's  best  friends  nol 
displeasing  to  them." 


CHILD  E    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


281 


CANTO  IV. 


Note  1 .  Stanza  i. 

I  stoo(   in  \'cni(t'.  on  the  IJiuIl'o  of  Sifrhs; 
A  p;ilu.-t!  iiiiii  a  prison  uri  ciirli  liiind. 

The  :ommiiiuc;itioiiiK't\vei.'n  the  Ducal  ])a!aco  and  the 
risjns  of  Vt-nit-e  is  bv  a  oloomv  bridge,  or  covtrcd  wal- 
ory,  high  above  the  wuter,  aiul  ilivi.!eii  by  a  stone  wall 
Ulto  a  passaj^e  and  a  cell.  The  state  dunj^eons,  called 
"  [)ozzi,"  or  wells,  were  snuk  in  the  thick  walls  of  the 
palace;  and  the  prisoner  when  takeli  out  to  die  was 
conducted  across  the  gallery  to  iln^  other  side,  and  bein^ 
then  led  back  into  the  other  conijtartinent,  or  cell,  ujion 
the  bridire,  was  t'lere  strangled.  The  low  portal  through 
wliich  t!ie  criminal  was  takm  into  this  cell  is  now  walled 
Uj) ;  but  the  ])assa!;e  is  still  open,  and  is  still  known  by 
the  name  of  tha  Kridgc  of  Sibils.  Th.e  pozzi  are  under 
the  flooring  of  the  clianiber  at  the  foot  of  the  bridge. 
They  were  tbrnierly  twelve,  l;ut  on  the  first  arrival  of  the 
French,  the  \enetians  hastily  blocked  or  bruke  u[)  the 
deeper  of  these  dungeons.  Vou  tuav  still,  however,  d.e- 
scend  by  a  tiap-door,  and  crawl  df)wn  through  holes, 
half  choked  by  rubbish,  to  the  depth  of  two  storevs 
below  the  tirst  range.  If  you  are  m  want  of  consolation 
for  the  extinction  of  patrician  power,  i)erhaps  you  niav 
fnid  it  there;  scarcely  a  ray  ol  light  glimmers  into  the 
narrow  gallery  which  leads  to  the  cells,  and  tiie  places  of 
L'onf;ne!!i(>iit  themselves  are  totally  dark.  A  small  hole 
!ii  i!ie  wiiil  admilted  the  damp  air  of  tlie  passages,  and 
perved  for  the  introduction  of  the  prisoner's  food.  A 
vvo((len  pallet,  raised  a  fot)t  from  the  "round,  was  the 
c.iily  furniture.  The  conductors  tell  you  that  a  lioht 
was  not  allowed.  The  ctdls  are  about  hve  ji.-ices  in  leivjth, 
t\\o  and  a  half  ii,  width,  and  se\cn  feet  in  height.  The} 
are  uirect'v  oeii?ath  one  anotlier,  and  respiration  is 
somewliat  difficult  in  the  lower  hoi.-?.  Only  one  prisoner 
•vas  found  when  the  rcfuiblicans  .^e:^cended  into  these 
hideous  recesses,  and  he  is  said  to  have  been  contiiied 
sixteen  years.  IJut  the  inmates  of  the  (hnn»oc'.is  beneath 
nad  iet't  traces  of  their  repentance,  or  of  their  despaii, 
wliich  are  still  visible,  and  mav  perhaps  owe  somethino 
U)  recent  in^ienuity.  Some  of  the  detained  appear  to 
have  o:"t'endet!  against,  and  others  to  have  beloiiiJied  to, 
the  sacrefl  body,  not  only  from  their  signatures,  but  from 
Mie  churches  and  beitries  winch  they  have  scratched 
upon  tiio  walls.  The  reader  mav  not  object  to  see  a  s|)e- 
r^iinen  of  the  records  prompted  l)y  so  terrihc  a  solitude. 
As  nearly  as  they  could  be  copied  by  more  than  one 
)encil,  thr(;e  ot'them  are  as  f)llows: 

L 
NON  Tl  FIOAR  AD  A[.<;i'NO,  PEXSA  e  TACl 
St:  FltJlK  VlOI   1)1  SFIOM  LNSIDIE  e  LACCl 
II.  PF.XTIiril  PFATIR'l'l  XILLA  (JloVA 
.MA  l!E\  1)1  VALOF.    Tl  O  LA   VEUA  FRtjVA 

IGDT.  ADl  -2.  GE\.\K().  FFl  RE 
TENTO  F'  LA  iiESTIF.M^LA  P'  AVER  DA'FO 
DA  .MANZAR  A  F\    MORTO 

LACOMO.  GFl'FTL  SCRIFSE 

UN  PAI^LAR  POrO  et' 

NEGARE  PROX'FO  ct 

UN  PENSAR  AL  FIXE  PUO  FJARE  LA  VIT.A 

A  NOl  ALTRI  MESCHLNT 

ICIJ. 
EGO  lOFLN   HA  FT  (ST  A  AD 
ECCLESLA.M  ( 'ORTELLARirS 
:t. 

m    'HI  MI  FIDO  GFARDAMI  DIO 

1)1  CHI  NON  MI  FIDO  Ml  GUARDERO  10 


VA 


LA      STA.        CH.      KA         RNA 


The  copyist  has  fiillowed,  not  conccted,  the  solecisms; 
some  of  which  are  however  notquite  so  decided,  since  the 
letters  were  evideiitlv  scratched  in  the  dark.  It  only 
need  be  observed,  that  Bextcmmia  and  JMniif^inr  may 
be  rea<i  in  the  first  inscription,  which  was  probably 
written  bv  a  prisoner  conhned  for  some  aci  of  iir.piety 
conimitied  al  a  funeral :  the  Cortellttrius  is  the  name  o! 
a  ]>aris!i  cm  terra  tirma,  near  the  sea:  and  that  the  last 
initials  evuhi.tly  are  put  for  Viuu  la  Saiitd  Chiesa 
KntUilkii  RotiKina. 


No  e  2.    Stanza  ii 


P',e  1, 
l{isin: 


■Ic,  Irish  iVoni  ace 


An  old  writer,  de>cribing  the  appearance  of  Vemce, 
has  mad<!  use  of  the  aitove  image,  which  would  not  be 
poetical  were  it  not  true. 

"Q'to  ///  at  i/iii  si/pcme  nrhem  contfinplftvr^  turritam 
tellnr'in  im  iginein  medio  occanu  Jigurnbun  se  putei  in- 
spicere.''''  ' 

Note  3.   Stanza  iii. 
In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more 

The  well-known  son;;;  of  the  ijondoliers,  of  alternate 
stanzas,  from  Tasso's  Jerusal<Mn,  has  died  with  the  inde- 
pendence of  Venict^  ELditions  of  the  poem,  with  the 
oriiiinal  on  one  column,  and  tiie  Venetian  variations  on 
the  other,  as  suiiij  bv  tlie  boatmen,  were  once  common, 
and  are  still  to  be  found.  The  followina  extract  will  serve 
to  show  the  ditFerence  between  the  Tuscan  epic  and  the 
"Canta  alia  Barcariola." 

Oniiinnl. 


Canto  1 
Ch..  • 

'  arnii  pic'osc.  e 

1  capiiansi 
>"Ti>  (li  ( "rislo. 

M^iltoe- 

Mult,.. 

E  in  van 

t'lK'lK'i 

Segai  ri.i 

i  opru  c.o\  senno. 
oltVi  nel  iijoiioso 
'  Iiit'enio  a  lui  s' 
0  (!'  A.-iia, »'  (ii  Li 
■i  -li  (lie  favore, 
Ujso  i  suui  oump 

VfHft.irai 

e  con  la  maiio, 
actinisto  : 
oppose,  e  in  vuno 
i)ia  il  popol  misto, 
e  si.tto  a  i  santi 
ii,'iii  erranti. 

1/  arnu 

E(i.'<; 

)ietose  ch'  cantar 
•  tliv,!..  la  ennior 

sho  vogia, 

al  t.iraara. 

Gill'  al  tin  I"  iia  liiXMa  rn  s'ra^-ei.  e  (iogia 

Del  nostro  buoii  G-st'i    la  sf'Doltura  : 

Di'  niczo  iiuin.K)  unito,  e  do  (iu<'l  l^osia 

Mi-si.T  Pai'cMi  MO  r  ha  !ni  niai  paura; 

Dm  r  lia  aiiiula,  ei  coiiipajjni  spariiafnai 

T'llti  "I  iiir  i  ha  in.'ssi  insicine  i  di  (id  Dai. 


Souk;  of  the  elder  gondoliers  will,  however,  tane  up 
and  conimue  a  stanza  of  their  once  familiar  bard. 

On  th-   Till  of  last  January,  the  aut!i(>r  of   Childe 

Harold,    aud    another    Eno;livhman,  the  writer  of  this 

notice,  ro.^ed  d  the  Lido  with  two  singers,  one  of  whom 

wa-  a  carpenter,  and  the  other  a  gondolier.   The  former 

placed  liim^cif  al  the  prow,  the  latter  at  the  stern  of  the 

boat.   A  iitt!(-  after  ieaviiiir  the  (jviay  (5f  the  Piazetta,  they 

;     lie^aii  to  sine,   a"  I  continued  their  exercise   until  we 

I     arrived   at   the  island.     They  gave   us,   amongst   other 

essavs,  the  d.-ath  of  Clormda,  and  the  palace  of  Armida; 

j     and  did   n(jt  sing  the  Venetian,  but   the  Tuscan  verses. 

j     The  carpenter,  however,  w  ho  w  as  the  cleverer  of  the  two, 

'     and  was  tVe  iiiently  obliged  to  prompt   nis  comiiamon, 

told  us  tlvit  Ik;  could  t.rmHbite  the  original.     He  added, 

ihit  iiecaiid  siiiu;  almost  three  liundred  stamvis.  but  had 

not  spirits  {lanrbin  was  the  word  he  used),  to  learn  any 

im/re.  or  to  sinji:  wliat   ho  already  knew:  a  man  iinist 

liav;'  idle  time  on  his  hands  to  acquire,  or  to  repeat,  and, 

said  the  [loor  fellow,  "look  at  my  clothes  and  at  me,  I 

am  starving."'    This  speech  w;is  more  affecting  than  his 

performance,  which  habit  alone  can  make  attractive. 


1  Maroi  Antnnii  Sabelh.  de  Venetae  Urbis  situ,  miratio,  edit 
Tauriii.  1527,  lib.  1.  lol.  202. 


232 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


The  recitative  was  shrill,  screaming,  and  monotonous, 
and  the  gondolier  behind  assisted  his  voice  by  holding 
his  hand  to  one  side  of  his  mouth.  The  carpenter  used  a 
(jui-it  action,  which  he  evidently  endeavoured  to  restrain, 
but  was  too  much  hiterested  in  his  subject  altogether  to 
rep.  ess.  From  these  men  we  learnt  that  singing  is  not 
r-ontined  to  the  gondoliers,  and  tliat,  although  the  cliaunt 
/?  seldom,  if  ever,  voluntary,  there  are  still  several  amongst 
the  -ower  classes  who  are  acquainted  with  a  few  stanzas. 

It  does  not  appear  that  it  is  usual  for  tiie  performers  to 
row  and  sing  at  the  same  time.  Although  the  verses  of 
the  Jerusalem  are  no  longer  casually  heard,  ihere  is  yet 
much  music  upon  the  Venetian  canals ;  and  upon  hoh- 
days,  those  strangers  wlio  are  not  near  or  informed 
enough  to  distinguish  the  words,  may  fancy  that  many  of 
the  gondolas  still  resound  with  the  strains  of  Tasso.  The 
writer  of  some  remarks  which  ajipeared  in  the  Curiosities 
of  Literature  must  excuse  his  being  twice  quoted  ;  for, 
with  the  exception  of  some  phrases^  little  too  ambitious 
and  extravagant,  he  has  furnished  a  verv  exact,  as  well 
as  agreeable,  description. 

"In  Venice  tiie  go.id.iiiers  know  by  heart  long  pi 
sages  from  Ariosto  and  Tasso.  and  often  cliaunt  them  wim 
I  peculiar  melody.  But.  this  talent  seems  at  present  on 
the  decline  : — at  least,  after  taking  some  pains,  I  could 
find  no  more  than  two  persons  who  delivered  to  me  in 
this  way  a  passage  from  Tasso.  I  must  add,  that  the  late 
Mr.  Berry  once  chaunted  to  me  a  passage  in  Tasso  in  the 
manner,  as  he  assured  me,  of  the  gondoliers. 

"  There  are  always  two  coiK^erned,  who  alternately 
sing  the  strophes.  We  know  the  melody  evenfuallv  by 
Rousseau,  to  whose  songs  it  is  printed  ,  it  has  jiroperlv  no 
melodious  movement;  and  is  a  sort  of  medium  between 
the  canto  fcrmo  and  the  canto  figurato  ;  it  approaches  to 
tlie  former  by  recitativiral  declamation,  aivl  to  the  latter 
by  passages  and  course,  by  which  one  syllable  is  detained 
and  embeHished. 

"  I  entered  a  gondola  by  moonlight ;  one  singer  placed 
nimself  forwards,  and  the  other  aft,  and  thus  firoceeded 
to  St.  Georgio,  One  began  the  song :  wlien  he  had  ended 
his  strophe,  the  other  took  up  thf^  lay,  and  so  continued 
the  song  alternately.  Th'-oimhout  the  whole  of  it,  the 
same  notes  invariably  returned,  but,  according  to  the 
subject  matter  of  the  strophe,  they  laid  a  greater  or  a 
smaller  stress,  sometimes  on  one,  and  sometimes  on 
another  note,  and  indeed  changed  the  enunciation  of  the 
whole  strophe  as  the  object  of  the  poem  altered. 

"  On  the  whole,  however,  the  sounds  were  hoarse  and 
screaming:  they  seemed,  in  the  manner  of  all  nide^  un- 
civilized men,  to  make  the  excellencv  of  their  sinirin^  in 
the  force  of  their  voice :  one  seemed  desirous  of  conquer- 
ing tne  other  by  the  strength  of  his  lungs  ;  and  so  far 
from  receiving  delight  from  this  scene  (shut  up  as  I  was 
in  the  box  of  the  gondola),  I  found  mj'self  hi  a  very  un- 
pleasant situation. 

"  My  companion,  to  whom  I  communicated  this  cir- 
cumstance, being  very  desirous  to  keep  up  the  credit  of 
nis  countrymen,  ass.ired  me  that  this  singing  was  verv 
delightfii  when  heard  at  a  distance.  Accordingly  we 
g"t  out  upon  the  shore,  leaving  one  of  the  singers  in  the 
gondola,  while  i.he  other  went  to  the  distance  of  some 
hunrlred  paces;  They  now  began  to  sing  against  one 
aii'tttier,  and  I  kept  walking  up  and  down  between  them 
')otli,  so  as  always  to  leave  him  who  v,-as  to  begin  his  part. 
fr''(]uently  stood  .still  and  hearkened  to  the  one  and  to 
^e  other. 

"  Here  the  scene  was  properly  introduced.  The  strong 
Declamatory,  and,  as  it  were,  shrieking  sound,  met  the 
f^tr  from  far,  and  ca'led  forth  the  attention  ;  the  quickly- 
-ucceec  iiu  transitions,  which  necessarily  reqmred  to  be 


sung  in  a  lower  tone,  seemed  'ike  plainti\e  st  ams  suc- 
ceeding the  vociferation  of  emotion  or  of  pan.  The 
other,  who  listened  attentively,  imnieoiately  began  whcrr. 
the  former  left  off,  answering  him  in  milder  or  more 
vehement  notes,  according  as  the  pur|)ort  of  the  stropha 
required.  The  slcejiy  canals,  the  loftv  buildings,  the 
splendour  of  the  moon,  tiie  de('p  shadows  of  the  few 
gondolas,  that  moved  like  spirits  hither  and  thither,  in 
creased  the  striking  peculiarity  of  the  scene  ;  and,  amidst 
all  these  circumstances,  it  was  easy  to  confess  the  char- 
actor  of  this  wonderful  harmonv. 

"  It  suits  jierfcctiy  well  with  an  idle  solitary  marmer, 
lying  at  length  in  his  vessel  at  rest  on  one  of  these  canals, 
waiting  for  his  comj.any,  or  for  a  fare,  the  tiresomeness! 
of  which  situation  is  somewhat  alleviated  bv  the  songs 
and  poetical  stories  he  has  in  memory.  He  often  raises 
his  voice  as  loud  as  he  can,  which  extends  itself  to  a  vast 
distance  over  the  tran(]uil  mirror,  and  as  all  is  still  around, 
he  IS,  as  it  were,  in  a  solitude  in  the  midst  of  a  large  and 
populous  town.  Mere  is  no  rattling  of  carriages,  no  noise 
of  foot  passengers:  a  silent  gondola  glides  now  and  then 
by  him,  of  which  the  splashing  of  the  oars  is  scarcely 
to  be  heard. 

"At  a  distance  he  hears  another,  perhaps  utterly  un- 
known to  him.  Melody  and  verse  immediately  attach 
the  two  strangers  ;  be  b(>comes  the  resj)onsive  echo  to  the 
f()rmer,  and  exerts  liimself  to  be  heard  as  he  had  heard 
the  other.  By  a  tacit  convention  they  alternate  verse  for 
verse;  though  the  song  should  last  the  wliole  nighl 
through,  they  entertain  themselves  without  ft^tigue;  the 
hearers,  who  are  passing  between  the  two,  take  oprt  in 
the  amusement. 

"  This  vocal  performance  sounds  best  at  a  great  dis- 
tance, and  is  then  inexpressibly  charming,  as  it  oiilv 
Hiifils  its  design  in  die  sentiment  of  re  moteness.  It  is 
plaintive,  but  not  dismal  in  its  .sound,  and  at  tunes  it  is 
scarcely  possible  to  reli-ain  from  tears.  My  comjianion, 
\vho  otherwise  was  not  a  very  delicately  ori,'anized  person, 
said  quite  unexpectedly:  'e  singolare  come  (juel  canto 
intenerisce,  e  molto  piii  (jiiando  lo  cantano  nieglio.' 

"I  was  told  that  the  women  of  Libo,  the  long  row 
of  islands  that  divides  the  Adriatic  from  the  Lagnuns,  ' 
particularly  the  women  of  the  extreme  districts  of  iNlala- 
niocca  and  Palestrina,  sing  in  like  manner  the  werks  of 
Tasso  to  these  and  simihir  tunes. 

"Th(-yhave  the  custom,  wlieii  their  husbands  are 
fishing  out  at  sea,  to  sit  along  the  shore  in  the  evenings 
and  vociferate  these  songs,  and  continue  to  do  so  with 
great  violence,  till  each  of  tliern  can  distinguish  the 
responses  of  her  own  husband  at  a  distance." - 

1'he  love  ofmusic  and  ofpoetry  distinguishes  all  classes 
of  \'enetians,  even  amongst  the  tuneful  sons  of  Italy. 
The  city  itself  can  occasionally  tiirnish  respectable  au- 
diences far  t\vo  and  eveii  three  ofiera-houses  at  a  time ; 
and  there  are  fnv  events  in  private  life  that  do  not  caL' 
forth  a  [irinted  and  circulated  sonnet.  Does  a  physician 
or  a  lawyer  take  his  degree,  or  a  clergyman  preach  liis 
maiden  sermon,  has  a  surgeon  [lerformed  an  operation, 
would  a  harle(piin  announce  his  departure  or  his  benefit, 
are  you  to  be  congraTulat(Hl  on  a  marriage,  or  a  birtl;,  or  a 
law-suit,  the  Mus(>s  are  invoked  to  furnish  the  same  nunt- 
ber  of  syllables,  and  the  individual  trium|)!is  blaze  abroad 
in  virgin  white  or  party-coloured  plac;irds  on  half  the  cor- 
ners of  the  capital.  The  last  curtsvof  a  t'avourite  "prima 
donna"  brirgs  down  a  shower  of  these  poetical  tributes 
from  those  upper  regions,  from  wlii(;h,  in  our  theatres, 

1  'I'he  writer  meant  I  Ado.  wliirh  is  not  n  long  rowofiBVinds, 
but  a  long  i.«laii(l — li/tiis,  the  shore. 

■2  Curiosities  of  Tiilenituie,  vol.  ii.  p.  1.50.  edit.  IH07  and 
Appondi.v  xxi.x.  to  Black's  Life  of  Tas.so. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


23a 


nutlimg  Ijnt  f^iupids  and  snow-storms  are  accustomed  to 
dt;sr(fnd.  There  is  a  poetry  in  the  very  hfe  of  a  Venetian, 
which,  in  its  common  course,  is  varied  with  those  surprises 
and  rhanjjes  so  recoinmendahle  in  tiction,  but  so  ditlcrent 
from  tn«  sotier  monotony  of  northern  existence  ;  amuse- 
ments are  raised  into  duties,  (kities  are  softened  uito 
annisements,  and  ev(;ry  object  being  considered  as  equal- 
y  making  a  part  of  the  busmess  of  hfe,  is  announced  and 
performed  with  tlie  same  earrujst  indilFerence  and  gay 
assiduity.  'J'he  N'enetian  gfizette  constantly  closes  its 
columns  witli  the  tbllowing  triple  advertisement: 
Charade. 


Exposition  of  the  most  Holy  Sacrament  in  the  church  of  St. 

Tkcatres 
St.  Moses,  opera. 

St.  Benedict,  a  comedy  of  characters.  - 
St.  Luke,  repose. 
When  it  is  recollected  what  the  Catholics  believe  their 
consecrated  wafer  to  be,  we  may  [lerhaps  think  it  worthy 
0*" a  more  respectable  niche  than  between  poetry  and  the 
pi  lyhouse. 

Note  4.   Stanza  x. 
Sparta  hatfj  many  a  worthier  son  than  he. 
The  answer  of  the  mother  of  Brasidas  to  the  strangers 
who  praised  the  memory  of  lier  son. 

Note  5.   Stanza  xi. 
St.  ]\!;irk  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood 
Stan'!.— 

The  lion  has  lost  nothing  by  his  journey  to  the  In- 
vnli'lea,  but  the  gospel  which  supported  the  paw  that  is 
now  on  a  level  with  the  other  foot.  The  horses,  also, 
are  returned  to  the  ill-chosen  spot  whence  they  set  out, 
and  are,  as  before,  half  hidden  under  the  porch  window 
oi  St  iMark's  church. 

Their  history,  alter  a  desperate  struggle,  has  been 
satisfactorily  explored.  The  decisions  and  doubts  of 
Erizzi  and  Zanetli,  and  lastly,  of  the  Count  Leopold 
Clcognara,  would  have  given  them  a  Roman  extraction, 
aiif!  a  pedigree  ncK  more  ancient  than  the  reign  of  Nero. 
Hut  M.  de  Schlegel  stepped  in  to  teach  the  Venetians 
iht  value  of  their  own  treasures,  and  a  Greek  vindicated, 
at  las:  and  for  ever,  the  [iretension  of  his  countrymen 
to  th:s  noble  production.'  Mr.  Mustoxidi  has  not  been 
eft  'vithvAit  a  reply;  but,  as  yet,  he  has  received  no 
iMswer.  It  should  seem  that  the  horses  are  irrevocably 
Chian,  and  were  transferred  to  Constantinople  by  The- 
>MOsius.  Lapidary  writing  is  a  favourite  play  of  the 
{talians,  and  has  conftirred  reputation  on  more  than 
one  of  their  literary  characters.  One  of  the  best  speci- 
;n(;ns  of  Bodoni's  typogra|)hy  is  a  respectable  volume 
.^f  inscriptions,  all  written  by  his  friend  Pacciaudi. 
Sf.'verai  were  [ircjjared  for  the  recovered  horses.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  tliat  the  best  was  not  selected,  when  the 
tbliowing  words  were  ranged  in  gold  letters  above  the 
:;athedral  porch: 

QUATUOR  .  E<iUORUM  .  SIGXA  .  A  .  VEXETIS  .  EV- 
ZANTIO  .  CAPTA  .  AD  .  TEMP  .  D  .  .-^lAR  .  A  .  R  .  S  . 
MCCIV  .  FOSITA  .  qU.E  .  IIOSTILlS  .  CUPIDITAS  .  A  . 
MDCCCIII  .  ABSTULEUAT  .  FRANC  .  I  .  IMP  .  PACIS  . 
ORBI  .  I)AT/E  .  TROPH.EUM  .  A  .  MDCCCXV  .  VICTOR  . 
REDUX  IT. 

Nothing  shall  be  said  of  the  Lntin,  but  it  may  be  per- 
mitted to  observe,  !nat  the  injustice  of  the  Venetians  in 
transporting  the  horses  from  Constantmople  was  at 
'•rast  equal  to  that  of  the  P^'rench  in  carrying  them  to 


1  Sui  qiiattro  cavnlli  riella  Basilicii  di  S  Marco  in  V>Ticzia. 
Cettera  i\\  A'lrircji  M'  «to.\i(li  Corcirese.     Pad.'va  per  Bettorit 


Paris,  and  that  it  would  have  been  more  prudent  to  liavr 
avoided  all  allusions  to  either  robbery.  An  apostolic 
prince  should,  perhaps,  have  objected  to  athxing.  ovei 
ihe  nnncipai  entrance  of  a  metropolitan  churcdi,  nn  in- 
jcrlpuon  having  a  reference  to  any  other  triumphs  thar 
hose  of  religion.  Nothing  less  than  the  pacilication 
of  the  world  can  excuse  such  a  solecism. 

Note  6.   Stanza  xii. 

The  Suabtan  sued,  and  now  ilie  Austrian  reicns — 
All  emperor  tramples  whert!  an  emiieror  knelt. 

After  many  vain  efforts  on  the  part  of  the  Italians, 
entirely  to  throw  otT  the  yoke  of  Frederic  Barbarossa, 
and  as  fruitless  attempts  of  the  -emperor  to  make  him- 
self absolute  master  throughout  the  whole  of  iiis  Cisal- 
pine dominions,  the  bloody  struggles  of  four-and-tv.t^nty 
years  were  ha])pily  brought  to  a  close  in  the  city  of  Ven- 
ice. The  articles  of  a  treaty  had  been  previously 
agreed  upon  between  Pope  Alexander  III,  and  Barba- 
rossa,  and  the  former,  having  received  a  safe-conduct 
had  already  arrived  at  Venice  from  Ferrara,  in  com- 
pany with  the  ambassadors  of  the  king  of  Sicily  and  the 
consuls  of  the  Lomliard  league.  There  still  remained, 
however,  many  points  to  adjust,  and  for  several  dajs 
the  peace  was  believed  to  be  impracticable.  At  this 
juncture  it  was  suddenly  reported  that  the  emperor 
had  arrived  at  Chioza,  a  town  fifteen  miles  from  the 
capital.  The  Venetians  rose  tumult-.rously,  and  insisted 
upon  immediately  conducting  him  to  the  citv.  The 
Lombards  took  the  alarm,  and  departed  towards  IVe- 
viso.  The  Pope  himself  was  apprehensive  of  some  dis- 
aster if  Frederic  should  suddenly  advance  upon  him, 
but  was  re-assured  by  the  prudence  and  address  irf 
Sebastian  Ziani,  the  Doge.  Several  embassies  passen 
between  Chioza  and  the  capital,  until,  at  last,  the  emperor 
relaxing  somewhat  of  his  pretensions,  "  laid  asici"  tm 
leonine  ferocity,  and  put  on  the  mildness  of  the  lainl)."  ' 

On  Saturday  the  23d  of  July,  in  the  year  1177,  six 
V^enetian  galleys  transferred  Frederic,  in  great  pomp, 
from  Chioza  to  the  island  of  Lido,  a  mile  from  N'enice. 
Early  the  next  morning,  the  Pope,  accompanied  by  the 
Sicilian  ambassadors,  and  by  the  envoys  of  Lofnbardy, 
whom  he  had  recalled  from  the  main  land,  together 
with  a  great  concourse  of  people,  repaired  from  the 
patriarchal  palace  to  Saint  Mark's  church,  and  solemnly 
absolved  the  emperor  and  his  partisans  from  the  ex- 
communication pronounced  against  him.  The  chan- 
cellor of  the  empire,  on  the  part  of  his  master,  re- 
nounced the  anti-popes  and  their  schismatic  adlurents. 
Immediatelv  the  doge,  with  a  great  suite  both  of  the 
clergy  and  laitv,  got  on  board  the  galleys,  and  waiting 
on  Frederic,  rowed  him  in  mighty  state  from  the  Lidc 
to  the  cai)ital.  The  einueror  descende;!  from  ,he  galiev 
at  the  (pKiy  of  the  Pia7(!tta.  The  doge,  the  jiatriarch, 
his  bishops  and  clergv,  and  the  people  of  Venice,  wit> 
their  crosses  and  their  standards,  marched  in  solenu 
procession  before  him  to  the  church  of  Saint  Mark, 
Alexander  was  seated  befoi-e  the  vestibule  of  the  ba- 
silica, attended  by  his  bishops  and  cardinals,  by  the 
patriarch  of  Ac]ui!eja,  by  the  archbishops  aiu!  bishops 
of  Lombardv,  all  of  them  in  state,  and  clothed  iu  (l»eii 
church  robes.  Frederic  ai»[)roached — "  moved  by  th'-? 
Holv  Spirit,  venerating  the  Almighty  in  the  pe'soa  o1 
Alexandfir,  la\'iiig  asic'e  his  imperial  digmly,  and  throw 

1  "  (inihns  aiiditis,  imperator,  operante  eo,  (]ui  corda  prm 
cipiim  sicut  vnlt  et  qua.ndo  vult  hiirniiiier  iiu-linat,  Icrmiiis 
ferifati"  d^pusita,  ovinniri  mansuctudinem  iiiduil."  Kotruiald 
Salernitani.  (?lironicon.  a  put!  .-Script.  Rer.  Itai.  toni.  VII  p  -I'l?    ' 


234 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


mg  oir  his  maiitle,  he  prostrated  himself  a.t  full  length 
at  the  feet  of  the  Pope.  Alexander,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  raised  him  henignantly  from  the  ground,  kissed 
him,  blessed  him;  and  immediately  the  Germans  of  the 
train  sang,  with  a  lond  voice,  '  We  praise  tliee,  O  Lord.' 
The  emperor  then  taking  the  Pope  by  the  right  hand, 
led  him  to  the  church,  and,  having  received  his  bene- 
Jiction,  returned  to  the  ducal  palace."  *  The  ceremony 
of  humiliation  was  repeated  the  next  day.  The  Po[)e 
.limself,  at  the  recpiest  of  Frederic,  said  mass  at  Saint 
Mark's.  The  emperor  again  laid  aside  his  imj)erial 
mantle,  and,  takmg  a  wand  in  his  hand,  official  ed  as 
verger,  driving  the  laity  from  the  choir,  and  preceding 
Ihe  pontiff  to  the  altar.  Alexander,  after  reciting  the 
gospel,  i)reached  to  the  people.  The  emperor  [)Ut  him- 
self close  to  the  pulpit  in  the  attitude  of  listenintj ;  and 
ihe  pontitT,  toiiched  by  this  mark  of  his  attention,  for 
he  knew  that  Frederic  did  not  understand  a  word  he 
Sdiu,  commanded  the  patriarch  of  Aqiiileja  to  trarislate 
the  Latin  discourse  into  the  German  torgae.  The  creed 
was  then  chaunted.  Frederic  msde  his  oblation,  and 
kissed  the  Pope's  feet,  and,  mass  be-ng  over,  led  him  by 
the  hand  to  his  white  horse.  He  held  the  stirrup,  and 
would  have  held  the  horse's  rein  to  the  water  side,  had 
not  the  Pope  accej)ted  of  the  inclination  for  the  per- 
(ornianre,  and  affectionately  dismissed  him  with  his 
l)pj!ediction.  Such  is  the  substance  of  the  account  left 
by  the  archbishop  of  Salerno,  who  was  present  at  the 
cereui  »!iy,  and  whose  story  is  confirmed  by  every  sub- 
se(jiH'nt  narration.  It  would  not  he  worth  so  minute 
a  record,  were  it  not  the  triumph  of  liberty  as  well  as 
of  superstition.  Tiic  states  of  Lombardy  owed  to  it  the 
coniirmation  of  their  privileges ;  and  Alexander  had 
-cason  to'thaiik  the  Almighty,  who  had  enabled  an  in- 
lirm,  unarmed  old  man  to  subdue  a  terrible  and  poten: 
ioveieiizn.' 


Note  7.   Stanza  xii. 


me  lioiir  of  I 
iticnitriiii)  cli 


lul  old  Dandolo! 

f,  Hyzanti tun's  conquering  foe. 


scr 


*  Chr.inicon.  apint  Poript.  Rer.  Itiil.  torn.  VII.  231. 
1  See  ttic  al)t)V(!-riteii   Romnald  of  Salerno.    In   a  second 
hid)   Alexander  preached,  on  the  first  day  of  Au- 


hciiirc  the  ornpcror,  he  compared  Frei'eric  to  the  prodijral 
SOI!    ar.d  hiin.-;(;if  to  tlic;  forgiving  father. 

y  Mr.  (Jihhon  has  omitted  the  important  x,  and  has  written 
ni.iiiani  instead  of  Romania: — Dcflino  and  Fall,  cliap.  Ixi. 
,noir  •).  I5iit  the  title  aciiuin^d  by  Dandolo  runs  thus  in  the 
c'ir<;  li'-lfi  of  his  namesake,  the  Dotre  Andrew  Dandolo: — 
hiir.dli  til'  1,0  nildldtt,  "  Qiiartx  -partis  rt  diniiiUse  totins  im- 
perii Noiiiarr'n.'''  And.  Dand.  (^lironicon.  cap.  iii.  pars  xxxvii. 
ip.  Siript  Rer.  Itiil.  t(irn.  xii.  page  .'{HI.  And  the  Romaniffi 
'flobrervcd  in  the  siil)se<iiient  aets  of  lh('  dojies.  Indeed  the 
■;f)ntiii''!iinl  possessions  ol'  tlie  Greek  empire  in  Fiiirope,  were 
ilier  ■xeniMally  known  by  the  name  of  R.-ma  lia,  and  that  ap- 
.)ei|:.ii  HI  is  siill  seen  in  lh('  maps  of  Turkey  as  applied  to 
Chrae,,, 

'{  r^i-e  the  co'itiniiation  of  Dando'o's  (""hronirlo,  ibid.  p.  408 
Mr.  (Jihhon  appears  not  to  include  Dollino,  folio 
ivliosays,  "il  qiinnnoln  yi  n^o  ft,,  nl  Doisr  (1 
itni    '     S<!e  Vite  do'  Duejii  de   Vi 
■••ni    \x\.    '>!{'*   i>ii 


The  reader  will  recollect  the  exclamation  of  the  high- 
ander,  Oh,  far  one  hour  of  Dundee!   Henry  Dandolo, 
when  elected  doge,  in  1192,  was  eighty-five  years  of  age. 
When  he  commanded  the  Venetians  at  the  taking  of 
Constantinople,  he  was  consequently  ninety-seven  years    I 
'-/  '■ .     At  this  age  he  annexed  the  fourth  and  a  half  of    ! 
itic  whole  emj)ire  of  Romania,  ^  for  so  the  Roman  em-    I 
[lire  was  then  called,  to  tiie  title  and  to  the  territories  of 
llic  VtiK'tian  Doge.     The  three-eighllis  of  this  empire 
.were   preferved   in  the  diplomas  until  the  dukedom  of    i 
Giovanni  Dollino,  who  made  use  of  the  above  designa-    | 
tion  in  the  year  1367.'  | 


Danlolo  led  the  attack  on  Constantinople  in  person 
two  sliips,  the  Paradise  and  the  Pilgrim,  were  tied  to 
getlier,  and  a  drawbridge  or  ladder  let  down  from  'he 
higher  yard.s  to  the  walls.  The  doge  was  one  of  he  lirsrt 
to  nis"li  into  the  city.  Then  was  completed,  said  the 
Venetians,  the  projihecy  of  the  Erythrajan  sybil.  "  A 
gathering  together  of  the  powerful  shall  be  made  amids' 
the  waves  of  the  Adriatic,  under  a  blind  leader:  ihey 
-iliall  beset  the  goat — they  shall  profane  Byzant.dm — 
tliev  sliall  blacken  her  buildings — her  spoils  shall  be  dis- 
p(;rsed  ;  a  new  goat  shall  bleat  until  they  have  measured 
out  and  run  ovtir  fifty-four  feet,  nine  inches,  and  a  half."' 

Dandolo  died  on  the  first  day  of  June,  1205,  having 
reigned  thirteen  years,  six  months,  and  five  days,  ;ind 
was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Sophia,  at  Constanti- 
nople. Strangely  enough  if  must  sound,  that  th(!  name 
)f  the  rebel  apothecary  who  received  the  doge's  sword, 
md  annihilated  the  ancient  government  in  1796-7,  was 
Dandolo. 

Note  S.   Stanza  ,xiii. 

Rat  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass? 
Are  they  not  hraJled? 

After  the  loss  of  the  battle  of  Pola,  and  the  taking  of 
Chioza  on  the  16th  of  August,  1379,  by  the  united 
ar;nament  of  the  Genoese  and  Francesco  da  Carrara, 
Signor  of  Padua,  tlie  Venetians  were  reduced  to  the  ut- 
most despair.  An  embassy  was  sent  to  the  conquerors 
with  a  blank  sheet  of  paper,  praying  them  to  [irescribo 
wliat  terms  they  pleased,  and  leave  to  Venice  only  h(>r 
itidepcnd(>nce.  The  Prince  of  Padua  was  inclined  to 
listen  to  these  proposals,  but  the  Genoese,  who,  after 
the  victory  at  Pola,  had  shouted,  "  to  Venice,  to  Ven- 
ice, and  long  live  St.  George,"  determined  to  annihilate 
their  rival,  and  Peter  Doria,  their  commander-in-chief, 
returned  this  answer  to  the  suppliants:  "On  God's 
faith,  gentlemen  of  Venice,  ye  shall  have  no  peace  from 
the  Signor  of  Padua,  nor  from  our  commune  of  Genoa, 
until  we  have  first  put  a  rein  upon  those  unbridled  horses 
of  yours,  that  are  upon  the  porch  of  your  evangelist  St. 
Mark.  When  we  have  bridled  them,  we  shall  keep  you 
(juiet.  And  this  is  the  pleasure  of  us  and  of  our  com- 
mune. As  for  tiiese  my  brotlicrs  of  Genoa,  that  von 
have  brouglit  with  you  to  give  up  to  us,  I  will  not  have 
them  :  take  them  back  ;  tiir,  in  a  few  davs  hence,  i 
shall  come  and  let  them  out  of  prison  myself,  both  these 
and  all  the  others."  ^  In  fact,  the  Genoese  did  advance 
as  far  as  PJalamocco,  witlim  five  miles  of  the  capita!  ; 
but  their  own  daiig(!r,  and  the  pride  of  their  enemies, 
gave  courage  to  the  V'enetians,  who  made  prodigious 
efforts,  and  many  individual  sacrifices,  all  of  them  care- 
fully recorded  by  their  historians.  Vettor  Pisani  was 
put  at  the  head  of  thirty-H)ur  galleys.  The  Genoese 
broke  up  Jrom  iMahimocco,  and  retired  to  Chioza  in 
Octf)ber;  but  they  ai^aiii  threatened  Venice,  which  was 
reduced  to  (ixtremities.  At  this  time,  the  Isl  of  Janu- 
ary, 13S0,  arrived  Carlo  Zeno,  who  had  been  crujun^ 


^amido, 
Dol- 
ap.  Script.  Rt;r.  Ital 


1  "  Fiet  pofeniinm  in  a(mis  Adriatiris  corn'regatio,  c.u-rv 
pra;diiee,  Ilirriini  andiigent,  Hyzantium  propiianahunt.  iedi- 
fii-ia  deni-rahimt:  spolia  dispergciitur.  Hircus  iiovns  halul.ii 
usipie  dnm  lilV.  pedes  et  IX.  pollices  et  semis,  pia'mensiira'i 
rlisciirraiK ."     Chronieon.  ibid,  par.s  xxxiv. 

2  "  Alia  fe  di  I)io,  Siirnori  \'eneziani,  non  haverete  mai  r>.  -C 
dal  Si;;iiore  di  I'adona,  ne  dal  nosiro  comiine  di  Geiiovfi,  ce 
primieramente  non  mettemo  le  hriixiie  a  (pielli  v«)stri  ravalli 
sirenati,  die  sonosii  la  Rezadd  Vostro  FvaiiL'ehsta  S.  Marcu^ 
Infreiiati  die  gli  havremo,  vi  faremo  stare  in  liiiona  pace,  h 
qiiesta  e  la  intenziont!  nostra,  e  del  nostro  coinunt\  Uliesti 
miei  fralelli  (Jenov.^si.  die  hav.'-e  menati  con  voi  i)er  donarn, 
non  li  v..',:lu);  rimanetegli  in  diet'-(.  nerche  io  intendo  da  QV" 
;i  poclii  :::orni  vemrgli  a  nscuolor  dalle  vostre  prigioni,  c  loin 
e  gli  ahri  " 


CHILDE    IIAROLP'S    riLGRIMAGE. 


28fc 


:in  t/ic  (icnoKsi*  coast  with  Piiirtcen  galleys.  Tlie 
v.  uetians  \\t;re  now  stn.iiii;  ciiougli  lo  l)t'su,'t;c  the  Go 
ii(it;sL'.  Doria  was  killed  on  tlio  '2'Jil  of  .lainiarv  by  a 
stone  bulii  t  a  lunnlreil  ami  :iinety-tivo  ponnds  uci^'lit, 
dischariie  1  troni  a  lK)nil)ani  ealled  the  Tiex is;;;;.  Chio/a 
■■vas  thtti  <-litselv  in\"ested  ]  live  tlmusand  auxiliiirics, 
auiongst  wimni  were  some  EnizHsh  Contiottieri,  eoju- 
niaiiiled  hv  one  Captain  Ceocho,  joincil  the  Venetians, 
riu!  Genoese,  in  their  turn,  prayeil  for  condilioiis,  hut 
none  were  granled,  until,  at  last,  they  surrendered  at 
disernion  ;  and,  on  tiie  ■24th  of  June,  13S0,  the  Do<re 
Contarini  made  his  triunipha!  entry  into  Chioza.  Four 
thousaiai  (irisoiiers,  nineteen  galleys,  nianv  smaller 
vessels  and  barks,  with  all  the  ammunition  and  arms, 
and  oulht  of  the  ex])edition,  fell  into  the  haiid.s  of  the 
coiujiierors,  who,  had  it  not  been  for  the  inexorable 
answer  of  Doria,  would  have  gladly  reduced  liieir  do- 
niinioii  to  the  cil\'  of  \euice.  An  aceoiwn  -of  these 
transactions  is  found  in  a  work  called  the  War  of 
Chioza,  written  by  Daniel  Chinazzo,  wiio  was  in  Ven- 
ice at  the  time.' 

Note  9.   Stanza  xiv. 
Thi!  ••Planter  of  the  Lion." 
Piint  the  IJnn — that  is,  the  Lion  of  St.  INIark,  the 
standard  of  the  republic,  wlrch  is  the  origin  of  the  word 
pantaloon — Piaiiia-leone,  Pantaleone,  Pantaloon. 
Note  10.   Stanza  w. 
Thin  street.-;,  an^l  loreiirn  .^^!>^'cts.  siu-h  as  must 
Too  ot'l  romnul  lici  who  and  what  cntiirals. 

The  poprilation  of  \'enice  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth 
centurv  amounted  to  nearlv  two  hundred  thousand 
souls.  At  the  la-^t  census,  taiien  two  years  aero,  it  was 
no  more  than  about  one  hundred  and  three  thonsan  !, 
and  it  diniiinshes  dailv.  The  commerce  and  the  official 
cinployments,  which  were  to  be  the  unexhausted  source 
of  Venetian  grandeur,  have  both  expired.'*  Most  of  the 
patrician  mansions  are  deserted,  and  would  gradually 
disappear,  had  not  the  government,  alarmed  bv  the  de- 
molition of  seventy-two,  during  the  last  twD  j'ears,  ex- 
presslv  forbidden  this  sad  resource  of  poverty.  Many 
remnants  of  the  Venetian  nobiiity  are  now  scattered 
and  confoun  led  with  the  wealthier  Jews  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Brenta,  whose  palladian  palaces  have  sunk,  or 
are  sinking,  in  the  general  decay.  Of  the  "  gentil  uomo 
Veneto,"  the  name  is  still  known,  and  that  is  all.  He 
is  but  the  shadow  of  his  ibrmer  self,  but  he  is  polite  and 
kind.  It  surely  may  be  pardoned  to  him  if  he  is  (jue- 
rulous.  'Whatever  may  have  been  the  vices  of  the  re- 
public, and  alrhouiih  the  natural  term  of  its  existence 
may  be  thouiih'  by  f  ireiuners  to  have  arrived  in  the  due 
course  of  mortality,  ;Mily  one  sentiment  can  be  expected 
from  the  \'(Mie;i;ins  themselves.  At  no  time  were  the 
subjects  of  the  republic  so  unanimous  in  their  reso'ution 
to  rally  roiui !  th*;  standard  of  St.  .Alark,  as  when  it  was 
for  the  last  time  unfurled*;  and  the  cowardice  and  the 
Ireaciiery  of  the  few  patririans  who  recfunmcn  led  the 
fatal  neutrality,  were  coniined  to  the  persons  of  the 
traitors  thtinselves. 

The  present  race  cannot  be  thought  to  rei'ret  the 
loss  of  their  aristocratical  forms,  and  too  despotic  gov- 
3inment;  thev  think  only  on  their  vanished  iiulepen- 
Jence.  Thev  pine  awav  at  the  remembrance!,  and  on 
this  subject  suspend   for  a  moinent   their  gay  good-hu- 

1  •'('hronic^t  .!el!a  -iiirra  di  Chioza,"  etc.  Scipt.  Her.  li  1. 
'on.,  xv.  p.  ()9'J  to  H)4. 

2 '•  NiiMiHiilnriui!  (•  nohilitaU'  iinm<M;s;f  sunt  (^pes.  ;i(!ei>  ui 
vix  iPstinitiri  possiiit :  id  qiind  tntiiis  e  rebus  oritur,  parsimonia, 
^.omiiH  ri-io.  iU(|ne  iis  ernolieiu-nlis.  (piiP  t;  Kepiih.  pereipiiiiit, 
\us'  h.inc  o!)  causam  liiutiirna  forn  cieditui."  —See  l)e  Prin- 
'.tpdtibus  Ua!'.T;TraclatUiii  ediu  Ifi3l, 


mour.  Venice  may  be  said,  in  the  words  of  tl.e  scrip, 
ture,  "  to  die  daily  ;"  and  so  general  and  so  apparent 
IS  the  decline,  as  to  become  painful  to  a  stranger,  nol 
reconciled  lo  the  sight  of  a  whole  nation  expiring,  as  it 
were,  before  his  eves.  So  artificial  a  creation,  hax  ing 
lost  that  princii)le  which  called  it  into  life  and  suj>- 
poried  its  existence,  must  fail  to  |)ieces  at  once,  and 
sink  more  rapidiv  than  it  rose.  The  ablujrreiice  ol 
slavery,  which  drove  the  Venetians  to  the  sea,  has, 
since  their  disaster,  forced  them  to  the  land,  where 
iney  mav  be  at  least  overlooked  aniong-'^l  the  crowd 
of  dependants,  and  not  present  the  humiliatifig  spect  si- 
de of  a  whole  nation  loaded  with  recent  chains.  'I'heii 
liveliness,  their  ati'ability,  and  that  ha|)py  indifference 
wliieh  constitution  alone  can  give,  for  jdiiJosopliy  aspir(  s 
to  it  in  vain,  have  not  sunk  undg-  circumstances;  bi,( 
many  peculiarities  of  costume  and  manner  have  bv 
degrees  been  lost,  and  the  nobles,  with  a  pritle  coiu- 
mon  to  all  Italians  who  have  beeji  masters,  have  not 
been  persuaded  lo  parade  their  insignltirance.  That 
splendour  which  was  a  proof  and  a  portion  of  thei; 
power,  they  would  nol  degrade  into  the  trappin^L? 
of  their  subjection.  They  retired  from  the  space  whic'i 
they  had  occupied  in  the  eyes  of  their  fellow-citizens ; 
their  continuance  in  \%hich  would  have  been  a  syinptoiu 
of  acquiescence,  and  an  insult  to  those  who  sufiered  by 
the  common  misfortune.  Those  who  remained  in  tiie 
degraded  ca])ital  nii<;ht  be  said  rather  to  hamit  the 
scenes  of  tlieir  departed  power,  than  to  live  in  them. 
Tlie  reflection,  "  who  and  what  enthrals,"  will  harill\ 
bear  a  comment  from  one  who  is,  nationally,  the  fnend 
and  the  a'.lv  of  the  conqueror.  It  may,  however,  be 
allowed  to  sav  thus  much,  that,  to  those  who  wish  to 
recover  their  independence,  anv  masters  must  je  an 
object  of  detestation  :  and  it  mav  be  safely  foretold  that 
this  unprofitable  aversion  will  nol  have  been  correcieJ 
betnre  Venice  shall  have  sunk  into  tlie  slime  of  heir 
choked  canals. 

Note  II.    Stan.'.a  xvi.  ^ 

Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse. 
The  story  is  told  in  Plutarch's  Life  of  Nicias. 

Note  12.     Stanza  xviii. 
And  Otway,  Radclitre,  Sciiiliflr,  Sliakspoare's  art. 
Venice  Preserved;  Mysteries  of  Udolplio  ;  the  Ghost- 
seer,  or  Armenian;   the  Merchant  of  N'enice  ;   Otheho. 

Note  13.   Stanza  xx. 
Hnt  from  their  natnie  will  the  tannen  srow 
Loftiest  on  lot'iiesi  and  least  shelter'd  rocks. 
Tannen  is  the  plural  of  txinne,  a  species  of  fir  pecu- 
liar to  the  Alps,  which  only  thrives  in  very  rocky  parts- 
where  scarcely  soil  sufficient  for  its  Hourishmenl  can  he 
foiuid.   On  these  sjiots  it  grows  to  a  greater  height  than 
any  other  mountain  tree. 

Note  14.    Stanza  xxviii. 
.\  siiiL'le  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reiuns 
Wit'i  her  o'er  half  the  love'y  heaven. 

Tlie  above  descri])tion  may  seem  fantastical  or  exag- 
gerated to  those  who  have  never  seen  an  oriental  or  an 
Italian  skv  ;  yet  it  is  but  a  literal  and  hardly  sufhcienl 
I  delineation  of  an  Auiiust  evening  (the  eighteenth),  as 
contemplattn!  in  one  of  many  rides  aiong  uie  banks  ol 
the  Brenta  near  La  Mira. 

Note  1.5.   Stanza  xxx. 
VVaterina  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
Wiih  his  melodious  tears,  he  K3vp  himseifto  fame 

Thanks  to  the  critical  acumen  of  a  Scotcninan,  we 
now  know  as  little  of  Laura  as  ever.'    The  disccvericb 


1  See  \  historical  and  crififa!  Essay  nn  the  Life  and  Thar 
acter  of  Petrarcli :  and  a  nisseriaiion  on  a  Histoueal  Hy 
pothesis  of  the  Abbe  de  Sade :  the  first  appe.ared  aboi.t  ihe 


H6 


BYRON'S    POETICxVL    WORKS. 


of  the  Ahl>e  de  Sade,  his  triumphs,  his  sneers,  can  no 
Ioniser  instnict  or  amuse.'  We  must  not,  however, 
think  ihat  these  laemoirs  are  as  much  a  romance  as 
Belisarius  or  the  Incas,  although  we  are  told  so  by  Dr. 
Beattie,  a  great  name,  but  a  little  authority. ^  His  "la- 
bour" has  not  been  in  vain,  notwithstanding  his  "love" 
has,  like  most  other  ,-assions,  made  I'.im  ridiculous. ' 
The  hypothesis  wliich  overpowered  the  struggling  Iti- 
lians,  and  carried  along  less  interested  critics  in  its 
current,  is  run  out.  We  have  another  proof  that  we 
can  never  be  sure  that  the  paradox,  the  most  singular, 
nnd  therefore  liaving  the  most  agreeable  and  authentic 
air,  will  not  give  place  to  the  re-established  ancient 
prejudice. 

It  seems  then,  first,  that  Laura  was  born,  hved,  died, 
and  was  buried,  not  in  Avignon,  but  in  the  country. 
The  fountains  of  the  Sorga,  the  thickets  of  Cabrieres, 
may  resume  their  pretension's,  and  the  exploded  de  la 
Bnntie  aijain  be  heard  with  complacency.  The  hypo- 
thesis of  the  Abbe  had  no  stronger  props  than  the 
parchment  sonnet  and  medal  found  on  the  skeleton  of 
the  wife  of  Hugo  de  Sade,  and  the  manuscript  note  to 
the  Virgil  of  Petrarch,  now  in  the  Ambrosian  library. 
If  these  proofs  were  both  incontestable,  the  poetry  was 
written,  the  medal  composed,  cast,  and  deposited,  with- 
in the  space  of  twelve  hours ;  and  these  deliberate  du- 
ties were  performed  round  the  carcass  of  one  who  died 
of  the  plague,  and  was  hurried  to  the  grave  on  the  day 
of  her  death.  These  documents,  therefore,  are  too  de- 
cisive :  they  prove,  not  the  fact,  but  the  forgery.  Either 
the  sonnet  or  the  Virgilian  note  must  l5e  a  falsification. 
The  Abbe  cites  both  as  incontestably  true  ;  the  conse- 
quent deduction  is  inevitable — they  are  both  evidentl}^ 
f:vlse.* 

Secondly,  Laura  was  never  married,  and  was  a  haughty 
virgin  rather  than  that  tender  and  pnulent  wife  who 
Honoured  Avignon  by  making  that  town  the  theatre  of 
an  lionest  French  passion,  and  played  off  for  one-and- 
twenty  years  her  little  machinery  of  alternate  favours 
and  refiisals  »  upon  the  first  poet  of  the  age.  .  It  was, 
indeed,  rather  too  unOiir  that  a  female  should  be  made 
responsible  for  eleven  children  upon  the  faith  of  a  mis- 
interpreted abbreviation,  and  the  decision  of  a  librarian. « 

vcar  1784;  the  other  is  inscrtwl  in  the  fourth  voluine  of  the 
Transactions  ot  the  Royal  Sixnfify  of  Eilinhiir-h  ;  ami  both 
have  been  incwporateil  into  a  work,  puljlished  under  the  tirst 
iltle,  by  Baliantyne  in  1810. 

1  Memoirs  pour  la  Vie  de  Petrnrque. 

2  Lite  of  Beattie,  by  Sir.  W.  Forbes,  t.  ii.  p.  106. 

H  Mr.  Gibbon  culled  his  Memoirs  "  a  Inlmvr  of  lovr,"'  (see 
Decline  and  Fail,  cap.  !xx,  note  1.)  and  followed  him  with 
oonlldence  and  dehsrhi.  The  compiler  of  a  vry  vohiiTiiniuis 
work  tiuist  tril-e  much  criticism  ii|)(>n  trust:  l\lr.  Gibbon  has 
dun."  -<i    th(.ii-b  ....t  >:..  i-.Mdily  :is  sonw'  o'her  Miilh.irs. 

4  The  sonnet  had  before  awakened  the  susi)icioiis  of  Mr 
Horace'  Walpo'le.    See  his  letter  to  Wharton  in  ITti!!. 

5  "  Par  ce  petit  manej^e,  cette  alternative  de  lUveiirs  el  de 
ri!;iieurs  bien  menagC(!,  tine  femme  tendre  et  suL'e  amuse, 
pf^iiHant  vinL't-nn  ans,  le  plus  frrand  poete  de  son  sii'cle.  s-ins 
(aire  la  moin<!re  n'che  k  son  honriiHir."  Mem.  pour  l;i 
Vit-  de  Petrarone,  Preliice  aux  Fr.uicais.  The  Iiaiian  editor 
of  the  London  edition  of  Petrarch,  who  has  transiiited  Lord 
VVoodhonselee,  renders  the  "  feinme  tendre  et  sa^(\"  "  rii  f 
'iniita  r.iritln."  RiHessioni  intorno  a  Madonna  Laura,  p.  '234. 
vol.  iii.ed.  IHIL 

6  In  H  di.iloirne  witli  S*.  Ao^'iislin.  Petrarch  has  d(>scribed 
Laura  a«  havm-  a  boily  .•xliaii.-'tril  with  repciiifil  /ifiihs.  'V\u 
,)id  editors  read  and  printed  pirturmitKnut^iis;  but  M.Capper 
,nicr,  librarno.  to  the  French  Km;;,  in  ITtrJ,  wli.,  saw  the  MS 
III  till'  Pa.'is  library,  mad((  an  alfstition  that  "  <iii  lit  it  qu'cri 
■j,nflin.piitiil'ii'!ifliiii.-<linii"  l)c  S:idi;  joined  the  names 
,,(    Messrs.  !?oudo*  and  Hrjol  with  NJ    Capperoiii.^r,  and  in  the 

vhu.c  (li-ciKsion  on  Ibis  /)(«/).-,  sbowt'd  biniBidf  a  downrii-'ht 
nerary  r.euie.  Sei-  Kid.'ssioni,  etc.,  r>.  •Jfu.  'rtiomas  .Aoniiias 
.  iiili.'il  ii  to  si'ttle  wlii'iluT  Peirai'di'-j  misircss  was  a  chaste 
maid  or  a  •■iintiiiiiil  wit'o 


It  is,  however,  satisfiictory  to  think  that  the  love  oi 
Petrarch  was  not  platonic.  The  happiness  which  ii« 
prayed  to  possess  but  once  and  for  a  moment  was  sureU 
not  of  the  mind,'  and  something  so  very  real  as  a  mar- 
riage project,  with  one  who  has  been  idly  called  a 
shadowy  nymph,  may  be,  perhaps,  detected  in  at  leas* 
six  places  of  his  own  sonnets. ^  The  love  of  Petrarch 
was  neither  platonic  nor  poetical ;  and,  if  in  one  passage 
of  his  works  he  calls  it  "  amore  veementeissimo  me. 
unico  ed  onesio,"  he  confesses,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend, 
that  it  was  guilty  and  perverse,  that  it  absorbed  him 
quite,  and  mastered  his  heart.' 

In  this  case,  however,  he  was  perhaps  alarmed  for 
the  culpability  of  his  wishes ;  for  the  Abbe  de  Sade 
himself,  who  certainly  would  not  have  been  scrupu- 
lously delicate,  if  he  could  have  proved  his  descent  from 
Petrarch  as  well  as  Laura,  is  forced  into  a  stout  defence 
of  his  virtuous  grandmother.  As  far  as  relates  to  the 
poet,  we  have  no  security  for  the  innocence,  exce[)t 
perhaps  in  the  constancy  of  his  pursuit.  He  assures  us, 
in  his  -epistle  to  posterity,  that,  when  arrived  at  hi? 
fortieth  year,  he  not  only  had  in  horror,  but  had  lost 
all  recollection  and  image  of  any  "irregularity."*  But 
the  birth  of  his  natural  daughter  cannot  be  assigned 
earlier  than  his  thirty-nintii  year ;  and  either  the  mem- 
ory or  the  morality  of  the  poet  must  have  failed  liiiu, 
when  he  forgot  or  was  guilty  of  this. s/i;>.*  Thf;  weakest 
argument  for  tne  purity  of  this  love  has  been  drawn  from 
the  permanence  of  effects,  which  survived  the  object  of 
his  passion.  The  reflection  of  M.  de  la  Bastic,  that 
virtue  alone  is  capable  of  making  impressi-ons  'vhicli 
death  cannot  efface,  is  one  of  those  which  every  bxly 
applauds,  and  every  body  finds  not  to  be  true,  the  mo 
ment  he  examines  his  own  breast  or  the  records  of 
human  feeling.'^  Such  apophthegms  can  do  nothing  for 
Petrarch  or  for  the  cause  of  morulity,  except  with  the 
very  weak  and  the  very  young.  He  ihat  hay  made  even 
a  little  progress  beyond  ignorance  and  [)upilag(;,  cannot 
be  edified  with  any  thing  but  truth.  What  is  called 
vindicating  the  honour  of  an  individual  or  a  nation,  is 
the  most  futile,  tedious,  and  uninstructive  of  all  writing  ; 
although  it  will  always  meet  with  more  a])plause  than 
that  sober  criticism,  which  is  attributed  to  the  malicious 
desire  of  reducing  a  great  man  to  the  common  standard 
of  humanity.  It  is,  after  all,  not  unlikely,  tliat  our 
historian  was  right  in  retaining  his  favourite  hypothetic 
salvo,  which  secures  the  author,  although  it  scarcely  saves 
the  honour  of  the  still  unknown  mistress  of  Petrarch.'' 

Note   16.   Stanza  xxxi. 
They  keep  his  dust*  in  Arqua,  where  he  di(^d. 
Petrarch  retired  to  Arqua  immediately  on  his  return 


1   "  Pii.'malion,  Quanto  lodarti  dei 
Deir  imin:i!rme  tua,  .se  mLlle  volte 
N'  avestiquel  ch'  i'  sol  una  vorrei." 

Sonetto  as.    Qiiniido  sritivsc  .1  Sim^v  V 
alto  cinici'tto.    Lf!   K/wf,  etc.,  par.  i 
pa-.  18it.  edit.  Ven.  17.5(i. 
2  See  Tfiflessioni.  etc.,  p.  21)1. 

'.i  "  Qindla  ri'a  e  perversa  passiono  die  solo  tiitio  mi  o'^ri 
pava  e  mi  roirnava  nel  cuore." 

4  .^zion  i/is(inf,sta.  are  his  words. 

5  "  A  (juesta  confessione  cost  sincera  diede  forse  oerasiol* 
„„,,  imov;i  cadutach'  ei  fece. "  Tiiabo,M-l,i.  Storia,  etc.,  to:.-;. 
V.  Ill,,  iv    pur.  ii.  pafi.  4m. 

fi  "  //  ;(';/  II.  i/lie  In  iJirtil  seiiir  qui  .•^mt  ravni't,  ilr  jnirr  iIcA 
iiniir.  >:si,)ii.'<  i/iir  In  niort  v"  iffiirr  pa.-'."  ^^.  de  ISimard.  U.ion 
dr  i:i  15;istie,  in  tlie  Memoires  de  I'.'Xcademie  dc.s  InscnciUom 
et  Hclles-Le'lUes  for  1740  a lUi  \"y\.  See  also  Udlcfsiom.  nc. 
li.'Jil.i. 

7  "  And  if  the  virtue  or  prudence  of  Laura  was  inexorable 
he  enjoytMl.  and  mi^'lit  boast  ot' en.ioyimi  the  nymph  ot  pnct 
ry."  I)e<-Iin(>  and  Fall,  cai>.  Ixx.  p.  li'-T.  vol  xii  oct  I'd 
hap.'i  tlie  if  is  here  meant  for  altlwuch. 


CHiLDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


237 


troiiitlip  iiiiy-'acessfi.  attempt  to  visit  Urban  V.  at  Rome, 
.n  the  yeur  1370,  and,  with  the  e.\ce[)li<)n  of  his  cele- 
Dinied  visil  to  Venice;  in  company  wttli  Francesco  No- 
vello  (le  Carrara,  he  appeat-s  to  liave  |)a.ssed  the  four  last 
Vears  of  liis  life  between  tiiat  charminj!;  sohtude  and 
Padua.  For  four  inonllis  previous  to  his  death  he  was 
in  a  stale  of  continual  lan^Mior,  and  in  the  morning  of 
July  the  1.9tli,  in  the  year  1374,  was  found  dead  in  his 
library  chair  with  his  he!?d  resting  upon  a  booK.  Tiie 
chair  is  still  shown  amouirst  tlw*  precious  relics  of  Arqua, 
which,  from  the  mnnterrnpted  veneration  that  has  been 
attacia;d  to  everv  thing  relative  to  this  great  man,  from 
the  moment  of  his  death  to  the  present  hour,  have,  it 
may  be  hoped,  a  better  chance  of  authenticity  than  the 
Shakspeanan  memorials  of  Stratfimi-iipon-Avon. 

Arqua  (for  the  last  syllable  is  accented  in  pronun- 
ciation, although  the  analogy  of  the  English  language 
has  been  observed  in  the  verse),  is  twelve  miles  from 
Padua,  and  about  three  nnles  on  the  right  of  the  high 
road  to  Rovigo,  in  the  bosom  of  the  Euganean  hills. 
After  a  w  alk  of  twenty  minutes,  across  a  flat  weii-wooded 
meadow,  you  come  to  a  little  blue  lake,  c'ear  but  fathom- 
less, aa<l  to  the  toot  of  a  succession  of  accavities  and 
hills,  clothed  with  vineyards  and  orchards,  rich  with  fir 
and  |)omegranate  trees,  and  every  sunny  rri:it';r;irub. 
From  ili«  banks  of  the  lake,  the  road  winds  info  ih«-  hill?, 
and  the  cfiurch  of  Arejua  is  soon  seen  between  a  cleft 
where  two  ridges  slope  towards  each  other,  and  nearly 
inclose  the  village.  The  houses  are  scatte'-ed  at  intervals 
on  the  steep  sitles  of  these  summits;  and  that  of  the 
poet  is  on  the  edge  of  a  little  knoll  overlooking  two  de- 
scents, and  cominantliiig  a  view  not  only  of  the  ^lowing 
gard(Mis  in  the  dales  immediately  beneatn,  but  of  the 
wide  plains,  above  whose  low  woods  of  miilberrv  and 
willow  thickened  into  a  dark  mass  bv  festoons  of  vines, 
Utll  single  cypresses,  and  the  spires  o{  towns  are  seen 
ill  the  distance,  w  Incli  stretches  to  the  mouths  of  the  Po 
and  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic.  The  climate  of  these 
volcanic  hills  is  warmer,  and  the  vintage  begins  a  w-eck 
sooner  than  in  the  plains  of  Padua.  Petrarch  is  laid, 
for  ho  cannot  be  said  to  be  buried,  in  a  sarcophagus  of 
red  marble,  raisetl  on  four  pilasters  on  an  elevated  base, 
and  preserved  from  an  association  svith  meaner  tombs. 
It  stands  conspicuously  alone,  but  will  be  soon  over- 
shadowed by  four  lately-planted  laurels.  Petrarch's 
foLintaiu,  for  here  every  thing  is  Petrarch's,  springs  and 
expands  itself  beneat!i  an  artificial  arch,  a  little  below 
the  church,  and  abounds  plentifully,  in  the  onest  season, 
with  that  soft  water  which  was  the  ancient  wealth  of 
the  Euganean  lulls.  It  would  be  more  attractive,  were 
It  not,  in  some  seasons,  beset  with  hornets  and  wasps. 
No  (>ther  coiiicidetK;e  could  assimilate  the  tombs  of 
Petrarch  and  Archilociuis.  The  revolutions  of  centu- 
rie-s  have  spared  these  sequestered  valleys,  and  the 
onl'\'  vioh'iice  which  has  been  offered  to  the  ashes  of" 
Petrarch,  was  prompted,  not  by  hate,  but  veneration. 
An  attempt  was  made  to  rob  the  sarcophagus  of  its 
treasure,  and  one  of  the  arms  was  stolen  by  a  Floren- 
tine, through  a  rent  which  is  still  visible.  The  injury  is 
not  forgoiien,  but  has  served  to  identify  the  poet  with 
fJie  country  wiiere  he  was  born,  hut  where  he  would 
not  live.  A  peasant  boy  of  Arqua  being  asked  who 
Petrarch  was,  replied,  "that  the  people  of  the  par- 
Bonac;e  knew  all  about  him,  but  that  he  onl}-  knew  that 
lip  was  a  Florentine." 

Mr.  Forsyth  '  was  not  (piite  coiVect  in  saying,  that 
Petrarch  never  returned  to  Tuscany  after  he  had  once 
qu':l'.3d  it  when  a  boy.     It  appears  he  did  pass  through 

I  Kcmakfi,  etc.  on  Italy,  p  i>5,  note,  2d  e<f  - 


]    Florei.ce  on  his  way  frotn  Parma   o  Ronit.  anu  on  hi<? 

/'  return  m  liie  year  13-"'0,  and  remained  there  lon<|  enoiigf:. 
to  form  some  ac(]uaintaiice  with  its  most  distinguished 
inlial)itants.  A  Florentine  gentleman,  ashamed  of  the 
aversion  of  the  poet  for  his  native  country,  was  eager  tc 
[)oint  out  this  trivial  error  in  our  accomplislied  traveller, 
whom  he  knew  and  respected  f()r  an  e.\traord:narv 
capacity,  extensive  erudition,  and  refined  taste^  ioiiicd 
to  that  engaging  sini|)licity  of  manners  which  hai  been 
so  fnujuently  recognised  as  the  surest,  though  it  is  cer- 
tainly not  an  indispensable,  trait  of  superior  genius. 

Every  footstep  of  Lama's  lover  has  been  anxioiislv 
traced  and  recorded.  The  house  in  which  he  lodged  is 
shown  in  V  enice.  The  inhabitants  of  Arezzo,  in  order 
to  d(;cide  the  ancient  controversy  t)etween  their  city  and 
the  neighbouring  Ancisa,  where  Petrarch  was  carried 
when  seven  months  old,  and  remained  until  his  seventh 
year,  have  designated,  by  a  long  inscription,  the  spot 
wlure  their  great  fellow-citizen  was  born.  A  tablet  has 
bcfHi  raised  to  him  at  Parma,  in  the  chapel  of  St.  Aofatha, 
at  the  cathedral,'  because  he  was  archdeacon  cf  that 
society,  and  was  only  snatched  from  his  intended  sepul- 
ture m  their  church  by  di  foreign  death.  Another  tablet 
with  a  bust  has  been  erected  to  him  at  Pavia,  on  ac- 
count of  his  having  passed  the  autumn  of  1368  in  that 
city,  with  his  son-in-law  Brossano.  The  political  con- 
dition whi(;h  has  for  ages  precluded  the  Italians  from 
the  criticism  of  the  living,  has  concentrated  th«!ir 
attention  to  the  illustration  of  the  dead. 

Note  17.  -Stanza  xxxiv. 
Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons. 
The  struggle  is  to  the  full  as  likely  to  be  with  demons 
as  with  our  better  thoughts.  Satan  chose  the  wilder- 
ness for  the  temi)tation  of  our  Saviour.  A.nd  our  un- 
sullied John  Locke  preferred  the  presence  of  a  chilo  to 
compfete  solitude. 

Note  18.  Stanza  xxxviii. 

In  ^i\'-p  of  all  his  foes,  the  Crnscan  quire; 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy,  etc. 

Perhaps  the  couplet  in  which  Boileau  depreciates 
Tasso,  mav  serve  as  well  as  any  other  specimen  to  jus- 
tify the  o[)inion  given  of  the  harmony  of  French  verse. 

A  Mallicrbe,  \  [Jaran,  pre'ercr  Theophile, 
Et  le  cliiiQuaiit  du  'i'assu  a  tout  Tor  tie  Virgile. 

Sat.  ix.  verse  176. 

The  biographer  Serassi, '  out  of  tenderness  to  the  repu- 
tation cither  of  the  Italian  or  the  French  poet,  is  eagei 
to  observe  that  the  satirist  recanted 'or  explained  awav 


1  D.  O.  M. 

Francisco  PctrarrhiE 

Parincnsi  Archidiacono. 

Parentilitis  prH'claris  genore  pcranfiquo 

Etliir^'s  Ciirisiiame  scriptori  eximio 

Rornana'  linciur  restitutori 

l'"!trosra'  principi 

Africa!  ob  carmen  hac  in  urhe  peractum  regibus  Excite 

S.  P.  Q.  R.  lauiea  donate. 

Tanti  Viri 

Juvenilium  juvenis  senilium  senex 

t?tn<li()sissi<nus 

Comes  Xicolaus  Canonicus  t^iroErnarus 

Marmorca  proxiiiia  ara  excitata. 

Il)i(liie  (utndito 

Divap  Januaria'  cniento  corporc 

H.  M.  P 

Suffectiim 

Sed  infra  merituin  Fri'.ncisci  sepulchie 

Siimma  hac  in  aide  etferri  mandantie 

Si  Parmoe  occnmlx.'ret 

Extcra  mortc  1)<hi  nobis  f  recti 

1  T.a  vita  del  Ta^so.  lib.  iii.  p.  284.  torn.  ii.  edit.  Bergamo. 

171MJ 


238 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


tlii:.  censure,  and  subsequently  allowed  the  author  of  the 
ieriisalenj  to  be  a  "genius  sublime,  vast,  and  ha|ipily 
born  for  the  higher  flights  of  poetry."  To  this  we  will 
add,  that  the  recantation  is  far  from  satisfactory,  when 
ive  ^vanune  the  whole  anecdote  as  reported  by  Olivet.' 
The  sentence  pronounced  against  him  by  Kohours  ^  is 
Fpcordeu  onlv  to  the  confusion  of  the  cntic,  whose'j>Q!- 
livodia  the  Italian  makes  no  effort  to  discover,  and 
would  not  perhaps  accept.  As  to  the  opposition  which 
the  Jerusalem  encountered  from  the  Cruscan  academy, 
who  degraded  Tasso  from  all  competition  with  Ariosto, 
below  Bojardo  and  Pulci,  the  disgrace  of  such  opposition 
must  also,  m  some  measure,  be  laid  to  the  charge  of 
Alphonso,  and  the  court  of  Ferrara.  For  Leonard  Sal- 
via! i,  the  principal  and  nearly  the  sole  origin  of  this 
attack,  was,  there  can  be  no  doubt, ^  influenced  by  a 
hope  to  acquire  the  favour  of  the  House  of  Este :  an 
object  which  he  thought  attainable  by  exalting  the  repu- 
tation of  a  native  poet  at  the  expense  of  a  rival,  then  a 
prist, ncr  of  statt.  The  hopes  and  efforts  of  Salviati 
must  serve  to  show  the  cotemporary  opinion  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  poet's  imprisonment;  and  will  All  up  th~ 
measure  of  our  indignation  at  the  tyrant  jailor.  ■»  In 
fact,  the  antagonist  of  Tasso  was  not  disappointed  in  the 
reception  given  to  his  criticism ;  he  was  called  to  the 
court  of  Ferrara,  where,  having  endeavoured  to  heighten 
liis  claims  to  favour,  by  panegyrics  on  the  family  of  his 
sovereign, 5  he  was  in  his  turn  abandoned,  and  expired 
in  neglected  poverty.  The  opi)Osition  of  the  Cruscans 
was  brought  to  a  close  in  six  years  aft(;r  the  commence- 
ni(.'nt  of  the  controversy ;  and  if  the  academy  owed  its 
first  renown  to  having  almost  opened  with  such  a  para- 
ilox,*!  it  is  probable  that,  on  the  other  hand,  the  care 
of  his  re|)Utation  alleviated  rather  than  aggravated  the 
iniprisonmeni  of  the  injured  poet.  The  defimce  of  his 
t:itlier  and  of  himself,  for  both  were  involved  in  the 
ce/isure  of  Salviati,  found  employment  for  many  (ff  liis 
solitarv  hours,  and  the  captive  could  have  been  but  little 
embarrassed  to  reply  to  accusations,  where,  amongst 
other  delinquencies,  he  was  charged  with  invidiously 
omitting,  in  his  comparison  between  France  and  Italy, 
to  make  any  mention  of  the  cupola  of  St.  IVIaria  del 
Fiore  at  Florence.''  The  late  biograj)her  of  Ariosto 
seems  as  if  willing  to  renew  the  controversy  by  doubting 
tlie   interpretation  of  Tasso's  self-estimation, a  related 


1  Flistoire  do  i'Aciulemie  Francaiso.  dcpuis  Ififia  jusqn'K 
ITtM),  par  l'id)be  d'Olivet,  p.  181.  edit.  Amsterdam,  1730. 
"Mair;,  eiisiiite,  vonaiit  a  i'usaire  qu'il  a  fait  (i(!  s(!s  talens, 
t'aiirais  iiXMitre  que  If;  l>on  sens  n'e?t  pas  toujours  co  qui  do- 
iniiif  (dicz  lui,"  p.  18-2.  Hoilcau  said  he  liad  not  chaiised  his 
opmion :  ".I'enai  si  pen  flianire,  dit-il,"  etc.  p.  181. 

'2  Ijh  niiinicre  de  bien  pt^nser  dans  les  ouvratrtis  de  I'esprit, 
■s.'C.  dial.  p.  H9.  edit.  Ifill'i.  Philanthes  is  for  Tasso,  and  says, 
ill  thf  outset,  "d(!  tons  li's  lioau.x  csprits  quf;  I'ltalie  a  pories, 
]('.  Tassi!  est  peni-etre  cekii  (lui  pense  le  plus  nohlement." 
Mnt    Kohours  seems  to    speak   in  Eudoxus,  who  closes  with 

the  absurd   c parison,  "  Faites  valoire  le  Ta.sse  tant  qu'il 

%.)ns  phuia,  je  in'eii  tiens  pmir  moi  a  V'ir^'ile,"  etc.  ih.  p   10-. 

'A  liU  Vita.  etc.  lib.  iii.  p.  90,  torn.  ii.  'J'he  F,n>rlisb  reader 
may  see  an  accoimt  of  tlie  oi)position  of  the  Crusca  to  Tasso 
in  r»r.  Hiack.  Lite,  etc.  cap.  xvii.  vol.  ii. 

4  For  t'uriher,  and,   it   is  hoped,  decisive  proof,  that  Tasso 

was  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  prisovrr  of  sUit.r.  the  reader 

referred  to  "Historical   llliiftralions  of 'he  IVtIi  Canto  of 

i.ilde  Harold,"  p    '..and  following 

h  Orajoni  fimebri.  .  .  .  Delle  iodi  di  Don  I-uiiri  Cardinal 

Este.  .  .  .  Delle  Iodi  di  Uoiiiio  Allonzo  d'Esto.  See  La 
Vita,  lib.  iii.  pas;     117. 

f)  It  was  founded  in  \-^l.  lUid  the  Cruscan  answerto  Pel- 
fj^'rin<d'rt  Carnffa  or  I'liicii  piirsnr,  wnif  publislied  in  l.')H4. 

"'i  '•Colanto  pole  sempre  in  liii  il  veleno  della  sua  pessima 
volonta  conlro  alia  nazioii  Fioreiitana."  La  Vita,  lib.  iii.  pp 
tX;  OH.  torn.  ii. 

8  La  Vitadi  M.  L.  Ariosto,  Ncritta  dall'  Abate  Ciro  laino 
BirnfTaldi  eiuniore,  etc.,  Ferrara,  1H)7.  lib.  iii.  page  iHJi 
e  Historical  lllu'4iratioim,  etc.  p.  '26. 


in  Scrassi's  life  of  the  poet.  But  Tiraboschi  had  beloit 
laid  that  rivalrv  at  rest,'  by  show  ng,  that  belwct-n 
Ariosto  and  Tasso  it  is  not  a  question  of  coiiiparis(<j>, 
but  of  preference. 

Note  19.  Stanra  vli. 
The  liahtnin?  rent  from  .'\ii>i«tr's  bu-it 
The  iron  crt)wn  of  hiupjl's  pi^anrkM  le-avea. 
Before  the  remains  of  Ariosto  v.efe  removed  from  tJicj 
Benedictine  church  to  the  library  of  Ferrar.'c,  h\^  b!.iP^, 
which  surmounted  the  tomb,  was  struck  by  ".iirh'ring 
and  a  crown  of  iron  laurels  melted  away.  The  everu 
has  been  recorded  by  a  writer  of  the  last  cent.iry.^  The 
transfer  of  these  sacred  ashes  on  the  6th  of  June,  1801, 
was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  spectacles  of  the  &hort 
lived  Italian  Republic,  and  to  consecrate  tne  memory  o) 
the  ceremony,  the  once  famous  fallen  Intrepidi  wert 
revived  and  re-formed  in  the  Ariostean  academy.  The 
large  public  place  through  which  the  proc<;ssiun  [)araded 
was  then  for  the  first  lime  called  Ariosto  Scjuare.  The 
author  of  the  Orlando  is  jealously  claimed  as  the  Ho- 
mer, not  of  Itaiv,  but  P'errara.^  The  mother  of  Ari 
osto  was  of  Reggio,  and  the  house  in  which  he  was 
born  is  carefully  distinguished  by  a  tablet  with  these 
words :  "  Qui  nacque  Ludovir.o  Ariosto  il  ^ioriio  8  dx 
Settemhre  deW  anno  1474."  But  the  Ferrarese  make 
tight  of  the  accident  by  which  their  poet  was  born 
abroad,  and  claim  him  exclusively  for  their  own.  They 
possess  his  bones,  they  show  his  arm-chau-,  ai.d  hia 
ink-stand,  and  his  autographs. 

' .      hie  illais  arma, 

Hie  currus  fuii " 

The  house  where  he  lived,  the  room  where  b.e  died,  ara 
designated  by  his  own  replaced  memorial,*  and  by  a 
recent  inscription.  The  Ferrarese  are  mor(;  jealous  of 
their  claims  since  the  animosity  of  Denina,  arising  from 
a  cause  whi(d\  their  apologists  mysteriously  hint  is  not 
unknown  to  them,  ventured  to  degrade  their  soil  and 
climate  to  a  Boeotian  incapacity  for  all  spiritual  produc- 
tions. A  quarto  volume  has  been  called  forth  by  the 
detraction,  and  this  sui)plement  to  Baretti's  Memoirs 
of  the  illustrious  Ferrarese,  has  been  considered  a  tri- 
umphant reply  to  the  "  Quadro  Storico  Statistico  dell' 
Alta  Italia."  " 

Note  20.   Stanza  xli. 
For  the  true  laurel-wreath  which  trlory  weaves 
Is  of  the  tree  no  bolt  of  thunder  cleaves. 

The  eagle,  the  sea-calf,  the  laurel,*  and  the  white 
vine,^  were  amongst  the  most  afiproved  [)reservatives 
against  lightning  :  Jupiter  chcjse  the  first,  Augustus  Cae- 
sar the  second,''  and  Tiberius  never  failed  to  wear  a 
wreath  of  the  third  when  the  sky  threatened  a  thunder- 
storm.s  These  superstitions  may  be  received  without  a 
sneer  in  a  country  where  the  magical  projierties  of  the 
hazel-twig  have  not  lost  all  their  credit ;  and  perhajis  the 
reader  may  not  be  much  surprised  to  find  that  a  com- 
mentator on  Suetonius  has  taken  upon  himself  amvely 


1  Storia  deila  Lett.,  etc.  lib.  iii.  torn.  vii.  par  •;!  p  1220. 
sect.  4. 

'2  "  Mi  raccontarono  quo'  monaci,  cli'  essendo  caduio  \m 
fiilmine  nella  loro  chiesa  schianto  esso  dalle  teinpie  la  corona 
di  lauro  a  (iiielT  immortale  poeta."  0\>.  di  Hianconi,  vol.  iii. 
p.  171).  ed.  Milano,  1H()2  ;  letlera  al  Sifinor  (iliiido  Saviui  Ar- 
cifisiocritieo,  sulT  indole  di  un  fulniino  caduto  in  l)re>(la  ' 
anno  17.')i). 

!1  ".Appassionato  ammiratorc  ed  invitto  apolocista  d(d'' 
Om/rii  hWriirise."  The  title  was  tirst  {liven  by  T.isso,  and 
is  quoted  to  the  confusion  oC  the  yassinti,  lib.  iii.  pp.  2(r2 
'-><;.■).     La  Vita  di  M.  L.  Ariosto.  etc. 

4  "  i'arva,  sed  apta  mihi,  si'd  nulli  o'bnoxia,  soil  non 
Sordida.  parta  meo  sed  tanien  a^re  domug." 

.')  .\(|iiila.  vitnlus  marinus,  et  laurus,  fulmine  non  fe'iuntui 
Plin.  Nat.  Hist.  lib.  ii.  c^ip.  Iv. 

6  C.thimella,  lib.  x. 

7  Snelon.  in  Vit.  Auu'iiBf.  cap.  xc. 

8  Id.  ill  Vit   'i'lberii.  cap.  Ixl\. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


289 


to  dispnnx  the  .inpvited  virtues  of  th<;  crown  of  Tibe- 
rius, by  meutioniii>,'  that,  a  few  years  before  he  wrote, 
a  iauri'l  was  actually  struck  by  lightning  at  Home.' 

Note  '21.   Stanza  xli. 
KiHivv  tliMt  tho  lijihtiiinu'  suiictiti'^s  liclow. 

The  Curllau  lake  and  the  Rutninal  tig-trcc  in  the 
Koruni,  iiaving  been  touched  by  li<;litniiig,  were  held 
sacred,  and  the  memory  of  the  accident  was  jjreserved 
bv  a  piitinL  or  ahar,  resembling  tiu?  mouth  of  a  well, 
witii  a  little  chapel  covering  the  cavity  supposed  to  be 
made  by  ttie  thunderbolt.  Bodies  scathed  and  persons 
struck  dead  svere  tliought  to  l)e  incorruptible;^  and  a 
5'roke  ivot  fatal  conferred  perpetual  dignity  upon  the 
man  so  dislmijuished  by  Heaven.* 

Tho^e  killed  by  lightning  were  wrapfied  in  a  white 
garmiiit,  and  l)uried  where  tli«>y  fell.  The  superstition 
was  not  contined  to  the  worshipj)ers  of  Jupiter :  the 
Lnuit)ards  believed  in  tlie  omens  t"urnished  l)y  lightning, 
and  a  Clinstiaii  priest  confesses  tliat  by  a  diabolical  skill 
in  intei-prcting  thunder,  a  seer  foretold  to  Agilulf,  duke 
of  Turin,  an  event  which  came  to  p.ass,  and  gave  him  a 
queen  aiui  a  crowr,.*  There  was,  however,  something 
e(piivocal  in  this  sign,  which  the  ancient  inhabitants  of 
Rome  did  not  always  consider  propitious ;  and  as  the 
fears  are  likely  to  last  longer  than  the  consolations  of 
sui)ersiition,  it  is  not  strange  that  the  Romans  of  the  age 
of  Leo  X.  should  have  been  so  much  terrified  at  some 
misinterpreted  storms  as  to  require  the  exhortations  ol 
a  scnolar.  who  arrayed  all  the  learniTig  on  thunder  and 
lightiimg  to  j)rove  tlie  omen  fivourable ;  beginning  with 
the  tiash  which  struck  the  walls  of  Velitnc,  and  includ- 
ing that  which  played  upon  a  gate  at  Florence,  and 
*bretold  tiie  pontificate  of  one  of  its  citizens.' 

Note  22.   Stanza  Ixii. 
Italia,  oh  Italia,  etc. 
The  two  stanzas,  XLIL  and  XLIII.,  are,  with  the  ex- 
C€[)tion  M  a  line  or  two,  a  translation  of  the  famous 
sonnet  of  Fllicaja: 

"  Italia,  Italia,  O  tu  cui  feo  la  sorte." 

Note  23.   Stanza  xliv. 
WMiuloririiT  in  youth,  1  trace(i  tlic  path  of  him, 
I'll.'  Ri)n):iii  friend  of  Rume's  least  mortal  mind. 

The  celebrated  letter  of  Servius  Sulpicius  to  Cicero,  on 
the  death  of  his  daughter,  describes  as  it  then  was,  and 
now  is,  a  path  which  I  often  traced  in  Greece,  both  by 
sea  and  land,  in  ditTerent  journeys  and  voyages. 

"  On  my  return  from  Asia,  as  I  was  sailing  from 
/Egina  towards  Megara,  I  began  to  contemplate  the 
prospect  of  the  countri(;s  around  me:  JF^s^na.  was  behind, 
[\Iegara  betore  me  ;  Piranis  on  the  right,  Corinth  on  the 
iet't  ;  all  which  towns,  once  famous  and  flourishing,  now 
lie  overturned  and  buried  in  their  ruins.  Upon  this 
siijht,  I  could  not  but  tiiink  presentlv  within  myself, 
Alas  !  how  tlo  we  poor  mortals  fret  and  vex  ourselves  if 
any  of  our  friends  happen  to  die  or  be  killed,  whose 
lite  is  vet  so  short,  when  the  carcasses  of  so  many  noble 
cities  lie  here  exposed  belijre  me  in  one  view."* 

1  Note  2.  pas.  40'.».  edit.   I.uu'd.  ({at.  ItifiT. 

2  Vi(i.  .1.  C.  Hullensicr,  du  Terra'  inoiu  el  Fulnunilius!,  lib. 
V.  Clip.  xi. 

3  Otrte/j  KcfuivvutOEii  ii'i  .[joi  iffTi,  (iOev  Kin  wj  ^(d^ 
Tiixglra:.      Pint.  Pyinpos.,  vid.  ,1.  (;.  (?nllriig.  ui  sup. 

4  P.mli  Uiaconi,  d"  3(;.-tis  L.uigobard.  lib.  iii.  cap.  \iv.  fo 
Kv.  edii    TauMM.  ]r,'i~. 

5  1.  V.  Vali-riani,  dt;  tlilniinuin  si;.'iiifi('atiiinibi).s  declantatio. 
ap.  Gra-v.  .AiitiQ.  Uoin.  lom.  v.  p.  5'J3.  TiitMieclamution  is 
nldre.-j^ed  to  .Julian  of  .Medicis. 

6  Dr.  Mi<ldleton— History  of  the  Lif  of  M.  Tullius  Cicero, 
seof,  vii.  pag.  371,  vol.  ii.  j 


Note  24    Stanza  xlvi. 

ind  v.'d  pass 


Till!  sk(;lel()ii  of  her  Titanic  form 

It  is  Poggio,  who,  looking  from  the  Ca[,;toline  hil 

upon  ruined  Rome,  breaks  forth  into  the  exclamation, 

"  L't  nunc  onmi  decore  mulata,  prostrala  jac<;t,  in.slar 

gigaiilei  cadaveris  corrupti  atque  undiijue  e.xes'."* 

Note  25.   Stanza  xlix. 

There,  too,  tiie  {rodde.-s  loves  in  stone. 

The  view  of  the  Venus  of  IVledicis  insl  uitly  sugg'5st3 
the  lines  in  the  Sem^onHj  and  the  comparison  of  the  ob- 
ject with  the  description  proves,  not  only  the  correct- 
ness of  the  portrait,  but  the  peculiar  turn  of  thought, 
and,  if  the  term  may  be  used,  the  sexual  imaginatior?  '. 
the  descriptive  poet.  The  same  conclusion  may  be  ..c- 
dnced  from  another  hint  in  the  same  episoile  of  i\Iusi- 
doia;  for  Thomson's  notion  of  the  privileges  of  favoured 
love  must  have  been  either  very  primitive,  or  rather 
deficient  in  delicacy,  when  he  made  his  grateful  nymph 
inform  her  discreet  Damon  that  in  some  hajipier  mo- 
ment he  might  perhaps  be  tiie  companion  of  her  bath  : 
"The  time  may  come  you  need  not  tly." 

The  reader  will  recollect  the  anecdote  told  in  the 
life  of  Dr.  .Johnson.  We  will  n<»t  leave  the  Florentine 
gallery  without  a  word  on  the  IVhetlcr.  It  seems  strange 
tliat  the  charact(,'r  of  that  dis|)Uted  statue  should  not  be 
entirely  decided,  at  least  in  the  mind  ofiunv  one  who 
has  seen  a,  sarco|)hagus  m  the  vestibule  of  the  Husihca 
of  St.  Paul  without  tlie  walls,  at  Rome,  where  the  wliolo 
group  of  the  fable  of  Marsyas  is  seen  in  tolerable  pre- 
servation ;  and  the  Scythian  slave  whetting  the  kmte 
is  re[)resented  exactly  in  the  same  ])osilioii  as  tliis 
celebrated  masterpiece.  The  slave  is  not  naked  :  but 
it  is  easier  to  get  rid  of  this  dilHcult}  than  to  suppose 
the  knife  in  the  hand  of  the  Florentine  statue  an  in- 
strument for  shaving,  which  it  must  be,  if,  as  Lanzi 
suppcjses,  the  man  is  no  other  than  the  barber  of  .Ju- 
lius Ca;sar.  Winkelmann,  illustrating  a  bas-relief  of 
the  same  subject,  follows  the  opinion  of  Leonard  Agos- 
tini,  and  his  auihonty  might  have  been  thought  con- 
clusive, even  if  the  resemblance  did  not  strilvc  the  most 
careless  observer. ' 

Amongst  the  bronzes  of  the  same  princely  collection, 
is  sti!!  to  be  seen  the  inscribed  tablet  copied  and  com- 
mented upon  by  IVIr.  Gibbon.-  Our  historian  found 
some  difficulties,  but  did  not  desist  from  his  illustra- 
tion: he  nnght  be  vexed  to  hear  that  his  criticism  haa 
been  thrown  away  on  an  inscription  now  generally  re- 
cognised to  be  a  forgery. 

Note  2r>.   Stanza  li. 

his  t'vcs  to  tht'(^  upturn, 

:U  ch.^ek. 


Feedint;  on  thy 

"..  .Atque  oculos  pascal  utcniuo  suos." — Ovid.  .Smor.  lib.  ii. 

Note  27.  Stanza  liv. 
In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie. 
Tliis  name  will  recall  the  memorj',  not  only  of  those 
whose  tombs  have  raised  the  Santa  Croce  into  tlie 
centre  of  pilgrimage,  the  Mecca  of  Italy,  but  of  her 
whose  <'!o(juence  was  poured  over  the  illustrious  ashes, 
and  wiiose  voice  is  now  as  mute  as  those  .she  sunt 
CoRi.\.N'.\  is  no  more;  and  with  her  should  expire  the 
fear,  the  Hattery,  and  'die  envy,  which  threw  too  daz- 
zling or  too  dark  a  cloud  round  the  march  of  ijenius 


*  Do  fc.rtima!  varietate  iirhis  Homa'  et  di;  minis  oiusifi-n 
d«-iTipiio,  ap.  Salli'iiurc,  Tliesaur.  toin.  i.  pan    ."lOl. 

1  StH;  Monim.  Ant.  ini^d.  i)ar.  i.  cap.  x>ii.  n.  xlii.  pas.  "iO 
andSl()riad(!llear(i,<!ic.  lib.  xi.  cap.  i,  torn.  ii.  p   :il4.  jioi    K 

2  A'ouiiua  gent(!sque  AntiuuiP  Italia,-,  p   'iO-1.  edit  net 


140 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


and  forbad  the  steady  {laze  of  di.suitereii^ted  criticism. 
We  iiave  her  picture  embellished  or  distorted,  asfi)end- 
shi;)  or  detraction  has  held  the  peiKnl :  the  impartial 
portrait  was  hardly  to  be  expected  imm  a  contempo- 
rary. The  immediate  voice  of  ht^r  survivors  will,  it  is 
[)robable,  be  far  from  affording  a  just  estimate  oi"  her 
smjiuliir  capacity.  Tlie  gallantry,  the  love  of  wonder, 
and  the  ho[)e  of  associated  fa.ine,  which  blunted  the 
edge  of  censure,  must  cease  to  e.xist. — 'i'he  dead  have 
no  sex ;  they  can  surprise  bv  no  new  miracles ;  they 
can  confer  no  privilege:  Corinna  lias  ceased  to  be  a 
woman — slie  is  only  an  author:  and  it  may  be  foreseen 
that  manv  will  repaj'  themselves  for  former  comp'ai- 
sance,  by  a  severity  to  which  the  extravagance  of  pre- 
vious |)raises  may  perhaps  give  the  colour  of  truth. 
The  latest  posterity,  for  to  the  latest  posterity  they  will 
assuredly  descend,  will  have  to  pronounce  upon  her 
various  productions  ;  and  the  longer  the  vista  through 
which  they  are  seen,  the  more  accuratelv  minute  will 
be  the  object,  the  more  certain  the  justice  of  the  deci- 
sion. She  will  enter  into  that  existence  in  which  the 
great  writers  of  all  ages  and  nations  are,  as  't  were, 
associated  in  a  world  of  their  own,  and  from  that  su- 
perior sphere  siied  their  eternal  inlluence  for  the  con- 
trol and  consolation  of  mankind.  But  the  individual 
•vill  gradually  disappear  as  the  author  is  more  dis- 
tinctly seen :  some  one,  therefore,  of  all  those  v'hom 
'he  charms  of  involuntary  wit,  and  of  easy  hospita''ty, 
aftracted  within  the  friendly  circles  of  Coppet,  should 
ftjscue  fr(jm  oblivion  those  virtues  which,  althouijh 
diey  are  sai  i  to  love  the  shade,  are,  in  fact,  more  fre- 
quently chilled  than  excited  by  the  domestic  cares  of 
jn-ivate  lit"e.  Some  one  should  be  found  to  |)ortray 
!he  unatfected  giaces  with  wliich  she  adorned  those 
dearer  relationships,  the  performance  of  who>;c  dntip? 
is  rather  discovered  amongst  the  interior  secrets,  than 
seen  in  the  outward  management,  of  family  inter- 
course ;  and  which,  indeed,  it  requires  the  delicacy  of 
genuine  affection  to  qualiiy  for  the  eve  of  an  indiffer- 
ent spectator.  Some  one  should  be  foimd,  not  to 
celebrate,  but  to  describe,  the  amiable  mistiess  of  an 
o'.ien  mansion,  the  centre  of  a  societv,  ever  varied,  and 
always  pleased,  the  creator  of  which,  divested  of  the 
ambition  and  the  arts  of  public  rivalry,  shone  forth  only 
-o  give  fresh  animation  to  those  ar«i>ui.d  her.  The  mo- 
ther tenderly  affectionate  and  tenderly  beloved,  the 
friend  unboundedly  generous,  but  still  esteemed,  the 
charitable  patroness  of  all  distress,  cannot  be  forgotten 
ny  those  whom  she  cherished,  protected,  and  fed.  Her 
loss  will  be  mourned  the  m(jst  where  she  was  known 
the  best ;  and,  to  the  sorrows  of  very  many  friends  and 
nore  d'ipendants,  may  be  offered  the  disinterested  re- 
gret of  a  stranger,  who,  amidst  the  sublimer  scenes  of 
the  Leman  lake,  rc-eived  his  chief  satisfaction  from 
contem[)lating  the  engaging  qualities  of  the  incompa- 
rable Corinna. 

Note  28.   Stanza  liv. 

'pose 


Anj.'eln's.  Allitr;-. 


Alfiori  is  the  „'r.'at  name  of  this  age.  The  Italians, 
will  )at  waitnii!  for  iIh-  hundred  years,  consider  him  as 
''  a  i>"<-t  good  in  law." — His  memory  is  the  more  dear 
,o  them  liccausc  he  is  the  bard  of  trcedom  ;  and  because, 
as  such,  his  iraL"  dio  can  recei\»;  no  comitenarK'e  from  ' 
tny  i.f  ;hcir  sovcrri  "is.  '['hey  are  but  vcrv  seldom,  and 
nut  very  (ew  of  thcni,  ;dlo^»(;d  to  be  acted.  It  was  oh- 
<ervefi  tiy  Cicero,  th:il  nowhere  were  lh<.'  true  o|)inioiis 
aiui  feelings  (»f  the  Koinans  so  clearly  shown  as  at  the 


theatre.'     lii  the  autumn  of  181^,  a  celebrated  im[irrfV 
visatore  exhil)!ted  his  talents  at  the  Upera-iiouse  of  i\l, 
Ian.   The  reading  of  the  theses  handed  m  for  tlie  sub 
jects  of  his  poetry  was  received  by  a  very  numerous  an 
dience,  fi)r  the  most  part  in  silence,  or  whh  laughter 
but  when  the  assistant,  unfoldir-g  one  of  the  papers,  ex 
cianiK'd,   "  I'lie  apotliOftifi  of  y\'Jnr  yllfieri,^^  the  whole 
theatre  burst  into  a  shout,  and  the  applause  was  con- 
tinued for  some  moments.     The  lot  did  not  fall  on  Al 
fieri ;   and  the  Slgnor  Sgricci  had  to  pour  forth  his  ox  • 
temporary  commonfilaces  on  the  bombardment   of  At' 
giers.     The  choice,  indeed,  is  not  left  to  accident  cpiite 
so  much  as  might  be  thought  from  a  first  view  of  the 
ceremony  ;   and  the  police  not  only  takes  care  to  look 
at  the  jiapers  beforehand,  but,  in  case  of  any  prudential 
after-thought,    steps   in   to   correct    the    blindness    of 
chance.   The  proposal  for  deifying  Alfieri  was  received 
with  immediate  enthusiasm,  the  rather  because  it  was 
conjectured  there  would  be  no  opportunity  of  carryino 
It  into  effect. 

Note  29.  Stanza  liv. 
Hero  IMachiavc'lii's  earth  return'd  to  wlience  it  ro>e. 
The  affectation  of  simplicity  in  sepulchral  inscri[>- 
tions  uhich  so  oftea  leaves  us  uncertain  whether  ihe 
structure  bef  )re  us  is  an  actual  depository,  or  a  ceno 
taph,  or  a  simple  memorial  not  of  death  but  life,  has 
given  to  the  tomb  of  Machiaveili  no  information  as  to 
the  place  or  time  of  the  birth  or  death,  the  age  or  ua- 
rentage,  of  the  historian. 

TANTO  XOMIXI  NVT.LVM  PAR  ELOGIVM 
xMCCOLAVS  MACHIAVELLI. 

There  s(;ems  at  least  no  reason  whj'  the  name  should 
not  have  been  put  above  the  sentence  wnich  alludes 
to  it. 

It  will  readily  be  imagined  that  the  pr'mn'.ces  which 
have  passed  the  name  of  Machiavelh  ir'.o  ari  epithet 
proverbial  of  iniquity,  exist  no  longer  a'  Florence.  His 
memory  was  persecuted  as  his  lite  had  been  for  an  at- 
tachment to  liberty,  incompatible  with  the  new  system 
of  despotism,  which  succeeded  the  fall  of  the  free  gov- 
ernments of  Italy.  He  was  put  to  the  torture  for  be- 
ing a  " /i'>M-/z/ie,"  that  is,  for  \>ishing  to  restore  the  re- 
[lublic  of  Florence  ;  and  such  are  the  undying  efforts 
of  those  who  are  interested  in  the  perversion  not  only 
of  the  nature  of  actions,  but  the  meaning  of  words, 
that  what  was  once  patriolisrti,  h;is  by  degrees  come  tc 
signify  deb'ui.rJi.  We  have  ourselves  outlivcil  the  old 
meaning  of"  liberality,"  which  is  now  another  word  for 
treason  in  one  country  and  for  infatuation  >ii  all.  It 
seems  to  have  been  a  strange  mislal<e  to  accuse  the  aiH 
chor  of  the  Prince,  as  being  a  pander  to  tvranny ;  and 
to  think  that  the  in(]uisition  would  cond.emn  his  work 
for  such  a  delititpiency.  The  fact  is,  that  Machvavelli, 
as  is  usual  with  those  against  whom  no  crime  can  be 
proved,  was  suspected  of  and  charged  with  atheism  ; 
and  the  first  and  last  most  violent  0|)|)osers  of  the  Prince 
were  both  .Jesuits,  one  of  whom  persuaded  the  nupii- 
sition  "  bench^  fosse  tardo,"  to  prohibit  the  treatije, 


1  The  free  expression  of  their  honest  s(>r)timents  survi^-ed 
their  libeities.  Titus,  ihe  frieniii  of  Antony,  presented  'hem 
wilh  {laini's  in  the  theaire  of  Poinpey.  They  did  not  siifT'er  tlip 
i)ril!i:iiiey  oftlie  spectm-le  to  elliu-e  from  their  ineiiiory  Ihiit  tlife 
man  who  liuiiished  them  with  the  enU.'riainnieni  h:ul  mur- 
dered the  son  of  Pompcy  'J'hey  (Irovi!  him  Croni  the  the, urn 
with  curses.  Tin"  morn!  8ons(!  of  a  popniitee,  spcMitiineoiisly 
exi)ressed,  is  nevi^r  wronir.  F.veii  the  soldiers  of  the  triniii\iri 
joined  in  the  execriilion  of  the  rilizeiu,  hy  slioutiiiL'  romut  tliK 
chiiriofs  of  liepidus  and  Pl.uieus.  who  had  prosorihed  tlietr 
brotliers,  Dc  Oirmnins  non  ih-  ff.illis  itiio  triuin;)h(iiit  Cmi 
guhs;  a  SMyin-.'  worth  a  rerord,  were  it  iiothin;:  hut  a  poot* 
pun.  (.",.  Veil.  Paterculi  Hist.  lit),  ii.  cap.  Ixxix,  pag,  7^.  odit 
Eizevir.  163'J.     Ihiil.  lib    ii.  cap.  l.wvii. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


>41 


and  the  other  qualified  the  secretary  of  the  Florentine 
j-rpublic  as  no  better  than  a  fool.  The  fathe-  Possevin 
was  proved  never  to  have  read  the  book,  and  the  father 
Lucchesini  not  to  have  understood  it.  It  is  clear,  hew- 
ever,  that  such  critics  must  have  objected  not  to  the 
ulavcrv  of  tiie  dnctriues,  but  to  the  supposed  tendency 
nf  n  lesso'i  which  sliows  how  distinct  are  the  int'^resVs 
of  a  inonaiTh  from  the  happiness  of  mankind.  Tiu- 
I.  suits  are  re-established  in  Italy,  and  the  last  chapter 
of  the  Prince  mav  aijain  call  forth  a  particular  refuta- 
tion, frinn  those  who  are  employed  once  more  in 
rnotilduis  the  minds  of  the  rising  generation,  so  as  to 
eceive  the  impressions  of  despotism.  The  chapter 
oears  for  title,  "  I^sortazione  alil)erare  la  Italia  dai  Bar- 
bari,"  and  concludes  with  a  lihertine  excitement  to  the 
future  redemption  of  Italy.  "  JVoji  .si  dere  adunque 
la-'fcinr  pa-s'i'ire  queatn  ocrasionc,  acciocch'c  la  Italia 
legf^a  dopo  tiinto  tempo  nppnrire  un  auo  redentore. 
Nl'  po<txo  c'^primere  con  (puul  aviore  ei  fusse  riceiitto  in 
tufte  quelle  prorincie,  rhe  liannn  patitn  per  queftr.e  il- 
luvioni  eslerne,  con  qwU  scle  <!i  vetuletta,  con  die  os- 
tinata  fcde,  con  che  lacrime,  Quali  porte  se  li  strre- 
reheno  ?  Quali  pnpnli  li  negherebheno  la  obbedienza  ? 
Qv'ile   Itidinno  li   neghcrebhe  C  oftftequin  7   AD   OGIIUXO 

PU7.7A.   QUESTO   EAllBARO   DOMIN'rO."  ' 

Note  30.  Stanza  Ivii. 
Unsrratefu!  F'h  rence  I  Dante  sleeps  afar. 
Dante  was  born  in  Florence  in  the  year  1261.  He 
fi)Ui{ht  in  two  battles,  was  fourteen  times  ambassador, 
and  o.ice  prior  of  the  republic.  When  the  part}'  of 
Charles  of  Anjou  trimnphed  over  the  Bianchi,  he  was 
I'.brent  on  an  embassv  to  Pope  Boniface  V^III.  atid  was 
ccudemneti  to  two  years'  banishment,  and  to  a  fine  ol 
eight  thousand  lire  :  on  the  non-pavment  of  which  he 
.vas  further  punished  by  the  sctjuestration  of  all  his 
propertv.  The  republic,  however,  was  not  content  with 
this  satistliction,  fir  in  1772  was  discovered  in  the 
archives  at  Plorence  a  sentence  in  which  Dante  is  the 
eleventh  of  a  list  of  fifteen  condemned  in  1302  to  be 
burnt  alive;  Talis  perremens  igne  comburntur  aic  quod 
ninriatur.  The  pretext  for  this  judgment  was  a  proof 
of  mifair  barter,  extortions,  and  illicit  gains:  Baracte- 
riarum  iniqunrurn,  extorsionum,  et  illicitorum  lucro- 
njin.-  and  with  such  an  accusation  it  is  not  strange  that 
Dante  should  have  always  protested  his  innocence,  and 
t!ie  injustice  of  his  fellow-citizens.  His  appeal  to  Flo- 
rence was  accompanied  bv  another  to  the  Emperor 
Henry,  and  the  d(;ath  of  that  sovereign,  in  1313,  was 
the  siijnal  for  a  sentence  of  irrevocable  banishment.  He 
had  bei^jre  lingered  near  Tuscany,  with  hopes  of  recall, 
then  travelled  into  the  north  of  Italy,  where  Verona 
had  to  boast  of  his  longest  residence,  and  he  finally 
settled  at  Ravenna,  \Yhich  v.as  his  ordinary  but  not 
constant  abode  until  his  death.  The  refiisal  of  the  \  e- 
netians  to  grant  him  a  jjublic  audience,  on  the  part  of 
Guide  Noveilo  da  Polenta,  his  prnu  rtor,  is  said  to  have 
been  the  r)rincipal  cause  of  this  event,  v. hich  happened 
m  1321.  He  was  buried  ("  in  sacra  inini-runi  sede,") 
at  Ravenna,  in  a  handsome  tomb,  which  was  erected 
by  Guide,  restored  by  Bern;irdo  Benibo  in  14P3,  pretor 
for  that  republic  which  had  refii<ed  to  hear  him,  again 
restoi  d  by  Cardinal  Corsi  in  iri92,  and  replaced  by  a 
more  magnificent  sepulchre,  construfied  in  17S0  at  the 
expense  of  the  Cardinal  Luigi  \'alciiti  Gonzaga.  The 
otFjnce  or  misfortune  of  Dante  was  an  attachment  -to  a 

1  li  Pr'-.t'ipedi  Xifcolo  MufhiMvcIli,  ptr.,  ron  la  prefazione 
y  le  not"'  isrurir-tic  e  pMliuch.'  lii  M.  Amiilot  dp  la  II  -iiasavp.  e 

t'S-imee  coiifti'M/i  IPC  i\cV  iiiifra...    f 'nsmopr.i.  I7ii!) 

2  Storin  H.'i:^i  [.ftt.  Ital.  torn.  v.  lil).  iii.  par.  '■I.  p  if.  448. 
TKub'i.^fiii  1~  iiiPiirrc'-t  :  iIir  ria'fs  nt'  the  three  licciees  a},'aiMrit 
Dti.ik-  are  A.  D.  IIJOJ,  \2\-\.  an.!  KUfi 

16 


defeated  party,  and,  as  his  least  favourab.e  bii  gmijUf-,^ 
allege  against  him,  too  great  a  freedom  of  s[;eech  and 
haughtiness  of  manner,  liut  the  nt^xt  age  paid  honours 
almost  divine  to  the  exile.  The  Florentines,  liaving  in 
vain  anti  frequently  attempted  to  recover  his  b<jdv, 
crowned  his  image  in  a  church,'  and  !us  picnire  is  still 
one  of  the  idols  of  their  catheilral.  They  struck  medals, 
they  raised  statues  to  him.  The  cities  of  Ita^-,  not 
being  able  to  dispute  about  his  own  birth,  conlendetl 
for  that  of  his  great  poem,  and  the  Florentines  lliouoht 
it  for  their  honour  to  prove  that  he  had  finished  the 
se\ciiih  Canto,  before  they  drove  him  from  his  native 
city.  Fift3--one  years  after  his  death,  they  endowed  a 
professional  ciiair  for  the  expounding  of  his  verses,  and 
Boccaccio  was  appointed  to  this  patriotic  employment. 
The  example  was  imitated  bv  Bologna  and  Pisa,  and  the 
commentators,  if  they  performed  but  little  service  to 
literature,  augmented  the  veneration  which  beheld  a 
sacred  or  moral  allegory  in  all  the  images  of  liis  mvstic 
muse.  His  birth  and  his  infancy  were  discovered  to 
have  been  distinguished  above  those  of  ordinary  men  ;. 
the  author  of  the  Decameron,  his  earliest  biographer,. 
relates  that  his  moiher  was  warned  in  a  dream  of  th« 
importance  of  her  pregnancy  ;  and  it  was  found,  by 
others,  that  at  ten  vears  of  age  he  had  manifested  hi* 
precocious  passion  for  that  wisdom  or  theology  which, 
under  the  name  of  Beatrice,  had  been  mistaken  f  >•■  -, 
substantial  mistress.  When  the  Divine  Coniedv  had 
been  recognised  as  a  mere  mortal  [iroduction,  niu,  ai 
the  distance  of  two  centuries,  when  criticism  and  com- 
petition had  sobered  the  judgment  of  Italians,  Dante 
was  seriously  declared  superior  to  Homer,-'  and  thuu;;h 
the  preference  appeared  to  some  casuists  "  a  her:.'iica. 
blasphemy  worthy  of  the  flames,"  the  contest  v  as  vig- 
orously maintained  for  nearly  fifty  years.  In  later 
times,  it  was  made  a  question  which  of  the  lords  o*" 
Verona  could  beast  of  having  patronized  nim,^  and  'ne 
jealous  scepticism  of  one  writer  would  not  allow  Ra- 
venna the  undoubted  possession  of  liis  hones.  lii  en 
the  critical  Tiraboschi  was  inclined  to  h{;!ieve  t),a:  Ml*" 
poet  had  foreseen  ami  f(;retol(l  one  of  the  dis  ovcios  of 
Galileo.  Like  tiie  jrreat  originals  of  o*\\er  ra'ien.s,  his 
pinpularity  has  lujt  always  niaintainod  ihc  -^a-iie  level. 
The  last  age  seemed  inclined  to  unciervaluj  Iiiiu  as  a 
model  and  a  study;  and  Bettiiielli  one  day  r^jhiiked  his 
pupil  iMonli,  for  poring  over  the  harsh  and  obsolete 
extra  vagrancies  of  the  Coinmedia.  'J'lie  present  genera- 
tion, liaving  recovered  from  the  Ga'iic  iiiolaliies  of 
Cesarotti.  has  returned  to  iIk;  ancient  worship,  and  the 
Danteggaire  of  the  northern  Italians  i.s  tliou^ht  even 
indiscreet  by  the  more  modern  Tiiscans. 

There  is  still  much  curious  information  relative  to 
the  life  and  writings  of  this  great  poet,  which  has  nol 
as  yet  been  collected  even  by  the  Italians;  but  the  cele- 
brated Lgo  Foscolo  meditates  to  supply  this  di'fect; 
and  it  is  not  to  be  rearetted  that  this  national  work 
has  been  reserved  t'^r  one  so  devoted  to  his  couelry 
and  the  cause  of  truth. 

Note  31.    Stanza  Ivii. 

liike  Scipio,  buried  by  the  uph- aiding  ^hnre 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  ihan  ccii  war. 
Proscribed,  etc. 

The  elder  Scipio  Africanus  had  a  'omb,  if  he  was  n>)i 

buried,  at   Liternum,  whither  he  had  retired  to  voluri- 

larv  bamsliment.     This  tomb  wt^s  near  the  sea-siior.', 

and  the  story  of  an  inscription  upon  it,  Ingrata  Palria, 


1  j^o  relates  Ficir.o.  hut  ruuno  tliini;  his  cororiatio..  only  U( 
i\V.<-ii<n\-.  S-e  Suiria.  "ir..  ui  ^np-  i'    -l-''^- 

'>  HvV.ri-h',  >'■  hi-  !'r.-.lano.  The  ctnMroversy  eoiitmiiet' 
t>iT  n  !'>:()  U)  Ifi  6.  ^ee  Stciria.  etc..  uiiii.  vii.  lib.  iii.  par.  lii 
o.  l-2-(l. 

3  (uo.  lacopo  Dionisi  canonico  di  Verina.  Serie  tli  Ar.od 
doti;  n.  '2.    See  Storia.  etc..  torn.  v.  'ib.  i.  par.  i.  p.  -24. 


242 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


having  given  a  name  to  a  modern  tower,  is,  if  not  true, 

an  agreeable  fiction.   If  he  was  not  buried,  he  certainly 

lived  there.' 

Ill  cosi  aiiL'usta  e  solitaria  villa 

lira  'I  giaiiil    uomi)  die  li'At'rica  s'appolla 

Ptirche  prima  col  I'urro  al  vivo  apprilla.  '^ 

Ingratitude  is  generally  supj)osed  the  vice  jieculiar  to 
republics ;  and  it  seems  to  be  forgotten,  tlial,  for  one 
instance  of  |)opular  inconstancy,  we  have  a  hundred 
f'.xamples  of  the  fall  of  courtly  favourites.  Besides,  a 
f»eoj)le  have  often  repented — a  monarch  seldofu  or 
uever.  Leaving  apart  many  familiar  proofs  of  this  fact, 
a  short  story  may  sliow  the  ditlcrence  between  even 
an  aristocracy  and  the  multitude. 

Vol  tor  Pisani,  having  been  defeated  in  1354  at  Porto- 
longo,  and  many  years  afterwards  in  the  more  decisive 
action  of  Pola,  by  the  Genoese,  was  recalled  by  the 
V^cnetian  government,  and  thrown  into  chains.  The 
Avvogadori  [»ro;)osed  to  behead  him,  but  the  supreme 
tribunal  was  content  with  the  sentence  of  imprison- 
ment. Whilst  Pisani  was  suffering  this  unmerited  dis- 
grace, Chioza,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  capital,-'  was,  by 
(he  assistance  of  the  Signor  of  Padua,  delivered  into 
the  hands  of  Pietro  Doria.  At  the  intelligence  of  that 
disaster,  the  great  bell  of  .St.  Mark's  tower  tolled  to 
arms,  and  the  [)eo|)le  and  the  soldi(u-y  of  the  galleys 
were  summoned  to  the  repulse  of  the  apjiroaching 
enemy  ;  but  they  protested  they  would  not  move  a 
sleji,  unless  Pisani  vvere  liberated,  and  placed  at  their 
head.  The  great  council  was  instantly  assenii)!ed:  the 
prisoner  was  called  bef  )re  them,  and  the  Doge,  Andrea 
Contarini,  informed  him  of  the  demands  of  the  peoi)lt 
md  the  necessities  of  the  state,  whose  only  hope  of 
gaff'y  was  reposed  on  his  efforts,  and  wlio  inqjlored 
nim  to  forgive  the  indignities  he  had  endured  in  her 
ser\.ce.  "  I  have  submitted,"  replied  the  magnanimous 
republican,  "I  have  submitted  to  your  deliberations 
without  complaint ;  I  have  supported  patiently  the  pains 
of  imprisonment,  for  they  were  inflicted  at  your  com- 
mand :  this  is  no  time  to  inquire  whether  I  deserved 
them — the  good  of  the  republic  may  have  seemed  to 
require  it,  and  that  which  the  republic  resolves  is  always 
resolved  wisely.  Behold  me  ready  to  lay  down  my  lil'e 
for  the  |)reservation  of  my  country."  Pisani  was  ap- 
pointed generalissimo,  and,  by  his  exertions,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  those  of  Carlo  Zeno,  the  Venetians  soon  re- 
covered the  ascendancy  over  their  maritime  rivals. 

The  Italian  communities  were  no  less  unjust  to  their 
citizens  than  the  Greek  republics.  Liberty,  both  with 
the  one  and  the  other,  seems  to  have  been  a  national, 
nut  an  individual  obj(^ct :  and,  notwithstanding  the  boast- 
ed t'</u(dUi/  before  tJu  laws,  which  an  ancient  Greek 
writer  »  conside.-ed  the  great  distinctive  mark  between 
liis  countrymen  and  the  barbarians,  the  mutual  righ's 
of  feliow-citizens  seem  never  to  have  been  the  principal 
sco|)e  of  the  old  democracies.  The  world  may  have  r.ot 
yvt  seen  an  essav  by  tlie  a-Jthnr  of  the  Italian  Rv^;'.:;hlics, 
T  V  S  ,h  the  distinction  between  the  ill-e.-'v  of  ro-jrier 
Hatf's,  and  the  signification  attached  to  that  word  by  tlie 
happier  constitution  of  B^ngland,  is  ingeniously  d.-;ve!- 
opcd.  Tlic  Italians,  however,  when  they  had  etaseC  to 
bo  tree,  still  looked  liack  with  a  sigh  upon  those  tin-csv.*" 
turbulence,  when  every  citizen  might  rise  to  a  share  of 
sovereign  power,  and  have  never  been  taught  fully  to 


1  V'itnni  Litcnii  csit  sim;  liesidcrio  urbis.  F«fj'j  T.  liiv.  Hist. 
K).  xxxviii.  I. ivy  reports  that  soniP  said  he  was  hurii'd  al 
(.it:TMiim.  others  at  IJouk;.  Ih.  cap.  Iv. 

9.  Triiinfo  d.'lla  Castita. 

i  r^cj  note  to  r,t!irr/.a  XIII 

i  Til.!  Cn'ek  boiiHtfii  that  he  was  (Voio//of.— s.c  the  last 
;t..uii.'-  •>!'  ■if.  ("lis*  Iniok  of  nmiiv-iuh  (  "■  lluliiariias.-nis. 


appreciate  tlie  repose  of  a  monarchy.  Spcrone  Sperom 
when  Francis  Maria  II.  Duke  of  llovero  projjosed  ttif. 
question,  "  which  was  preferable,  the  republic  or  the 
principality — the  perfect  and  not  durable,  or  the  less 
perfect  and  not  so  liable  to  change,"  replied,  "that  our 
happiness  is  to  be  measured  bv  its  quohty,  not  by  its 
duration  ;  and  that  he  preferred  to  live  for  one  dv/  liko 
a  man,  than  for  a  hundred  years  Lke  a  brute,  a  stockj 
or  a  stone."  This  was  thought,  and  called,  a  7nag- 
nijicenf  answer,  down  to  the  last  da3's  o^  Italian  ser 
vi'ude. ' 

Note  32.    Stanza  Ivii. 


atui  the  crown 

Which  Petrarch's  laiireatt'  brow  supremely  wore, 
Upon  a  far  and  Ibreign  soil  had  trrown. 

The  Florentines  did  not  talce  the  op])ortnri:t.\  of  P'^ 
trarch's  short  visit  to  their  city,  in  1350,  to  revoke  ih 
decree  which  confiscated  the  property  of  his  fither, 
who  had  been  banished  shortly  after  the  exile  of  Dante 
Ills  crown  did  not  dazzle  them  ;  Init  uhen,  in  the  next 
year,  thev  were  in  want  of  his  assistance  in  the  formation 
of  their  university,  they  re[)ented  of  their  injustice,  and 
Boccaccio  was  sent  to  Padua  to  entreat  the  laureat  to 
conclude  his  wanderings  in  the  bosom  of  his  native 
country,  ^vhere  he  might  finish  his  immortal.  Africa,  and 
enjoy,  with  his  recovered  [lossessions,  the  esteem  of  all 
classes  of  his  fellow-citizens.  They  gave  him  the  op- 
tion of  tlie  book,  and  the  science  he  might  condescend 
to  expound :  they  called  him  the  glory  of  his  countiy, 
who  was  dear,  and  would  be  dearer  to  them  ;  ard  they 
added,  that  if  there  was  any  thing  unpleasing  in  their 
letter,  he  ought  to  retui-n  amonirst  them,  were  it  only  tc 
correct  their  stvle.'i  Petrarch  seemed  at  first  to  listen  lo 
the  flattery  and  to  tne  entreaties  of  his  friend,  but  he  did 
not  return  to  Florence,  and  preferred  a  pilgrimage  to 
the  tomb  of  Laura  and  the  shades  of  Vaucluse. 


Note 


3.   Stanza  Iviii. 
parent  eiirth  bequoathM 


Boccaccio  to  h 

j  [fis  dust. 

i  Boccaccio  was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  INlichael  and 
St.  James,  at  Certaldo,  a  small  town  in  the  Valdeisa, 
which  was  by  some  supposed  the  place  of  his  birlh. 
There  he  passed  the  latter  part  of  his  life  in  a  course  of 
laborious  study,  which  shortened  his  existence  ;  and 
th(;re  miijiit  his  ashes  have  been  secure,  if  not  of  honour, 
at  least  of  repose  But  the  "hyama  bigots"  of  Certaldo 
tore  up  the  tombstone  of  Boccaccio,  and  ejected  it  from 
the  holy  precints  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  James.  The 
occasion,  and,  it  maybe  hoped,  the  excuse  of  this  eject- 
ment, was  the  making  of  a  new  floor  for  the  chinvdi : 
but  the  fact  is,  that  the  tombstone  was  tak(ni  up  and 
thiowii  aside  at  the  bottom  of  the  building.  Ignorance 
may  share  the  sin  with  bigotry.  It  would  be  painfiil  to 
••el.'ite  such  an  exception  to  the  devotion  of  the  Italians 
for  ilieir  j^reat  names,  could  it  not  be  accompanied  by  ^ 
trail  more  hf^r.-nirably  conformable  to  the  general  char- 
acte"-  or  the  nation.  The  princi|)al  person  of  the  district, 
tne  last  branch  of  the  house  of  Medicis,  afforded  tlie.t 
prot(;<;ti(>ii  to  the  memory  of  the  insulted  dead  which 
her  best  ancestors  had  disfiensed  upon  all  cotcmporarj' 
merit.  The  Marchioness  Lenzoni  rescued  the  tombstonj 
of  f?oc(ac{;io  from  the  neglect  in  which  it  had  sojne  Liine 
lain,  and  flMind  for  it  an  honourable  elevation  in  her  owu 


I        1   "  r.  intorno  al/a  iiiafritijica  ri.^posta,'"  etc.     Herassi,  \'it;< 
'     .i..|  'l":i-^^.o.  hi),  iii.  pan.   14i).  ton),  ii.  edit.  '■J,  ^er^'amo. 

2  "  Accioiiiti  iiinollre.se  cie  l.'cilo  iiiicor  re~ciri,irli.  acorn 
pire  r  im.'iioital  tua  A  :riea....  Se  ti  a\  .iene  d'nu'oiitirre  nr 
nostro  stile  ciisfi  che  ti  dispiaceia,  cio  dehh'  es-ere  iiti  ailrr 
iDotivo  ad  iMaiiiiiro  i  desiderj  della  tiia  p;itria."  Storia  dcWr 
lrf;lt.  Iial   loiii.  V,  par.  ».  lib.  i.  inn:   ~i\. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


243 


iruision.     Slio  has  done  more:   the  house  in  nhich  th« 

;>'ie'  !m'(!  Ii-'.s  bocn  as  little  ifi^ipcctcJ  as  his  lomb,  and 
,.-  f:  i'lii;'  :;)  riiiti  ovtr  the  he;.d  «)1  ono  ir.'liiri  renl  to  tlte 
na:iie  ot"  its  I'oriner  i?iiaii<.  It  Cv:usi:>ts  of  two  or  three 
iittie  cliamljrrs,  and  a  low  tcwer,  on  wliich  Cosmo  II. 
.itl'iwd  an  iiiscrijition.  This  house  slu;  lia^;  tukeii  n)eas- 
■ircs  lo  [lurchase,  and  proposes  lo  ticvote  to  it  t!;al  care 
and  coiKid.oration  uhicii  are  attached  to  tlie  cradle  and 
to  !!:(>  ro'.C  of  Renins. 

Tl'.is  is  i?ot  the  i)l;'ce  to  undertake  tlie  defence  of  Boc- 
caccio; hut  ;he  man  vho  exhausted  his  little  patrin:ony 
ill  the  ac(;uireniei:t  of  (irt.rning,  who  was  amongst  the 
first,  if  nor  the  first,  lo  al'ijn;  liic  science  and  the  poetry 
of  Ci  recce  to  the  boson,  o}  /falj* — who  not  only  invented 
a  new  style,  hut  founded,  cr  certainly  fixed,  a  new  lan- 
guage ;  \vho,  besides  the  CLU-e'ii  of  every  |>olite  court  of 
Europe,  was  thought  worthy  of  employment  by  tho  pre- 
dominant repui)lic  of  his  ow.a  country,  and,  what  is 
more,  of  the  friendship  of  Ptti  uch,  who  lived  the  life 
of  a  philosopher  and  a  freeman,  ^i.d  who  died  in  the 
pursuit  of  knowledge, — such  a  man  might,  have  found 
more  consideration  than  he  has  met  with  from  the 
priest  of  Cerlaldo,  and  from  a  late  English  traveller,  who 
strikes  off  his  portrait  as  an  odious,  conteinpnble,  li- 
cciiiioiis  writer,  whose  impure  remains  should  he  snf- 
f  rv;|  to  rot  wiihout  ;i  record.'  Tiiat  EuLrlish  trm-elh>r. 
unfortunately  for  those  who  have  to  deplore  the  losr^  of 
a  very  amiable  person,  is  beyond  all  criticism  ;  but  tk.s 
mortalitv  which  tiid  not  protect  Hoecaccio  from  Ptlr.  [ 
F.ustact;,  must  not  defend  Mr.  Eustace  from  the  imjiar- 
tial  judgmeiil  of  Ins  successors.  Death  may  canonize 
his  virtues,  not  his  errors;  and  it  may  be  modestly  pro- 
nounced that  he  transgressed,  not  only  as  an  author, 
but  as  a  man,  when  he  evoked  the  shade  of  Boccaccio 
in  company  with  that  of  Aretino,  amidst  th.e  sepulchres 
of  Santa  Croce,  merely  to  dismiss  it  with  indignity.  As 
far  as  respects 

"II  flasrello  do'  Principi. 
II  diviii  Pictro  Aiotinu," 

It  is  of  little  import  what  censure  is  passed  upon  a  cox- 
comh  who  owes  his  present  existence  to  the  above  hur- 
tes(iue  cliaracter  given  to  him  by  the  poet  whose  amber 
has  preserved  manv  other  grn!)s  and  v>'orms  :  but  to 
classifv  Boccaccio  with  such  a  person,  and  to  excom- 
municate, his  very  ashes,  must  of  itself  make  us  douhl 
of  the  (|ualiiicalion  of  the  classical  tourist  for  writing 
u;)on  Italian,  or,  indeed,  upon  any  other  literature  ;  for 
iirnorance  on  one  point  may  incapacitate  an  author 
nierelv  for  that  particular  topic,  but  suhject'on  to  a  pro- 
fessional i)rej!idif;e  must  render  liim  an  u.nsiite  director 
on  all  occasions.  Anv  perversion  and  injustice  may  iv' 
made  what  is  vulgarly  called  "  a  case  of  consciciic<'," 
and  this   jioor  excuse  is  all  that  can  be  offered  i'or  the 


priest  o!  Cer 


the  author  of  the  Classic;d  Ton 


It  would  have  answered  the  [)urpose  to  conhnethe  cen- 


l  Classical  'i'niir,  cap.  ix.  vol.  ii  p.  I!.").'),  edit.  'M.  "Of 
Biicr;u-i-i().  die  iiioC.ern  Petronins,  wo  say  lUitliint: :  tin-  sibiise 
ji'  genius  is  iiion;  udi<Mis  iind  more  c,(niteiti|>til'!o  tlnni  ils  ab 
•(■hit;  ami  it  iiiipi)|-'s  lin;(-  wi-.cic  the  impure  icnKiiiis  ot'a  li- 
•entii>tw  Miitlior  arc  C('iisi<;ii"il  to  iluir  kiiKircii  dust.  For  tbe 
■;ini'-  r.';i-><)i)  liie  traveller  may  pii:-s  uiiihilieeit  the  loiiiboriiic 
-ri  enciiit  Arrtitio." 

']':<]-.  (Inhions  i)iM-ase  is  hardly  eii:)n2h  to  «.nve  the  toiu-ist 
Feci  Ik  ru>;>i<-uin  of  niiothcr  bliinner  respccUna  the  l.urial- 
ph'.-i-  ef  Are'iao.  vvliosc  toiiili  w:.m  in  'he  elaireh  of  S;.  I.iikr 
lit  \'i'i, !'•(',  ami  irave  ri-f  t.)  the  i'aiiums  eoiitrovcrsy  ..f  which 
joint-  i.otirc  I'c  taken  ai  Hv.yU-.  Now  the  W(  :<!s  of  Mr.  I'.us- 
la<-«"  -.v. mid  l<--,l  us  to  thud;  t.ho  tornh  was  al  Klon-m-c,  or  at 
lea.Ki  was  m  '.,- somewh-re  re•eo^'nised.  Wh.-Uier  d,e  insrnp- 
izi.n  so  iniirh  di-pin.-d  was  ever  written  on  tli.-  tinnh  cmnot 
now  ',i  Jei  loed,  tor  all  moinornd  of  this  aiillmr  has  disap- 
peaierl  (Voi"  'i>r  church  of  St.  Luke,  which  is  now  ciiaiigod 
intr  a  lamp  warehouse 


sure  to  the  novels  of  Boccaccio,  and  giatitude  to  iha, 
souri^e  whicli  supplier  the  muse  of  Dryden  with  her  las* 
and,  most  harmonious  numbers,  miglit  perhaps  have  re- 
stricted that  censun^  to  the  objectionable  (jualities  o! 
the  hundred  tales.  At  any  rate,  the  repentance  of  Boc- 
caccio mii:!it  have  arrested  his  exhumation,  and  it  shoidd 
have  been  recollected  and  told,  tiiat  in  his  old  age  he 
wrote  a  h-tter  entreating  his  friend  to  discourage  the 
reading  of  the  Decameron,  for  the  sake  of  modesty,  and 
for  tlu!  sake  of  the  aulhor,  v,ho  would  n.ot  iiavc  an  ajiolo- 
gist  always  at  hand  to  state  in  his  excuse  that  he  wrote  it 
when  young,  and  at  the  command  of  his  siip'eriors.*  i\ 
is  neither  the  licentiousness  of  the  writer,  nor  the  evi! 
propensities  of  the  reader,  which  have  given  to  the  De- 
cameron alone,  of  all  the  works  of  Boccaccio,  a  perpet- 
ual popularity.  The  (establishment  of  a  new  and  delight- 
ful dialect  conferred  an  immortality  on  the  works  in 
which  it  was  first  fixed.  Trie  sonnets  of  Petrarch  were, 
for  the  same  reason,  fated  to  survive  his  self-admired 
Africa,  the  '■'■fdvourile  of  kings.''''  The  invariable  traits 
of  nature  and  feelinrr,  with  which  the  novels,  as  well  as 
the  verses,  abound,  have,  doubtless,  been  the  chief  source 
of  tlie  foreign  celebrity  of  both  aiithors  ;  but  Boccaccio, 
as  a  rnan,  is  no  more  to  be  estimated  by  that  \vork,  tlian 
Petrarch  is  to  be  regarded  in  no  other  light  than  as  the 
lov(,'r  of  Laura.  Even,  however,  had  the  father  of  the 
Tuscan  prose  been  known  only  as  the  author  of  the 
Decameron,  a  considerate  writer  \vould  have  been  cau 
'.ioiis  to  pronounce  a  sentence  irreconcileable  with  the 
u:i.;rring  voice  of  manv  ages  and  nations.  An  irrevoca- 
ble vaUfe  has  never  been  stamped  upon  any  v.ork  solely 
tecimmendctl  hy  im])urity. 

The  true  source  of  the  outcry  against  Boccaccio,  which 
began  -cX  a  very  early  period,  was  the  choice  of  his  scan- 
dalous personages  in  the  cloisters  as  well  as  the  courts  ; 
but  the  pri.ices  only  laughed  at  the  gallant  adventures 
so  unjustly  charged  upon  Queen  Theodelinda,  whilst  the 
priesthood  cried  siiame  upon  the  debauches  drawn  fronm 
the  convent  and  the  liermitage;  and,  most  probably,  for 
the  opposite  reason,  namely,  that  the  picture  was  faitliful 
to  the  lil'e.  Two  of  t!;e  novels  are  allowed  to  be  facts 
usefully  turned  into  tales,  to  deride  the  canonization  ol 
rogiies  and  laymen.  Ser  Ciapdelletto  and  Marcelhnus 
are  cited  with  a;"plause  even  by  the  decent  Muratori.' 
The  great  Arnaud,  as  he  is  quoted  in  Bayle,  states,  that 
a  new  edition  of  the  novels  was  proposed,  of  which  the 
expurgation  consisted  in  omitting  the  words  "monk'' 
and  "nun,"  and  tacking  the  immoralities  to  other 
names.  The  literary  history  of  Italy  particularize:  no 
such  edhion ;  but  it  was  not  long  before  the  whole  ol 
Europe  had  but  one  opinion  of  the  Decameron  ;  and  the 
absolution  of  the  author  seems  to  have  l>ecn  a  i)oint  set- 
tied  at  least  a  hundred  \ears  ago  :  "  On  se  ferait  sif!ler 
si  i'on  pretendait  couvaincre  Boccace  de  n'avoir  ])as  eie 
honnete  homme,  puis(ju'il  a  fait  le  Decameron."  So  said 
one  of  the  best  men,  and  perhaps  the  best  critic,  that 
ever  lived — the  verv  rnartvr  to  impartiality.'  But  as  thia 
infoVmaiini,  th;it  in  t!ie  b<!ginning  of  the  last  century 
one  won!  i  havi;  been  hooted  at  for  pretending  that  Boc- 
caccio was  not  a  good  man,  may  seem  to  come  froiu 
one  of  those  enemies  who  are  to  be  suspected,  evca 


*  "Non  cnini   iibiiine  est,  fiiii  in  excusiitiiit'cm  tnnam  con 
snrgens  dieat.  jiivi  iiis  scri[is!r.  et  majcv.s  c(  aetn-;  irr.perio.  * 
'I'he  letter  was   ad-iivssi-d  ti.  Mairhinar.i   of  CavaU-an'i,  nnr 
shal  of  tie-  km'-'d.nn  of  ^^i(•iiy.      See  TirarH.scl,:,  t-lo.-ia,  e!, 
totii    V.  ;.ar.  ,1.  iil,.  iii.  pasr.  -'-^a.  -d.  \%n    I7;t5, 

1   l)isserta/:on!  suiiia  lo  ariticiiit:\  Itahune.  Diss.  Iviii.  p.  253 
torn.  iii.  (Mlit.  .Milan,  i7;j1. 

i  Ecliiircisseinnnf.,  etc.  etc.  p.  C3.S,  edit.  Basic,  ITU,,  in  'J'.f 
Supplement  to  Bayle'a  Dictionary. 


244 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


when  tliey  make  us  a  present  of  truth,  a  more  accept- 
able contrast  with  tlie  proscrijjtion  of  the  body,  soul, 
and  muse  of  Boccaccio  may  be  found  in  a  few  words 
Irom  the  righteous,  the  patriotic  contemporary,  who 
.bought  one  of  the  tales  of  this  imi)ure  writer  worthy  a 
Latin  version  from  liis  own  pen.  "  /  hnvc  remarked 
isewliere,"'  says  Petrarch,  writing  to  Boccaccio,  "  llLat 
he  book  itself  has  been  worried  by  ceriuin  dogs,  but 
stoutly  defended  by  your  staff  and  voice.  Nor  v:as  1 
astonished,  for  I  have  had  proof  of  the  vi'gour  of  your 
mind,  a7id  I  know  you  have  fallen  on  that  unaccom- 
modating incapable  race  of  mortals  who,  v)hutever  they 
atfie  ike  not,  or  know  not,  or  cannot  do,  are  sure  to 
reprehend  in  others,  and  on  those  occasions  only  put  on  a 
show  of  learning  and  eloquence,  but  otherwise  are  entirely 
lumh.* 

It  is  satisfactory  to  find  that  all  the  priesthood  do  not 
resemble  those  of  Certaldo,  and  that  one  of  them  who 
did  not  possess  the  bones  of  Boccaccio  would  not  lose 
the  opportunity  of  raising  a  cenotaph  to  his  memorv. 
Bevius,  canon  of  Padua,  at  the  beginning  of  the  16fh 
century,  erected  at  Arcpia,  opjjosite  to  the  tomb  of  the 
laureat,  a  tablet,  in  which  he  associated  Boccaccio  to 
the  equal  honours  of  Dante  and  Petrarch. 

Note  34.   Stanza  Ix. 
What  is  her  pyramid  of  ])recioiis  stones  ? 

Our  veneiationforthe  3Iedici  begins  with  Cosmo,  and 
exjjires  witli  his  grandson ;  that  stream  is  pure  only  at 
the  source  ;  and  it  is  in  search  of  some  memorial  of  the 
virtuous  republicans  of  the  family,  that  we  visit  tne 
church  of  St.  Lorenzo  at  Florence.  The  tawdry,  glaring, 
unfinished  chapel  in  that  church,  designed  for  the  mau- 
soleum of  the  Dukes  of  Tuscany,  set  round  with  crowns 
md  coffins,  gives  birth  to  no  emotiono  but  those  of  con- 

empt  for  the  lavish  vanity  of  a  race  of  despots,  whilst 
the  pavement  slab,  simply  inscribed  to  the  Father  of  his 
Countrv,  reconciles  us  to  the  name  of  Medici.'  It  was 
very  natural  for  Corinn-a*  to  suppose  tha.t  the  statue 
raised  to  the  Duke  of  Urbino  in  the  capella  de  depositi, 
was  intended  tor  his  great  namesake;  but  the  magnifi- 
cent Lorenzo  is  only  the  sharer  of  a  coffin  half  hidden 
in  a  niche  of  the  sacristy.  The  decay  of  Tuscany  dates 
from  the  sovereignty  of  the  JMedici.  Of  the  se])ulchrai 
peace  which  succeeded  to  the  establishment  of  the  reign- 
\ni  families  in  Italv,  our  own  Sidney  has  given  us  a 
glowing,  l)Ut  a  faithfiil  jiicture.  "  Notwithstanding  all 
the  seditions  of  Florence,  and  other  cities  of  Tuscany, 
the  horrid  factions  of  (iuelphs  and  Glnbelins,  Neri  and 
Bianchi,  nobles  and  commons,  they  continued  populous, 
strong,  and  exceeding  rich  ;  bii'  in  the  space  of  less  than 
a  li'.indred  and  ilftv  years,  the  peaceable  reign  of  the 
Medices  is  thought  to  have  d<-'stroyed  nine  parts  in  ten 
of  the  people  of  that  province.  Amongst  oilier  things 
it  is  remarkable,  that  when  Phili])  the  Second  of  Spain 
gave  Sienna  to  the  Duke  of  Floi-cnco,  his  arr.b.assador 
then  at  Rome  sent  him  word,  that  he  had  giver,  away 
more  than  650,000  subjects  ;  and  if  is  not  believed  Jhere 
are  now  20,000  souls  inhabiting  that  city  and  terri- 
lory.  Pisa,  Pisloia,  Ar(!zzo,  Corlona,  and  dthcr  tow.ns, 
that  were  then  goo.l  and  populous,  are  in  the  like  pro- 
portion diminished,  and  Morence  mort-  th>in  any. 
When  that  city  had   Ix'cn  Ioiil'  trouMcd  uiih  seditions, 


*  *'  Aniniadverli  alic;it)i  liliriiii)  ip-ntn  raiitim  dentibiis  la 
ct'Rsitwrii  till;  tiimeii  Inciilo  >  ^'r>'-io  tinnu.'  voce  ilf^lensutn. 
.Ncr-  riiiriims  sum  :  iiMiii  ft  vir.  -  iiiiM  i,ii  "ui  ii(i\  i,  <•!  Hcin  cxpcr- 
;n<  esses  iKimiiiiirii  urmw  iiisol.'ii- et  imi-iv  iini,  (|iii,  (iaic(|i)id 
ip-i  vel  nohiiit,  vei  n'"-'-i<int,  MM  :,eii  !)(.s-~;uit,  in  ;iliis  lepro- 
(leii'l'iiil;  ;uJ  lioe  luiiiiii  ilcicti  et  [iri'Uli,  sed  I'liiiizues  iid  roll 
.i.;i."   Km-,,  .loiui  IJoec-iiio.  (.pp.  i"ii>    i-  P-  ■''>1<I.  edii.  Basil. 

1  ('.,.-11111-  Alrdh-.-.-,   1)      1  !•  ...  I  .M.  ,   I'uiiKi;, 

2  Coriiino  Liv.  xviii.  cau   iii.  v>j|    iii.  puKC  iJ48. 


tumults,  and  wars,  tor  the  most  part  unpros})erc  us.  ine 
still  retained  such  strength.,  that  when  Charles  Vlil, 
of  France,  being  admitied  as  a  friend  with  his  v.holf 
army,  which  soon  after  conquered  the  kingdom  o 
Naples,  thought  to  master  them,  the  people 'aking  arms 
struck  such  a  terror  into  him,  that  he  was  glad  to  depan 
upon  such  conditions  as  thev  thought  fit  to  impu;.o. 
Machiavel  reports,  that,  in  that  time,  Florence  alone, 
with  the  Val  d'Arno,  a  small  territory  belonging  to  th.it 
city,  could,  in  a  few  .hours,  by  the  sound  of  a  bell,  bung 
together  1 3o,000  well-armed  men;  wliereas  now  th;it 
city,  with  all  the  others  in  tliat  province,  are  brought  to 
such  despicable  weakness,  emp,tiness,  poverty,  and  base- 
ness, that  they  can  neither  resist  the  opiiressions  of  their 
own  prince,  nor  defend  him  or  themselves  if  tliey  werd 
assaulted  by  a  foreign  enemy.  The  people  are  dispersei) 
or  destroyed,  and  the  best  fimiilies  sent  to  seek  habita- 
tions in  Venice,  Genoa,  Rome,  Naples,  and  Lucca.  This 
is  not  the  effect  of  war  or  pestilence  ;  they  enjoy  a  perfect 
peace,  and  suffer  no  other  plague  than  the  government 
they  are  under.'  From  the  usurper  Cosmo  down  to  the 
imbecile  Gaston,  we  look  in  vain  for  any  of  those  unmixed 
qualities  which  should  raise  a  patriot  to  the  command  of 
his  fellow-citizens.  The  Grand  Dukes,  and  particularly 
the  tliird  Cosmo,  had  operated  so  entire  a  chaiiije  in  t!)e 
Tuscan  character,  that. the  candid  Florentines,  in  excuse 
for  some  imiierfections  in  the  philanthropic  svstem  of 
Leopold,  are  obliijed  to  confess  that  the  so\  ereign  v.as  the 
only  liberal  man  in  his  dominions.  Yet  tiiat  excellent 
prince  himself  had  no  other  notion  of  a  national  as- 
sembly, than  of  a  body  to  represent  the  wants  and 
wishes,  not  tlic  v.ill  of  the  people. 

Note  35.   Stanza  Ixiii. 

A.i  earthquake  reel'd  unlieodedly  away! 

'■'■And  siirli   was   their   imduul   animosity,   so  inten. 

v:ere   they   upon   the  battle,  that  the  earOnpinke,  uh.irh 

overthrew   in  great  part   many   of  the    cities   of  Italy, 

which  turned  the  course  of  rapid  streams,  poured  baclc 

I    the  sea  upon  the  rivers,  and  tore  down  the  ?  ery  rnoun- 

j    tains,  was  not  felt  by  one  of  ilie  combatants.'''''-     Such 

I    is  the  description  of  Livy.     It  may  be  doubted  wluthei 

I    modern  tactics  would  admit  of  such  an  abstraction. 

i        The  site  of  the  battle  of  Thrasimene  is  not  to  be  mis- 

i   taken.   The  traveller  from  the  village  under  Cortor.a  to 

Casa  di  Piano,  the  ntixt  stage  on  the  way  to  liome,  ha;;, 

for  the  first  two  or  three  miles,  around  him,  but  more 

particularly  to  tlir  ri<,'lit,  that  fiat  land  which  Hannibal  laid 

wa^te  in  order  to  induce  the  Consul  Flamiinus  to  move 

j    from  Arezzo.   On  his  left,  and  in  front  of  hini,  is  a  ridge 

I    of  hill-:,  bending  down  towards  the  lake  of  Thrasimene, 

j    called  by  Livy  "  montes  Cortonenses,"  and  now  named 

i    the  Guaiandra.   These  hills  he  approaches  at  Ossaja,  a 

I    village  which  the  itineraries  jiretend  to  have  been  so  de- 

i    noihinated  from  the  bones  found  there  :   but  there  have 

I    been  no  bones  found  there,  and  the  battle  was  fou.ql-.[  on 

i    the  other  side  of  the  iiill.   From  Ossaja  the  road  beidns 

I    to  rise  a  little,  but  does  not  pass  into  the  roofs  ol  the 

I    n>onntains  until  the  sixty-seventh  mile-stone  from  I'io- 

j    ronce.   The  ascent  thence  is  not  stec])  but  perpetual,  and 

:    continues  for  twenty  minutes.     Tlie  l;die  is  so(  n  s-'i-i 

'    below  on  the  right,  with  Borghetto,  a  round  Xiv.s  y,  c.>:<o 

I    upon  the  water;  and  the  undulating  [tills  partially  com  /ed 

j    W;th  wood  amongst  which  the  road  winds,  sini.-  t)-,-  de>.'r_'0P 

I         1   ()n(u)venimei)t,e}i;ui.   ii.  sect.  xxvi.  pa-e 'JO*^.  edit.   )'.:^\. 
I     Sidney  is.  to-etlier  with    l-oeke    and    Hoadl-y,   one    of   Mr 

Mu.'ie's  "  fli  .<;iiriilili'"   writers. 

2  "TaiisttKiue  fnit  arder  anieionim,  adco  iuteniiis  pn./iia- 

\     aiiiinus,   utcujii  t"rra!  inottiiu    <iiii   innU:irn!ii    urlmiiti    litlin 

i     ii!ii}.Mias  paili'S  pnislravit,  avriiiiiiie  rinsn  r;ipid(»  aimies,  ie»r( 

!     tltiMiiiiibii.-:  iii\(>\it,  iiimitei--     insii   iiisrenli   proru'     iuimd  i  ii« 

iKuniuin  tt'iiserit...."  Tit.  Liv.  lib.  .\.\ii.  cap 


rTTTLDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


245 


uuo  ttir  marshes  near  to  thin  tower.     Lower  than  the 

road,  ilown  to  tlie  riglil  aiiiulst  these  woody  hillocks, 
HHumbal  placei'  liis  horse,'  in  the  jaws  of  or  rather  above 
ine  pass,  uhicli  was  between  the  lake  and  the  present 
-oad,  and  most  [)robalilv  cIum;  lo  Borgii(;tto,  just  under 
the  lowest  of  the  'Munm!:."-^  On  a  snnnnit  to  the  left, 
abovf,  the  road,  is  an  old  cireular  ruin  which  the  peasants 
call  ••  till'  Tower  of  Hannibalthe  Carthajzinian."  Arrived 
at  thelii;^'.'  St  point  of  die  road,  the  trav.?lier  has  a  partial 
view  ;-f -.la'  i'.ital  plain,  which  opens  fully  upon  him  as  he 
Jcscenils  the  Gualandra.  He  soon  finds  himself  in  a  vale 
iii'do-.d  to  the  1<  ft  and  in  front  and  behind  him  by  tlie 
Gu.ilairha  lulls,  bendinc  round  in  a  segment  larger  tl^.an 
aseir.i  ;;;-c!e,  and  running  down  at  each  end  to  the  lake, 
wliich  obliques  to  the  right,  and  forms  the  chord  of  tliis 
mountain  arc.  Tiie  position  cannot  be  guessed  at  from 
the  [ilains  oi"  Cortona,  nor  appears  to  be  so  completely 
inclosed  unless  to  one  who  is  fairly  within  the  hills.  It 
then,  ir.deed,  appears  "a  place  made  as  it  were  on  pur- 
pos(!  for  a  snare,''  ^Hocus  insidils  natus.''''  Borghetto  is 
then  fiMimi  to  stand  in  a  narrow  rnarshy  l)ass  close  to 
the  hill  and  to  the  lake,  whilst  there  is  no  other  outlet  at 
the  opposite  turn  of  the  mou!ilains  than  through  the  little 
town  of  Pasigiiano,  which  is  pushed  into  tlie  water  by  the 
font  of  a  hii;h  rocky  acclivity. ■''  There  is  a  woody  emi- 
nence branching  down  from  the  mountiiins  into  the  up- 
per end  o^ti"3  plain  nearer  to  the  side  of  Passignano,  and 
on  this  stands  a  white  village  called  Torre.  Polybius  seems 
to  alhi'le  to  this  eminence  as  the  one  on  which  Hannibal 
encanuied  and  drew  out  his  heavv-armed  Africans  and 
Si)anidr(is  m  a  conspicuous  position.*  From  this  spot  he 
despatched  his  Balearic  and  light-armed  troops  round 
through  the  Gualandra  heights  to  the  right,  so  as  to  arrive 
'uisecn,  and  ibrin  an  ambush  amongst  the  broken  accli- 
vities which  the  road  now  passes,  and  to  be  ready  to  act 
upon  the  left  tiauk  and  above  the  enemy,  whilst  tiie  horse 
sluit  up  tile  pass  beiiind.  Fiaminius  came  to  the  lake 
near  Borgl:;.'Uo  at  sunset ;  and,  without  sending  any  spies 
bef  >re  hlin,  marched  through  the  pass  the  next  morning 
Oefore  the  day  iiad  quite  broken,  so  that  he  perceivtxl 
nothing  of  the  horse  and  lislu  troops  above  and  about 
hiin,  and  saw  only  the  heavy-iarnied  Carthaginians  in 
front  oil  the  hill  of  Torre.*  The  consul  began  to  draw 
out  his  army  in  the  flat,  and  in  the  nlean  time  the  horse 
m  ambush  occupied  the  pass  behind  him  at  Bor.-^hctto 
Thus  the  Romans  were  completely  inclosed,  having  the 
take  on  the  right,  the  main  army  on  the  hi!)  of  Torre  in 
front,  th(,'  Gualandra  hills  filled  with  the  light-armed  on 
their  h'l"i  think,  and  being  prevented  from  receding  by 
the  cav.drv,  wb.o,  the  farther  they  advanced,  stopped  up 
all  the  outlets  in  the  rear.  A  fog  rising  from  the  lake 
now  spread  itself  over  the  army  of  the  consul,  but  the 
liigh  lands  were  in  the  sunshine,  and  all  the  ditFf'ixi't 
eorps  in  ambush  looked  towards  the  hill  of  Torre  for  the 
order  of  attack.  Hannibal  ^ave  the  signal,  and  moved 
down  from  his  jiost  on  the  height.  At  the  same  moment 
all  In'j  tr:>ops  on  the  eminences  behind  and  in  the  flank 


1  "  Fiiiiites  -ul  ip.sis  fauces  srdtiis,  tumulis  apte  tegentibus, 
oi'jii."  Tit.  l.iv.  Ill),  xxii.  enp.  iv. 


«)ifi 


Ubi  iiia.vinio  monies  Cortonofises  Tlirasimenus  sublt.' 


3  ••  In'ie  codes  assursiint."    Til.  TJv.  lib.  xxii.  cap.  iv. 

sCuTE\dlkTO,  Kiii  Tilii  AiOvug  ical  Tuvi  \i3/]pai  ex't^v  f";:' 
cItov  KiiTiar  puT-j-iitvGe.  Hi.-^t.  lib.  iii.  rap.  1^"^.  Tiie  ac- 
loutil  III  l'el>i]ais  1.-;  not  so  (uisily  reconc;ilualile  witli  presunt 
ipiiearaiKTs  as  tliat  in  I.ivy:  hf  talks  of  liills  to  ib(i  ri-lit 
lad  Icl't  of  tbc  p:iss  aiKl  valhy  :  but  when  Fiaminius  enlcrfid, 
V:  liad  the  lake  at  liie  riiiiil  of  both. 
.5  "A  lergo  rtsiiper  ^aputdccopereiasidia;."  Tit.  Liv.  etc. 


of  Fiaminius,  rushed  forward  as  it  were  with  out  accord 
into  tlfc  plain.  The  Romans,  who  were  foiming  ilieti 
array  in  the  mist,  suddenly  heard  the  shoats  of  U\^ 
enemy  amongst  them,  on  every  side,  and,  before  fhej 
could  fall  into  their  ranks,  or  draw  their  swords,  or  see 
by  whom  tliey  were  attacked,  felt  at  once  tliat  they  ";crt- 
snrroun<led  and  lost. 

There  are  t\vo  litde  rivulets  which  run  from  tlu  GuSr 
laiidra  into  the  lake.  The  traveller  crosses  the  hrst  o* 
these  at  about  a  mile  after  he  comes  into  tiie  plain,  atiii 
this  divides  the  Tuscan  from  the  Papal  territories,  'i'lie 
second,  about  a  (luarier  of  a  mile  further  on,  is  called 
"the  bloody  rivulet,"  anil  the  peasants  point  out  an 
open  spot  to  th(!  left  betwecm  the  "  Sanguinetto"  and 
the  hills,  which,  they  say,  was  the  prinei])al  scene  of 
slaughter-  The  other  part  of  the  plain  is  covered  w  ith 
thick-set  olive  trees  in  corn-i;rounds,  and  is  nowhere 
quite  level  e.\cept  near  the  edge  of  the  lake.  It  is, 
indeed,  most  probable  that  the  battle  was  fou^dit  near 
this  *id  of  the  valley,  for  the  si.\  thousand  llomans 
who,  at  the  beginning  of  the  action,  broke  ilirough  the 
enemy,  esca])ed  to  the  summit  of  an  eminence  which 
must  have  been  in  this  quarter,  otherwise  they  would 
have  had  to  traverse  the  whole  plain,  and  to  pierce 
ihro'tnh  the  mam  armv  of  Hannibal. 
•  The  Piomans  fought  desperately  for  three  hours,  but 
the  dea.th  of  Fiaminius  was  the  signal  for  a  genertj.' 
dispersion.  The  Carthaginian  liorse  then  burst  in  upon 
the  fii^'f'  's,  anu  the  lake,  tiie  marsh  about  Borghetto, 
but  cliiofly  the  plain  of  the  Sanguineito  and  the  passes 
of  the  Gnalaadra,  were  strewed  with  di^id.  Near  some 
old  walls  on  a  bleak  ridge  to  the  left  above  the  rivulet, 
manv  human  bones  have  been  r(q)eatedly  found,  and 
this  has  confirmed  iht;  pretensions  and  the  name  of  tho 
"stream  of  blood." 

Every  district  of  Italy  has  its  hero.  In  the  north  some 
painter  is  the  usual  genius  of  the  place,  and  the  foreign 
Julio  Romano  more  than  divides  Mantua  with  her  native 
Virgil.'  To  the  south  we  he  ir  of  Roman  names.  Near 
Tlirasiinene  tradition  is  still  faithful  to  the  tair.e  of  an 
enemy,  and  Hannibal  the  Carthaginian  is  the  only  ancient 
name  remembered  on  the  banks  of  the  Perugian  lake. 
Fiaminius  is  miknown  ;  but  the  postilions  on  that  road 
have  been  taught  to  show  the  very  spot  where  il  Cotisok 
Romano  was  slain.  Of  all  who  fought  and  fell  in  the 
battle  of  Thrasimene,  the  historian  himself  has,  besides 
the  generals  and  Maharbal,  preserved  indeed  only  a 
single  name.  You  overtake  the  Cartliaginian  again  on 
the  same  road  to  Rome.  The  antiquary,  that  is,  the 
liostler  of  the  post-house  at  Spoleto.  t.°.l!3  you  thai  his 
town  repulsed  the  victorious  enemv,  and  shows  vou  the 
gate  still  called  Porta  di  Annibnle.  It  is  hardly  worth 
while  to  remark  that  a  French  travel-writer,  u  ell  Vr.own 
by  the  name  oft!;?  President  Uupatv,  saw  Ti^rasimene 
in  the  lake  of  Bolsena,  which  la^'  convementiy  on  his 
way  from  Sienna  to  Rome. 

Note  36.  Stanza  l.vvi. 
But  tliou,  ClitiimnusI 

No  book  of  travels  has  omitted  to  e.\patjate  on  thu 
temple  of  the  Clitumnus,  between  Foligno  and  Simleto; 
and  no  site,  or  scenerv,  even  in  Italy,  is  more  wcrthy  a 
descrij)tion.  For  an  account  of  tlie  dilapida'ion  <A 
this  temple,  the  reader  is  referred  to  Historical  liluslra 
tioiis  of  the  Fourth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold. 


1  About  the  middle  of  the  Xlltii  C(,-ntury,  the  coin*  of 
Mantua  horn  on  one  side  tiie  inniL'c  and  fijiure  of  V-jgil 
Zecca  (!'  Italia,  pi.  xvii.  i.  6.  .  .  Voyatre  dans  lo  Milaiiala 
etc.,  par  A.  Z.  Milliu  torn,  ii    p.  294.  Paris.  ISl? 


246 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Note  37.  Stanza  Ixxi. 
Charming  the  eye  with  Jrerid, — a  trialclik'ss  catatlfct. 
I  saw  the  "  Cascata  del  niarrnore"  of  Terni  twice,  at 
different  periods  ;  once  from  the  sutntnit  of  the  preci- 
pice, and  again  from  the  vallej'  below.  The  lower 
view  is  far  to  be  preferred,  if  the  traveller  has  lime 
for  one  only :  but  in  any  point  of  view,  either  from 
nhove  or  below,  it  is  \\orth  all  the  cascades  and  tor- 
Tents  of  Switzerland  put  together;  the  Staubach,  Rei- 
chenbach,  Pisse  Vache,  fall  of  Ar[)enaz,  etc.,  are  rills 
in  comparative  appearance.  Of  the  fall  of  Schaff- 
hausen  I  cannot  speak,  not  yet  having  seen  it. 

Note  38.  Stanza  Ixxii. 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  internal  sur?e. 
Of  the  time,  place,  and  qualities  of  this  kind  of  Ins, 
the  reader  may  have  seen  a  short  accoimt  in  a  note  to 
Manfred.  The  fall  looks  so  much  like  "the  hell  ot 
waters"  that  Addison  thought  the  descent  alluded  to 
vO  be  the  gulf  in  which  Alecto  plunged  into  the  in- 
fernal regions.  It  is  singular  enough  that  two  of  the 
finest  cascades  in  Europe  should  be  artificial — this  ot 
the  Velino,  and  the  one  at  Tivoli.  The  traveller  is 
strongly  recommended  to  trace  the  Velino,  at  least  as 
high  as  the  little  lake  called  Pii  di  Liip.  The  Reatme 
territory  was  the  Italian  Tempe,'  and  the  ancient  na- 
turalist, amongst  other  beautiful  varieties,  remarked 
he  daily  rainbows  oi  the  lake  Velinus.^  A  scholar 
oi  great  name  has  devoted  a  treatise  -o  this  district 
alone.  ^ 

Note  39.   Stanza  Ixxiii. 

The  thundering  lauwine. 
In  the  greater  part  of  Switzerland  the  avalanches  are 
•tnown  by  the  name  of  lauwine. 

Note  40.   Stanza  Ixxv. 


■I  abiiorr'd 


Too  much,  to  conquer  for  the  poet's  sake. 

The  driil'd  dull  lesson,  forced  down  word  i)y  word. 

These  stanzas  may  probably  remind  the  reader  of 
Ensign  Northertmi's  iemarks:  "  D — n  Homo,"  etc.,  but 
the  reasons  for  our  dislike  are  not  exactly  the  same. 
I  wish  to  express  that  we  become  tired  of  the  task 
before  we  can  comprehend  the  beauty  ;  that  we  learn 
by  rote  before  we  can  get  by  heart ;  that  the  freshness 
is  worn  away,  and  the  future  pleasure  and  advantage 
deadened  and  destroyed,  by  the  didactic  anticipation, 
at  an  age  when  we  can  neither  feel  nor  understand 
the  power  of  compositions  which  it  requires  an  ac- 
quaintance with  life,  as  well  as  Latin  and  Greek,  to 
relish  or  to  reason  upon.  For  the  same  reason  we 
never  can  be  aware  of  the  fulness  of  some  of  the  finest 
passages  of  Shakspeare  ("To  be  or  not  to  be,"  for 
instance),  frotn  the  habit  of  having  them  hammerec 
into  us  at  eight  vears  old,  as  an  exercise,  not  of  mind 
but  of  memory :  so  that  when  we  are  old  enough  to 
erijoy  them,  the  taste  is  gone,  and  the  appetite  palled. 
In  some  parts  of  the  continent,  young  persons  are 
taught  from  more  cenmion  authors,  and  do  not  read 
the  best  classics  till  their  maturity.  I  certainly  do  not 
speak  C'lj  this  point  from  any  pi<iue  or  aversion  to- 
wards the  place  of  mv  education.  I  was  not  a  slow, 
jiough  an  idle  boy  ;  and  I  believe  no  one  could,  or 
Ca.  be  more  attached  to  Harrow  tliati  I  liave  alwavs 
Of;en,  and  with  reason  ; — a  part  of  the  ''me  passed 
there  was  the  liapoic-ii  of  mv  life  ;    an!  mv   ,, receptor 

1  "  Reatini  me  ad  sua  Tenipe  duxcrunt."  Cicer.  Epist.  ad 
•\tlic.  XV.  lib.  iv. 

•2  "  In  eodem  iacii  niillo  non  die  appareic  arcus."  Piin 
»list.  Nat.  lib.  ii.  cap.  ixii. 

:<  Aid.  Mant't.  do  Reutiiia  urbe  agi'j(iue.  ap.  Sullengre 
Vliesaur.  tor.i    i.  p.  '573 


(the  Rev.  Dr.  Joseph  Drury )  was  tne  best  -iid  \  orthi«?s 
friend  I  ever  possessed,  whose  warnings  1  have  lemeirh 
bered  but  too  well,  though  too  late — when  I  ha;rt 
erred,  and  whose  counsels  I  have  but  followed  when 
I  have  done  well  or  wisely.  If  ever  this  im])erfect 
record  of  mv  feelings  towards  him  should  reach  \v,9 
eyes,  let  it  remind  him  of  one  who  never  thinks  -Oi 
him  but  with  gratitude  and  veneration — of  one  who 
would  more  sladly  boast  of  bavins  been  his  pupil,  if, 
by  more  closely  following  his  injunctions,  he  could 
reflect  any  honour  upon  his  instructor. 

Note  41.   Stanza  Ixxix. 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  no'V 
For  a  comment  on  this  and  the  two  following  stanzas, 
the  reader  may  consult   Histor.«nil  Illustrations  of  the 
Fourth  Canto  of  Childc  Harold. 

Note  42.     Stanza  Ixxxii. 

The    trebly    hundreil  triumphs  I 

Orosius    gives    three    hundred    and    twentv   for    the 

number  of  triumphs.     He   is  followed   by  Panviuius : 

and  Panvinius  by  Mr.  Gibbon  and  the  modern  writers. 

Note  43.  Stanza  Ixxxiii. 
Oh  thou,  whose  cliariot  roll'd  on  fortune's  wheel,  etc. 
Certainly  were  it  not  for  these  two  traits  in  the  life 
of  Svlla,  alluded  to  in  this  stanza,  we  shotdd  regard 
him  as  a  monster  unredeemed  bv  anv  admir;iViie  (lualitv. 
The  atonement  of  his  voluntary  resi<rnation  of  enq)ire 
may  perhaps  be  accepted  by  us,  as  it  seems  to  have 
satisried  the  Romans,  v.-ho  if  thcv  had  not  respi;cted 
must  have  destroyed  him.  There  could  be  no  mean,  no 
division  of  opinion  ;  they  must  have  all  thouaiu,  like 
Eucrates,  that  what  h^id  at^peared  ambition  was  a  love 
of  glory,  and  what  had  been  mistaken  for  pnde  was  a 
real  grandeur  of  soul.' 

Note  44.  Stanza  Ixxxvi. 
And  laid  him  with  the  earth's  prect'dins;  cluy 
On  the  third  of  Septembt'r,  Crom\vell  gained  the  vic- 
tory of  Dunbar  ;  a  year  afterwards  he  obtained  "  his 
crowniuir  mercy"  of  Worcester  ;  and  a  few  vea»-s  after, 
on  the  same  day,  which  he  had  ever  esteemed  the  most 
fortunnte  tor  him,  died. 

Note  45.    Stanza  Ixx.xvii, 
And  thou,  dieiul  statue;  still  existent  in 
'J'he  austrif.'Jt  turin  of  naked  irmjcsty. 

The  jjrcjected  division  of  tlie  Spada  Pompey  has 
alreadv  lit  en  recorded  by  the  historian  of  the  Decline 
and  Fall  o:  the  Roman  Empire.  JNIr.  Gibbon  found  i. 
in  the  memorials  of  Flaminius  \'acca,^  and  it  mav  be 
added  to  his  mention  of  it  that  Poj)e  Julius  III.  ^'ave 
the  contending  owners  five  hundred  crowns  for  the 
statue  ;  and  presented  it  to  Cardinal  Capo  di  Ferro, 
who  had  pr<;vei!ied  the  judgment  of  Solomon  fi-om 
being  executed  upon  the  image.  In  a  more  civilized 
age  this  statue  was  exposed  to  an  actual  (Operation:  foi 
the  French,  who  acted  the  Brutus  of  Voltaire  in  the 
Coliseum,  resolved  that  their  Cuisar  should  fal  at  the 
base  of  that  Pompt.'y,  which  was  sup[)osed  to  iiave  becj, 
sprinkled  with  the  blood  of  the  original  dictator,  'llie 
nine  foot  hero  was  therefore  removed  to  the  arena  o1 
the  amphitheatre,  and  to  facilitate  its  transport  ;uf^ 
fered  the  temporary  amputation  of  its  right  arm.     The 


1  "  Seifiueiir,  vons  chan^iez,  ton»es  mi's  ide>  s  dc  in  f"ncoij 
dont  je  vous  vols  n</i\  .Je  croyais  <pi<'  vons  aviez  (!'•  ratiibi 
tion.  iiiais  !in<-un  amour  i)our  la^frlciio:  je  voyais  oii'ii  i|ue 
voire  aine  etait  ha\ite  :  mais  je  \\v.  soupconnais  pas  (ju'edf 
fTit  eraiidc."— /^/ri/^A'!"'  i/V  Sijlla  ft  d'  Kiimitr. 

2  iMemorie.  num.  Ivii.  pug.  9.  ap.  Montfaucon  l>armir 
Italicu.'u. 


CIIILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


24' 


ff piiolicaii  trj.^dians  had  to  plead  that  the  arm  «as  a 
■  estoratioii :  hut  their  a(;cusers  do  not  heheve  that  the 
ntegrity  ol  the  statue  would  have  protected  it.  Tiie 
ove  ol'  tiuding  every  coincidence  has  discovered  the 
tnie  Ca^sarean  ichor  in  a  stani  near  the  rioht  knee; 
hut  colder  criticism  has  rejected  not  only  the  hlood 
but  the  ]iortrail,  and  assigned  ,iie  glolje  of  power  rather 
0  the  hrst  of  llie  eni[)erGrs  than  to  the  last  of  the 
epubhcan  masters  of  Konie.  Winkehnann  '  is  loth 
to  allow  a  heroic  statue  of  a  Roman  cirizen,  but  thi 
Grimaui  Airripjia,  a  contemporary  almost,  is  heroic  ;  and 
naked  Roman  figures  were  only  verj-  rare,  not  aliso 
litely  forbidden.  The  face  accords  much  better  witi. 
the  *■' h')niine7n  intcgnnn  et  castum  tt  gnivem,''' -  than 
with  any  of  the  busts  of  Augustus,  and  is  too  stern  toi 
him  who  was  beautiful,  says  Sue'onius,  at  all  periode 
of  his  life.  The  pretended  likeness  to  Alexander  the 
Great  cannot  be  discerned,  but  the  traits  resemble  the 
medal  of  Pompey.'  The  objectionable  jjlobe  mav  not 
have  been  an  ill-applied  flattery  to  hitn  who  found 
Asia  Minor  the  boundary,  and  left  it  the  centre  of  the 
Roman  empire.  It  seems  that  Winkelmann  has  made 
a  mistake  in  thinking  that  no  proof  of  the  identity  of 
this  statue,  with  that  which  received  the  bloodv  sacri- 
fice, can  be  derived  from  the  s[)ot  where  it  was  discov- 
ered.-* Fhiminius  \"acca  says  sotfo  vna  canfina^  and 
this  cantiiia  is  known  to  have  been  in  the  Vicolo  de 
Leutari  near  the  Cancellaria,  a  position  correspondinn 
exactly  to  that  of  the  Janus  before  the  hasiliea  of 
Pom-iey's  theatre,  to  which  Augustus  transferred  the 
staMic-  ui'lL-r  the  curia  was  either  burnt  or  taken  down.* 
Part  ol  thu  Pompeian  shade,«  the  portico,  existed  in 
'he  beginning  of  the  X\th  century,  and  ihe  atrium 
•vas  still  calleil  Satrum.  So  says  Blondus.''  At  all 
events,  so  imposing  is  the  stern  majesty  of  the  statue, 
and  so  m  'morable  is  the  story,  that  the  play  of  the 
imagination  leaves  no  room  for  th^  exercise  of  the 
udgn.enT,  and  the  fiction,  if  a  fiction  it  is,  operates 
on  the  spectator  with  an  effect  not  less  powerful  than 
truth. 

Note  46.  Stanza  Ixxxviii. 
4nd  thou,  tlic  ttiunder-strickei)  nurse  of  Rome! 
Ancient  Rome,  like  modern  Sienna,  abounded  most 
probably  with  images  of  the  foster-mother  of  her 
founder;  but  there  were  two  she-wolves  of  whom 
history  makes  particular  mention.  One  of  these  of 
braxs  in  anrierd  work,  was  seen  by  Dionvsius*  at  the 
temple  of  Romulus  uiuler  the  Palatine,  and  is  uni- 
versally believed  to  be  that  mentionetl  bv  the  Latin 
historian,  as  having  l>een  made  from  the  money  col- 
lected by  a  fine  on  usurers,  and  as  standing  under  the 
Ruininal  fig-tree."  The  other  was  that  wiiich  Cicero'o 
has  celebrated  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  which  the 

1  S'.t;  1  li.';!.-  arti,  ftc.  lib.  ix.  cap.  i.  p.  3-Jl.  3-2^.  torn.  ii. 

'J  t'lii  r    F"!>ist.  aii  Atticiim,  xi.  fi. 

i  Pulilisii'd  by  Causeus  in  hi^  .Mus<;uin  Ronianuin. 

4  Storia  dfUe  arti,  etc..  ibid. 

5  Su.  ton.  in  vii.  Ausust.  cap.  31.  and  in  vit.  C.  .1.  C.-psir. 
p  ee.  AiK'iRn  says  it  was  burnt  down.  See  a  note  of  Pit 
Lj  .-  *?:.  ti^iiins.  paL'.  224. 

t^  '•  Tu  moJo  Pompoia  lenta  spa'iaro  sub  umbra." 
.    ^  OcuU-ir.  .-Jmnn. 

I    Roiiia  in.«taurata,  lib.  ii.  fol.  31. 

8  XiXKCn  rrotrjuara  raAaals  fpyaciag.  Antiq.  Rom.  lib.  i. 

9  "Ad  tirnni  Riiminab>m  simulacra  infantiuni  condilonim 
vrbis  sob  ii:)..rii.ii.s  lupa.   posuernnt."    Liv.   Hist.  lib.    x.   cap 

xix      Tins  was  in  t|„.  year  I'.  C.  -1.5.5,  or  4.57. 

10      J'.im  statua  .Vafiaj,  lu;n  simuiafra  Dcoruin.  Romuhis- 
uuo  f-t  Rcinns  cum  altricc  bcljna  vi  fulminis  icti  conci.:,  rimt. 
Pc  Divlnat.  ii.-JO.     "Tactus  est  ilie   etiam  qui  banc  urbeiii 
coiiuidii   Romulus    qiem  inauratum  in  Capitolic  paivun. 


I  ui-tonan  Dion  also  records  a^  ha\  aig  sufTercd  the  same 
■;.  -ajgnl  as  is  alhui.-.l  to  bv  tin;  orator.*  The  questior 
agitated  by  the  antii|uaries  is,  uhctiier  the  uoif  now 
ill  the  conservator's  palace  is  that  of  Ijivv  and  Dio 
nysius,  or  that  of  Cicero,  or  whether  it  is  n.ith.rr 
one  nor  liie  olher.  Tlie  t-arlier  writers  {liiffr  as  in!;<  h 
as  the  moderns  :  Lucius  Faunusf  says,  that  it  is  the  one 
alluded  to  by  both,  which  is  impossible,  and  aUo  by 
\'irgil,  which  may  be.  Ftilvius  Ursiniis  '  calls  it  the 
wolf  of  Dionysuis,  and  INLirlianus  ^  talks  of  it  as  the 
one  mentioued  by  Cicero*  To  him  Rycquius  t>e//i- 
'iliuglij  assents.-'  Naruini  is  inclined  to  suptioso  it  wuiy 
be  one  of  the  manv  wolves  preserved  in  ancient  Rouio; 
but  of  the  two  rather  bends  to  the  Ciceronian  statue.'' 
Moptfuicon^  mentions  it  as  a  point  without  doubt. 
Of  the  later  writers  the  decisive  Wiiikelmaiin'^  pr- 
claims  it  as  havi.ig  been  found  at  the  church  of  Saint 
Theodore,  where,  or  near  wliere,  was  the  temple  Oi 
Romulus,  an<l  C(nse(juentlv  makes  it  the  wolf  o\ 
Dio'iysius.  His  authority  is  Lucius  Faiinus,  wlio,  liow- 
ever,  onlv  says  that  it  in.s-  phice'l  not  fouml,  at  the 
Ficus  Rumiaalis  by  the  Comitium,  bv  which  he  does 
not  seem  to  allude  to  the  church  of  Saint  Theoiioi-e. 
Rvccpiius  was  the  first  to  make  the  mistake,  and 
Winkelmann  followed  Rycquius. 

Fiaminius  Vacca  t(dis  Cjuite  a  diirerent  storv,  and  says 
he  had  heard  the  wolf  with  the  twins  was  I'biind"   neai 


atnue  lactant'ni,  iiboribus  lupinis  iiiliianteni  fuisse  meiiiiiiis 

tis."    In  Catiiiii.  in.  H. 

'■  Hie  ?yUcs!ris  .rat  Roinani  noininis  altrix 
Mirtia.  qu-A'  i.arvos  .MavoiI;s  sein.ne  natos 
(   I'cril'Us  trravui's  vitali  rorc  riL'abai, 
Qua-  nuu  cuui  pucris  tl  miinalo  fulnilnis  ictii 
Co'K-.d.r.  a'q.ioav.i!s-i  p.-du!i)  v-s'l-ia  liqnir." 
De  Con-iuiitu.  liS).  II.  [\\t).  i.  de  fliviiiat.  cap.  ii.) 
*    El'   y'lfj  7  0   Ka->iruj\i'j^)   di(^^idvT£g   rt   -oXXot   iiM 

KepavvCov     (jri£y:cv:vd,:c  tv.     khi     ayaX^uira     dWa     r£, 

Kai    A<oj    f-i    Kioiijg   irj,ci.th'uv,    ttK'jjv   ri   r<?    Xik-^u'vtjj 

Dion.  His:,  lib.' xxxvii  paii.  :\1 .  cut.  R-o.  t?.epii.  154>.  He 
goes  (jn  to  infiitioii  ibat  ibe  letters  of  the  columns  oi  '.\!iicb 
thi;  laws  were  writtv^'n  were  liquetitHi  and  become  a^xvCfid. 
Ai!  that  the  R  .111  ins  di  I  wasto  ori'cr  a  Iar::e.sta'ii(j  fo  .liipiier, 
.ookin^  tovvrtrns  the  east:  no  mention  i-  atterwan's  made  of 
the  wolf.  Tins  li  ;ppcn.(i  in  A.  l'.  ( '.  ti^ll.  The  Abate  Fea, 
in  noticins  ilos  pa-sa^e  of  Dio!!.  (S'oria  dflk-  arti,  etc.,  torn, 
i.  p.  2t.l-J.  noie  x.)  says,  .V'./h  „sf,n,t'.  ,ijj.nuiisf:  Dion,,  die 
fussf  bni-Ji  nitiitii_  {;\v  w.Jt),  by  which  it  is  clear  tiie  .\bato 
tran.ilaied  the  Xylandri'-Leuclavian  viTsion,  which  puis 
qunnivi.^  stnhiliht  for  the  oriirinal  {(^/n'/'fi'T;,  ,i  wor<i  that  (ioes 
not  mean  t>e,,-feriiiatii.  but  oii!y  nusni.  as  may  be  dislinctiy 
seen  tVnm  another  !>assai.'e  of  the  same  Hion;  ]\iinv\'(i7j 
fiiv  ovv  b  \yiji--ni  Kni  rbv  Aiyovarov  hrnrSa  u^jva 
Hisr.  lib.  Ivi  Dion  siys  that  AL'rippa  •' ^vl^hed  to  r,iig 
statue  OS  .Au'-'U-tus  in  the  Pantiieon." 

t  '■  In  eadem  porticii  a-nea  lupa,  cnjus  uberilius  Romiilui-  ac 
RcMuis  laclantcs  inhian;,  conspicj  iir:  de  hac  ("ict-ro  ot 
\  ir^'iims  s.'m;i'T  inteilexei".  Livius  hoc  siirnam  ah  .Kiiilibug 
ex  peciiniis  (|nilni..  iiiulctiti  "ss.Mit  tVpn.'rati.res.  p"si'iiiii  'n- 
nuit.  .Ante, I  in  Comitiis  ad  Ficnm  Riiminah'ni.  quo  l.xu  pi-eri 
ruer.iii!  expoiti  locafiim  pro  c.-rto  est."  Luc.  Fauni.  de 
.Ann  I.  I  rb.  !!um.  hi.,  ii.  cap.  vii.  ap.  Sallensre,  torn.  i.  p. 
•Jl/.  In  his  X\  Htii  i-bapter  h»  repeats  that  the  statues  were 
there,  bin  not  tlia'  they  were  found  there. 

1  .\p.  Xardini.  Roma  Vetus.  lib.  v.  cap.  iv. 

2  Marliani,  Trb.  Rom.  topoL-raph.  'ib.  ii.  can.  \x.  Hp  men- 
tions aiKitluT  wolf  ;uni  twins  !!i  t.'ie  Vatican,  lib.  v.  •-  .p.  xxi. 

3  "'Non  desur.t  qui  lianc  ipsam  esse  pntent.  ,•,.'.•::;  adpinxi- 
nuis.  qiiip  e  comiiio  in  Basilicam  Lateranam,  uin  neanu  lis 
aids  anliqiiitHTii'ii  re'iq'iiis.  at(iue  bine  in  Capii  .Inn-i  ^.•..>lea 
rdata  sit.  quamvis  IMiriianiis  anti(iuam  <'ap.toliiia  ii  cjise 
mabiii  a  TiiKio  des-'i'>t  i;n.  en  lit  m  re  nimis  'inliia.  trfi.i.io 
Hssentimiir."  .Inst.  R\tqiiii  d.'  Cauit.  Roinati.  Coiiini.  cap 
xxiv.  paLV  -'.50.  .d.t.  lai-d.  Ha;.  Iti'JG. 

4  X.irdini  Roma  V.  tns,  lib.  v.  cap.  iv. 

.5  "  l.iipa  hodieqiie  in  f-apitoliiiis  prostat  a'dibiis,  cum  v«>^ 
tiij".  >  foiminis  (juo  ictam  narrat  C^oro."  Diarium  Italic,  torn 
i.  p.  171. 

fi  S'liria  de'ie  arti,  etc..  lib.  iii.  cap.  iii.  (J.  ii.  note  10.    Win 


f  a 


blunder 


"« 


was  not  in  tht3  Capito,,  ain'    hat  Dion 


k.'linann  has  i 
the  ('ictroniai 
was  wronL'  in  savins  so. 

7  "  Inii-si  dire,  ctic  I'Ficole  ili  bronzo.  die  oirsi  si  trf^va  nelln 
sala  d.d  ^'ainnidou'lio,  t'li  trovato  n-l  I'oro  R<mian<>  ap'«ressc 
Parcodi  S.itimio  e  vlfii  trovata  .incbi'  la  !;ipidi  bronzo  c.}i€ 
allatta  Romolo  •■  Remo.esta  nelia  l.oL'iria  de' consTvatori  " 
Flam.  \a<ca.  M.iiione,  num.  iii.  nag.  i.  ar.  Mo>itfaU'  j<i 
Diar.  Ilal.  torn.  i. 


2->8 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    AVORKS. 


Ihfi  nrch  of  Septimhis  Severus.  The  romniontatrr  on 
Winkelinai  n  is  of  the  same  opi7iion  with  that  loanicd 
pcrsiin,  and  is  incensed  at  Nardini  for  riol  having  re- 
marked that  Cicero,  in  speaking  of  the  wolf  struck 
vvi;h  lightning  in  the  Capitol,  makes  use  of  the  past 
rensc.  Hut,  with  the  Ahate's  leave,  Nardini  does  not 
positively  assert,  the  statue  to  be  that  mentioned  by 
Cicero,  and,  if  he  havi,  the  assumiition  would  not  per- 
haps have  been  so  exceedingly  iniliscreet.  T!ie  Abate 
himself  is  oliiiged  to  own  that  there  are  marks  very 
like  the  scathing  of  lightning  in  the  hinder  legs  of  the 
present  wolf;  and,  to  get  rid  of  this,  adds,  tha.i  the  woli 
seer,  b:/  Dionvsius  might  have  been  also  struck  by  light- 
ning, or  otherwise  injured. 

Let  us  examine  the  subject  b}'  a  reference  to  the 
words  of  Cicero.  The  orator  in  two  places  seems  to 
particularize  the  Romulus  and  the  Remus,  especially 
the  first,  which  his  audience  remembered  to  have  been 
in  the  Capitol,  as  being  struck  with  hghtning.  In  his 
verses  he  records  that  the  twins  and  wolf  both  fell,  and 
that  the  latter  left  behind  the  marks  of  her  feet.  Cicero 
does  not  say  that  the  wolf  was  consumed  :  and  Dion 
only  mentions  that  it  fell  down,  withotit  alluding,  as 
the  Abate  has  made  him,  to  the  force  of  the  blo\v,  or 
the  firmness  with  which  it  had  been  fixed.  The  whole 
strenoth,  therefore,  of  the  Ahate's  argument,  hangs 
upon  the  past  tense  ;  which,  however,  may  be  some- 
what diminished  bv  remarking  that  the  phrase  only 
shows  that  the  statue  was  not  then  standing  in  its 
former  {)Osition.  Winkelmann  has  observed,  that  the 
present  twins  are  modern;  and  it  is  equally  clear  tha,t 
there  are  marks  of  gilding  on  the  wolf,  which  miglit 
therefore  be  supposed  to  make  part  of  the  ancient 
group.  It  is  known  that  the  sacred  images  of  the  Capi- 
*:ol  w'sre  not  destroyed  when  injured  by  time  or  accident^ 
but  were  put  into  certain  underground  depositories 
called  /'at;i.vsce.'  It  maybe  thought  possible  tliat  the 
wolf  had  been  so  deposited,  and  had  been  replaced  m 
srmie  conspicuous  situation  when  the  Capitol  v.'as  re- 
built by  Ves[)asian.  Rycquius,  without  mentioning  his 
authontv,  tells  hat  it  was  transferred  from  tJie  Comi- 
tlumlo  the  Lateran,  and  thence  brought  to  the  Ca[)itol. 
If  it  was  found  near  the  arch  of  Severus,  it  may  have 
been  one  of  the  images  which  Orosius  ^  says  was  thrown 
down  in  the  toruin  by  liglilning  when  Alaric  took  the 
city.  That  it  is  of  very  high  antiquity  the  workman- 
shi|)  IS  a  decisive  proof;  and  that  (rircumstance  induced 
Winkelmann  to  believe  it  the  wolf  of  Dionysius.  The 
Capitoiine  wolf,  however,  may  have  been  of  the  same 
early  date  as  that  at  the  temple  of  Romulus.  Lactan- 
tius  '  asserts  that,  in  his  time,  the  Romans  worshipjied  a 
wolf;  and  it  is  known  that  the  Lupercalia  held  cut  to 
a  very  late  period  *  after  every  other  observance  of  the 
ancient  superstition  had  totally  expired.  This  may  ac- 
count for  the  preservation  of  the  ancient  image  longer 
fiian  the  other  early  symbols  of  paganism. 

It  may  be  permitted,  however,  to  remark  that  the 
wolf  v^as  a  Roman  symbol,  but  that  the  worship  oi 
hat   symbol  is  an  inference  drawn  bv  the  zeal  of  Lac- 


1  L.i.-.  Faun.  ibid. 

2  rfi  f  I    to  to  stiuizu  LXXX.  in  Historical  Illustrations. 

:\  'H-iiniili  nntrix  l,n()a  hom.rihiis  <st  atVccta  divuiis,  et 
f'nT'Mi'  SI  iiiii  rial  n>Mii"i  t'liissit,  ciijiH  fliruriUTi  m-rii."  Ijiic- 
f;iiif.  iU:  VaU-a  reli-ioiif.  Ml.,  i.  <iui  JO.  vmz.  101.  fdil.  v:irior. 
HitKt;  ihMliH  to  siiy,  he  woul<i  -^illicr  ailorc  a  wolf  tliaii  a 
frosii'iiK!.  His  coiNmiTititoi-  lia<  oli-nvcd,  lluit  llic  opinion 
of  hivy  coniTriiiiiL'  Laurent  In  bi'i'i'/  ti-'iircil  in  this  wolT  was 
not  n!i!v;T-al.  S'ralio  'i'n!.'!i'  so.  Rvc(niiiis  is  wr'niL'  in  s:iy- 
injr  that  haciaiHiiis  ,ii  mIiop-j  liic  wolf  was  in  the  Capitol. 

S  To  ,\.  1).  4ii«'<.  "<^os  .-irdcn'  possit,"  says  Maroiiins, 
rAiin.  Iv'cU-s.  Ion,,  viii.  r  ,.r.  002.  in  .■iii#4i»t;  )  "  viirniss.-  adlnic 
Ronia' ail  r.rl  i>ii  temp  ia.  (|na-  Iiiit.'  miiIc  exordia  iirbis  al- 
lala  in  Italiatii  Liiitficiiia  ?'"  (Jrlasiiis  wrot.-  a  liltiT  wluc.h 
or''MiiicH  lour  (oho  \y.\\nri  lo  Aiiiiro'iiaflins,  the  scnaUir,  und 
.j'.]''"-rt  U'  aiioiv  tiiu'  ill';  rites  sliouk!  V  •  Kiveu  up 


tantuis.  The  early  Cliristian  writers  are  net  to  > 
trusted  in  the  charges  which  they  make  agamsi  ihc 
paga.!is.  Eiisebius  accused  the  Romans  to  their  farv^ 
of  worshipping  Simon  Magus,  and  raising  a  statue  to 
hitn  in  the  ishuid  of  theTyber.  The  Romans  hid  nrob- 
ahly  never  h(;ard  of  such  a  person  before,  wlio  ca.vio, 
howcner,  to  play  a  considerable,  though  scat.dalous  part 
ui  the  church  history,  and  has  left  several  tokens  of  hia 
aerial  combat  with  St.  Peter  at  Rome  ;  notwithstanding 
fliat  an  inscription  found  m  this  very  isiand  of  tlw 
Tyber  showed  the  Sinion  iVlagus  of  Eusebius  to  be  a 
certain  indigenal  god,  called  Semo  Sangus  orFidius.' 

Even  when  the  worship  of  the  founder  of  Rome  nad 
been  abandoned,  it  was  thought  expedient  to  humoui 
the  habits  of  the  good  m;itrons  of  the  city  by  sending 
'.hem  with  their  sick  infants  to  the  church  of  St.  Theo- 
dore, as  they  had  before  carried  them  to  the  t(;mple  of 
Romulus.2  The  practice  is  continued  to  this  day  ;  and 
the  site  of  the  above  chu'-ch  seems  to  be  thereby  iden- 
tified with  that  of  the  temi)le :  so  that  if  the  woif  had 
been  really  ibund  there  as  Winkelmann  savs,  there 
would  be  no  doubt  of  the  present  statue  l)eing  that 
seen  by  Dionysius.^  But  Faunus,  in  saving  that  it  was 
at  the  Ficus  Ruminalis  by  the  Comitium,  is  only  talking 
of  its  ancient  position  as  recorded  by  Pliny  ;  and  even 
if  he  had  been  remarking  where  it  was  found,  would 
not  have  alluded  to  the  church  of  St.  ''i'heodore,  but  to 
a  very  different  place,  near  which  it  was  then  thought 
the  Ficus  Ruminalis  had  been,  and  also  the  Comitium  ; 
that  is,  the  three  columns  by  the  church  of  Santa  ^lar-ia 
LiiK'ratrice,  at  the  corner  of  the  Palatine  looking  or. 
the  Forum. 

It  is,  in  fact,  a  mere  conjecture  where  the  image  was 
actually  dug  up,''  and  iierhaps,  on  the  whole,  the  markt 
of  the  gilding,  and  of  the  lightning,  are  a  better  ari{i>- 
inent  in  favour  of  its  being  the  Ciceronian  wolf  tliati 
any  that  can  be  adduced  for  the  contra'-y  opinion.  At 
any  rate,  it  is  reasona!)ly  selected  in  the  text  of  the 
poem  as  one  of  the  most  interesting  relics  of  the  ancient 
city,'  and  is  certauily  the  figure,  if  not  the  very  animal 
to  which  Virgil  alludes  in  his  beautlfiil  verses  : 

"  Gcmitios  hiiic  nbfra  rin'iim 
liUdorp  penderue.s  put  ros  et  laniborf^  rnatietn 
linpavidos:  iilaiii  tcroti  crvici!  rotlcxani  . 
M\iic(3re  alternes,  et  fni^iere  corpora  iiPf^ua."* 


1  Eus(>bins  has  these  words  .  icai  avCfadvri  Tn^)  vjj.lv  wi 
Seog  rerijiijraL,  iv  nij  Tilicjii  /./ora/cJJ  fiirai^v  tmv  Svo  )'>■'!>' 
vpOjv,  £;^t>>i'  hiypaipiiv  1\-ji.uuk>iv  rahr>iv,  I'w'/'^''  '''■^^i' 
"ZdyKri;).  Ecclcs.  fJist.  lin.  ii.  cap.  xiii.  p.  40.  .liistin  Martyr 
had  told  tho  story  before:  but  Haronins  limi-clf  was  obli-rd 
to  detect  tiii.s  fable.    See  Nanlini  Koin.i  Vet.  lili.  vii.  eap.  vlj. 

piuoebi  liUperc.ali  islitiiit.i  in  awxr:  di  Ilonudo,  introihissern  i' 
use  di  portarvi  I'ainbini  oppressi  da  inc'rinita  oeciiite.  aeno 
si  liberino  per  riiiti-rces-.:iont'  di  qii-'sto  S.into,  come  di  (;.iii- 
tiniio  si  sperimenta."  llione  xii.  K'pa.  acrurata  e  siu'ci'ita 
des.-ri/.ione,  etc..  di  Itonia  Mo.lema  dell'  Ah.  Uidoif.  Ve.inti, 

;<  Xardini,  lib.  v.  cap  ii.  convicts  Pomp,  nius  l,;eliis  (■rn<;n 
rrriiri^.  in  piitljn::  the  lluminal  ti'z-trce  at  .  be  i-bnr.di  ot  S.iint 
Theodore  but  as  I,ivy  >ays  the  wolf  was  ai  ilu  I-'mis  Itnuu 
nails,  and  l),oiiysms  at  tli<^  temple  of  Romnles,  he  is  obliged 
(cap.  iv.)  to  own  that  tb(!  two  were  closi;  toiielber,  as  well  a£ 
the  liUpercal  cave,  shadiul,  as  it  were   by  the  "i^  tn'e. 

4"  Ad  comiliiiin  ticns  oliiii  Kiuniiialis  iierniinabat.  si!)  (U'.n 
Inpir  iiiaiam,  iioc  est,  niaimnain,  doiaaite  Varroiie.  Mixer. i;,t 
olnn  Ronui.lis  et  Heinus  :  wion  procill  a  ten;p,o  bodie  U 
Maria'  l,iberatricis  appelhitii,  nbi  j\n-s„n  inventa  iiehiiis   ii::! 

r'i'p'itol'i'o'videii'i'iis"''  '  Olai  liorriclni  aiUHina' Fi  bi^' Keii'iina' 
facies,  cap.  x.  See  also  cap.  .\ii.  Hnrricbms  wroie  a'ter  Aar- 
diiii  ill  Ifi'^T.     Ap.  (ira'v.  .Xntiii.  lunn.  loin.  iv.  p.  l.aJ-J. 

5  Doiiatlis.  lib.  xi.  cap.   IH,  gives  a   medal  represeiilinu:  or. 

and  in  the  reverse  llie  wolf  willi  the  head  not  reverted.  It  ie 
of  the  time  of  .■Xntoniiiiis  I'iiis. 

6  .llneid,  viii.  i".\\  See  Dr.  Middl(>t(ni,  in  his  I.ei-er  frorr 
Roni(\  who  inclines  to  the  ( ;ic,i;runiaii  wulf,  hut  wiilioul  ex 
Hiniiiiiig  tlie  buhject. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


24€ 


iVote  47.  Stanza  xc. 

— for  tlio  Roman's  mind 


Was  moclellVl  in  a  loss  terrtstrijil  mould 
l\  IS  possible  to  bt-  a  very  great  man,  and  to  be  sti  I 
^ery  inferior  to  Julius  C;L>sar,  tlie  most  complete  char- 
acter, so  Lord  Bacon  thougiit,  of  all  antio^uity.  Nature 
^oems  ineapable  of  sucli  extraordinary  combinations  as 
composed  his  versatile  capacity,  which  was  the  wonder 
even  of  the  Ilomans  themselves.  The  first  general — 
llie  only  triumphant  politician— inferior  to  none  in 
el'xpience — comjiarahle  to  any  in  the  attahmients  of 
Wis  loin,  in  an  age  made  up  of  the  greatest  conmianders, 
stutisinen,  orators,  and  phiicsoithers,  that  ever  appeared 
in  the  world— an  author  who  composed  a  pertect  speci- 
men of  military  annals  in  liis  travellnig-carriage — at 
one  lime  in  a  controversy  with  Cato,  at  another  writing 
a  treatise  on  jmnning,  and  collecting  a  set  of  g.ood  say- 
ings— fighting  '  and  making  love  at  the  same  moment, 
and  willing  to  abandon  both  his  empire  and  his  mis- 
tress for  a  sioht  of  tiie  founrain>  of  the  Nile.  Such 
did  .lulius  C;esar  appear  to  his  contemporaries,  and  to 
those  of  the  suhsecpient  ages,  who  were  the  most  in- 
clined to  deplore  and  execrate  his  fiital  genius. 

But  we  must  not  be  so  much  dazzled  with  his  siu- 
passing  glory  or  with  his  magnanimous,  his  anwable 
qualities,  as  to  forget  the  decision  of  his  impartial 
countrymen : 

HE    WAS    JUSTLY     SLAIN.* 

Note  4S.    Stanza  xciii. 

VVliat  from  lliis  barren  l)fin!.'  do  we  reap? 
Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail. 

*'....  Omnes  pene  veteres;   qui  nihil  cognosci, 

nihil  percijii,  nihil  sciri  posse  dixernnt ;  angusfos  sensns  ; 
imbeciUes  anunos,  brevia  curricula  vitx' ;  in  profundo 
verita'cm  dcMuersam ;  opinionibns  et  institutis  omnia 
teni'ii;  nihil  veritati  relinqni :  deinceps  omnia  tenebris; 
ci!-cumt''i!sa  esse  dixerunt."-  The  eighteeii  hundred 
years  which  have  elapsed  since  Cicero  wrote  this  have 
not  removi^d  unv  of  the  imperfections  of  humanity  : 
and  the  complaints  of  the  ancient  philosophers  may, 
without  injustice  or  affectation,  be  transcribed  in  a 
poem  written  yesterday- 

,    Note  49.   Stanza  xcix. 
There  is  a  stern  round  tower  of  other  days. 
Alludins  to  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  INIetella,  ca.ted  Cano 
di  Bove,  in  the  Aiitiian  Way.     See  Historical  Illustra- 
tions of  the  IVth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold. 


*  In  hi?  tcnih  book,  l.iicnn  siiows  him  sprinkled  with  the 
oiood  of  PIrirHali-i  in  if.c  arms  of  ("Ifcpa'ra : 

"  ^^^lHL'l:inl•  '!'l,i'-.s!  iirR' clailis  [icrfesiis  achilter 
A'imi>i:  Vi-iicrfiu  cnris,  ct  misi'uit  armis." 
After  f.ust  11^  Willi  his  nii>tress,  hf  sits  iip  all  nizht  to  cou- 
7erse  with  the  .T.L'yutiaii  sauos,  and  tt'ijs  Aclioreus: 
"Six's  sit  mini  fcria  videndi 
Niliacos  font'>.  i».-li'iin  civil,-!  rfii:iqu.im :" 
"Sic  ve!iit  in  ttira  stcuri  pace  trahnLnaiit 
Noctis  iter  medium." 
Inn.-nediately  afterwards,  he  is  fightin?  again  and  defending 
svery  position  ; 

"  St;'l  adest  defensor  iihique 
CtBSDr,  el  hos  adit■J^;  -1  i^liis.  tms  iirnibns  arccL 

Ce-a  iiof-t,-  earinis 

jnsiiuit  C-esar  semiier  fi'Ticiter  usus 
t'lnM-iriiti  ciirsn  liellormo  et  tem-cre  ran'o  " 
1  ",]u.<^  ciesus  existimetur,"   says  Puelonius,  after  a  fair 
estimation  of  his  eh-'racter.  and  makimr  use  of  a  phrase  which 
A-as  a  lormula  ui  liuy's  timp.   "  Meliuin  jure  ca-sum  oronun- 
•javil,  etiam  si  re-iii  crimine  insons  fuerit."  (hli.  iv.  eap.  43.) 
anil  whi>"n  was  eonliiiued  in  the  I-jh]   jud'-'menis  pronmniced 
)■  lusiitiabie  hornici,]".-.  gnch  as   killluL'  househreakers.    Sec 
"uetnn.  in  viL  CJ.  ('a;saris  •■vith  the  commentary  of  Pitiscus, 
';>.  1H4. 

2  AnaJem.  1   13. 


Note  50.   Stanza  cii. 

-piophetie  of  the  doom 

ven  uMves  its  favourites — early  death 


Ib^aven  uMves  its  favouritt 
Oi'  01  Sto]  (jii'Sovtjiv,  ii-z()Ov)joKFi  viog. 
Td  yap  ^avtlv  oik  c/Vyj/oi',  dAX'  idc)^pu,g  S 


Kieh.  Franc.  Pliil 
2:il.  edit.  lu-4. 


IJri 


ainv. 
ck.  Po(!ta)  Gnomici.  p 


Note  51.   Stanza  cvii. 

B-ihold  the  Imperial  Mount 

The  Palatine  is  one  mass  of  ruins,  particularly  en  tlia 

side  towards  the  Circus   Maxlinus.     The  very  soil  is 

formed  of   crumbled    brick-work.     Nothing    has    been 

told,  nothing  can  be  told,  to  satisfy  tlie  belief  of  any  hut 

a  Koman  antiijuary. — See  Historical  lI'ustratioi.G,  pa^e 

206. 

Note  52.    Stanza  cviii. 

There  is  the  mora!  of  all  human  tales; 
'T  is  hut  the  same  rehearsal  et  the  past. 
First  freedom,  and  then  slory.  eic. 

The  author  of  the  Life  of  Cicero,  speaking  of  the 
opinion  entertained  of  Britain  by  that  orator  and  his 
cotemporary  Romans,  lias  the  foilowuiL'  eloquent  pas- 
sage :  "  From  their  raitle  •  es  of  this  kind,  on  the  bar- 
barity and  misery  of  our  island,  one  cannot  help  re- 
flectins  on  the  surprising  late  ami  revolujurns  of  kiuir- 
doins,  how  Rome,  oiH-e  tlie  mistress  of  the  world,  the 
seat  of  arts,  empire,  and  glory,  now  lies  .^iink  in  sloth, 
ianorance,  and  poverty,  enslaved  to  the  most  cruel  as 
well  as  to  the  most  coutcmptilile  of  tyrants,  superstition, 
and  reliirious  imposvure :  while  this  remote  country, 
anciently  the  jest  and  contempt  of  the  p(  lite  Romans, 
is  become  the  happy  seat  of  liberty,  |)lenty,  and  letters; 
Hounshiuii  in  all  the  arts  and  refm.unents  of  c'vil  life; 
yet  riiimuis  perhaps  tht;  same  course  v\h)ch  Rome  it- 
self had  run  hrfore  it,  fro:n  virtuous  industry  to  wealth; 
tVom  wealth  to  Invurv  :  tVnrn  luvirv  to  an  imr'atienco 
of  discipline,  and  corruption  of  morals :  till,  by  a  tola 
dcireneracy  and  loss  of  virtue,  being  grown  ripe  foi 
dvslnictioii,  it  fall  a  prey  at  last  to  some  hardy  oppress- 
or, ana.  with  the  loss  ui'  liuerly,  losing  every  thing  tiiat 
IS  valuable,  sinks  gradually  again  aiio  Us  original  bar- 
barism,"' 

Note  53.   Stanza  ex. 


To  crush  the  imperial  urn,  whose  ashes  slept  sublime. 
The  column  of  Trajan  is  surmounted  by  St.  Peter, 
that  of  Aurclius  by  St.  Paul.   See  Historical  Illustrations 
of  the  IVth  Canto,  etc. 

Note  54.  Stanza  cxi. 
Still  wc  Trajan's  name  adore. 
Trajan  was  proierlnally  the  best  of  the  Roman 
[irinces:-  and  it  would  be  easier  to  find  a  sovereign 
uniting  exactly  the  o|)posite  characteristics,  than  one 
possessed  of  all  the  happy  qualities  ascribed  l6  this 
emperor.  "  When  he  mounted  the  throne,"  says  the 
iiistorian  Dion,^  "  he  was  strong  in  body,  lie  was  vigor- 
ous in  mind  ;   age  had  impaired  none  of  his  faculties  j 


1  The  Hi.^tory  of  the  Life  of  M.  Tullius  Cioero,  sect.  vi. 
vol.  ii.  pa;;.  lO'i.  Tiie  contrast  has  been  reversed  in  a  Wxi 
extraordinary  instance.  .\  gentleman  was  thrown  into  prison 
at  Paris:  etfitrts  were  made  for  liis  release.  Tiie  French  min- 
ister continued  to  detain  liim,  under  the  pretext  that  li'v  was 
not  an  Enu'lishn.an,  but  only  cfRoman.  See  "  Interesting  facta 
relating  to  Joachim  Murat,"  pasr.  V.¥J. 

2  "  Hiijes  tanium  menutria'  delat  im  est,  ut,  usque  id  nos- 
tjam    aiatem    non    aliter  in  Seiiatu    pri!i*ipihus  acclaniatur, 
nisi,    FEI.U^IOR.    AVGVSTO.    MFMOR.    TRAJANU 
Euirop.  Brev.  Hist.  Rom.  lib.  <iii.  cap.  v. 

■^  T'f)  T€  yiiji  (TU)u(iTi  s^ijxaTo ,Kai  rrj  ^^XV  '/'''/"^^f** 

ilig  fifiQ^  v-b  Yi}j)ioi  nit^\vv€T6(ii khi   ofr'  loOorn, 

OVTI  KdOi'fiifi  Tiid,  aXXa  Kill  Trdvv  -lii'rus  ■•-.'c  ayiOcl'i 
Irifin  Kui  CficydXi'i/f  Kai  ("III  to^'TO  hvt£  LjoUi]'''  riva 
uvrCjVf    ovTt   tuicii C£u6'oAu(j    tz    riHiara   inaTcdf 


250 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


lie  Wcis  altogether  free  from  envy  and  from  detraction  ; 
he  honoured  all  the  good  and  he  advanced  them  ;  and 
on  this  account  they  could  not  be  the  objects  of  his  tear 
cr  of  his  hate  ;  he  never  listened  to  informers  ;  he  gave 
not  way  to  his  anger;  he  abstained  equally  from  unfair 
exactions  and  unjust  pumshments  ;  he  had  rather  be 
loved  as  a  man  than  honoured  as  a  sovereign  ;  he  v.as 
alfable  with  his  people,  respectful  to  the  senate,  and 
universally  beloved  by  both ;  he  inspired  none  with 
dread  but  the  enemies  of  his  country." 
Note  66.  Stanza  cxiv. 
lliLiizi,  last  ot  Ruiiiaiis! 
The  name  and  exploits  of  Rienzi  must  be  familiar  to 
die  reader  of  Gibbon.  Some  details  and  inedited  man- 
uscripts, relative  to  this  unhappy  hero,  vvill  be  seen  in 
the  Illustrations  of  the  IVtli  Canto. 

Note  6ii.    Stanza  cxv. 
Es^eria  I  sweet  creation  of  some  heart 
VV  lucn  louiiii  111)  iiioiiai  resting-place  so  fair 
As  tliiiie  lavai  LneUst. 

The  respectable  authority  of  Flaminius  Vacca  would 
tiichne  us  to  believe  in  the  claims  ol'  the  Egenan  grotto. ' 
He  assures  us  that  he  saw  an  insci  i[  tion  on  the  pave- 
ment, stating  that  the  fountain  was  that  of  Egeria  dedi- 
cated to  the  nymphs.  The  inscri[)tion  is  not  there  at 
this  dav  ;  but  Montfaucon  quotes  two  lines  ^  of  Ovid 
from  a  stone  in  the  \  ilia  Giustiniani,  which  he  seems 
to  think,  had  been  brought  from  the  same  grotto. 

This  grotto  and  valley  were  formerlj'  frecpiented  m 
summer,  and  particularly  the  first  Sunday  in  IVIay,  by 
the  modern  Romans,  who  attached  a  salubrious  quality 
to  the  fountain  which  trickles  from  an  orifice  at  the 
bottom  of  the  vault,  and,  overflowing  the  little  pools, 
creeps  down  the  matted  grass  into  the  brook  below. 
The  brook  is  the  Ovidian  Almo,  whose  name  and  quali- 
•ies  are  lost  in  the  modern  Aquataccio.  The  valley 
itself  is  called  Valle  di  CafTarelli,  from  the  dukes  of 
that  name,  who  made  over  their  fountain  to  tne  Palla- 
vicini,  with  sixty  ruhbia  of  adjoining  land. 

There  can  be  little  doubt,  that  this  long  dell  is  the 
Egerian  valley  of  Juvenal,  and  the  pausing  place  of 
Umbricius,  notwithstanding  the  generality  of  his  com- 
-nentators  have  supposed  the  descent  of  the  satirist  and 
his  friend  to  have  been  into  the  Arician  grove,  where 
the  nvmph  met  HippoUtus,  and  where  she  was  more 
peculiarly  worshipped. 

The  seep  from  the  Porta  Capena  to  the  Alban  hill, 
fifteen  miles  distant,  would  be  too  considerable,  unless 
we  were  to  believe  in  the  wild  conjecture  of  V'ossius, 
who  makes  that  gate  travel  from  its  present  station, 
where  he  pretends  it  was  during  the  reign  of  the  Kings, 
as  far  as  the  Arican  grove,  and  then  makes  it  recede 


Kal  dpYJl  )jKto'~n-  loovXovTo.  rStv  re  ^pr]ndTu)v  Tuiu  aAAw- 

ri)iij)v  i'cra  Kut  (poi/wv  riov  ddUuiv   u-ajf^eru ipiAovfie- 

vos  re  ovv  ^tt'  uhTuli  fxaXXov  >}  TipiUjjxLvui  e^aijjt,  a.^i  tui 
re  it')iJ.ifi  p.cT  i-LelKuai  avveyivtro,  Kai  r//  ytipovaia  it£[x- 
VO~ptT:Cji  ujpiXu'  aya~i)Tbi  piv  TTaoi'  (puHipbs  Oi  /^./iki'i, 
tX^i^  TToAdn'iui  (jjv.  Hisi.  Roin.  lib.  Ixvni.  cap.  ii.  vii.  loin. 
ii.  \>.  11  •-':{, '11:34.  e,.it.  ll;unb.  17.'>(). 

1  "  Poco  lunlaiio  da!  dclto  luugo  si  scende  ad  un  casaletto 
del  quale  ne  sono  Padrorn  ii  Cal'arelli,  che  con  (inesto  nome 
C  ehiuiiiam  il  (aogi>;  vie  una  fontaiia  soito  una  ijran  volla 
Rtitica,  clie  al  presenle  si  •^oiU;,  e  li  Koniaiii  vi  vanno  I'estale 
a  ricrearsi ;  iiel  pa  vnnetitodi  e.ssa  Ibiitc  si  jc^'iri',  iiuin  epituflio 
tjaeero  quella  la  I'oiite  lii  I'^eria,  di'dicata  alle  niin'e,  e  iiuesta, 
dice  repitatiii),  easere  la  iiicilcsniia  t'luiif  in  ciii  In  coiivertita." 
Memorie,  etc.  ap.  Nardini,  pan.  IH.  !!(>  does  nol  trive  the 
jesoipiioii. 

2  "It.  villa  Justiniana  cxtat  insiMis  lapis  quadratus  solidus 
in  quo  Kculpta  lia^c  din)  Ovidii  caimina  sunt 

AiiicriA  est  (pim  pra-liet  aquas  dea  crata  CanuHiiis. 
Ilia  Niinia-  comJiix  (-(iiKiiinnH)ii('  liiit. 
dui  lapis  videtiir  e.'    eodeni    Hireri;!-  tonic,  aul  ejus  vicinia 
atliuc  comporlatus  "  Diarium  Itu'ic   p.  153. 


to  its  old  site  ..ith  the  shrinking  city.  '  The  Kifo.  or 
pumice,  which  the  poet  prefers  to  marbk,  is  the  sub- 
stance composing  the  bank  in  which  the  giotto  is  sunk- 

The  modern  topograpliers  -  find  in  the  grotto  the 
statue  of  the  nynijih  and  nine  niches  for  the  Muses,  aim 
a  late  traveller  ■''  has  discovered  that  the  cave  is  restored 
to  that  sinijilicily  which  the  poet  regretted  had  been 
exchanged  for  injirdicious  ornament.  But  the  headless 
statue  is  palpably  rather  a  male  than  a  nymph,  and  liag 
none  of  the  attributes  ascribed  to  it  at  present  visible. 
The  nine  IMuses  could  hardly  have  .stood  in  six  niches  ; 
and  Juvenal  certainly  does  not  allude  to  any  individual 
cave.  *  Nothing  can  be  collected  from  the  satirist  but 
that  somewhere  near  the  Porta  Capena  was  a  spot  in 
which  it  was  supposed  Numa  held  nightly  consultationa 
with  his  nymph,  aiifl  where  there  was  a  grove  and  g 
sacred  fountain,  and  fanes  once  consecrated  to  the 
Muses  ;  and  that  from  this  spot  there  was  a  descent  into 
the  valley  of  Egeria,  where  were  several  artificial  caves. 
It  is  clear  that  the  statues  of  the  Muses  made  no  part 
of  the  decoration  which  the  satirist  thought  misplaced 
m  these  caves  ;  for  he  expressly  assii;ns  other  fanes 
(delubra)  to  these  divinities  above  the  valley,  and  more- 
over tells  us,  that  they  had  been  ejected  to  make  room 
for  the  Jews.  In  fact,  the  little  temple,  no\\  called  that 
of  Bacchus,  was  formerly  thought  to  belong  to  the 
Muses,  and  Nardini*  places  them  in  a  poplar  grove, 
which  was  hi  his  time  above  the  vallev. 

It  is  probable,  from  the  inscription  and  position,  that 
the  cave  now  shown  mav  be  one  of  the  "  artificial  cav 
erns,"  of  which,  indeed,  there  is  ancther  a  liitle  way 
higher  up  the  valley,  under  a  tut\  of  aider  bushes :  but 
a  single  grotto  of  Egeria  is  a  mere  modern  inveniion, 
grafted  u|ion  the  application  of  the  ep'thet  Egenan  to 
these  nymphf'a  in  general,  and  which  might  send  us 
to  look  for  the  haunts  of  Numa  upon  tl  e  banks  of  the 
Thames. 

Our  English  Juvenal  was  not  seduced  into  mistrans- 
Intion  by  his  ac(piaintauce  with  Pope  :  h(  carefully  pre- 
serves the  correct  plural — 

"  ^^lletlce  slowly  wiiidinsj  down  the  vale,  've  viesv 
The  Ej.'eri;iri  fsruts  ;  oh,  how  unlii<e  the  t  uy  !" 

The  valley  abounds  with  springs,  6  and  over  these 
springs,  which  the  .Muses  miirlit  haunt  from  'heir  neigh- 
bouring groves,  Eijeria  presided  :  lience  she  was  said 
to  supply  them  with  water  ;  and  she  was  the  nymph  of 
the  grott-os  through  which  the  i^juntains  were  taught  to 
flow. 

The  whole  of  the  nionuinents  in  the  vicinitv  of  the 
Egerian  valley  have  rereiv(;(!  names  at  will,  which  have 
oeen  changed  at  will.  Aenutii  owns  he  can  see  no 
traces  of  the  temples  of  Jove,  Saturn,  Juno,  Venus, 


1  l)e  magnit.  Vet.  Rom.  ap.  Gra)v.  Ant.  Rom.  torn.  iv.  p 
1.W7. 

2  Ecliinard.  Desrrizioni'  di  Roma  o  dell'  asp  Romano  cor 
retfo  dall   .A hate  Veniiti  in  Roma,  17.'){).    They  believe  in  the 

rolto  and  nyniiih.     "  f^imiilacio  di  questo  fbnte,  essendovj 
sculpite  Ic  accpie  a  pic  di  csso." 

3  Classical  Tour,  chap.  vi.  p.  '.'17.  vol.  ii. 

4  "Siihstitit  ad  vetercs  areas,  madid.amque  (^apenarM 

Hie  uhi  nocturmr'  IV'ima  constiiiichal  amic-.r-, 
Nunc  sacri  foul  is  nrmii.s,  et  dcliihr^    io^MP  ur 
.luihcis  (inonim  cophiniim  I'dMinmr.r..?  supinlc.x. 
Oinnis  eiiim  pooulo  mcrccdem  pcndcie  jnssa  est 
Arhor,  el  cjcctis  mi'ndicat  silva  (.'amfpms. 
In  vallcm  Ksjcria'  dcsceiidimns,  ct  spc.nncas 
Dissimiles  ^eris  ;  quanto  pra-'stantins  cssct 
Niiincn  aqua',  viridi  si  marline  claiidcrcl  iindas 
Herba.  noc  in^enuum  violarenl  inarmoru  tuphum  " 

Sat  1(1 

5  Lib.  iil.  cap.  lii. 

fi  "  Uiidi(iiic  (!  solo  a(iuiK  scatnriunf."  Nardiri  lii*   iii.  can 


7  Echinard.  etc.  Cic  cit.  pp.  297  29 


CIIILDE    HAROLD'S     PrLGRIMAGE. 


201 


ar,a  Dinria,  which  Nardini  foiirnl,  or  hoped  to  find.  The 
mntaionimi  ofCaracalla's  circus,  the  temple  of  Honour 
aii.l  Virtue,  the  temple  of  Haccluis,  and,  above  all,  the 
tcmplo  of  tiie  god  of  Kediculus,  are  the  antiquaries' 
despair. 

The  circus  of  Caracalla  depends  on  a  medal  of  that 
emperor  cited  by  Fulvius  Ursinus,  of  wliich  the  reverse 
shows  a  circus,  supposed,  liowevcr,  by  some  to  repre- 
Bont  the  Circus  Maximus.  It  giv',s  a  very  ^ood  idea  of 
that  place  of  exercise.  The  soil  has  been  hut  little 
raised,  if  we  mav  judge  from  the  small  cellular  structure 
at  the  end  of  tlie  Spina,  which  was  probaoly  the  chapel 
of  the  ood  Consus.  This  cell  is  half  beneath  the  soil, 
as  it  must  have  been  in  the  circus  itself,  for  Dionysius* 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  believe  that  this  divinity  was 
the  Roman  Neptune,  because  his  altar  was  under 
ground. 

Note  57.   Stanza  cxxvii. 
Yet  let  us  poiuitT  lioi.ily. 

"At  all  events,"  says  the  author  of  the  Academical 
Questions,  "  I  trust,  whatever  may  be  the  fate  of  my 
own  speculations,  that  philosophy  will  regain  that  esti- 
mation which  it  ought  to  possess.  The  free  and  phi- 
losophic spirit  of  our  nation  has  been  the  theme  of  ad- 
miration to  the  world.  This  was  the  proud  distinction 
of  Englishmen,  and  the  luminous  source  of  all  their 
glorv.  Shall  we  then  forget  the  manly  and  diuiiified 
sentiments  of  our  ancestors,  to  prate  m  the  lanijuage  of 
the  nwther  or  the  nurse  about  our  good  old  prejudices? 
This  is  not  the  way  to  defend  the  cause  of  truth.  It 
was  not  thus  that  our  fathers  maintained  it  in  the  bril- 
liant periods  oT  our  history.  Prejudice  may  be  trusted 
to  gi-ard  the  outworks  for  a  short  si)rce  of  time,  while 
:cason  slumbers  in  the  citadel:  but  if  the  latter  sink 
mto  a  ieihargv,  the  tbrmer  will  quickly  erect  a  standard 
for  herselt".  Philosophy,  wisdom,  and  liberty,  support 
each  other  ;  he  who  will  not  reason,  is  a  bigot ;  he  who 
cannot,  is  a  fool ;  and  he  who  dares  not,  is  a  slave." 
Preface,  p.  xiv.  xv.  vol.  i.  1S05. 

Note  58.   Stanza  cxxxii. 


-great  XeniPsi: 


H'Te,  where  tl.e  ancient  paid  thee  homaixe  long. 
We  read,  in  Suetonius,  that  Au2ustus,  from  a  warn- 
ing received  in  a  dream,  '  counterfeited  once  a-year  the 
btgii-ir,  sitting  before  the  gate  of  his  palace,  with  hi& 
hand  hollowed,  and  stretched  out  for  charity  A  statue 
formerly  in  the  Villa  Borahose,  and  v.iiich  should  be 
now  at  Paris,  represents  the  emperor  in  that  posture  of 
supjilication.  The  object  of  this  self-deg>-adation  was 
the  appeasement  of  Nemesis,  the  jierpetnal  attendant 
on  good  fortune,  of  whose  power  the  Roman  conquerors 
were  also  reminded  by  certain  symbols  attached  to  their 
cars  of  triumph.  The  symbols  were  the  whip  and  the 
crotolo,  which  were  discovered  in  the  Nemesis  of  the 
Vatican.  The  attitude  of  beggary  made  the  above 
statue  pass  for  that  of  Belisarius ;  and  until  the  criti- 
cism of  Winkelmann  '^  had  rectified  the  mistake,  one 
fiction  was  called  in  to  support  another.  It  was  the  same 
fear  of  the  sudden  teinunation  of  prosjierity  that  made 


*  Anti(i.  Rom.  lil).  ii.  rap.  \x\i 

1  SiiPton.  in  vit.  Aii:-'nsti,  c;ip.  \^] .  Cusaiihon,  in  tlip  note, 
pjfer.-;  to  Plutarch's  Lives  of  (/amiiliis  and  .-I'milius  Panlus, 
and  a!s.)  to  his  apophihi;i:ins,  for  tlio  character  of  this  deity, 
riie  hollowed  hMiid  was  reckoned  the  last  desree  of  desra- 
dation:  and  when  the  d  s:.-!  body  of  the  pm;te<'t  Rufinus  was 
borne  about  in  triumph  by  the  peopJi;.  ihe  iniiigtuty  was  m 
crca.sfd  li)-  putti;;!^  his  hand  in  that  position. 

2  8'nria  dclle  .''f',  etc  lih.  xii.  cap.  iii.  tom.  ii.  p.  4i?2 
Visconti  calls  the  statue,  however,  a  C'yl)el<!.  [t  is  given  ii 
ihe  Mupco  Pio-Ciement.  tom.  i.  par.  40.  The  Abate  Fea 
(Spiagaziode  dei  Rami  Sloria,  etc.,  torn.  iii.  p.  513.)  calls  it 
a  Cbrioippu3. 


Amasis,  kinir  <>f  I^uyp',  warn  his  fricni'  Polycv:it;s  ol 
Sanios,  that  the  lmuIs  loved  tliose  wlic  le  lives  were 
che(piered  with  ^'o-kI  and  evil  f  irtuiies.  Nemesis  was 
sujipo^ed  to  lie  in  v,;ut  jiarticularlv  for  the  pru'lriit  :  tlial 
is,  tor  those  whose  caution  rendered  tiiein  ace(>s>ibie 
only  to  mere  accidents;  and  her  first  a'tar  was  raised 
on  the  banks  of  the  Phryc;;(n  /"Esepus  by  Aihastus. 
probably  the  prince  of  that  name,  wh'-.  killed  the  son  nt 
Cru'sus  by  mistake.  Hence  the  j^oddtrs  was  called 
Adrastea.* 

The  Roman  Nemesis  was  .'"iccl  an-1  :'u^us!  ;  there 
was  a  temple  to  her  in  thf;  Palatine,  under  the  nanu  of 
Rhamnusia:  f  so  great  indeed  \.ustlic  j)ropensii\  (,f  the 
ancients  to  trust  to  the  revohun.n  of  events,  anc  "o  be- 
lieve in  the  divinity  of  fortune,  tliat  in  the  satii.-  Paia 
tine  there  was  a  temple  to  ihe  foituiie  of  tli*-  day.i 
This  is  the  last  superstition  which  retains  its  hold  (ner 
tlie  human  heart ;  and  from  concentrating.'  in  one  ol)- 
ject  the  credulity  so  natural  to  man,  lias  aKvavs  ai>e.eared 
strongest  in  those  unembarrassed  by  r.ther  articles  of 
belief.  The  anti;piaries  have  supplied  tiijs  -ro  i  !,><>  to 
be  synonymous  with  fortune  au^l  with  fa'e:  h'l*  it  was 
in  her  vindictive  (]ua:ity  that  she  was  \^■or^ll:pjletl  under 
the  name  of  Nemesis. 

Note  59.   Stanza  cxl. 
1  see  before  me  the  iilaiiiaior  lie. 

Whether  the  \\onderfu!  statue  which  s;i^'_'(  <'«h1  this 
image,  be  a  hupiearian  gladiator,  whi'di  m  spite  of 
Winkelmann's  criticism,  h;is  been  stoiitiv  mamtaiiied,' 
or  whether  it  be  a  Greek  herald,  as  that  iireat  antiquary 
positively  asserted,  2  or  whether  it  is  to  be  thoi^Hl.t  a 
Spartan  or  barbarian  shield-bearer,  according  to  the 
opinion  of  his  Italian  editor,  -^  it  must  assurediv  seem  a 
nipii  of  that  masterpiece  of  Ctesdaus,  which  reprc- 
sents^d  "a  wounded  uian  dvin-j,  wlio  perfectl\-  e.vpressea 
v.hat  there  remained  of  life  in  liim.""  Monifaii-on ' 
and^ -Marfei'^  fhouiiht  it  the  ideniical  s'atue:  but  that 
statue  was  of  bronze.  Tlie  a'^liator  was  once  in  the 
villa  Li.dovizi,  and  was  bou-bt  by  Clement  Ml.  The 
right  arm  is  an  entire  restoration  of  ^Michael  Angelo. 
Note  60.   Stanza  cxli. 


Hutrlior'd  to  make  a  Roirian  hoii<'ay. 
Gladiators  were  of  tv.o  kinds,  co!noe!l(;d  and  vohin- 


*  Pict.  de  Bayle,  article  .Adrastea. 
t  It  is  eriumer:ited  by  the  renionary  Victor. 
"■'  "  Fortuiiaj  hujusce  diei."     Cicero  mentions  her,  de  legib 
lib:  ii. 

§  UV.W.  XrAfF.Sf 

SIVF.  FOirrVN  AE 

PISI'OKIVS 

RV(;i  \\v.< 

V.  ('.   l.FCAT. 

LEC.  VITl.G. 

(;ORI). 

Jee  Questiones  Roman:e.  etr..  \p.  G'^rev.  Antiq. 
tom.  V.  p.  94-2.  See  dso  Muratori.  Nov.  'I'hes  ,,ir. 
Vet.  tom.  i.  op.  ^*^i,  ^■^.  wh<'re  thiTC  -ire  thr.'o  Laiii! 
Greek  inscription  lo  .NVmi --is.  ;in  )  others  to  Fate. 

1  By  the  .Abate  Kracci.  .iiss,-  it  iznuie  si.pra  im  ciipe 
etc.  Preface,  pag.  7,  who  ac<-oiints  I'or  thi;  cor<l    ri 
neck,  but  not  for  the  horn,  whicli  it  does  no'  appear 
diators  themselves  ever  used.    Note  '.A.)  Sti 
tom.  ii.  p.  '20.^. 

2  Either  Poiifontes,  herald  of  Laius.  killed  by  fEdip-.?:  oi 
Cepreas.  herald  of  Euritheus,  killed  by  the  .Atheni  ir..s  vhen 
he    endeavoured  to  drag  the    Heriicliiia>  f.om   'he  tdtar  of 

i    mercy,  and  in  whose  honour  tliey  instituted   nnuiiid  s^ames 

continued    to  the   time    of  Hadrian:  or    .Aiilhei,iocr;tii>,   Inr 

I     Athenian  hernld,  killed  by  the  Megaienses,  v.no  never  reeo-- 

ered  the  iuipiety.    Pee  Storia  dehe  aru,  etc.;  tom.  ii.  pp.  -JCt. 

I    ytM.  iiO.T   20t>.  207.  lih.  ix.  en  p.  ii 

\\  Storia,  etc.,  torn.  ii.  p.  2(17.  Not.  (.A.) 
^       4  "  Vulneratum    deficientem    fecit    in    rpio   possit    intf. iI;r 
j    qiiMnium  restal  inima>."    Piin.  .Nat.  Hist.  .\xxi /•.  fa^i.  Gl 

ft  .Antiq.  lom.  iii.  par.  2.  tab.  1.55. 

()  Race.  Stat   tab.  04. 

'  Mus.  Capitol,  tom.  jii.  p.  154.  ediU  1755. 


Rftman. 

rii.l. 

an- 

one 

WW 

'the 

the 

gla 

die 

arU, 

252 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


lary  ;  andwei'  supplied  from  several  conditions  ;  from 
Si'aves  sold  foi  .nat  pnr[)Ose  ;  from  culprits ;  from  bar- 
tmrian  captives,  either  taken  m  war.  and,  afier  beint; 
led  in  iniimph,  set  apart  for  the  games,  or  those  seized 
and  -otnteinned  as  rebels  ;  aiso  from  free  citizens,  some 
hghling  for  hire  {auctoiuti),  others  from  a  dejjraved 
ambition  :  at  last  even  knights  and  senators  were  ex 
bibited,  a  disgrace  of  which  the  first  tyrant  was  naturally 
the  first  inventor.  '  In  the  end,  dwarfs,  and  oven  ■.^o- 
men,  fought ;  an  enormity  prohibited  by  Severus.  Of 
these  the  most  to  be  pitied,  undoubtedly,  were  the  bar- 
barian captives  ;  and  to  this  species  a  Christian  vvriter^ 
justlv  applies  the  epithet  "in?iocert<,"  to  distinguish  ihem 
from  tiie  professional  gladiators.  Aurelian  and  Claudius 
supplied  »reat  numbers  of  these  unfortunate  victims ; 
tlie  one  aft.;r  his  triumuh,  and  the  other  on  the  pretext 
of  a  reb(  llion.-''  No  war,  says  Lijjsius,''  was  ever  so  de- 
structive to  the  human  race  as  these  sports.  In  spite 
of  the  laws  of  Constantino  and  Conslans,  gladiatorial 
shows  survived  the  old  established  religion  more  than 
seventv  vears  ;  but  thev  owed  their  final  extinctio-n  to 
the  couratze  of  a  Christian.  In  the  year  404,  on  the  ka- 
lends of  .January,  they  were  exhibiting  the  shows  in  the 
Flavian  amphitheatre  bef)re  the  usual  immense  con- 
course of  people.  Almachiiu  oi  'releniachus,  an  eastern 
monk,  who  had  travelled  to  Rome  intent  on  his  holv 
puipose,  rushed  into  the  midst  of  the  area,  and  endea- 
\  ourcd  to  separate  the  combatants.  The  pra?tor  Alypius, 
a  p<irson  incredi'ilvattaclied  to  these  games,-'  yave  uistani 
onlers  to  the  gladiators  to  slav  him  ;  and  Telijiiiaclius 
gained  the  civun  of  martyrdosn,  And  the  title  of  saint, 
which  surely   has  never,  either  before  or  since,  been 

vvariied  u>v  a  more  noble  exploit.  Honorius  immetli- 
alely  abolished  the  shows,  whicli  v.ere  never  afterwards 

r.vived.  The  story  is  told  by  Theodore:  s  and  Cassiodo- 
rus,'»  and  seems  worthy  of  credit,  notwithstanding  its 
place  in  the  Roman  n>artvrologv.8  Hesides  thetorrcnis 
of  blood  which  flowed  at  tin;  tiiiierals,  in  the  amphi- 
thetitres,  tlu;  circus,  the  ff)rums,  and  ether  [lublic  plac;(.'s, 
gladifUors  were  introduced  at  fi.'asts,  .and  tore  each  other 
to  pieces  amidst  the  suf)per  tables,  to  the  great  delight 
and  applause  of  the  guests.  Yet  Li[)sius  permits  him- 
self to  suppose  the  loss  of  courage,  and  the  evident  de- 
generacy of  mankind,  to  be  nearly  connected  with  the 
abolition  of  these  bloody  spectacles.  ^ 

Note*"].   Stanza  cxlii. 

Here,  where  tlu;  Koinan  inillion's  lilnme  or  praise 
\\';i.s  fleatti  or  li!t',  the  phiythings  of  a  croud. 

W^hen  one  "lailiator  wounded  another,   he   shouted 


1  .lulins  ("tesar,  whft  rose  t)y  the  fall  of  the  aristocracy, 
br.)U'_'hi  Fill  ins  Lei)tiiuis  and  A.  Caloniis  upon  the  ars'iia. 

2  Terlullian  ;  "  certe  qiiidftn  et  iniKjcentes  cladiatorts  in 
ruiliirn  vtMimni,  ut  vuluinatis  pnlilica!  fiostite  fiaiit."  Just. 
Lips.  SaUirii.  Serinf)n.  Ill),  ii.  cap.  iii. 

'.i  V'opiscus,  in  vit.  Anrel.:  and.  in  vit.  Claud,  ibid. 

4  'Treilci.  inio  scio.  nnljinn  lifl'nn)  taiitani  cladcrn  va.stiti- 
t-rn'ine  jrencri  huinano  iiitmissc,  'piani  hos  ad  voliipta'em 
iuilos."  .In.-vt.  Ijips.  ihid.   lil).  i.  cnp.   \ii. 

0  AuL'iistinn.-,  Mill.  vi.  confess,  cap.  viii.)  "  Alypinrn  smiin 
gladiatiirii  spt-ciacuii  inhial.i  incredibiiiter  ahreptiiin,  '  scrihit. 
I'i.l.  hh.  i.  <ap.  Mi. 

6  Hist  r.c'clfs.  rap.  xxvi.   lib.  V. 

7  ("assiod.  TMpariila.  I.  .\.  c.  xi.    Patnrn.  ih.  ib. 

8  |?ar.irim.-  a(i  ami.  ct  in  noti- ad  .Marlyr(d.  H(ini.  1.  Jan. 
rfee  .Muraiitiiiii  <!iiie  nicmorie  sacrue  pnilane  liedr  Ainlitealru 
Fiavi...  p.  -J.-).  I.  ntti. 

9  "(.iii..d?  noiitu  l.ijisi  nuinicr.tnni  ali'iudd  haluiis.so  censes 
nd  V  iriiiti  in  T  MaL'iiinii.  T.iiipi.ia  ii.islra.  iMis.iut-  ipsos  vidca- 
niiis.     Oppuluai  ■•<•'•'■  nninii  altitniiivc  captinii.  dircptnin  (•>!; 

oaiiiiir.  I'bi  rel.iii-,  iilii  Kit  p.r  aniii's  ni<  diiata  s.ipifiilia'  stu- 
j.a?  iil.i  ill-  a:, i, nils  .iin  pos-il  dirrrr.  >•/  fr^irtns  li;„lu,f„r 
^//<.s?'  etc.  ibid.,  lib  h.  call.  wv.  'riit;  pro-'itypc.  of  Mr 
Wmdhani's  imneijyric   >n  b    l-bailia 


"  fie  k::i  it,'''  "  noc  haoet,"  or  "habet."  The  wooii.lci 
combaiant  dropped  his  weapon,  and,  advanciiiL'  t;.  thr 
edge  of  the  arena.,  supplicated  the  si;ec'.af'irs.  If  he  hao 
fought  well^  th".  people  saved  him;  if  otherwise,  or  as 
they  happened  to  be  inclined,  they  turned  down  ihei 
thumbs,  and  he  was  slain.  Thev  ue.'-e  occasionallv  sn 
savage,  that  they  were  impatient  if  a  combat  lasrec' 
.onger  than  ordinary  without  wounds  or  death.  The 
emperor's  prese.nce  generally  saved  the  vanquished  :  and 
it  is  recorded  as  an  instance  of  Caracalia's  ferocity,  tlia 
he  sent  those  who  supplicated  him  for  life,  in  a  spec- 
tacle at  Xicomedia,  to  ask  the  peo|)le  ;  in  other  words, 
handed  them  over  to  be  slain.  A  similar  ceremonv  i3 
ob.serveu  at  the  Spanish  bull-fights.  The  Maidstrate  pre- 
sides ;  and,  after  the  horsemen  and  piccadores  have 
fought  the  bull,  the  matadore  steps  forward  and  bows 
to  him  for  [lermission  to  kill  the  animal.  If  the  bull  has 
done  his  diify  by  killing  two  or  three  horses,  or  a  man, 
which  lasl  is  rare,  the  people  interfere  with  shouts,  the 
ladies  wave  their  handkerchiefs,  and  the  animal  is  saved. 
The  woiaids  and  de-ath  of  the  horses  are  accompanied 
with  the  louilest  acclnniations,  and  many  gestures  of 
delight,  especially  from  tlie  female  portion  of  the  audi- 
ence, including  those  of  the  gentlest  blood.  Everv  thino 
de|)ends  on  habit.  The  author  of  Childe  Harold,  the 
writer  ;)f  this  note,  and  one  or  twn  other  Englishmen, 
v%ho  have  certaiidv  in  other  davs  borne  the  sight  of  a 
pitched  liattie,  were,  diinno  the  summer  of  1809,  in  the 
governor's  iiox  at  the  great  amphitheatre  of  Santa  Ma- 
ria, opposite  to  Cadiz.  The  death  of  one  or  two  horses 
completely  satisucMl  their  curiosity.  A  gentleman  pre- 
sent, o!)servm^  them  shudder  and  look  'pale,  noticed 
tha.t  unusual  reception  of  so  delighvful  a  s])orf  to  some 
young  ladies,  wlio  stared  and  smiled,  and  conMimed 
their  applauses  as  another  horse  fell  bleeding  to  t^.« 
ground.  One  biiH  kilied  three  horses  off'  Ins  oivn  horns. 
He  was  saved  by  acehiinations,  which  were  redoubled 
when  it  was  k'av.vn  he  b;;lo!iged  to  a  priest. 

An  EoglisliMian,  who  c;in  be  much  pleased  with  see- 
ing t\vo  men  beat  thiiiiselves  lo  pieces,  cannot  bear  to 
lo(^k  at  a  horse  gallopiug  round  an  arena  widi  his 
bowels  trailing  on  the  ground,  and  turns  from  the  sj)ec- 
tacle  and  spectators  v.ith  horror  and  disgust. 

Not(?  t'-2.  Stanza  cxiiv. 
Liiko  lauicis  on  tli-.'  bald  first  <,\esar's  head. 
Suetonius  informs  us  that  .Julius  Ca'sar  was  [larticu 
larly  gratilied  bv  (hat  decree  ('if  the  Semite,  which  en- 
abled him  to  wear  a  wr(;ath  of  laurel  on  all  occasions. 
He  was  anxious,  not  to  slmw  that  he  was  the  coinptcror 
of  the  world,  but  to  hide  that  ne  was  bald.  A  straie^-r 
at  Home  would  hardli-  have  irncssed  at  the  motive,  nor 
should  we  without  tlie  help  of  the  historian. 

Note  f'S.    S'anza  cxlv. 

"While  stands  the  ('oliseinn,  Rome  shall  stand,"  otc. 

This  is  (p.ioted  in  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  ilie  iJntnan 

Empire  :    and  a  notice  on  tin;  Coliseum  may  be  seen  in 

the  Historical  Illustrations  to  liie  lYth  Canto  of  Childe 

Harold. 

Note  f4.    Stanza  c.xlvi. 

s[iared  and  blest  by  tiino. 

"Though  iilundered  of  all  i's  brass,  excejit  the  ring 
whicdi  was  necessary  to  presi'rve  tlie  aperture  above, 
thouf:h  ex()osed  to  repeated  lires,  though  sometimes 
fk)oded  by  tiie  ri\er,  and  a!wa\s  o])en  to  the  ram,  no 
monument  of  eipial  aniiqitity  is  so  well  preserved  as 
this  rotunda.  Il  passed  with  little  alteraiion  from  iho 
Pagan  into  the  present  worsh.ip  ;  and  so  convenient  were 
its  niches  for  liie  Christian  altar,  that  Michael  AngCiO 


CHILD  E    HAROLD'S    PILG  R  I  :\r  AG  E. 


253 


ever  studious  of  ancient  beantv,  introduced  their  de- 
sign as  a  model  of  the  CathoUc  chi|-cli." 

Forsyth's  Remarks,  etc.,  on  Italy,  p.  )37.  sec.  edit. 

Note  C<o.   Sianza  cxlvii. 

And  tlicy  wlui  feel  liir  ijt'iiius  may  ri^pose 
Difureyt'!  on  liDiiour'd  tbnns,  wlicist!  Im.sts  iiroiind  them  close. 

Tlie  PaiithiM)!!  has  been  made  a  receptacle  for  the 

busts  of  nioilcTU  gi't-al,  or,  at  least,  distinguished  men. 

The  tlood  of  liglit  which  once  fcil  through  the  large  orb 

above  on  the  wliole  circle  of  divinities,  now  shines  on 

8  numerous  asse:nblaire  of  mortals,  some  one  or  two  of 

whom  iiave  been  almost  deiliod  by  the  veneration  of 

heir  oouiilrymen. 

Note  fi6.  Stanza  cxlvin. 
There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  licht. 
This  and  Jhe  three  next  stanzas  allude  to  the  story  of 
the  Roman  Daughter,  wliich  is  recalled  to  the  traveller, 
by  the  site  or  preteiKled  site  of  that  adventure  now 
shonn  at  tlie  clrirch  of  St.  Nicholas  in  carrere.  The  dif- 
ficulties al'ending  tlie  full  belief  of  the  tale,  arc  stated 
m  Historical  Illustrations,  etc. 

Note  G7.   Stanza  clii. 
Turn  to  the  mole  whirh  Hadrian  rear'd  on  high. 
The  castle  of  St.   Angelo.    See  IJislorical  lUustra- 

ll/US. 

Note  fi8.  Stanza  cliii. 
Hut  lo  !  the  dome — tlie  vast  and  wondrous  dome. 
This  and  the  six  next  stanzas  have  a  reference  to  the 
church  of  Su  Peter.  For  a  measurement  of  the  com- 
par.:i.tive  length  of  this  basilica,  and  the  other  great 
ch-ncnes  of  Europe,  see  the  pavement  of  St.  Peter's, 
and  the  Classical  Tour  through  Italy,  vol.  li.  page  125, 
ef.  seq.  chap.  iv. 

Note  C9.   Stanza  clxxi. 


-the  straniie  fate 


Wliich  tumbles  mii;lilitsl  sovereigns. 
Mary  died  on  the  scaffold  ;   Elizabeth  of  a  broken 
heart;  Charles  V.  a  hermit;  Louis  XIV.  a  bankrupt  in 
means  and  glory;   Cromwell  of  anxiety;   and, — "the 
greatest  is  behind," — Napoleon  lives  a  j)risoner.  To  these 
sovereigns  a  long  but  superfluous  hst  might  be  added 
of  names  equally  illustrious  and  unhappy. 
Note  70.   Stanza  clxxiii. 
Lo,  Nemi  I  naveli'd  in  the  woody  hills. 
The  village  of  Nemi  was  near  the  Arician  retreat  of 
Eiieria,   and,  from  the  shades  wliich  embosomed  the 
temple  of  Diana,  has  preserved  to  this  day  its  distinctive 
appellation  of  77/e  Grove.     Nemi  is  but  an  evening's 
ride  from  the  comfortable  inn  of  Albano. 

Note  71.   Stanza  clxxiv. 
-imd  afar 


Tho  Tiber  winfi?.  and  tlie  broad  ocean  laves 
Tiie  Latian  coast,  etc.  (.'tc. 

The  wliole  declivity  of  the  Alban  hill  is  of  unrivalled 
frtjauty,  and  from  the  convent  on  the  highest  point, 
rtuich  has  succeedad  to  the  temple  of  the  Latian  Jupiter, 
ne  prospect  embraces  d'A  the  objects  alluded  to  in  the 
cited  stanza:  the  Mediierrancat: ;  the  whole  scene  ol 
ih'.'  latter  half  of  the -^neid  ;  and  the  coast  from  beyond 
die  mouth  of  the  Tiber  to  the  headland  of  Circ?eum 
&ud  the  Cape  of  Terraclna. 

The  site  of  Cicero's  villa  may  be  su[)posed  either  at 
the  Grotta  Ferrata,  or  at  the  Tusculum  of  Prince  Lucien 
llunnaparte. 

The  former  was  thought  some  vear?  a^o  ine  actual 
3i;e,  as  mav  be  seen  from  Middlcton's  Life  of  Cicero. 
A,  prcjsent  it  has  lost  something  o)  its  credit,  except  for 
the  Domen. chinos.  Nine  monk.--,  of  the  Greek  order 
live  there_  a'nl  the  adjoining  villa  is  a  cardinal's  sum- 


mer-house. The  other  villa,  ca.ieo  Rufinel.a,  s  n  the 
sumuut  of  the  hill  above  Frascati,  and  manv  --ich  re- 
mains of  Tusculum  have  been  fuund  there,  hesides 
seventy-two  statues  of  diri'erent  merit  and  |>n;s('rva;ion, 
and  seven  busts. 

From  the  same  eminence  are  seen  the  Sabine  hills, 
embosomed  in  which  lies  the  long  valley  of  Hnsiica, 
There  are  several  circumstances  which  tend  to  establish 
the  identity  of  this  valley  with  the  "  L^.s/ira"  of  Horace: 
and  it  seems  possible  that  ttie  mo'='.iic  pavement  which 
the  peasants  uncover  by  throwirij^  up  the  earth  of  a  viiie- 
y;u-d,  may  belong  to  his  villa.  Ruslica  is  pronounced 
short,  not  according  to  our  stress  u|»on — "  llMicoh 
cuhantif!.'''' — It  is  more  rational  to  think  that  wc  aro 
wrong,  than  that  the  inhabitants  of  this  secluded  valley 
have  changed  their  tone  in  this  word.  The  addition  of 
the  consonant  pretixed  is  nothing;  vet  it  is  necessary  to 
be  aware  that  Rustica  may  be  a  iiiod<;ni  nanwj  wh)  ;h 
tli(i  peasants  may  have  cauL:ht  from  the  antiquaries. 

The  villa,  or  the  mosaic,  is  in  a  vineyard  on  a  kmll 
covered  with  chesnut  trees.  A  stream  runs  down  the 
valley,  and  alihough  it  is  not  true,  as  saiil  in  the  guide- 
books, that  this  siream  is  called  Licenza,  vet  there  is  a 
village  on  a  rock  at  the  head  of  the  valley  wliicli  is  ro 
denominateci,  and  which  may  have  taken  its  iiaiue  from 
the  Digentia.  Licenza  contains  700  iiilKiintaiits.  On  u 
peak  a  little  way  beyond  is  Civitella,  coniainin<.'  310. 
On  the  banks  of  the  Anio,  a  little  bef(;re  you  turn  up 
into  Valle  Rustica,  to  the  left,  al)out  an  hour  from  the 
villa,  is  a  town  called  V'ico-varo,  another  i'avourable 
coincidence  with  the  Varia  of  the  poet.  At  the  end 
of  the  valley,  towards  the  Anio,  there  is  a  bare  hill, 
crowned  with  a  little  town  called  Bardela.  At  the  foot 
of  this  hill  the  rivulet  of  Lic(;nza  flows,  and  is  almost 
absorbed  m  a  wide  sandy  b(;d  before  it  rfyu'hes  the  Anio, 
NcTthing  can  be  more  fortunate  for  the  lines  of  tho  poof, 
whether  in  a  metaphorical  or  direct  sense  : 

"  Me  nuouens  reticit  gelidus  Digentia  rivus, 
Q.uem  iMaiidela  bibit  rugosus  fngore  pagus 

The  stream  is  clear  high  up  the  valley,  but  beiore  if 
reaches  the  hill  of  Bardela  looks  oreen  and  yellow  like 
a.  sulphur  rivulet. 

Rocca  Giovane,  a  ruined  village  in  the  hills,  half  an 
iiour's  walk  from  the  vineyard  where  tlie  iiavement  is 
shown,  does  seem  to  be  the  site  of  the  fane  uf  Vacuna, 
and  an  inscription  found  there  telle  that  this  temple  of 
the  Sabine  victorj'  w^as  repaired  by  Vespasian.'  VVitii 
these  helps,  and.  a  t)osition  corresponding  t\\actlv  to 
every  thing  which  the  poet  has  told  us  of  his  retreat, 
we  may  feel  tolerably  secure  of  our  site. 

The  hill  which  should  be  Lucretilis  is  called  Cam- 
panile, and  by  following  up  the  rivulet  to  the  pretended 
Bandusia,  you  come  to  the  roots  of  the  higher  mouiitain 
Gennaro.  Singularly  enough,  the  only  spot  of  nlou<:hed 
land  in  the  whole  vtdley  is  on  the  knoH  where  this 
Bandusia  rises, 

"  .....  Tn  frigus  amabile 
Pessis  vonipre  taiiris 
Pra'bes,  et  p.^cori  vago." 

The  peasants  show  another  spring  near  the  mosaic  pave- 
ment, which  they  call  "Oradina,"  ami  which  flows  down 
the  liills  into  a  tank,  or  mil!-ilam,  and  tlience  trick.03 
over  into  the  Digentia.      But  v;e  must  not  hope 

"  To  trace  tlie  Muses  upwards  to  liieir  sprir.g," 
by  exploring  the  windings   of  the   romantic   valley  in 
search  of  the  Bandusian  fountain.   It  s(!enis  strai  ge  tliT.t 

1  IMP.  C-'FSAIl  VFSPAPI.A .\VS 
P()\TIFE.\  M  WIMV^S.  TRIP,. 

poTKST.  ci',.\soR.  ^:i)r;M 

VICTOHf.4:.  VKTXf^TA'lE  II.L.tP^^AM 
SVA.  IMPENSA.  Ri:.STITVlT 


2ol 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


any  yu'j  j'.iould  have  thought  Randusia  a  fountain  of  the 
Diifeiitia — I]orac<3  has  not  let  drop  a  word  of  it;  and 
lh:s  iinmorlal  spring  lias,  in  foot,  been  discovered  in  pos- 
ses-?.ion  of  the  holders  of  many  good  things  in  Italy,  the 
monks.  It  was  attached  to  the  church  of  St.  Gervais 
and  Protais,  near  Venusia,  where  it  was  most  likely  to 
be  found.'  We  shall  not  be  so  lucky  as  a  late  traveller 
in  finding  the  occasional  pine  still  pendant  on  the  poetic 
V'lla.  There  is  not  a  pine  in  the  whole  valley,  but  there 
are  two  cvpresses,  which  he  evidently  took,  or  mistook, 
for  fliC  tree  in  the  ode.  ^  Tiie  truth  is,  that  the  pine  is 
no'.v.  as  It  was  in  the  days  of  Virgil,  a  garden  tree,  and 
it  was  not  at  all  likely  to  be  found  ui  the  craggy  accliv- 
ities of  tbe  vaiiey  of  Rustica.  Horace  probably  had  one 
of  them  in  I  lie  orchard  close  above  his  farm,  immediately 
overshadowiiig  his  villa,  not  on  the  rocky  heights  at  some 
distance  fro!ii  his  nbode.  The  tourist  may  have  easily 
supposed  himself  to  have  seen  this  pine  figured  in  the 
above  cvpresses,  for  the  orange  and  lemon-trees  which 
throw  such  a  bloom  over  his  description  of  the  royal 
gardens  at  Naples,  unless  they  have  been  since  displaced, 
were  assuri^dly  only  acacias  and  other  common  garden 
shrubs.  •■'  The  extreme  disappointment  experienced  by 
ciioosing  th(;  Classical  Tourist  as  a  guide  in  Italy,  must 
be  allowed  to  find  vent  in  a  few  observations,  which,  it 
IS  asserted  without  fear  of  contradiction,  will  be  con- 
firmed bv  every  one  who  has  selectt.'d  the  same  con- 
ductor throiig!i  tlu;  same  country.  This  author  is,  in  fact, 
oivd  of  the  most  inaccurate,  unsatisfactory  writers  that 
have  ill  our  tir\ies  ariained  a  temporary  reoutafion,  and  is 
very  seldom  to  be  trusted  even  when  he  speaks  of  ob- 
jects which  he  must  be  presumed  to  have  seen.  His 
erro^-s,  from  the  simple  exaggeration  to  the  downright 
r.i.bstatemcnt,  are  so  frequent  as  to  induce  a  suspicion 
tliut  he  had  either  never  visited  the  spots  described,  or 
had  trusted  to  the  fidelity  of  former  writers.  Indeed  the 
C'as-'.'ri!  Tour  has  every  characteristic  of  a  mere  com- 
pilation of  former  notices,  strung  together  upon  a  very 
slender  lliread  of  personal  observation,  and  swelled  out 
by  those  decorations  which  are  so  easily  supplied  by  a 
sysrematic  ado;;tion  of  all  the  commonplaces  of  praise, 
np'.iliid  to  everything,  and  therefore  signifying  nothing. 

The  stvjt!  which  one  person  thinks  cloggy  and  cum- 
tn'r;i'-,  and  unsuitable,  may  be  to  the  taste  of  others, 
and  sucii  may  expcfience  some  salutary  excitement  in 
pliiughing  throu;:h  the  jjcriods  of  the  Classical  Tour, 
ft  must  be  said,  however,  that  polish  and  v.'eight  are 
I't  pt  to  hf^get  an  expectation  of  value.  It  is  amongst  the 
I'lins  of  the  damned  to  toil  up  a  climax  with  a  huge 
round  f-f.ojie. 

"^riic  tourist  had  the  choice  of  his  words,  but  thero 
wri«  no  such  kitltiide  allowed  to  that  of  his  sentiments. 
The  lov>;  of  virtue  and  of  liberty,  which  must  have  dis- 
ti'i.;uis!icd  the  chara-^er,  certainly  adorns  the  pages  of 
Mr.  F.dstace,  and  tlu;  gentlemanly  spirit,  so  recom- 
iii'-n  lafoiy  either  in  an  autlior  or  his  i)roductions,  is  very 
coi'spicuous  throughout  the  Classical  Tour.  But  ther.e 
generous  (pialilies  are  the  foliage  of  such  a  performance, 
nud  ni;i.y  be  spreail  about  it  so  prominently  and  pro- 
(u'-ely,  as  to  embarrass  those  who  wish  to  see  and  find 
Ih;-  fruit  at  hand.  The  unction  of  the  divine,  and  the 
HxiKjrtations  of  the  moralist,  may  have  made  this  work 
«omei'iing  more  and  better  than  a  book  of  travels,  but 
tliey  have  not  made  it  a  book  of  travels ;  and  this  ob- 
servation apiiiies  more  especially  to  that  enticing  method 


I  :^  e  ir;t(>:icMl  I 'lustrations  of  the  Fourth  Ciuito,  p.  4',i. 

•?  f^'i'  ('la^^l(•ill  'I'oiir,  I'tc.  (^hap.  vii.  p.  '2")().  vnl.  ii. 

:i  "  i'lnUT  our  windows,  and  honifrmc  on  tiio  Imach,  is  the 
rnai  i^an'-Mi  liii<l  oiii  ni  parK'ircs,  and  walkw  KJi'idi'd  hy  rowB 
of  <'niii(;f''..Meft  "  Clii!<.sica'  I'ou  ;  etc.,  cliap.  xi.  vol.  ii.  ocl 
Ci 


of  instruction  conveyed  by  the  perpetual  introdi/  inih 
of  the  same  Gallic  J^elot  to  reel  and  bluster  befon  t'lc 
rising  generation,  and  terrify  it  into  decency  bj  the 
dis|)lay  of  all  the  excesses  of  the  revolution.  Ai.  -xni 
mosity  against  atheists  and  regicides  in  general  and 
Frefichiiieii  soecilicallv.  mav  l)e  boiK)ural;le.  and  miy 
be  useful,  as  a  record  ;  but  that  antidote  jhou'd  «  iti;ot 
be  adiuiuist.<ired  in  any  work  rather  than  a  tour,  jr.  at 
least,  shoultl  be  served  up  afiarl,  and  not  so  mixe-  with 
the  whole  mass  of  mformalion  and  r(;flection,  as  t-i  give 
a  bitterness  to  every  page :  for  who  vvould  choose  to 
have  the  antipathies  of  any  man,  however  just,  for  his 
travelling  companions?  A  tourist,  unless  he  aspires  to 
the  credit  of  [irophecy,  is  not  answerable  for  llie  clianges 
winch  may  take  place  in  the  country  which  he  describes: 
but  his  reader  may  very  fairly  esteem  all  his  politica' 
portraits  and  drsductions  as  so  much  waste  paper,  thfi 
moment  they  cease  to  assist,  and  more  particularly  if 
they  obstruct,  his  actual  survey. 

Neither  encoiuiuni  nor  accusation  of  any  government, 
or  governors,  is  meant  to  be  here  otierecl ;  but  it  is 
1  staled  as  an  incontrovertible  fact,  that  the  change  ope- 
j  rated,  either  by  the  address  of  the  late  iiuperiai  system, 
I  or  by  the  disappointment  of  every  expectation  by  those 
I  who  have  succeeded  to  the  Itali.ui  thrones,  has  been  so 
i  considerable,  and  is  so  apparent,  as  not  on'y  to  i)ul  Mr. 
Eustace's  Antigailican  philippics  eniirelv  out  of  date, 
but  even  to  throw  some  susjucion  upon  the  competency 
and  candour  of  the  author  hnnstlf.  A  remarkable  ex- 
ample may  be  found  in  the  instance  of  !ioloi.uia,  over 
whose  papal  altachmeuts,  and  cnnseipK-nt  desolation, 
the  tourist  pours  forth  such  .-rraiiis  of  condolence  and 
revenge,  made  iouiier  by  the  l)orr<nved  trumpet  of  Mi', 
Hurke.  N<>w,  Hiiliii'iia  is  at  tins  momt.'nl,  and  ias 
been  for  some  y-.i'-s,  not<jrious  amongst  the  states  of 
Italy  tor  its  attachment  to  revolutionary  |)rincij)les,  am! 
was  almost  the  onlv  c.ity  which  made  any  demonstra- 
tions in  favour  of  the  unforiuiiate  Murat.  This  change 
mav,  however,  have  been  made  since  INIr.  Eustac" 
visited  this  country  ;  but  the  travelU'r  whom  he  has 
thrilled  with  horror  at  the  projected  stripping  of  the 
copper  from  the  ciqiola  of  St.  Peter's,  must  be  mucii 
relieved  to  find  that  sacnlege  out  of  the  power  of  the 
French,  or  any  other  pluiulerers,  the  cupola  being  cov- 
ered with  ieail.  ' 

If  the  cons()iring  voice  of  otherwise  rival  critics  had 

not  given  considerable  ciirrencv  to  the  Classical  Tour, 

U   vvould  have   been   unnecessary  to  warn  the   reader, 

I   that,  however  it  may  ailorn  his  library,  it  will  be  of  little 

I    or  no  service  to  him  in  his  carriage  ;    and  if  the  judgment 

i    of  those  critics  had  lutnerto  been  suspended,  no  attemi)t 

!    vvould  have  been  made  lo  anticipate  their  decision.    As 

I    it  is,  lliose  who  stand  in   the  relation  of  posterity  to 

1    Mr.  Eustace,  may  be  permitted  to  appeal  from  cotem- 

porary  praises,  and  are  perhaps  more  likely  to  be  just 

:    in  proportion  as  the  causes  of  love  and  hatred  are  the 

farther  removed.     This  appeal  had,  in  some  measure, 

been  made  before  the  above  remarks  were  written  ;   for 

i    one  of  the  most  respectable  of  the  Florentine  pubhshe*^ 

who  had  been   [)ersuaded  by  ttie  repeated   uupiiries  of 

thf>se  on  th(;ir  journey  southwards,  to  reprint  a  cheap 

:    edition  of  the  Classical  Tour,  was,  by  the  concurring 


1  "  What,  tnen,  will  he  the  astonishmrnt,  or  rath(;r  tho  hor- 
ror of  my  reader,  vvlun  1  iiiforin  hmi the,  French 

rominiiK^f  tuni("<i  its  attention  U)  Saint  Peter's,  and  employed 
a  roiiipany  of  .lows  to  estim;iio  and  pur(diu.*e  the  gold.silve', 
and  hrnrize.  that  adorn  tht?  ihside  of  the  editice,  as  vvoli  as 
ihe  copper  tha'  covers  th*-  vault*  and  dome  on  the  outside.' 
Chap.  IV.  |.  i:!ll  vol.  II.  'I'iio  siory  ■iboui  tlie  Jcvvfl  in  poid 
tivitiv  deiiifd  11  Koine. 


THE    GIAOUR. 


255 


adMO>  of  rctu ruins  travellers,  induced  to  aliandou  his 
desitrn,  although  h.-  had  alroiidy  arranged  his  typos  and 
paper,  and  had  struck.  olT  one  or  two  of  the  first  she.-ts. 

The  writer  of  those  notes  would  wish  to  part  (like 
Mr.  Uibbon)  on  good  terms  with  the  Pope  and  the  Car- 
dinals, but  he  does  not  think  it  necessary  to  extend  the 
same  di»er»^t  silence  to  their  humble  partisans. 


m)t  (Staour; 


A  FRAGMENT  OF  A  TURKISH  TALE. 


One  fatal  remembrance — one  sorrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes — 
To  which  life  nothing  darker  nor  brighter  can  bring, 
For  which  joy  hath  no  balm,  and  affliction  no  sting. 

MOURE. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROGERS,  ESQ. 

A8     A     SLIGHT     BUT     MOST     SIXCERR     TOKEN     OP 

ADMIRATION     OF     HIS     GENIUS,     RESPECT     FOR 

HIS     CHARACTER,     AND     GRATITUDE 

FOR     HIS     FRIENDSHIP. 

THIS  PKODUCTION  IS  INSCRIBED, 
BT    HIS    OBLIGED    AND    AFFECTIONATE    SERVANT, 

BYRON. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  Tale,  which  these  di-jointed  fragments  present,  ie 
founded  upon  circumstances  now  less  common  in  the 
East  than  formerly ;  either  because  the  ladies  are 
more  circumspect  than  in  the  "olden  time;"  or  be- 
yiuso  the  Christians  have  better  fortune,  or  less  en- 
terprise. The  story,  when  entire,  contained  the 
alventures  of  a  female  slave,  who  was  thrown,  in  the 
Mussulman  manner,  into  the  sea  for  infidelity,  and 
uvengod  by  a  ycung  Venitian.  her  lover,  at  the  time 
the  Seven  Islands  were  posses.sed  by  the  Republic  of 
Venice,  and  soon  after  the  Arnaouts  were  beaten  hack 
from  the  Morea,  which  they  had  ravaged  for  some 
time  subsequent  to  the  Russian  invasion.    The  deser- 


tion of  ilio  Mainotes,  on  being  refused  the  plunder  o. 
Mi.-itra.  led  to  the  abandomnont  of  that  enterprise, 
and  to  the  desolation  ol  the  Moroa,  during  whioh  the 
cruelty  exercised  on  all  sides  was  unparaliwled  «Ton 
in  the  annals  of  the  faithful. 


No  breath  of  air  to  break  the  wave 
That  rolls  below  the  Athenian's  grave, 
That  tomb>  which,  gleaming  o"er  the  clia; 
First  greets  tlu;  homeward-veering  skiff, 
High  o'er  the  land  he  saved  in  vain: 
When  shall  such  hero  live  again? 


Fair  cliine !  where  every  season  smiles 
Benignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles, 
■Which,  seen  from  far  Colonna's  height, 
Make  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight, 
And  lend  to  loneliness  delight. 
There,  mildly  dimpling,  Ocean's  cheek 
Refloots  the  tints  of  many  a  peak 
Cau;:,ht  by  the  laughing  tides  that  lave 
These  Edens  of  the  eastern  wave  ; 
And  if.  at  times,  a  transient  breeze 
Break  the  blue  crystal  of  the  seas, 
Or  sweep  one  blossom  from  the  trees, 
How  welcome  is  each  gentle  air 
That  wakes  and  wafts  the  odours  thero 
For  there — the  rose  o'er  crag  or  vale, 
Sultana  of  the  nightingale.* 
The  maid  for  whom  his  melody, 
Ilis  thousand  songs  are  heard  on  high, 
Blooms  blushing  to  her  lover's  tale: 
Ilis  queen,  the  garden  quern,  his  rose, 
Unbent  by  winds.  unoliiU'd  by  snows, 
Far  from  the  winters  of  the  west, 
By  every  breeze  and  season  "C'iest, 
Returns  the  sweets  by  Nature  given, 
In  softest  incense  back  to  heaven; 
And  grateful  yields  that  smiling  sky 
Her  fairest  hue  and  fragrant  sigh. 
And  many  a  summer  flower  is  there, 
Aiut  many  a  shade  that  love  might  sharo. 
And  many  a  grotto,  meant  for  rest, 
Tliiit  holds  the  pirate  for  a  guest; 
V.'hose  bark  in  sheltering  cove  below 
Lurks  for  the  passing  peaceful  prow, 
Till  tlie  gay  mariner's  guitar' 
Is  heard,  and  seen  the  evening  star; 
Then  stealing  with  the  muffled  oar, 
Far  shaded  by  the  rocky  shore. 
Rush  ihe  night-prowlers  on  the  prey. 
And  turn  to  groans  his  roundelay. 
Strang" — that  where  Nature  loved  to  trace 
As  if  for  gods,  a  dwelling-place. 
And  every  charm  and  gi-ace  hath  mix*d 
Within  the  paradise  she  fix'd, 
There  man,  enamour'd  of  distress, 
Should  mar  it  into  wilderness, 
And  trample,  brute-like,  o'er  each  flower 
That  tasks  not  one  laborious  hour 


ioQ 


BYIlO^s'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


Nor  claims  the  culture  of  his  hand 

To  bloom  along  the  fairy  land, 

Bui  springs  as  to  preclude  his  care, 

Anil  sweetly  woos  him — but  to  spare ! 

Strange — that  where  all  is  peace  beside 

There  passion  riots  in  her  pride, 

And  lust  and  rapine  wildly  reign 

To  darken  o'er  the  fair  domain. 

It  is  as  ihough  the  fiends  prevail'd 

A2ainst  the  seraph.s  they  assail'd. 

And,  fixM  on  heavenly  thrones,  should  dwell 

The  freed  inheritors  of' hell; 

So  soft  the  scene,  so  form'd  for  joy, 

So  curst  the  tyrants  that  destroy  ! 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead, 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled. 
The  first  dark  dav  of  nothingness, 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 
(Before  decay's  effacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers), 
And  mark'd  the  mild  angelic  air, 
The  rapture  of  repose  that's  there. 
The  fix'd,  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  lanauor  of  the  placia  cheek, 
4nd — luit  for  that  sad  shrouded  aye, 
Tliat  iires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now, 
And  but  for  that  chiil,  changeless  brow, 
Where  cold  obstruction's  apathy* 
Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  hear*, 
As  if  'o  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  he  drcuids,  yet  dwells  upon  ; 
Yes,  but  for  these,  and  these  alone. 
Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour, 
fie  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  {)Ower ; 
So  fur,  so  calm,  so  softly  seal'd. 
The  first,  last  look  by  death  reveal'd !  ^ 
Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore; 
'T  is  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more ! 
So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair. 
We  start,  for  sovd   is  wanting  there. 
Hers  is  th.e  loveliness  in  death, 
That  parts  not  quile  with  parting  breath ; 
But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom. 
That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 
Expression's  last  receding  ray, 
A  jiilded  halo  hoverin«;  round  decay. 
The  farewell  beam  of  feeling  past  away ! 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  iileams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherish'd  earth' 
Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave! 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 

Was  freedom's  home  or  glory's  grave  ! 

Shrine  of  the  miirhty  !   can  it  be, 

That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee? 

A|)proach,  thou  craven  crouching  slave : 
Sav,.  is  not  this  Thermopylae  ? 

These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave. 
Oh  servile  otf-^[)ring  of  the  free — 

Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  tliis? 

The  gulf,  the  rock  of  Salamis ! 

Thfise  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown, 

Arist,  and  make  again  your  own  ; 

Snat.  h  from  (he  ashes  of  your  sires 

The  embers  of  iheir  former  fires  ; 

And  he  who  m  the  strife  expires 

Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear 

That  tyranny  shall  <piake  to  hear, 

And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame 

Thev  too  will  rather  die  than  shame  : 


For  freedom's  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeatlfd  by  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
riiongh  battied  oft,  is  ever  won. 
Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page, 
Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age  • 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid, 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid. 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept   the  cjlunin  from  thcii  tomb, 
A  mi<z!itier  monument  coniinand, 
T!ie  mountains  of  their  native  land! 
There  points  thy  muse  to  stranger's  ey.-» 
The  sraves    f  those  that  cannot  die ! 
'T  were  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace, 
Each  ste[)  from  splendour  to  disgrace  ; 
Enrugh — no  foreign  toe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell; 
Yes  !   self-abasement  paved,  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot-sway. 

What  can  he  tell  who  treads  thy  shore  ? 

No  legend  of  thine  olden  time. 
No  theme  on  which  the  muse  mi_dit  soar, 
Hi£h  as  fnine  own  in  days  of  yore. 

When  man  was  worthy  of  thy  clime. 
The  hearts  within  thy  valleys  bred, 
Th(>  fierv  souls  that  might  have  led 

Thy  son5^  to  deeds  sublime. 
Now  crawl  from  cradle  to  the  srave. 
Slaves — nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave, 

And  callous,  save  to  crime  ; 
Stain'd  with  each  evil  tliat  pollutes 
INIankind,  where  least  above  the  brutes  ; 
Without  even  savage  virtue  blest, 
Witliout  one  free  or  valiant  breast. 
SuU  lo  tlu;  neighbouring  ports  they  waft 
Proverbial  wiius,  and  ancient  craft ; 
In  this  the  subtle  Greek  is  f)and, 
For  this,  and  this  alone,  renown'd. 
In  vain  might  liberty  invoke 
The  spirit  to  its  bondage  broke. 
Or  raise  the  neck  that  courts  the  yoke: 
No  more  her  sorrows  I  bewail. 
Yet  this  u'lli  be  a  mournfsil  taie, 
A.nd  th.-y  who  listen  may  l>eheve. 
Who  heard  it  first  had  cause  to  grieve. 


Far,  dark,  along  the  blue-sea  glanc.ng. 
The  shadows  of  the  rocks  advancing, 
Start  on  the  fisher's  (;ye  like  boat 
Of  island- pirate  or   Mainote  ; 
And,  fearful  lor  his  li-ht  cai(iue, 
He  shuns  the  near,  but  doubtful  creek. 
Though  worn  and  weary  with  his  toil. 
And  cumb(M-'d  with  nis  scaly  spoil. 
Slowly,  yet  strongly,  plies  the  oar. 
Till  Port  Leone's  safer  shore 
Receives  him  by  the  lovely  lighl 
That  bes'   beconi.js  an  eastern  night. 
+  ♦***♦♦ 

Who  thundering  comes  on  !)lackest  steed. 
With  slaeken'd  bit,  and  hoof  of  speed? 
Beneath  the  clattering  iron's  sound, 
The  cavern'd  eclux.'s  wake  around 
In  lash  for  lash,  and  bouiul  for  bound  ; 
The  foam  that   streaks  the  courser's  side 
Seems  gather'd  fiom  tbe  ocean-tide; 
Though  weary  waves  are  sunk  to  rest, 
There 's  noiu;  wilhiii  his  rider's  breast ; 


THE    GIAOUR. 


257 


^tui  though  tomorrow's  tempest  lower, 

'Tis  calmer  than  thy  heart,  young  Giaour!'' 

I  know  thee  not,  I  loathe  thy  race, 

But  in  thy  Hneaments  I  trace 

What  time  sluill  strengthen,  not  efface: 

Thous;li  young  and  pale,  that  sallow  front 

^s  s'cathed  by  herv  passi.)n's  brunt ; 

Fhoujh  bent  on  earth  thine  evil  eye, 

As  meteor-like  ihou  glides!  hv, 

R.glit  well  I  view  and  deem  thee  one 

Whom  Olhinan's  sons  should  slay  or  shun. 

On — on  he  hastened,  and  he  drew 
INIv  gaze  of  wonder  as  he  flew : 
Though  like  a  demon  of  the  night 
He  pass'd  and  vanish'd  from  my  sight, 
His  aspect  and  his  air  impressed 
A  'roubled  meinorj'  on  mv  breast, 
Am'  long  upon  my  startled  ear 
Runv  his  dark  courser's  hoofs  of  fear. 
He  sp  <rs  his  steed  ;   he  nears  the  steep, 
That,  j.Uling,  shadous  o'er  the  deep  ; 
He  winds  arounil ;   he  harries  by  ; 
The  rock  relieves  him  from  mine  eve ; 
For  well  I  ween  unwelcome  .he 
Whose  glance  is  tix'd  on  those  that  flee ; 
And  not  a  star  but  shines  too  bright 
On  him  who  takes  such  timeless  flight. 
He  wound  aloua  ;   but,  ere  he  pass'd. 
One  oiance  he  snati-h'd,  as  if  his  last, 
A  moment  check'd  his  wheeling  steed, 
A  moment  breathed  him  from  his  speed, 
A  moment  on  his  stirrup  stood — 
Why  ooks  he  o'er  the  olive-wood? 
Th<  crrscent  glimmers  on  the  hill, 
1  h',  TJosque's  high  lamps  are  quivering  still: 
Inough  too  remote  for  sound  to  wake 
in  echoes  of  the  far  tophaike,  * 
The  flashes  of  each  joyous  peal 
Are  seen  to  prove  the  Moslem's  zeal. 
To-night,  set  Rhamazani's  sun  ; 
To-night  the   Bairam  feast 's  begun  j 
To-night — but  who  and  what  art  thou, 
Of  foreign  garb  and  fearful  brow  ? 
And  what  are  these  to  thine  or  thee, 
Thar  tli'M!  >li(.n;hJ-t  either  pause  or  flee'' 
He  stO';)i! — .^^viie  (iread  was  on  his  face, 
Soon  hatred  settled  in  its  [)lace: 
It  rose  not  wi'ili  the  reddening  flush 
Of  transient  angers  darkening  blush, 
But  pale  as  mirble  o'er  the  tomb, 
Whose  ghastly  whiteness  aids  its  gloom. 
His  brow  was  bent,  his  eye  was  glazed, 
He  raised  his  arm,  and  f  erceU'  raised, 
And  sternly  shook  his  hand  on  high. 
As  doubting  to  return  or  fly  : 
Impatient  of  Ins  flight  delay'd, 
Here  loud  his  raven  charger  neigh'd — 
Pown  glaneed  that  hand,  and  grasp'd  his  blade; 
Thai  sound  had  hurst  his  waking  dream. 
As  slumber  starts  at  owlrt's  scream. 
The  spur  hath  lanced  his  cou.ser's  sides; 
Away,  away,  for  lite  he  rides ; 
Swift  US  t'  e  hurl'd  on  liigh  I'erreed,  ^ 
S;  Ting:-  :     U.e  Uy.i^h  l;;s  >iartled  ^tc.d  ; 
The  rock  is  doubled,  and  the  shore 
Shakes  with  the  clattering  tramp  no  more; 
The  crag  is  won,  no  more  is  seen 
His  Christian  cres   md  haughty  mien. 
'Twiis  but  an  uist;irii   he  restrain'd 
That  fiery  b:irb  so  stern'v  rem'd: 

j7 


I  'T  was  but  a  moment  that  he  stored. 

Then  sped  as  if  by  deatn  pursued  ; 
But  in  that  instant  o'er  his  soul 
Winters  of  memory  seem'd  to  roIL 
And  gather  in  that  drop  ot  time 
A  iife  of  pain,  an  age  of  crime. 
O'er  him  who  loves,  or  hates,  or  fecrs. 
Such  moment  pours  the  grief  of  years: 
What  felt  he  then,  at  once  opprest 
By  all  that  most  distracts  the  breast? 
That  pause,  which  ponder'd  o'er  his  fa'e. 
Oh,  who  its  dreary  length  shall  date  ! 
Though  in  time's  reconi  nearly  nought. 
It  was  eternity  to  thought ! 
For  infinite  as  boundless  space 
The  thought  that  conscience  must  embrace. 
Which  in  itself  can  comjjrehend 
\\  oe  without  name,  or  hope,  or  end. 

The  hour  is  past,  the  G54aour  is  gone ; 
And  did  he  fl\'  or  fall  alone  ? 
Woe  to  that  hour  he  came  or  went ! 
The  curse  fur  Hassan's  sin  was  sent, 
To  turn  a  ptdace  to  a  tomb : 
He  came,  he  went,  like  the  simoom, '° 
That  harbinger  of  fate  and  gloom. 
Beneath  whose  widely-wasting  breath 
The  very  cypress  droops  to  death — 
Dark  tree,  still  sad  when  others'  grief  is  fled 
The  only  constant  mourner  o'er  the  dead ! 

The  steed  is  vanish'd  from  the  stall ; 
No  serf  is  seen  in  Hassan's  hall ; 
The  lonely  spider's  thin  gray  pall 
Waves  slowly  widening  o'er  the  wall; 
The  bat  huiils  m  liis  haram  bower; 

And  in  the  fortress  of  his  power 

The  owl  usurjjs  the  beacon-tower; 

The  wild-dog  howls  o'er  the  fountain's  brim. 

With  balfled  thirst,  and  fatnine  grim; 

For  the  stream  has  shrunk  from  its  marble  bod. 

Where  the  weeds  and  the  desolate  dust  are  spread, 

'Twas  s\veet  of  yore  to  see  it  play 

And  chase  the  sultriness  of  day. 

As,  springing  high,  the  silver  dew 

In  whirls  fintaslvTilly  flew, 

And  tiling  luxurious  conhiess  round 

Tlie  air,  an.l  verdure  o'er  the  gmund. 

'Twas  sweet,  when  cloudles-;  stars  were  bright, 

To  view  the  wave  of  \\aterv  light, 

And  hear  its  melod-v  by  niglit. 

And  oft  had  Hassan's  chi'.dhnod  [ilay'd 

Around  the  verge  of  that  cascade  ; 

And  ott  upon  !iis  mother's  breast 

That  sound  ha  1  ha;  iuoni/e.'.  his  rest; 

And  o't  had  Hassan's  youth  along 

Irs  bank  been  soothed  by  beav.tv's  song; 

And  softer  seem'd  each  melting  tone 

Ofmusdc  n  mgleii  with  its  own. 

But  ne'er  shall  Hassan's  age  repose 

Along  the  brink  at  twilight's  rjose : 

The  -treaiu  tha  liii'd  that  font  is  fled— 

The  biood  that  warin'd  his  heart  is  shed 

Aivi  h-^re  no  more  shall  human  voice 

!'■         .,■  !  !>  r    .:  ■,  r!-urt;t,  rcjn;,-^' ; 

The  last  sad  note  that  swell'd  the  ga.c 

Was  woman's  wildest  funeral  wail 

T/iil  (luenchi'd  in  silence,  all  is  still. 

Hut  tlie  lattice  that  flaps  when  the  wind  is  shrill 

Tliough  ravi!s  me  gust,  and  flo'»ds  the  rain, 

No  hand  shall  close  its  clasp  again. 


258 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


On  desert  sands 't  were  joy  to  scan 

The  rudest  steps  of  fellow  man — 

So  here  the  very  voice  of  griof 

Might  wake  an  echo  like  rehcf; 

At  least  'l  would  say,  "  all  are  not  gone  ; 

''•There  hngers  life,  though  but  in  one — '■ 

For  many  a  gilded  chamber's  there, 

\YhicL  solitude  might  well  forbear* 

Within  that  dome  as  yet  decay 

Hath  slowly  work'd  her  cankering  way — 

But  gloom  is  gathered  t)'er  the  gate, 

Nor  there  the  fakir's  self  will  wait; 

Nor  there  will  wandering  dervise  stay, 

For  bounty  cheers  not  his  delay ; 

Nor  there  will  weary  stranger  halt 

To  bless  the  sacred  "  bread  and  salt." 

Alike  must  wealth  and  poverty 

Pass  heedless  and  unheeded  by, 

For  courtesy  and  [)ity  died 

With  Hiuisan  on  the  mountain  side 

His  roof,  th.at  refuge  unto  men, 

Is  desolation's  hungry  den. 
The  guest  Hies  the  hall,  and  the  vassals  from  labour, 
Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infidel's  sabre!  '" 
**  +  +  +  * 

I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  feet, 
But  not  a  voice  mine  ear  to  greet ; 
More  near — each  turban  I  can  scan. 
And  silver-sheathed  a*''.iihan;  '•' 
The  toremost  of  the  band  is  seen, 
An  emir  by  his  garb  of  green  :  '* 
"  Ho!  who  arl  thou? — this  low  salam'* 
Replies  of  Moslem  faith  I  am. 
The  burthen  ye  so  gently  bear, 
Seems  one  that  claims  your  utmost  care, 
And,  doubtless,  holds  some  [)recious  freight, 
Mv  humble  bark  would  gladly  wait." 

"Thou  speakest  sooth,  thy  skiff  unmooi. 
And  waft  us  from  the  silent  shore ; 
Nay,  leave  the  sail  still  furl'd,  and  ply 
The  nearest  oar  that 's  scatter'd  by ; 
And  midway  to  diose  rocks  where  sleep 
The  channell'd  waters  dark  and  deep. 
Rest  from  your  task — so — bravely  done. 
Our  course  has  bren  right  swiftly  run; 
Yi;t  't  is  tlio  longest  voyage,  I  trow, 

Th.u  onv.  of " 

+  ***♦♦ 

Sullen  it  plunged,  and  slowly  sank, 
The  calm  wave  ripj)led  to  the  bank; 
[  watch'd  it  as  it  sank,  mctliought 
Some  motion  from  the  current  caught 
Kestirr'd  it  more, — 't  was  but  the  beam 
That  checjuer'd  o'er  the  Uving  stream : 
I  gazed,  till  vanishing  from  view. 
Like  hissening  pebble  it  withdrew ; 
Still  less  and  less,  a  sjicck  of  white 
Tliat  yemui'd  the  tide,  then  mock'd  the  sight; 
And  aU  its  hidden  secrets  sleep. 
Known  l)ul  to  <:('nii  of  the  deep. 
Which,  trembling  in  their  coral  caves. 
They  dare  not  whisper  to  th<i  waves. 
♦  *  *  ♦  + 

As  rising- on  its  purple  wing 
The  mse(;t-<]ueen  "^  of  eastern  spring, 
O'er  emerald  meadows  of  Kashmeer 
Invites  the  youii''  pursuiT  iHsar, 
And  lead-;  him  on  from  flower  to  ft  wor 
A  w.  iirv  c!i:is(!  and  was\(;,|  hour 


Then  leaves  him,  as  it  soars  on  high, 

With  panting  heart  and  tearful  eye : 

So  beauty  lures  the  full-grown  child, 

W^ith  hue  as  briitht,  and  wing  as  wild; 

A  chase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears. 

Begun  in  folly,  closed  in  tears. 

If  won,  to  efjual  ills  belray'd, 

Woe  wails  the  insect  and  the  maid; 

A  life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace, 

From  infant's  play,  and  man's  caprice'. 

The  lovelv  toy  so  fiercely  sought 

Hath  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught. 

For  every  touch  that  wooed  its  stay 

Hath  brusli'd  its  brightest  hues  away,        ' 

Till,  charm,  and  hue,  and  beauty  gone, 

'T  is  left  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 

With  wounded  wing,  or  bleeding  breast, 

Ah  !   wliere  shall  either  victim  rest? 

Can  this  with  faded  pinion  soar 

From  rose  to  tulip  as  before  ? 

Or  beautv,  blighted  in  an  hour. 

Find  joy  within  her  broken  bower? 

No:   gayer  insects  fluttering  by 

Ne'er  droop  the  wing  o'er  those  that  d.'3 

And  lovelier  things  have  mercy  shown 

To  every  failing  but  their  own. 

And  evcrv  woe  a  tear  can  claim 

E.\ce[)"  an  erring  sister's  shame. 

*    ♦       * 
The  mind,  that  broods  o'er  guilty  woef 

Is  like  the  scorpion  girt  by  fire. 
In  circle  narrowing  as  it  glows. 
The  flames  around  their  caj)tive  close, 
Till,  in!y  seiirch'd  by  thousand  throes, 
^     And  iiiaddenisig  in  hrr  we. 
One  sad  and  sole  relief  she  knows, 
The  sting  slie  nop.rish'd  for  her  foes. 
Whose  venoi.n  never  yet  was  vain. 
Gives  but  one  pang,  and  cures  all  pain, 
Ano    '•"■ts  into  her  desperate  brain : 
So  do  tiiv.  dru-k  in  soul  expire, 
Or  live  like  scor})ion  girt  by  tire  ;  " 
So  writhes  the  mind  remorse  hath  riven, 
Unfit  lor  earth,  undoom'd  for  heaven, 
Darkness  above,  despair  beneath. 
Around  it  flame,  within  it  death ! 


Black  Hassan  from  the  ha  ram  flies, 
Nor  ijends  on  woman's  form  his  eyes ; 
The  unwonted  chase  each  hour  employs, 
Yet  shares  he  not  the  hunter's  joys. 
Not  thus  was  Hassan  wont  to  fly 
When  Leila  dwelt  in  his  Serai. 
Dot  h  Leila  there  no  longer  dwell  ? 
That  tale  can  only  Hassan  tell: 
Strange  rumours  in  our  city  say 
Upon  that  eve  she  fled  away. 
When  Uhama/.an's  '®  last  sun  was  se 
Ami,  flashing  from  each  minaret. 
Millions  of  lamps  iiroclaim'd  the  feast 
Of  Bairau!  through  the  boundless  east. 
'T  w:is  'ben  she  went  as  to  the  bath, 
Wliich  Hassan  vainly  searcli'd  in  wrath 
For  she  was  liown  her  masl(;r"s  rage. 
In  likeness  of  a  Ge,)rgian  page. 
And  far  beyond  the  Moslem's  power 
Had  wrougM  him  with  the  fiidil.^ss  Giamr 
Soine'.vhat  ol  ih.s  had  Hassan  de.-mM ; 
But  slill  so  t(>h(i,  s  •  I'air  ^li*-  seem'd. 


THE    GIAOUR. 


269 


Too  wo'l  he  tnisteu  to  the  slave 
VVln>so  treacliery  deserved  a  grave: 
And  'Jii  tiial  eve  had  gone  to  inosque, 
And  tlu'Mce  to  feast  in  his  kiosk. 
Siui/  IS  the  tale  his  Nubians  tell, 
\Vh:  did  not  watch  their  charge  too  well, 
B'lt  others  say,  that  on  that  night. 
By  |)ale  Phingari's'^  trembling  light, 
The  G'aonr  upon  his  jet-black  steed 
Was  3  (Ml,  l)nt  seen  alone  to  speed 
W  ith  bloody  spur  along  the  shore, 
Nor  maid  nor  page  behind  him  bore. 


Her  eye's  dark  charm 't  were  vain  to  tell, 
But  gaze  on  that  of  the  gaze'le, 
It  will  assist  thy  fancy  well ; 
As  large,  as  languishingly  dark, 
But  soul  beam'd  forth  in  every  spark 
That  darted  from  beneath  the  lid, 
Bright  as  the  jewel  of  Giamschid.^" 
Yea,  soul,  and  should  our  prophet  say 
That  form  was  nought  but  breathing  clay, 
By  Alia  !   I  would  answer  nay  ; 
Though  on  Al-Sirat's^'  arch  I  stood, 
Which  totters  j'er  the  fiery  flood. 
With  paradise  \\ithin  my  view, 
And  all  his  houris  beckoning  through. 
Oh !  who  young  Leila's  glance  could  read, 
And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed  "^ 
Which  saith  that  woman  is  but  dust, 
A  soulless  toy  for  tyrant's  lust? 
On  her  nught  niuuis  gaze,  and  own 
That  through  her  eye  the  Immortal  shone  ; 
On  her  fair  cheek's  unfading  hue 
'I  he  young  pomegranate's'^^  blossoms  strew 
Their  bloom  in  blushes  ever  new ; 
Her  hair  in  hyacuithine-''  flow. 
When  left  to  roil  its  folds  below, 
As  'midst  her  handmaids  in  the  hall 
She  stood  su[)erior  to  them  all, 
Hath  swept  the  marble  where  her  feet 
Gleam'd  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet, 
Ere  from  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth 
It  fell,  and  caught  one  stain  of  earth. 
The  cygnet  nobly  walks  the  water ; 
So  moved  on  earth  Circassia's  daughter, 
The  loveliest  bird  of  Franguestan  !  ^^ 
As  rears  her  crest  the  rutlled  swan. 

And  spurns  the  wave  with  wings  of  pride. 
When  pass  the  steps  of  stranger  man 

Along  the  banks  tiiat  bound  her  tide  ; 
Thus  rose  fair  Leila's  whiter  neck  : — 
Thus  ariiiM  with  beautv  would  she  check 
Intrusion's  glance,  till  folly's  gaze 
Shrunk  from  the  charms  u  meant  to  praise. 
Thus  hii.'h  and  graceful  was  her  gait ; 
Her  heart  as  tender  to  her  mate  ; 
Hci  mate — stern  Hassan,  who  was  he? 
Alas!   that  name  was  not  for  thee  ! 


Stern  Hassan  hath  a  journey  ta'en, 
With  twenty  vassals  in  his  train. 
Each  arm'd,  as  best  becomes  a  man. 
With  arci'iehuss  and  atawhan  ; 
The  chief  before,  as  dcck'd  for  war. 
Bears  in  his  belt  the  scimitar 
Stai   'd  with  the  best  of  Arnaut  blood, 
When  in  the  pass  the  rebels  stood. 


And  few  return'd  to  tell  the  tale 
Of  what  befell  in  Parne's  vale. 
The  pistols  v  liich  his  girdle  bore 
Were  those  that  once  a  pacha  wore. 
Which  still,  though  geinm'd  and  lioss'd  with  g;old. 
Even  robbers  tremble  to  behold. 
'T  is  said  he  goes  to  woo  a  bnde 
ISIore  true  than  her  who  left  his  side  ; 
The  faithless  slave  that  broke  her  bower, 
And,  worse  than  faithless,  tor  a  Giaour  I 
****** 

The  sun's  last  rays  are  on  the  hill. 
And  sparkle  in  the  fountain  rill, 
W^hose  welcome  waters,  cool  and  clear, 
Draw  blessings  from  the  mountaineer : 
Here  may  the  loitering  merchant  Greek 
Find  that  repose  'twere  vain  to  seek 
In  cities  lodged  too  near  his  lord. 
And  trembling  for  his  secret  hoard — 
Here  may  he  rest  where  none  can  see. 
In  crowds  a  slave,  in  deserts  free ; 
And  W'ith  forbidden  wine  niav  stom 
The  bowl  a  Moslem  must  not  drain. 


The  foremost  Tartar's  in  the  ^ap. 
Conspicuous  by  his  yellow  ca[) ; 
The  rest  in  lengthening  line  the  while 
Wind  slowly  through  the  long  defile  : 
Above,  the  mountain  rears  a  peak, 
Where  vultures  whet  the  tliirstv  beak, 
And  theirs  may  be  a  feast  to-night. 
Shall  tempt  them  down  ere  morrow's  lijihtj 
Beneath,  a  river's  wintry  stream 
Has  shrunk  before  the  summer  beam, 
And  left  a  channel  bleak  and  bare. 
Save  shrubs  that  spring  to  perish  there ; 
Each  side  the  midway  path  there  lay 
Small  broken  crags  of  granite  gray, 
By  time,  or  mountain  lightning,  riven 
From  summits  clad  in  mists  of  heaven ; 
For  v.here  is  he  that  hath  beheld 
The  peak  of  Liakura  uriveird  ? 

♦  *****  + 

Thev  reach  the  grove  of  pine  at  last : 
"  Bisinillah  !  ^^  now  the  peril 's  past ; 
For  yonder  view  the  opening  plain, 
And  there  we  '11  prick  our  steeds  amain :'" 
The  Chiaus  spake,  and  as  he  said, 
A  bullet  whistled  o'er  his  head : 
The  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  ground  ! 

Scarce  had  they  time  to  check  the  rem, 
Swift  from  their  steeds  the  riders  bound ; 

But  three  shall  never  mount  again : 
Unseen  the  foes  that  gave  the  wound. 

The  dying  ask  revenge  in  vain. 
With  steel  iinsb.eathed,  and  carbine  bent, 
Some  o'er  iheir  coursers'  harness  leant, 

Half  shelter'd  by  the  steed  ; 
Some  fly  behind  the  nearest  rock, 
And  there  await  the  coming  shock, 

Nor  tamely  stand  to  bleed 
Bent  ath  the  shaft  of  foes  unseen, 
Wh(.  dare  not  (]uit  their  craggy  screen 
Stern  Hassan  only  from  his  horse 
Disdains  to  light,  and  keeps  nis  coarse. 
Till  liery  flashes  in  the  van 
Pro<;laim  too  sure  the  robber-clan 
Have  well  secured  the  only  way 
Could  now  avail  the  promised  prey ; 


2no 


BYRON'S  POETICAL  WORKS 


Then  curl'd  his  very  beard  2'  with  ire, 
And  glared  his  eye  with  fiercer  fire  : 

'  Though  far  and  near  the  bullets  hiss, 
I  've  scaped  a  bloodier  hour  than  this." 
And  now  the  foe  their  covert  quit, 
And  call  his  vassals  to  submit  ; 

But  Hasean's  frown  and  furious  word 
Are  dreaded  more  than  hostile  sword. 
Nor  of  his  little  band  a  man 
Uesign'd   carbine  or  ataghan, 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun !  '^' 
In  fuller  sight,  more  near  and  near. 
The  'ately  ambush'd  foes  appear, 
Ar  J,  issuing  from  the  grove,»."'dvance 
Some  who  on  battle-charger  prance. 
Who  leads  them  on  with  foreign  brand, 
Far  flashing  in  his  red  right  hand  ? 
"  'T  is  he  !   't  is  he  !   I  know  him  now ; 
I  know  him  by  his  pallid  brow  j 
I  know  him  by  the  evil  eye  ^^ 
That  aids  his  envious  treachery  ; 
I  know  him  by  his  jet-black  barb  : 
Though  now  array'd  in  Arnaut  garb, 
Apostate  from  his  own  vile  faith, 
It  shali  not  save  him  from  the  death : 
'T  is  he !   well  met  in  any  hour  ! 
Lost  Leila's  love,  accursed  Giaour  t" 

As  rolls  the  river  into  ocean. 
In  sable  torrent  wildly  streaming  ; 

As  the  sea-tide's  opposing  motion. 
In  azure  column  proudly  gleaming. 
Beats  back  the  current  many  a  rood. 
In  curling  foam  and  mingling  flood. 
While  eddying  whirl,  and  breaking  wave, 
Roused  by  the  blast  of  winter,  rave; 
Through  sparkling  spray,  in  thundering  clash. 
The  lightnings  of  the  waters  flash 
In  awful  whiteness  o'er  the  shore. 
That  shines  and  shakes  beneath  the  roar ; 
Thus — as  the  stream  and  ocean  greet, 
With  waves  that  madden  as  they  meet — 
Thus  join  the  bands,  whom  mutual  wrong. 
And  fate,  and  fury,  drive  along. 
The  bickering  sabres'  shivering  jar. 

And  [)ea!ing  wid'o  or  ringing  near 

Its  echoes  on  the  throbbing  ear, 
The  death-shot  liissing  from  afar, 
The  shock,  the  shout,  the  groan  of  war. 

Reverberate  along  that  vale, 

INlore  suited  to  the  shepherd's  tale: 
ThoMgh  few  the  numbers — theirs  the  strife. 
That  n(uther  spares  nor  speaks  for  life  ! 
Ah  !   fondly  youthful  hearts  can  press. 
To  seiv,    and  share  the  dear  caret,.-  ; 
Bui  love  iiself  could  never  pant 
For  all  that  beauty  sighs  to  grant 
Wilh  half  the  fervour  hate  bestows 
Ijpon  tim  last  fuiibrace  of  foes. 
When  grappling  in  the  fight  they  fold 
Those  arms  iliat  ne'er  shall  loose  their  hold: 
Friends  iiicri  to  pyrt ;    U)\v.  huiglis  al  fiith: 
True  foes,  once  met,  are  joiii'i^  till  (h.'iith  ! 


With  satire  shiver'd  to  the  hilt, 
Vet  dripping  wilh  the  hlood  he  spilt; 
Vei  strain'd  v.ithin  the  stnir'd  huiid 
Which  (juivers  routul  that  faithless  brind  ; 
His  turhan  far  behind  liim  roll'd, 
\nd  cleft  in  twain  its  lirmcbt  fold  ; 


His  flowing  robe  by  falchion  torn. 

And  crimson  as  those  clouds  of  niurn 

That,  streak'd  with  dusky  red,  portend 

The  day  shall  have  a  stormy  end ; 

A  stain  on  every  bush  that  bc.rt 

A  fragment  of  his  palampore,'° 

His  breast  with  wounds  unnumber'd  riven, 

His  back  to  earth,  his  face  to  heave  n. 

Fallen  Hassan  lies — his  unclosed  eye 

Yet  lowering  on  his  enemy. 

As  if  the  hour  that  seal'd  his  fate 

Surviving  left  his  quenchless  hate  ; 

And  o'er  him  bends  that  foe  with  orovir 

As  dark  as  his  that  bled  below. — 


"  Yes,  Leila  sleeps  beneath  the  wave, 
But  his  shall  be  a  redder  grave  ; 
Her  spirit  pointed  well  the  steel 
Which  taught  that  felon  heart  to  feel. 
He  call'd  the  Prophet,  but  his  power 
Was  vain  against  the  vengeful  Giaour: 
He  call'd  on  Alia — but  the  word 
Arose  unheeded  or  unheard. 
Thou  Paynim  fool !   could  Leila's  prayer 
Be  pass'd.  and  thine  accorded  there  ? 
I  watch'd  my  time,  I  leagued  with  these, 
The  traitor  in  his  turn  to  seize ; 
My  wrath  is  wreak'd,  the  deed  is  done, 
And  now  1  go — but  go  alone." 


The  browzing  camels'  bells  are  tinkling. 
Hi^  mother  look'd  fi'om  her  lattice  high- 
She  saw  the  dews  of  eve  besprinkhng 
The  pasture  green  beneath  her  eye. 

She  saw  the  planets  faintly  twinkling : 
"'Tis  twilight — sure  his  train  is  nigh." 
She  could  not  rest  in  the  garden-bower, 
But  gazed  through  the  grate  of  his  steepest  tower 
"  Why  comes  he  not?  his  steeds  are  fleet, 
Nor  shnnk  they  from  the  summer  heat ; 
Why  sends  not  the  bridegroom  his  promised  gift  i 
Is  his  heart  more  cold,  or  his  barb  less  swift  ? 
Oh,  false  reproach  !   yon  Tartar  now 
Ha«  v.un'd  our  nearest  moMutain's  brow, 
And  warily  the  steep  descends, 
And  now  within  the  valley  bends ; 
And  he  bears  the  gift  at  his  saddle-bow- 
wow could  I  deem  his  courser  slow  ? 
Right  well  my  largess  shall  repay 
His  welcome  speed,  and  weary  way." 
The  Tartar  lighted  ?<  die  gate, 
But  scarce  upheld  his  fainting  weight : 
His  swarthy  visage  spake  distress, 
But  this  might  be  from  weariness  ; 
His  garb  with  sanguine  spots  was  dyed, 
But  these  might  be  from  his  courser's  side  , 
He  drew  the  token  from  his  vest — 
Angel  of  Death!   *t  is  Ilassui's  ciovfii  cicsl 
His  calpac  ^'   rent — his  caftan  red — 
"  Lady,  a  fearfiil  bride  thy  son  hath  wed: 
INIr,  not  fro-n   f.u»-<-.-.  did'thrv  s;,:.r(  , 
But  this  enipurple<t  pl<;dge  *o  hear. 
Peace  to  tlu;  brave  !    whose  blood  is  spiil. 
Woe  fo  the  Giaour!   for  his  the  guilt." 


A  turban  '^  carved  in  coarsest  stone, 
A  pillar  with  rank  weeds  o'ergrown, 


THE    GIAOUR. 


261 


Wliereon  can  now  be  scarcely  read 
Tlie  Koran  verse  that  mourns  tln^  dead, 
Point  out  the  spot  where  Hassan  fell 
A  victim  in  that  lonely  dell. 
Thore  slee[)s  as  true  an  Osmanlie 
As  e'er  at  INleci.a  bent  the  knee  ; 
As  ever  seorn'd  forbidden  wine,       » 
(^r  pray'd  with  face  towards  the  shrine, 
In  orisons  resumed  anew 
At  solemn  sound  of  "  Alia  Hu  '  "  33 
Yet  ditd  he  bv  a  stranger's  hand, 
And  stranger  in  his  native  land  ; 
Yet  died  he  as  in  arms  he  stood, 
And  unavenged,  at  least  in  blood. 
Kut  him  the  maids  of  paradise 

Impatient  to  their  halls  invite, 
And  the  dark  heaven  of  Houri's  eyes 

On  him  shall  glance  for  ever  briiiht ; 
They  come — tluir  kerchiefs  green  they  wave, 
And  welcome  witii  a  kiss  the  brave  1 
Who  falls  in  battle  'gainst  a  Giaour 
Is  worthiest  an  immortal  bower. 

****** 

But  thou,  false  infidel !   shalt  writhe 
Beneath  avenging  Monkir's  '^  scythe;- 
And  from  its  torment  'scape  alone 
To  wander  round  lost  Eblis'  ^"  throne ; 
A'id  fire  unqueneh'd,  unquenchable, 
A    3und,  within,  thy  heart  shall  dwell , 
Nor  ear  can  hear  nor  tongue  can  tell 
The  tortures  of  that  inv.ard  hell ! 
But  first,  on  earth  as  vampire  ■''  sent. 
Thy  co;-se  shall  from  its  tomb  be  rent: ' 
Then  ghastly  haunt  thy  native  place, 
And  stick  the  blood  of  all  thV  race  ; 
There  from  thy  daughter,  sister,  wife, 
At  midnight  drain  the  stream  of  life  ; 
Yet  loathe  the  ban.piet  which  perforce 
Must  feed  thy  livid  living  corse : 
Thy  victims  ere  they  yet  expire 
Shall  know  the  demon  for  their  sire, 
As  cursing  thee,  thou  cursing  them. 
Thy  flowers  are  wither'd  on  the  s»em. 
But  one  th.it  for  thy  crime  must  fall, 
The  youngest,  most  beloved  of  all. 
Shall  bless  thee  with  a  father'' s  name — 
That  word  shall  wrap  thy  heart  in  rlame  ! 
Yet  must  thou  end  thy  task,  and  mark 
Her  check's  last  tinge,  her  eye's  last  sparit, 
And  the  last  glassy  glance  must  view 
Which  freezes  o'er  its  lifeless  blue  ; 
Then  with  unhallow'd  hand  shalt  tear 
The  tresses  of  her  yellow  hair. 
Of  which  in  life  a  lock,  when  shorn, 
Affection's  fondest  pledge  was  worn  ; 
Buf  now  is  borne  away  by  thee, 
Memoria  of  tiiine  agony  ! 
Wet  w  ith  thine  own  best  blood  shall  drip  *' 
Thv  gnasning  tooth  and  haggard  lip  , 
Then,  stalking  to  thy  sullen  grave, 
G<  —and  with  Gouls  and  Afrits  rave  ; 
Til.  these  in  horror  shrink  away 
From  sMCctre  more  accursed  than  they  ! 

"  How  name  ye  j'on  lone  Caloyer? 

His  features  I  have  scann'd  before      ^ 
In  mine  own  land  :   't  is  many  a  year, 

Since,  dashing  by  the  lonely  shore, 
1  saw  him  urge  as  tleet  a  steed 
As  ever  served  a  horseman's  need. 


But  once  I  saw  that  face,  j'et  then 
It  was  so  mark'd  with  inward  jiain, 
I  could  not   pas?  it  by  again  ; 
It  breathes  the  same  dark  ^plfit  now, 
As  death  were  stainp'd  U{»on  his  brow." 

"  'T  is  twice  three  years  at  summer-tide 
Since  first  among  our  freres  he  came ; 
And  here  it  soothes  him  to  abide 

For  some  dark  deed  he  will  net  name. 
But  never  at  our  vesper  prayer, 
Nor  e'er  before  confession  chair 
Kneels  he,  nor  recks  he  when  arise 
Incense  or  anthem  to  the  skies, 
But  broods  within  his  cell  alone, 
His  faith  and  race  alike  unknown. 
The  sea  from  Paynim  land  he  crost. 
And  here  ascended  fr(Hn  the  coast ; 
Yet  seems  he  not  of  Othman  race. 
But  only  Christian  in  his  face: 
I  'd  judge  him  some  strav  renegade, 
Repentant  of  the  change  he  made. 
Save  that  he  shuns  our  holy  shrine, 
Nor  tastes  the  sacred  bread  and  wine. 
Great  largess  to  these  walls  he  brought, 
And  thus  our  abbot's  favour  l>ougbt  • 
But,  were  I  prior,  not  a  day 
Should  brook  such  stranger's  further  stay, 
Or,  pent  within  our  penance  cell. 
Should  doom  him  there  for  aye  to  iwcU 
Much  in  his  visions  mutters  he 
Of  maiden  whelm'd  beneath  the  sea 
Of  sabres  clashir.g,  foemen  flyins, 
WrouHS  avenged,*and  Moslem  dying. 
On  clitF  he  hath  been  known  to  stand, 
And  rave  as  to  some  bloody  hand 
Fresh  sever'd  from  its  parent  limb. 
Invisible  to  all  but  him, 
Whicli  beckons  onward  to  his  grave, 
And  lares  to  leap  into  the  wave." 


Dark  and  unearthly  is  the  scowl 

That  glares  beneath  his  dusky  cowl : 

The  flash  of  that  dilating  eye 

Reveals  too  much  of  times  gone  by; 

Though  varying,  indistinct  its  hue, 

Oft  will  his  glance  the  gazer  rue. 

For  in  it  lurks  that  nameless  spell 

Which  speaks,  itself  unspeakable, 

A  spirit  yet  unquell'd  and  high. 

That  claims  and  keeps  ascendancy; 

And  like  the  bird  whose  pinions  quake. 

But  cannot  fly  the  gazing  snake. 

Will  others  quail  beneath  his  look, 

No.   'scape  the  glance  they  scarce  can  btooA 

From  him  the  half-atTrighted  friar 

When  met  alone  would  fain  retire, 

As  if  that  eye  and  bitter  smile 

Transferr'd  to  others  fear  and  guiic  . 

Not  oft  to  smile  descendeth  he, 

And  when  he  doth  't  is  sad  to  see 

That  he  but  mocks  at  misery. 

How  that  pale  lip  will  curl  and  quiver 

Then  fix  once  more  as  if  for  ever; 

As  if  his  sorrow  or  disdain 

Forbade  him  e'er  to  smiie  again. 

Well  were  it  so — such  ghastly  mirth 

From  joyaunce  ne'er  derived  its  birth 

But  sadder  stili  it  were  to  trace 

What  once  were  feelings  in  that  face  . 


202 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


Time  hath  not  yet  the  features  nx'd, 

But  brighter  traits  with  evil  inix'd  ; 

And  there  are  hues  not  ahvays  faded, 

Which  speak  a  mind  not  all  degraded, 

Kven  by  the  crimes  through  which  it  waded: 

The  common  crowd  but  see  the  gloom 

Of  wayward  deeds,  and  fitting  doom  j 

The  close  observer  can  espy 

A  noble  soul,  and  lineage  high : 

Alas !   though  both  bestow'd  in  vain, 

Which  grief  could  change,  and  guilt  could  stain, 

It  was  no  vulgar  tenement 

To  which  such  lofty  gifts  were  lent. 

And  still  with  little  less  than  dread 

On  such  the  sight  is  riveted. 

The  roofless  cot,  decay'd  and  rent, 

Will  scarce  delay  the  passer-by ; 
Tlie  tower  by  war  or  tempest  bent, 
While  vet  may  frown  one  b;ntlement, 
'   Demands  and  daunts  the  stranger's  eye; 
Each  ivied  arch,  and  pillai  lone, 
Pleads  haughtily  for  glories  gone ! 
"His  floating  robe  around  him  folding. 

Slow  sweeps  he  through  the  column'd  aisle  ; 
With  dread  beheld,  with  gloom  beholding 

The  rites  that  sanctify  the  pile. 
But  when  the  anthem  shakes  the  choir, 
And  kneel  the  monks,  his  steps  retire ; 
By  vonder  lone  and  wavering  torch 
His  aspect  glares  within  the  porch  ; 
There  will  he  pause  till  all  is  done — 
And  hear  the  prayer,  but  utter  none. 
Sec — b/  the  half-illumined  wall 
His  hood  fly  back,  his  dark  hair  fall, 
That  pale  brow  wildly  wreathing  round, 
As  if  the  Gorgon  there  had  bound 
TV    sablest  of  the  ser{>ent-braid 
Ti..it  o'er  her  fearful  forehead  stray'd  : 
For  lie  declines  the  convent  oath, 
Vn  i  leaves  those  locks'  unhallow'd  growth, 
Bui  wears  our  garb  in  all  beside  ; 
And,  not  from  [)iety  but  pride. 
Gives  wealth  to  vvalls  that  never  heard 
Of  his  one  holy  vow  nor  word. 
Lo  ! — mark  ye,  as  the  iiarmony 
Peals  louder  praises  to  the  sky, 
Tbat  livid  cheek,  that  stony  air 
Of  mixM  defiance  and  des|>air! 
Saint  Francis,  keep  him  from  the  shrine 
E.se  may  we  dread  the  wrath  divine 
Made  manifest  by  awful  sign. 
If  ever  evil  angel  bore 
'i'he  form  of  mortal,  such  he  wore: 
Hv  all  my  hope  of  sins  iorgiven, 
Siich  looks  arc  not  of  earth  nor  heaven'" 
To  love  the  softest  hearts  are  prone, 
Bu(  such  can  ne'er  l)e  all  his  own; 
Too  timid  in  his  woes  to  share, 
Too  meek  to  meet,  or  brave  despair; 
And  sterner  hearts  alone  may  feel 
The  wound  that  time  can  never  heal. 
The  rn;iHf'd   meJiil  of  the  mine 
Must  burn  before  its  surface  shine. 
But   plunged  within  the  furnace-flame. 
It  i)eiids  and  melts — though  still  the  same; 
Then  temper'd  to  thy  want,  or  will, 
'T  wi.i  serve  thee  to  defend  or  kill ; 
A  breastplate  for  thine  hour  of  need, 
Or  blade  to  bid  thy  foeman  bleed; 


But  if  a  dairgcr's  form  it  bear, 
Let  those  who  shape  its  edge  bewa  e« 
Thus  passion's  fire,  and  woman's  art, 
Can  turn  and  tame  the  sterner  heart; 
From  these  its  form  and  tone  are  ta'en, 
And  what  they  make  it,  must  remain, 
But  breA — before  it  bend  again. 


If  solitude  succeed  to  grief. 
Release  from  pain  is  slight  relief; 
The  vacant  bosom's  wilderness 
Might  thank  the  parg  that  made  it  ess. 
We  loathe  what  none  are  left  to  share : 
Even  bliss — 't  were  woo  p.lone  to  bear ; 
The  heart  once  left  thus  desolate 
Must  fly  at  last  for  ease — to  hate. 
It  is  as  if  the  dead  could  feel 
The  icv  worm  around  them  steal. 
And  shudder,  as  the  rei)tiles  creep 
To  revel  o'er  their  rotting  sleep. 
Without  the  power  to  scare  away 
The  cold  consumers  of  their  clay ! 
It  is  as  if  the  desert-bird,''^ 

W'hose  beak  unlocks  her  bosom's  stream 
To  still  her  famish'd  nestlings'  scream, 
Nor  mourns  a  Ufe  to  them  transferr'd, 
Should  rend  her  rash  devoted  breast. 
And  find  them  flown  her  empty  nest. 
The  keenest  pangs  the  wretched  find 

Are  rapture  to  the  dreary  void, 
The  leafless  desen  of  the  mind. 

The  waste  of  feelings  unemploy'd. 
Who  would  be  doom'd  to  gaze  upon 
A  sky  without  a  cloud  or  sun  ? 
Less  hideous  far  the  tempest's  roar 
Than  ne'er  to  brave  the  billows  more — 
Thrown,  when  the  war  of  winds  is  o'er, 
A  lonely  wreck  on  fortune's  shore, 
'Mid  sullen  calm,  and  silent  bay. 
Unseen  to  drop  by  dull  decay  : — 
Better  to  sink  beneath  the  shock. 
Than  moulder  piecemeal  on  the  rock ! 

*♦♦♦♦♦ 
"Father!  thy  days  have  pass'd  in  peace, 

'Mid  counted  beads,  and  countless  prayer; 
To  bid  the  sins  of  others  cease, 

Thyself  without  a  crime  or  care. 
Save  transient  ills  that  all  must  bear, 
Has  been  thy  lot  from  youth  to  age  ; 
And  thou  wilt  l:)less  thee  from  the  rage 
Of  passions  fierce  and  uncontroll'd, 
Such  as  thy  penitents  unfold, 
Whose  secret  sins  and  sorrows  rest 
Within  thy  pure  and  pitying  breast. 
My  days,  though  tew,  have  pass'd  below 
In  much  of  joy,  but  more  of  woe  ; 
Yet  still  in  hours  of  love  or  strife, 

ve  'scaped  the  weariness  of  life : 
Now  leagued  with  friends,  now  girt  by  foes, 
I  loathed  the  languor  of  repose. 
Now  nothing  left  to  love  or  hate. 
No  more  with  iiope  or  pride  elate, 
I  'd  rather  be  the  thing  that  crawls 
Most  noxious  o'er  a  dungeon's  walls, 
Than  pass  my  dull,  unvarying  days, 
Conc^emn'd  to  meditate  and  gaze. 
Yet,  lurks  a  wish  within  my  breasi 
For  rest — but  not  to  feel  'l  is  rest. 


TEE    GIACUR. 


2«a 


Soon  shall  my  fate  that  wish  fulfil  ; 

And  I  shall  sleep  williout  the  dream 
Of  what  I  was,  and  would  be  still, 

Dark  as  to  thee  my  deeds  may  seem: 
Mv  memory  now  is  but  the  tomb 
Of  joys  long  dead  ;   my  hope,  their  doom; 
Though  better  to  have  died  with  those 
Than  bear  a  life  of  linjrering  woes. 
Mj'  spirits  g;  'unk  not  to  sustain 
The  ■»-ar'.hiii<;  tliroes  of  ceaseless  pain 
Nor  ivHiaht  the  self-accorded  grave 
(.)\'  ancient  tool  and  motlern  knave : 
Vet  death  I  have  not  fear'd  to  meet ; 
And  in  the  field  it  had  been  sweet, 
Had  danger  woo'd  me  on  to  move 
The  slave  of  glory,  not  of  love. 
I  've  braved  it — not  for  honour's  boast; 
I  smile  at  laurels  won  or  lost ; 
To  such  let  others  carve  their  way, 
For  high  renown,  or  hirehng  pay : 
But  place  ai'ain  before  my  eyes 
Aught  that  I  deem  a  woithy  prize  ; 
The  maid  I  love,  the  man  I  hate, 
And  I  will  limit  :he  steps  of  fate, 
To  save  or  slaj    as  these  retpiire, 
Through  rending  steel,  and  rolling  fire: 
Nor  need'st  thou  doubt  this  speech  from  on<; 
Who  would  Ijut  do — what  he  hu'h  done. 
Death  is  but  what  the  haughty  brave. 
The  weak  mn>t  bear,  the  wretch  must  crave 
Then  let  life  iro  to  him  who  gave: 
[  have  riat  quail'd  to  danger's  brow 
When  high  and  happy — need  I  now  ? 


« I  loved  her,  friar  !   nay,  adored — 

But  tliese  are  words  that  all  can  use — 
I  proved  it  more  m  deed  than  word  ; 
There's  blood  upon  that  dmted  sword, 

A  stain  its  steel  can  never  lose : 
'T  was  shed  for  her,  who  died  for  me, 

It  warm'd  the  heart  of  one  abhorr'd  : 
Nay,  start  not — no — nor  bend  thy  knee, 

Nor  midst  mv  sins  such  act  record : 
Thou  wnlt  absolve  me  from  the  deed, 
For  he  was  hostile  to  thy  creed  ! 
The  very  name  of  Nazarene 
Was  wormwood  tr.  his  Paynim  spleen. 
Ungrateful  fool !   since  but  for  brands 
Well  wielded  in  some  hardy  hands, 
And  wounds  by  Galileans  given. 
The  surest  pass  lo  Turkish  heaven. 
For  him  his  Hourly  still  might  wail 
Impatient  at  the  prophet's  gate. 
I  loved  her — love  will  find  its  way 
Tlirough  {laths  where  wolves  would  fear  to  prey, 
And  if  it  dares  enough,  't  wi-ie  hard 
If  passion  met  not  some  reward — 
No  matter  how,  or  where,  or  why, 
I  did  not  vainly  seek,  nor  sigh  : 
Vet  sometimes,  with  remorse,  in  vain 
I  wish  she  haa  not  loved  again. 
She  died— I  dare  not  tell  thee  how ; 
8;i  lo  k — 't  is  written  on  my  brow  ! 
Th"-e  read  of  Cain  the  curse  and  crime 
In  characters  unworn  by  time: 
Still,  ere  thou  dost  connemn  me,  pause ; 
Not  mine  the  act,  thousjh  I  the  cause. 
Yet  did  he  but  what  I  had  done 
Had  she  been  false  to  more  than  one. 


Faithless  to  him,  he  gf.  ^^c  the  blow  ; 

But  true  to  me,  I  laid  him  low : 

Howe'er  deserved  her  doom  might  be, 

Her  treachery  was  truth  to  me ; 

To  me  she  gave  her  heart,  that  all 

Which  tyranny  can  ne'er  ei  thral ; 

And  I,  alas  !   too  late  to  save  ! 

Yet  all  I  then  could  give,  I  gave, 

'T  was  some  relief,  our  foe  a  grave. 

His  death  sits  lightly  ;   but  her  fate 

Has  made  me— what  thou  well  may'st  hute, 

His  doom  was  seal'd — he  knew  it  well, 
Warn'd  by  the  voice  of  stern  Taheer, 
Deep  in  whose  darkly-boding  ear"" 
The  death-shot  [Hml'd  of  murder  near, 
As  filed  the  troo-p  to  where  they  fell ! 
He  died  too  in  the  battle  broil, 
A  time  that  heeds  nor  i)ain  nor  toil ; 
One  cry  to  Mahomet  for  aid. 
One  prayer  to  Alia  all  he  made  : 
He  knew  and  cross'd  me  in  the  fray — 
I  sazed  upon  him  where  he  lay. 
And  watch'd  his  si)irit  ebb  away : 
Thousrh  pierced  like  pard  by  hunters   steei. 
He  felt  not  half  that  now  I  feel. 
I  search'd,  but  vainly  search'd,  to  find 
The  workings  of  a  wounded  muid  ; 
Each  feature  of  that  sullen  coise 
Betray'd  his  rage,  but  no  remorse. 
Oh,  what  had  vengeance  given  to  trace 
Despair  upon  his  dying  face! 
The  late  repentance  of  that  hour, 
When  penitence  hath  lost  her  power 
To  tear  one  terror  from  the  grave, 
And  will  not  soothe,  and  cannot  save. 

***** 
'*  The  cold  in  clime  are  cold  in  blood. 

Their  love  can  scarce  deserve  the  name 
But  mine  was  like  the  lava  flood 

That  boils  in  j.Erna's  breast  of  flame. 
I  cannot  prate  in  puling  strain 
Of  ladyc-love,  and  beauty's  chain: 
If  changing  cheek,  and  scorchins  vein, 
Lips  taught  to  writhe,  but  not  complain, 
If  bursting  heart,  and  madd'niyg  brain. 
And  daring  deed,  and  vengeful  steel. 
And  all  that  '  have  felt,  and  feel, 
PJetoken  love — that  love  was  mine, 
And  shown  bv  many  a  bitter  sign. 
'T  is  true  I  could  not  whine  nor  sigh, 
I  knew  but  to  obtain  or  die. 
I  die — but  first  I  have  possess'd, 
And,  come  what  may,  I  have  been  blest. 
Shall  I  the  doom  I  sought  upbraid  ? 
No — reft  of  all,  yet  undismay'd 
But  fot  the  thought  of  Leila  slain, 
Give  me  the  pleasure  with  the  pain, 
So  would  I  live  and  love  again. 
I  grieve,  but  not,  my  holy  guide  ! 
For  him  who  dies,  but  her  who  died: 
She  sleeps  beneatli  the  wandering  wavo- 
Ah  I   had  she  but  an  earthlv  grave. 
This  breaking  heart  and  throbbing  head 
Should  seek  and  share  her  narrow  bed. 
She  was  a  form  of  lif&vand  light, 
That,  seen,  became  a  part  of  sight , 
And  rose  where'er  I  turn'd  mine  eye. 
The  morning-star  of  memory  ! 

*'  Yes,  love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven  , 
A  spark  of  Miat  immortal  fire 


264 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


With  angels  shared,  by  Alia  given. 

T  J  lift  from  earth  our  low  desire. 
Devotion  wafts  the  mind  above, 
But  heaven  itself  descends  in  love  ; 
A  feeling  froio  the  Godhead  caught, 
To  wean  from  self  each  sordid  thought ; 
A  ray  of  hmi  who  farm'd  the  whole  ; 
A  gloiy  circling  round  the  soul ! 
I  grant  my  love  imperfect,  all 
That  mortals  by  the  name  miscall ; 
Then  deem  it  evil,  what  thou  wiU  ; 
But  say,  oh  say,  hers  was  not  guilt! 
She  was  my  life's  unerring  light ; 
That  quench'd,  what  beam  shall  break  my  night? 
Oh  !  would  It  shone  to  lead  me  still, 
Although  to  death  or  deadliest  ill ! 
Why  marvel  ye,  if  they  who  lose 

This  present  joy,  this  future  liope, 

No  more  with  sorrow  meekly  cope , 
In  phrensy  then  their  fate  accuse : 
In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 

That  seem  to  add  but  guilt  to  woe  ? 
Alas  !   the  breast  that  inly  bleeds 

Hath  nought  to  dread  from  outward  blow  ; 
Who  falls  from  all  he  knows  of  bliss, 
Cares  little  into  what  abyss. 
Fierce  as  the  gloomy  vulture's  now 

To  thee,  old  man,  my  deeds  appear : 
I  read  abhorrence  on  thy  brow, 

And  this  too  was  I  born  to  bear! 
'T  is  true,  that,  like  that  bird  of  prey. 
With  liavoc  have  I  mark'd  my  way : 
But  this  was  taught  me  by  the  dove. 
To  die — and  know  no  second  love. 
This  lesson  yet  hath  man  to  learn, 
Taught  by  the  thing  he  dares  to  spurn  : 
The  bird  that  sings  within  the  brake, 
The  swan  that  swims  upon  the  lake. 
One  mate,  and  one  alone,  will  take. 
And  let  the  fool  still  prone  to  range, 
And  sneer  on  all  who  cannot  change, 
Partake  his  jest  with  boasting  boys  ; 
I  envy  not  his  varied  joys. 
But  deem  such  feeble,  heartless  man, 
Less  than  yon'solitary  swan  ; 
Far,  far  beneath  the  shallow  maid 
He  left  believing  and  betray'd. 
Such  shame  at  least  was  never  mine — 
Leila  !   each  thought  was  only  thine  ! 
My  good,  my  guilt,  my  weal,  my  woe. 
My  hope  on  high — my  all  below. 
Earth  holds  no  other  like  to  thee, 
Oi  if  it  doth,  in  vain  for  me  : 
For  worlils  I  dare  not  view  the  dame 
Resembling  thee,  yet  not  the  same. 
The  very  crimes  that  mar  my  youth,     * 
This  bed  of  death — attest  my  truth  ! 
'T  is  all  too  late — thou  wert,  thou  art 
The  cherish'd  madness  of  my  heart ! 

•'  And  she  was  lost — ,and  yet  I  breathed, 

But  not  the  breath  of  human  life  : 
A  serpent  round  my  heart  was  wreathed. 

And  stiniij  my  every  thought  to  strife. 
Alike  all  time,  abhorr'dnidl   place, 
Sbudd",riii<»  I  shrui.k  from  nature's  face, 
Where  every  !.in;  that  eharm'd  lv»<">^^ 
The  blackness  of  my  bosom  wor». 
'Hie  lest  thou  d'isl   already  know, 
And  all  my  sms,  and  half  my  woe. 
Hut  talk  no  more  of  penitence; 
Thou  siie'st  I  soon  shall  uarJ  from  hence : 


And  if  thy  holy  tale  were  true, 

The  deed  that's  done  can'st  ihou  undo? 

Think  me  not  thankless — but  this  gncf 

Looks  not  to  priesthood  ior  relief. '*^' 

My  soul's  estate  in  secret  guess  : 

But  wouldst  thr.u  pity  more,  say  less. 

W^hen  thou  f^anst  bid  my  Leila  live, 

Then  will  I  sue  thee  to  forgive  ; 

Then  plead  my  cause  in  that  high  place 

Where  purchased  masses  proffer  grace. 

Go,  when  the  hunter's  hand  hatli  wiung 

From  forest-cave  her  shrieking  young. 

And  calm  the  lonely  lioness  : 

But  soothe  not — mock  not  my  distress  ! 

"  In  earlier  days,  and  calmer  hours. 

When  heart  with  heart  delights  to  blend, 
W^here  bloom  my  native  valley's  bowers 

I  had — ah  !   have  I  now  ? — a  friend  ! 
To  him  this  pledge  I  charge  thee  send. 

Memorial  of  a  youthful  vow  ; 
I  would  remind  him  of  my  end  : 

Though  souls  absorb'd  like  mine  allow 
Brief  thought  to  distant  friendship's  claim, 
Yet  dear  to  him  my  blighted  name. 
'T  is  strange — he  prophesied  my  doom, 

Ami  I  have  smiled — I  then  could  smile — 
When  prudence  would  his  voice  assume, 

And  warn — I  reck'd  not  what — the  whi  o ; 
But  now  remembrance  whispers  o'er 
Those  accents  scarcely  mark'd  before. 
Say — that  his  bodings  came  to  pass, 

And  he  will  start  to  hear  their  truth. 

And  wish  his  woi-ds  had  not  been  sootli , 
Tell  him,  unheeding  as  I  was. 

Through  many  a  busy  bitter  scene 

Of  all  our  golden  youth  had  been, 
In  pain,  my  faltering  tongue  had  tried 
To  bless  his  memory  ere  I  died  ; 
But  Heaven  in  wrath  would  turn  away 
If  guilt  should  for  the  guiltless  pray. 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  blame. 
Too  gentle  he  to  wound  my  name  ; 
And  what  have  I  to  do  with  fame  ? 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  mourn. 
Such  cold  request  might  sound  like  scorn ; 
And  what  than  friendship's  manly  tear 
May  better  grace  a  brother's  bier  ? 
But  bear  this  ring,  his  own  of  old. 
And  tell  him — what  thou  dost  behold  ! 
The  wither'd  frame,  the  ruin'd  mind, 
The  wreck  by  passion  left  behind, 
A  shrivell'd  scroll,  a  scatter'd  leaf, 
Sear'd  by  the  autumn  blast  of  grief! 

♦  *  ♦  ♦  *  * 

"  Tell  me  no  more  of  fancy's  gleam, 
No,  father,  no,  't  was  not  a  dream  ; 
Alas  !   the  dreamer  first  must  sleep, 
I  only  watch'd,  and  wish'd  to  weep. 
But  could  not,  for  my  burning  brow 
Throbb'd  to  the  very  brain  as  now  : 
I  wish'd  but  for  a  single  tear. 
As  something  welcome,  new,  and  dear; 
I  wish'd  it  then,  I  wish  it  still — 
Des|)air  is  stronger  than  my  wilL 
Waste  not  thine  orison,  despair 
Is  mightier  than  thy  pious  prayer : 
I  would  not,  if  I  might,  be  blest ; 
I  want  no  paradise,  but  rest. 


THE    GIAOUR. 


266 


•r  WAS  then,  I  tell  thee,  father  !  tnen 
[  saw  her ;  yes,  she  lived  again  ; 
And  shining  in  her  while  svmar,'*- 
As  through  von  pale  gray  cloud  the  star 
Which  now  I  gaze  on,  as  on  her, 
Who  lookM  and  looks  far  lovelier  ; 
Dimlv  I  view  its  trembling  spark: 
Fo-niorrow's  night  shall  he  more  dark ; 
And  I,  before  its  rays  appear. 
That  lifeless  thing  the  living  fear. 
I  wondei-,  iather  !   for  my  soul 
Is  fleeting  towards  the  final  goal. 
I  saw  lier,  friar !    and  I  rose 
Forgetful  of  our  former  woes  ; 
And  rusoing  from  my  couch,  I  dart, 
And  clasp  lier  to  my  d<,>sperate  heart ; 
I  clasp — what  is  it  that  I  clasp  ? 
No  breathing  form  within  my  grasp, 
No  heart  that  beats  reply  to  mine. 
Yet,  Leila!   yet  the  form  is  thine! 
And  art  thou,  dearest,  changed  so  much, 
As  meet  my  eye,  yet  mock  my  touch? 
Ah  !   were  thv  beauties  e'er  so  cold, 
I  care  not ;   so  my  arms  enfold 
The  all  they  ever  wi-;h'd  to  hold. 
Alas  !   around  a  shadow  prest. 
They  shrmk  u[)on  my  lonely  breast ; 
Yet  still  't  is  there !   in  silence  stands, 
Aivl  beckons  with  beseeclun<j  hands! 
With  braided  hair,  and  bright-black  eye- 
I  knew  't  wa*s  filse — she  could   not  die  ! 
But   he  is  dead  !    within  the  dell 
I  saw  him  buried  where  h(!  fell ; 
He  comes  not,  for  he  cannot  break 
From  earth  ;   whv  then  art  thou  awake? 
They  told  me  wild  waves  roll'd  above 
The  face  I  view,  the  form  I  love  ; 
They  told  me — 't  was  a  hideous  tale  ! 
I  \1  tell  it,  but  my  tongue  would  fail: 
If  true,  and  from  ihme  ocean-cave 
Thou  com'st  to  claim  a  calmer  grave, 
Oh  !   pass  thy  dewy  fingers  o'er 
This  brov/  that  then  will  burn  no  more; 
Or  place  them  on  my  hopeless  •  heart : 
But,  shape  or  shade  !   whate'er  thou  art, 
In  mercy  ne'er  again  depart! 
Or  farther  with  thee  bear  my  soul. 
Than  winds  can  waft,  or  waters  roll ! 


"  Such  is  my  name,  and  such  my  tale. 

Confessor  !   to  thy  secret  ear 
I  breathe  the  sorrows  I   bewail, 

And  thank  thee  for  the  generous  tear 
This  glazmg  eye  could  never  shed. 
Then  lav  me  with  the  humblest  dead, 
And,  save  the  cross  above  my  head. 
Be  neither  name  nor  emblem  spread, 
Bv  prving  stranger  to  be  read. 
Or  stay  the  passing  pilgrim's  tread." 
He  pass'd — nor  of  his  name  and  race 
Hath  left  a  token  or  a  trace, 
Save  what  the  father  must  not  say 
Who  shrived  him  on  his  dying  day : 
This  broken  tale  was  all  we  knew 
Of  her  he  loved,  or  him  he  slew.  *=« 


NOTES. 


Note  1.   Page  4,  line  3. 
Tha*  tomb  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  cliff. 
A  tomb  above  the  rocks  on  the  promontory,  by  soma 
supposed  the  sepulchre  of  Themistocles. 
Note  2.   Page  5,  line  4. 
Sultana  of  Uie  nifihlinpiiJo. 
The  attachment  of  the  nigh.ingale  to  the  rose  is  a 
well-known  Persian  fable.    If  I  mistake  not,  the  "  Bul- 
bul  of  a  thousand  tales"  is  one  of  his  appellations. 

Note  3.   Page  5,  line  22. 

Till  the  gay  mariner's  guitar. 

The  guitar  is  the  constant  amusement  of  the  Greek 

sailor  by  night :   with  a  steady  fair  wind,  and  during  a 

calm,  it  is  accomp;inied  always  by  the  voice,  and  ofter. 

by  dancing. 

Note  4.  Page  6,  line  28. 
Where  cold  obstruction's  apathy. 
"  Ay,  bul  lo  (he,  ami  go  we  know  not  where, 
To  lie  in  cold  ohstruf'tion." 

Measure  for  Measure,  Act  III.  130.  So.  2. 

Note  5.  Page  7,  line  2. 
The  first,  last  look  by  death  revcal'd. 
I  trust  that  few  of  my  readers  have  ever  had  an  op- 
portunity of  witnessing  what  is  here  attempted  in  de- 
scription ;  be.  tliose  who  have,  will  ])robably  retain  il 
painful  remembrance  of  that  siuizular  beauty  which 
pervades,  with  few  exce|)tions,  the  features  of  the  dead, 
a  few  hours,  and  but  for  a  few  hours,  after  "  »he  spirit 
is  not  there."  It  is  to  be  remarked,  in  cases  of  violen*. 
death  by  gun-shot  wounds,  the  exuressifn  is  alwiya 
that  of  "languor,  whatever  the  natural  energy  of  the 
sufferer's  character  ;  but  in  death  from  a  stab,  the  coun- 
tenance preserves  its  traits  of  feehng  or  ferocity,  and 
tlic  mind  its  bias,  to  the  last. 

Note  6.  Page  8,  line  29. 
Slaves — nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave. 
Athens  is  the  property  of  the  Kislar  Aga  (the  slave 
of  the  seraglio,  and  guardian  of  the  women),  who  ap- 
points the  VVaywode.  A  pander  and  eunuch— these 
are  not  polite,  yet  true  appellations— now  govcrm  tiie 
governor  of  Athens ! 

Note  7.  Page  10,  hne  2. 
'T  is  calmer  than  tliy  heart,  young  Giaour 
Infidel. 

Notes.   Page  11, 'ine  2. 

In  echoes  of  the  far  tophaike. 

<'Tophaike,"  musket.— The   Bairain  is  announced 

by  the  cannon  at  sunset;  the  illumination  of  the  mosques, 

and  the  firing  of  all  kinds  of  small-arms,  loaded  with 

bull,  proclaim  it  during  the  night. 

Note  9.  Page  11,  line  28. 
Swift  as  the  hurl'd  on  high  jerreed. 
Jerreed,  or  Djerrid,  a  buinted  Turkish  javelin,  which 
is  darted  from  horseback  with  great  force  and  precision. 
It  IS  a  favourite  exercise  of  the  Mussulmans ;   but  I 
know  not  if  it  can  be  called  a  manli^  one,  since  .he  most 
expert  in  the  art  are  the  Black  Eunuchs  of  Constanti- 
nople- 1  think,  next  to  these,  a  Mamlouk  at  S  nyrna  wad 
the  most  skilful  that  came  within  my  observation. 
Note  10.  Page  12,  line  24. 
He  came,  he  went,  like  the  simoom. 
The  blast  oi  the  desert,  fatal  to  every  thing  living, 
and  often  alluded  lo  in  eastern  poetry. 


266 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Note  11.  Page  14,  line  16. 
To  bless  Uie  sacred  "  bread  and  salt." 
Tj  partake  of  food,  to  break  bread  and  salt  with 
your  aost,  insures  the  safety  of  the  guest;  even  though 
an  enemy,  his  person  from  that  moment  is  sacred. 
Note  12.  Page  I4,hne24. 
Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  ibe  inf.del's  sabre 
I  need  hardly  observe,  that  Charity  and  Hospitality 
ara  tlie  hrst  duties  enjoined  by  Mahomet,   and,  to  say 
truth,  very  generally  practised  by  his  disciples.     The 
first  praise  that  can  be  bestovved  on  a  chief  is  a  pane- 
gyric on  his  bounty  ;  the  next,  on  his  valour. 

Note  13.   Page  14,  line  28. 

And  silver-sbeathed  ataghan. 
The  ataghan,  a  long  dagger  worn  with  pistols  in  the 
belt,  in  a  metal  scabbard,  generally  of  silver;    and, 
among  the  wealthier,  gilt,  or-  of  gold. 

Note  14.  Page  14,  line  30. 
An  emir  by  iiis  garb  of  green. 
Green  is  the  privileged  colour  of  the  prophet's  nu- 
merous pretended  descendants ;  with  them,  as  here, 
faith  (the  family  inheritance)  is  supposed  to  supersede 
the  necessity  of  good  works  :  thev  are  the  worst  of  a 
very  indifferent  brood. 

Note  lo.  Page  14,nne  31. 
"Ho!  who  art  thou T — this  Jew  saiam,'  etc. 
Salam  aleikour..!  aleikoum  salam!  peace  be  with  you; 
be  with  you  peace — the  salutation  reserved  for  the 
t'aithfui : — to  a  Christian,  "Urla'-uia,"  a  good  journey; 
or  saban  hiresem.  sai)an  serula  ;  good  morn,  good  even; 
and  sometimes,  "  may  your  end  be  happy;"  are  the 
usual  salutes. 

Note  16.  Page  15,  line  28. 
The  insect-queen  of  eastern  spring. 
The  blue-winged  butterfly  of  Kashmeer,  the  most 
rare  and  beautiful  of  the  s[)ecies. 

Note  17.  Page  17,  Une  7. 
Or  live  like  scorpion  p;irt  by  fire. 
Alluding  to  the  dubious  s-uicldc  of  the  scorpion,  so 
placed  for  experiment  by  gentle  i)hilosoi)hers.  Some 
mamtain  that  the  position  of  the  sting,  when  turned 
towards  the  head,  is  merely  a  convulsive  movement: 
but  others  have  actually  brought  in  the  verdict,  "Felo 
de  sc."  The  scorpions  are  surely  interested  in  a  speedy 
decision  of  the  question  ;  as,  n  once  fairly  established 
as  insect  Catos,  they  will  probably  be  allowed  to  live 
as  long  as  they  think  prbper,  without  being  martyred 
for  the  sake  of  a  hypothesis. 

Note  18.   Page  17,  line  22. 
When  Rhiiniazan's  list  sun  was  set 
The  cannon    at  sunset  close  the  Rhamazan.     See 
note  8. 

Note  19.   Page  18,  line  8. 
By  pale  Pliingari's  trembling  light 
Phingari,  the  moon. 

Note  20.  Pai;e  18,  line  19. 
Dright  as  the  jewel  of  fiiainschid. 
The  celebratftd  fabulous  ruby  of  Sultan  Giamschid, 
the  embellisher  of  Istakhar  ;  from  its  splendour,  named 
Schebgorag,  "the  tor(;h  of  ni<;ht  ;"  also,  "  the  cu[)  of 
Ihe  sun,"  etc. — In  the  li-st  (editions,  '*Giamschil  "  was 
written  as  a  word  of  three  syllables:  so  DTlerbelot 
has  it :  but  I  am  told  IJicliardson  reduces  it  to  a  dis- 
syllable, and  writes  ".lamshid."  I  have  left  in  the 
text  the  orthojjraiihy  of  the  one,  with  the  pronunciatijn 
ut  the  other. 


Note  21.  Page  18,  In  €  23. 
Though  on  Al-Sirat's  arch  I  stood. 
A^Sirat,  the  bridge,  of  breadth  less  than  the  'hread 
of  a  famished  spider,  over  which  the  IVIussulinans  must 
skntp  into  paradise,  to  which  it  is  the  only  entrance  ; 
but  this  is  not  the  worst,,  the  river  beneath  being  hell 
itseli,  into  which,  as  may  be  expected,  the  unskilful 
and  tender  of  foot  contrive  to  tumble  with  a  "  facih- 
discensus  Averni,"  not  very  pleasing  in  prospect  to  the 
next  passenger.  There  is  a  shorter  cut  downwards  for 
the  Jews  and  Christians. 

Note  22.  Page  18,  line  28. 
And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed. 
A  vulgar  error:  the  Koran  allots  at  least  a  third  of 
paradise  to  well-behaved  women  :  but  by  far  the  greater 
number  of  Mussulmans  interpret  the  text  their  own 
wav,  and  exclude  their  moieties  from  heaven.  Being 
enemies  to  Platonics,  they  cannot  discern  "any  fitness 
of  things  "  in  the  souls  of  the  other  sex,  conceiving 
them  to  be  superseded  by  the  Houris. 

Note  23.    Page  19,  line  1. 
The  young  pomegran;ite's  blossoms  strew. 
An  oriental  simile,  which  may,  perhaps,  though  fairly 
stolen,  be  deemed  "plus  Arabe  qu'en  Arable." 
Note  24.    Page  19,  line  3. 
Her  liair  in  hyaclnthine  flow. 
Hvacinthine,  in  Arabic,  "  Sunbul ;"  as  common  a 
thought  in  the  eastern  poets,   as    it  was    among    the 
Greeks. 

Note  25.   Page  19,  line  13. 
The  loveliest  hiid  of  Franguestan. 
"Franguestan,"  Circassia. 

Note  26.    F=i.<'e  -zi.  une  .n 
"  BiHrnilirih  I   lu.w  irie  pen.  s  past,     en!. 
Kisniillah — "In  th^  nnin'"  of  God  :"  the  comrnonre. 
ment  of  all  the  chapters  of  the  Koran  but  one,  and  ol 
prayer  and  thanksgiving. 

Note  27.  Page  22,  line  1. 
Thencurl'd  his  very  beard  with  ire. 
A  phenomenon  not  uncommon  with  an  angry  Mussul- 
man. In  1809,  the  Captain  Pacha's  whiskers,  at  a 
diplomatic  audience,  were  not  less  lively  with  indigna 
tion  than  a  tiger  cat's,  to  the  horror  of  all  the  drago 
mans  ;  the  portentous  mustachios  twisted,  they  stood 
erect  of  their  own  accord,  and  were  expected  every 
moment  to  change  their  colour,  but  at  last  condescendec 
to  subside,  which  probab'y  saved  more  heads  than  they 
contained  hairs. 

Note  28.  PaHe22,  line  11. 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun ! 
"Amaun,"  quarter,  pardon. 

Note  29.   Page  22,  line  21. 
I  know  him  by  the  evil  eye.  ' 
The  "evil  eye,"  a  common  superstition  in  the  Le- 
vant, and  of  which  the  imaginary  effects  are  yet  ver. 
singular,  on  those  who  conceive  themselves  affected. 

Note  30.   Page  24,  line  6. 
A  fragment  of  his  palampore. 
The  flowered  shawls,  generally  worn  by  persons  of 
rank. 

Note  31.    Page  2-"),  line  27. 
Jlis  crJpac  rent — his  ciiftan  red. 
The  "Calpac"  is  the  solid  cap  or  centre  part    {   he 
head-dress;   the  shawl  is  wound  round  it,  and  forms 
the  turban. 

Note  32.   Page  2.">,  line  33. 
A  turban  carved  in  coarsesr  stone. 
The  turban,  pih.ir,   and   inscriptive   verse,  decornto 
the  tombs  of  the  Osmanlies,  whether  in  the  cemetery 


THE    GIAOUR. 


267 


^r  l\  e  wilderness.  In  the  mountains,  you  freqtiei  tly 
pas>  similar  m-ementos ;  and,  on  inquiry,  you  are  in- 
n)rined,  that  t'ley  record  some  victim  of  rebellion, 
i'luiKJer,  or  revenge. 

Note  33.  Page  25,  line  10. 
At  soleinii  sound  of  "Alia  Hu  !" 
^  .Vila  PIu!'"  the  concluding  words  of  the  Muezzin's 
call  to  ])rftyer,  from  the  highest  gallery  on  the  exttyior 
ol"  the  mwraret.  On  a  still  evening,  when  the  Muezzin 
has  a  tine  voice,  wl  icli  is  fre(]uently  the  case,  the  ef- 
fect is  solemn  and  beautiful  beyond  all  the  bells  in 
Christendom. 

Note  34.   Page  26,  line  19. 

They  coiiif — their  keichiets  green  they  wave. 

The  following  is  part  of  a  battle-song  of  the  Turks : 

— "I  see — I  see  a  dark-eved  girl  of  paradise,  and  she 

waves  a  handkerchief,  a  kerchief  of  green  ;   and  cries 

aloud,  Come,  kiss  me,  for  I  love  thee,"  etc. 

Note  35.  Page  26,  Une  24. 
Bene;\th  avenging  Monkir's  scythe. 
Monkir  and  Nekir  are  the  inquisitors  of  the  dead, 
oefore  whom  the  corpse  undergoes  a  slight  noviciate 
and  preparatory  training  for  damnation.  If  the  an- 
swers are  none  of  the  clearest,  he  is  hauled  ui)  with  a 
scythe  and  thumped  down  with  a  red-hot  mace  till  prop- 
erlv  seasoned,  with  a  varietv  of  subsidiary  probations. 
The  otlice  of  these  angels  is  no  sinecure  ;  there  are  but 
two,  and  the  number  of  orthodox  deceased  being  in  a 
small  proportion  to  the  remainder,  their  hands  are  al- 
,vnys  full. 

Note  36.   Page  26,  line  26. 
To  wander  round  lost  Eiilis'  throne. 
lilUis,  the  Oriental  Prince  of  Darkness. 
Note  37.   Page  26,  hne  31. 
But  first,  on  eaitii,  as  vainpire  sent. 
The  Vampire  superstition  is  still  general  in  the  Le- 
vant.    Honest  Tournefort  tells  a  long  story,  which  Mr. 
Southev,  in  the  notes  on  Thalaba,  quotes,  about  these 
"  Vroucolochas,"  as  he  calls  them.   The  Romaic  term  is 
•' Vardoulacha."  I  lecollect  a  whole  family  being  terri- 
fied bv  the  scream  of  a  child,  which  they  imagined 
must   proceed  froin    such  a  visitation.     The    Greeks 
never  mention  the  word  without  horror.     I  find  that 
"  Broticolokas"  is  an  old  legitimate  Hellenic  appellation 
— at  least  is  so  applied  to  Arsenius,  who,  according  to 
the  Gveeks,  was  atler  his  death  animated  by  the  Devil. 
The  moderns,  however,  use  the  word  I  mention. 
Note  38.  Page  27,  line  23. 
Wet  with  thine  own  best  blood  shall  drip. 
The  freshness  of  the  face,  and  the  wetness  of  the  lip 
With  blood,  are  the  never-failing  signs  of  a  Vampire. 
The  stories  told  in  Hungary  and  Greece  of  these  foul 
feeders  are  singular,  and  some  of  them  most  incredibly 
attested. 

Note  39.  Page  32,  line  22. 
It  is  as  if  the  desert-bird. 
The  pelican  is,  I  believe,  the  bird  so  libelled,  by  the 
imputation  of  feeding  her  chickens  with  her  blood. 
Note  40.   Page  36,  line  14. 
Deep  in  whose  darkly-boding  ear. 
This  superstition  of  a  second-hearing  (for  I  never  met 
with  downri<rht  second-sight  in  'he  east)  fell  once  under 
mv  own  observation. — On  my  third  journey  to  Cape 
Colonna,  earlv  in  1811,  as  we  passed  through  the  defile 
•Jiat  leads  from  the  hamlet  between  Keratia  and  Colonna, 
I  observed  Dervish  Tahiri  riding  rather  out  of  the  path, 
and  leaning  bis  head  upon  his  hand,  as  if  in  pain.  I  )"odQ 


up  and  inquired.  '"We  are  in  peril,"  he  answered. 
"What  peril?  we  are  not  now  in  A  bania,  nor  in  .ho 
passes  to  Ephesus,  Messalunghi,  or  Lepanto  ;  th<  re  are 
plenty  of  us,  well  armed,  and  the  Choriates  hav»>  not 
courage  to  be  thieves." — "True,  Atfendi ;  but  never- 
theless tile  shot  is  ringing  in  my  ears." — "  The  shot ! — 
not  a  tophaike  has  been  fired  this  morning." — "  I  hear  it 
notwithstanding — Bom — Bom — as  plainly  as  I  hear  your 
voice." — "  Psha." — "As  you  please,  Atlendi ;  if  it  is 
written,  so  will  it  be." — I  left  this  (juick-earcd  predesti- 
narian,  and  rode  up  to  Basili,  his  Christian  compatriot, 
whose  ears,  though  not  at  all  prophetic,  by  no  moans 
relished  the  intelligence.  We  all  arrived  at  Colonna,  re- 
mained a  few  hours,  and  returned  leisurely,  saying  a  va- 
riety of  bi  illiant  things,  in  more  languages  than  s|)oiled 
the  building  ol  Babel,  upon  the  mistaken  seer  ;  Romaic, 
Arnaout,  Turkish,  Italian,  and  English  were  all  exercised, 
in  various  conceits,  upon  the  unibrtunate  Mussulman- 
While  we  were  contemplating  the  beautifiil  prospect, 
Dervish  was  occupied  about  the  columns.  I  thought  he 
was  deran>red  into  an  antiquarian,  and  asked  liim  if  he 
had  become  a  '■^  Pulaocastro''^  man.  "No,"  said  he, 
"  but  these  pillars  will  be  usefid  in  making  a  stand  ;" 
and  added  other  remarks,  which  at  least  evinced  his  own 
belief  in  his  troublesome  faculty  offore-hmriiif^.  On  our 
return  to  Athens,  we  heard  from  Leone  (a  prisoner  set 
ashore  some  days  after)  of  tlie  intended  attack  of  the 
Mainotes,  mentioned,  with  the  cause  of  its  not  taking 
place,  in  the  notes  to  Childe  Harold,  Canto  2d.  I  was 
at  some  pains  to  question  the  man,  and  he  described  the 
dresses,  arms,  and  marks  of  the  horses  of  our  party  so 
acciu-ately,  that,  with  other  circumstances,  we  could  not 
doubt  of  /(/,<?  having  been  in  "  villanous  comjiany,"  and 
ourselves  in  a  bad  neighbourhood.  Dervish  became  a 
soothsayer  for  life,  and  I  dare  say  is  now  hearing  more 
musketry  than  ever  will  be  fired,  to  the  great  retiesii- 
ment  of  the  Arnaouts  of  Berat,  and  his  native  moun- 
tains.— I  shall  mention  one  trait  more  of  this  singuiiu" 
race.  In  March  1811,  a  remarkably  stout  and  active 
Arnaout  came  (I  believe  the  oOth  on  the  same  errand) 
to  ofier  himself  as  an  attendant,  which  was  declined: 
"vVell,  Afiendi,"  ([uoth  he,  "may  you  live! — you 
would  have  found  me  usefiil.  I  shall  leave  the  town  for 
the  hills  to-morrow  ;  in  the  winter  I  return,  perhaps  yon 
will  then  receive  me." — Dervish,  who  was  {)reseiit, 
remarked,  as  a  thing  of  course,  and  of  no  consecjuence, 
"in  the  mean  ame  he  will  join  the  Kle])lites"  (rob- 
bers), which  was  true  to  the  letter. — If  not  cut  otf,  they 
come  down  in  the  winter,  and  pass  it  unmolested  in 
some  town,  where  they  are  often  as  well  known  as  their 
exploits. 

Note  41.  Page  40,  line  4. 
Looks  not  to  priesthood  for  relief. 
The  monk's  sermon  is  omitted.  It  seems  to  have  had 
so  little  etlect  upon  the  patient,  that  it  could  have  no 
hopes  from  the  reader.  It  may  be  sufficient  to  say,  that 
it  was  of  a  customarv  length  (as  may  be  perceived  from 
the  interruptions  and  uneasiness  of  the  penitent),  and 
was  delivered  in  the  nasal  tone  of  all  orthodox  preachers. 

Note  42.  Page    42,    line    3. 
And  shining  in  her  white  syniar. 
"  Symar" — shrcud. 

Note  43.  Page  43,  line  29. 
The  circumstance  to  which  the  above  story  relates 
was  not  very  uncommon  in  Turkey.  A  few  years  ago 
the  wife  of  Muchtar  Pacha  complained  to  his  father  of 
his  son's  sup[)osed  infidelity  ;  ho  asked  with  whom,  and 
she  liad  the  barbarity  to  give  in  a  list  of  the  twelve 
handsomest  women  m  Yanina.  Tney  were  seized  fast- 


268 


BYRO^^   S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


encd  up  in  sacks,  and  crowned  in  the  lake  the  same 
niuhl '  <Jne  of  tlie  guai  Js  who  was  present  informed 
me,  tiial  not  one  of  the  victims  uttered  a  cry,  oi  showed 
a  symptom  of  terror  al  so  sudden  a  "  wrench  from  all 
we  know,  from  ail  we  luve."  The  fate  of  Phrosine,  me 
fairest  of  this  sacrifice,  is  the  subject  of  many  a  Romaic 
md  Arnaout  ditty.  Tne  story  in  the  text  is  one  told  of 
a  young  \'eneti.in  man/  years  ago,  and  now  nearly  for- 
gotten. I  heard  it  b}  accident  recited  by  one  of  the 
colFee-liouse  story-tellers  who  abound  in  the  Levant, 
and  sing  or  recite  their  narratives.  The  additions  and 
internolations  by  the  translator  will  be  easily  distin- 
guished tVom  the  rest  ny  the  want  of  Eastern  imagery  ; 
and  I  regret  that  rny  memory  has  retained  so  few  frag- 
ments of  the  original. 

For  the  contents  of  some  of  the  notes  I  am  indebted 
partly  to  D'JIerbelot,  and  panly  to  that  most  eastern, 
and,  as  iNIr.  Weber  jusdy  entitles  it,  "sublime  tale,"  the 
"Caliph  Vathek."  I  do  not  know  from  what  source 
the  author  of  that  singular  volume  may  have  drawn  his 

aterials ;  some  of  his  incidents  are  to  be  found  in  the 
•'  Bibiiotheque  Orientale  ;"  but  for  correctness  of  cos- 
tume, beauty  of  description,  and  power  of  imagination, 
if  far  surpasses  all  European  imitations  ;  and  bears  such 
marks  of  originality,  that  those  who  have  visited  the  East 
will  find  some  difficulty  in  believing  it  to  be  more  than 
a  translation.  As  an  Eastern  tale,  even  Ras-selas  must 
now  before  it;  his  "  Happy  \"al!ey"  will  not  bear  a 
toiiparison  with  the  "  Hail  of  Eblis." 


mvt  SJrttrc  of  ^i3)B503Cj; 

A  TURKISH  TALE 


Had  we  never  loved  so  kindly, 
H;i(i  we  never  love*!  so  liliniily. 
Never  met  or  never  parted, 
VV'e  had  ne'er  been  broken- heartei^. 

BURNS. 


VO  THE  RIGHT  HOXOURAHLE  LORD  HOLLAND, 
THIS  TALE  IS  INSCRIBED, 

WITH     EVERY     SENTIMENT     OF     REGARD     AND 

RESPECT,   BY   HIS  GKATEFUM.Y   OBLIGED 

AND    SINCERE    FRIEND, 


BYRON. 


CANTO  I 


L 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  (!ynre<s  and  myrtle_ 

Are  embl(;ms  of  (b'fds  that  are  done  in  their  clirne  ? 
WhyreiliCLra^  of  the  vulturt',  the  love  of  tho  turtU;, 

Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime? 
tCnow  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  viue. 
Where  the  Howers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  sliinfii 
VVhe.e  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,o|ipress'd  with  perfui|ie, 
*\  ax  fain'  o'er  the  jjardeus  of  Gull '  in  her  bloomy. 


Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  tairest  of  frirrt, 
And  the  voice  oT  the  nightingale  never  is  Jiiute  ; 
Where  the  tints  (jf  the  earth,  and  thii  hues  of  the  sky, 
In  colour  though  varied,  in  beauty  0iaj:„vie, 
And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  uadyjELj 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  o{'  man,  is  divine  7     "  " 
'T  is^the  clime  of  the  east ;   't  ia  A\e  Tand  of  the  sun-  - 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds tas  his  children  haveTlone  C^ 
Oh  !  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewe.] 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  ta  e&  wliich  the» 
telL 

IL 

Begirt  with  many  a  gallant  slave, 
Apparell'd  as  becomes  the  brave, 
Awaiting  each  his  lord's  behest, 
To  guide  his  ste|)s,  or  guard  his  rest, 
Old  Giaffir  sate  in  his  Divan : 

Deep  thought  was  in  his  aged  eye  ; 
And  though  the  face  of  INIussulman 

Not  oft  betrays  to  standers  by 
The  mind  within,  well  skili'd  to  hide 
All  but  unconquerable  pride, 
His  pensive  cheek  and  pondering  brovir 
Did  more  tlian  he  was  wont  avow. 

IIL 

<Let  the  chamber  be  clear'd." — The  train  disappear'ci.* 

"Now  eall  me  the  chief  of  the  Haram  guard." 
With  Giaffir  is  none  but  his  onlv  son. 

And  the  Nubian  awaitin2  the  sire's  award. 
"  Haroun — when  all  the  crowd  that  wait 
Are  pass'd  beyond  the  outer  gate, 
(Woe  to  the  head  whose  eye  beheld 
INIy  child  Zuleika's  face  unveil'd!) 
Hence,  lead  my  daughter  from  her  tower  j 
Her  fate  is  fix'd  this  very  hmir : 
Yet  not  to  her  re[)eat  my  thought ; 
By  me  alone  t>e  duty  taught !" 
"  Pacha  I   to  hear  is  to  obey." 
No  more  must  slave  to  despot  say — 
Then  to  the  tower  had  la'en  his  way, 
But  here  young  Selim  silence  brake, 

First  lowly  rendering  reverence  meet: 
And  downcast  look'd,  and  gently  spake, 

Still  standing  at  the  Pacha's  feet : 
For  son  of  Moslem  must  expire. 
Ere  dare  to  sit  before  his   sire  ! 
"Father!   for  fear  that  thou  shouldst  chide 
My  sister,  or  her  sable  guide, 
Know — for  the  fault,  if  faiiit  there  be. 
Was  mine ;   then  fall  thy  frowns  on  ine— 
So  lovelily  the  morning  shone. 

That — let  the  old  and  weary  sleep — 
I  coultl  not;   and  to  view  alone 

The  fairest  scenes  of  land  and  deep, 
With  none  tc  listen  and  reply 
To  thoughts  with  which  my  heart  beat  nigh, 
Were  irksome — for,  whate'er  my  mootl, 
In  sooth  I  love  not  solitude  ; 
I  on  Zuleika's  slumber  broke. 

And,  as  thou  knowest  that  for  me 

Soon  turns  the  Haram's  grating  key, 
B(!r)re  the  guardian  slaves  awoke. 
We  to  the  cyfiress  groves  had  Hown, 
And  made  earth,  main,  and  heaven  our  c  wn 
There  liiiger'd  we,  beguiled  too  long 
With  Mejnoun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song;' 
Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour  * 
Beat  thv  Divan's  approaching  Hcur, 


THE    15K1DE    OF    ABYDOS. 


i6? 


To  'hoe  and  to  my  duty  true, 

VVarn'd  by  the  sound,  to  greet  thee  flew: 

But  ihere  Zuleika  wanders  yet — 

Nav,  father,  rage  not — nor  forget 

That  none  can  jiicrce  that  secret  bower 

But  those  who  watch  the  women's  tower." 

IV. 

"  Sen  of  a  slave  !"— the  Pa  ha  said — 
*'  F'roni  unbeheving  member  bred, 
Vain  were  a  father's  hope  to  see 
Aught  that  beseems  a  man  in  thee. 
Tliou,  when  thine  arm  shouU*  bend  the  bow, 
And  hurl  the  dart,  and  curb  the  steed, 
Tiiou,'  Greek  in  soul  if  not  in  creed, 
Mui  t  {)ore  where  babbling  waters  flow, 
And  watch  unfolding  roses  blow. 
Would  that  yon  orb,  whose  matin  glow 
Thv  Hstless  eyes  so  much  admire, 
Would  lend  thee  something  of  his  fire ! 
Thou,  who  wouldst  see  this  battlement 
By  Christian  cannon  piecemeal  rent; 
Nay,  tamely  view  old  Stambol's  wall 
Before  the  doss  of  IMoscow  fall, 
Nor  strike  one  stroke  for  life  and  death 
Against  the  curs  of  Nazaretli ! 
Go — let  thy  less  than  woman's  hand 
Assume  the  distatf— not  the  brand.     - 
But,  Haroun  ! — to  my  daughter  speed  : 
And  hark — of  thine  own  head  take  heed— 
If  thus  Zuleika  oft  takes  wing — 
Tiiou  see'st  yon  bow — it  hath  a  string!" 

V.  J> 

No  sound  from  SeUm's  lip  was  heard, 
At  least  that  met  old  Giaffir's  ear, 
But  every  frown  and  every  word 
Pierced  keener  than  a  Christian's  sword. 
"  Son  of  a  slave  I — reproach'd  with  fear ! 
Those  gibes  had  cost  another  dear. 
'  Son  of  a  slave  !— and  who  my  sire?" 

Thus  held  his  thoughts  their  dark  career. 
And  irlances  even  of  more  than  ire 

Flash  forth,  then  faintly  disappear. 
Old  Giaffir  gazed  upon  his  son 

And  started ;   for  within  his  e,\  ■■ 
He  read  how  mucl^  his  wrath  hau  done  ; 
He  saw  rebeiUoii  'nere  begun : 

"  Come  hither,  boy — what,  no  reply? 
J  mark  thee — and  I  know  thee  too ; 
But  there  be  deeds  thou  darest  not  do : 
But  if  thv  beard  had  manlier  length. 
And  if  thv  hand  had  skill  and  strength, 
I  M  jov  to  see  thee  break  a  lance. 
Albeit  against  my  own  perchance." 
As  sneeringly  these  accents  fell. 
On  Selim's  eyes  he  fiercely  gazed: 

Tiiat  eye  return'd  him  glance  for  glance. 
That  proudly  to  his  sire's  was  raised. 

Till  GiatTir's  quail'd  and  shrunk  askance- 
Ai;d  whv — he  felt,  hv-  durst  not  tell. 
"  Much  I  misdoubt  this  v/ayward  boy 
Will  one  day  work  me  more  annoy ; 
I  FH'ver  loved  him  from  hi<  1  irth. 
And — i;ul  his  arm  is  little  worth. 
And  scarcely  in  the  chase  could  cope 
With  timid  fawn  or  antelope, 
Far  less  would  venture  into  strife 
Where  man  contends  lor  fame  and  life — 
I  would  not  trust  that  look  or  tone : 
\'o — noi  the  blood  so  neai  my  ovcu. 


That  b]o(Jd — he    -ath  not  heard — no  moi  r— 
I  '11  watch  him  closer  than  before. 
He  is  an  Arab  ''  to  my  sight. 
Or  Christian  crouching  in  the  fight- 
But  hark! — I  hear  Zuleika's  voice; 

Like  Houris'  hymn  it  meets  mine  ear: 
She  is  the  ofispring  of  my  choice ; 

Oh !   more  than  even  her  mother  dear, 
With  ai!  *o  hope,  and  nought  to  feai  — 
INIy  Peri      ^ver  welcome  lit;re  ! 
Sweet,  as  the  desert-fountain's  wave 
To  lips  just  cool'd  in  time  to  save — 
Such  to  my  longing  sight  art  thou  ; 
Nor  can  they  wal»  *o  Mecca's  shrine 
More  thanks  for  liu.    than  I  for  thine. 

Who  blest  thy  bmh,  and  bless  thee  now." 
VI. 
Fair,  as  the  first  that  fell  of  »v  ^mankind. 

When  on  that  dread  yet  lo>eiv  serpent  smiling. 
Whose  image  then  was  stam[)"d  u|ion  her  mind- 
But  once  beguiled — and  ever  more  beguiling  ; 
Dazzling,  as  that,  oh  !   too  transcendent  vision 

To  sorrow's  phantom-peopled  slumber  given, 
When  heart  meets  heart  again  in  dreams  Elysiaii, 
And  paints  the  lost  on  earth  revived  in  heaven  ; 
Soft,  as  the  memory  of  buried  love  : 
Pure,  as  the  prayer  which  childhood  wafts  above 
Was  she — the  daughter  of  that  rude  old  chief. 
Who  met  the  maid  with  tears — but  not  of  grief. 

Who  hath  not  proved  how  feebly  words  essay  \ 
To  fix  one  spark  of  beauty's  heavenly  ray  ?  \ 

Who  doth  not  feel,  until  his  failing  sight 
Faints  into  dimness  whh  its  own  deliglit. 
His  changing  cheek,  his  sinking  heart  confess 
The  might — the  majesty  of  loveliness  ? 
Such  was  Zuleika — such  around  her  shone 
I'he  nameless  charms  unmark'd  by  her  alone: 
The  fight  of  love,  the  purity  of  grace. 
The  mind,  the  music  breathing  from  her  face.* 
The  heart  whose  softness  harmonized  the  wholo— 
And,  oh !  that  eye  was  in  itself  a  soul ! 

Her  graceful  arms  in  meekness  bendin« 
Across  hf^r  gentlv-buddinL'  breast ; 

\t  one  kir     «•  ord,  ihcse  arms  exU'iiding, 
To  cl'i^p  ihe  neck  of  him  \\\>'>  blest 
His  child  caressing  and  caresi, 
Zuleika  came — and  Giaffir  felt 
His  purpose  half  within  him  melt : 
Not  that  against  her  fancied  weal 
His  heart,  though  stern,  could  ever  feel ; 
Affection  chain'd  her  to  that  heart  •. 
Ambition  tore  the  links  ai)art, 

m. 

"  Zuleika  !   child  of  gentleness  ! 

How  dear  this  very  day  must  tell. 
When  I  forget  my  own  distress, 
In  losing  what  I  love  so  well, 
To  bid  thee  witti  another  dv.ell : 
Another!   and  a  bra' cr  man 
Was  never  seen  in  battle's  van. 
We  ^Moslem  re'-k  not  much  of  blood 

But  vet  the  lint-  ot'  Carasinan' 
Unchanged',  unchangeable  hath  st  (od 
First«of  the  t)old  Timariot  bands 
Tiiat  won  and  well  can  keep  their  ianrta. 
Enough  that  he  who  comes  to  woo 
Is  kinsman  of  the   Bey  Ogiou  : 
His  years  need  scarce  a  thought  empioy 
I  would  not  have  thee  wed  a  boy. 


270 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  thou  shall  have  a  noble  dower: 
And  his  and  my  united  power 
Will  Uiigh  to  soorn  the  death-firman, 
Which  others  tremble  but  to  scan, 
And  teach  the  messenger*  what  fate 
The  bearer  of  such  boon  may  wait. 
And  now  thou  know'st  thy  father's  will  : 

All  that  thy  sex  hath  need  to  know : 
'T  was  mine  to  teach  obedience  still — 

The  way  to  love  thy  lord  may  show." 

VIII. 

In  silence  bow'd  the  virgin's  head; 

And  if  her  eye  was  fill'd  with  tears. 
That  stifled  feeling  dare  not  shed, 
And  changed  her  cheek  from  pale  to  red, 

And  red  to  pale,  as  through  her  ears 
Those  ringed  words  like  arrows  sped, 

What  could  such  be  but  maiden  fears? 
So  bright  the  tear  in  beauty's  eye, 
Love  half  regrets  to  kiss  it  dry  ; 
So  sweet  the  blush  of  bashfuiness, 
Even  piiy  scarce  can  wi^h  it  less! 
What  e'er  it  was  the  sire  forgot; 
Or,  if  remember'd,  mark'd  it  not ; 
Thrice  cla[)p'd  his  hands,  and  call'd  his  steed,' 

Resign'd  his  gem-adorn'd  Chibouke,'° 
And  nionnting  featly  for  the  mead. 

With  Maugrabee  "  and  Mamaluke, 

His  wav  auiid  his  Delis  took,'^ 
To  witness  many  an  active  deed 
With  sabre  keen,  or  blunt  jerreed. 
The  Kislar  only  and  his  Moors 
Watch'd  well  the  Haram's  massy  doors. 

IX. 

His  head  was  leant  upon  his  band, 

His  eye  look'd  o'er  the  dark-blue  water 
That  swiftly  glides  and  gently  swells 
Between  ihe  winding  Dardanelles  ; 
But  yet  he  saw  nor  sea  nor  strand 
Nor  even  his  Pacha's  turban'd  band 

Mix  in  the  game  o^  mimic  slaughter, 
Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt  " 
With  sabre  stroke  right  sharply  dealt: 
Nor  mark'd  the  javelin-darting  crowa. 
Nor  heard  their  Ollahs  "*  wild  and  loud — 
He  thought  but  of  old  Giaffir's  daughter! 


No  word  from  Selim's  bosom  broke ; 
One  sigh  Zuleika's  thought  besi)oke: 
Still  gazed  he  through  the  lattice  grat**.. 
F'ale,  mute,^  and  m.ournfiillv  sedate. 
'I'o  him  Zuleika's  eye  was  turn'd, 
But  little  from  his  aspect  learn'd  : 
Equal  tier  grief,  yet  not  the  same  ; 
Her  heart  confess'd  a  gentler  flame: 
But  yet  that  heart  alarm'd  or  weak, 
Slie  knew  not  why,  forbade  to  speak. 
Vet  sp('ak  she  must — but  wh(!n  essay? 
"  How  stransre  he  thus  should  turn  away 
Not  thus  we  e'er  before  have  met  ; 
Not  thus  shall  be  our  ])arting  yet." 
Thrice  paced  she  slowly  tliroiigh  the  room 
And  wntch'd  his  eye — it  still  was  fix'd : 
She  snalch'd  the  urn.  wherein  was  mix'd 
The.  Persian  A  ir-gul's  '^  perfume. 
And  sprinkled  a.i  its  odours  o'er 
The  pictured  roof  "^  and  marble  floor: 


The  drops,  that  ihroush  his  glittering  vest 
The  playfid  girl's  appeal  addrest, 
Unheeded  o'er  his  bosom  Hew, 
As  if  that  breast  were  marble  too. 
"What,  sullen  yet?   it  must  not  be — 
Oh  !   gentle  Selim,  this  fi-oiii  thee  !" 
She  saw  in  curious  order  set 

The  fairest  flowers  of  Eastern  land — 
"  He  loved  them  once  ;   may  touch  them  yet, 

If  offer'd  by  Zuleika's  hand." 
The  childish  thought  was  hardly  hreath'd 
Before  the  rose  was  pkick'd  and  wreathe*!; 
The  next  fond  moment  saw  her  seat 
Her  fiiiry  form  at  Selim's  feet: 
"  This  rose  to  calm  my  brother's  cares 
A  message  from  th«  Bulbul  '*  bears  ; 
It  says  to-night  he  wdl  ])ro!on2 
For  Selim's  ear  his  sweetest  song  ; 
And  though  his  note  is  somewhat  sad, 
He  '11  try  for  ont.e  a  strain  more  glad, 
With  some  faint  hope  his  alter'd  lay 
May  sing  these  gloomy  thoughts  away. 

XI. 
"What!  not  receive  mv  foolish  flower  ? 

Nay  then  I  am  indeed  uiiblest : 
On  me  can  thus  thy  forehead  lower? 

And  know'st  thou  not  who  loves  thee  best  ? 
Oh,  Selim  dear!   oh,  more  than  dearest! 
Say,  is  it  me  thou  hat'st  or  fearest  ? 
Come,  lay  thy  head  upon  my  breast. 
And  I  will  kiss  thee  into  rest. 
Since  words  of  mine,  and  songs  must  fail 
Evcen  from  my  fabled  nightingale. 
I  knew  our  sire  at  times  was  stern. 
But  this  from  thee  had  yet  to  learn: 
Too  well  I  know  he  loves  thee  not ; 
But  is  Zuleika's  love  forgot  ? 
Ah  !   deem  I  right  ?  the  Pacha's  plan-^ 
This  kinsman  Bey  of  Carasman 
Perhaps  may  prove  some  foe  of  thine. 
If  so,  I  swear  by  Mecca's  shrine. 
If  shrines  that  ne'er  approach  allow 
To  >voman's  step  admit  her  vow. 
Without  thy  free  consent,  command. 
The  Sult.in  should  not  have  my  hand ' 
Think'st  thou  that  I  could  bear  to  part 
With  thee,  and  learn  to  halve  my  heart? 
Ah  !   were  I  sever'd  from  thy  side. 
Where  were  thy  friend — and  who  my  guide  I 
Years  have  not  seen,  time  shall  not  see,         i 
The  hour  that  tears  my  soul  from  thee:  y 

Even  Azrael,'^  from  his  deadly  quiver  I 

When  flies  that  shaft,  and  fly  it  must, 
That  parts  all  else,  shall  doom  for  e\  er 

Our  hearts  to  undivided  dust!" 

XII. 

He  lived — he  breathed — he  moved — he  felt ; 
He  raised  the  maid  from  where  she  knelt : 
His  trance  was  gone — his  keen  eye  shone 
With  thoughts  that  long  in  darkness  dwelt; 
W  itli  thoughts  that  burn — in  rays  that  melt. 
As  tiie  stream  late  conceal'd 

By  the  fringe  of  its  willows; 
When  it  rushes  reveal'd 

In  the  light  of  its  billows; 
As  the  l)o!t  bursts  on  high 

From  the  black  cloud  that  bound  it, 
Flash'd  th(!  soul  of  that  eye 

Throuuh  ttie  long  lashes  round  it 


THE    BRiDE    OF    ABYDOS. 


271 


A  «ar~horse  fit  ihc  tniiij[ict's  sound, 

A  lion  roused  by  heedUiss  hound, 

A  tyrant  waked  to  sudden  strife 

By  gra/.e  of  ill-iliiected   knile, 

Starts  not  to  more  coiiviilsive  life 

Than  ho,  who  heard  that  vow,  display'd. 

And  all,  before  rcpress'd,  betray'd  : 

"  Now  thou  art  niine,  for  ever  mine, 

With  life  to  keep,  and  scarce  with  life  resign  ; 

Now  thou  a  -t  'Mi'e,  that  sacred  oath, 

Though  swo,  n  l<y  one,  )ial!i  bound  us  both. 

V'es,  fondly,  wisely  hast  thou  done; 

That  vow  hath  saved  more  heads  than  one  : 

But  blench  not  thou — thy  simplest  tress 

Claims  more  from  me  than  tenderness  : 

I  would  not  wroii"  the  shmderest  hair  \ 

That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  fail. 

For  ail  the  treasures  buried  far 

Within  the  caves  of  Istakar. '^ 

This  morning  clouds  upon  me  lower'd, 

Reproaches  on  my  head  were  shower'd. 

And  Giaffir  almost  called  me  coward  ! 

Now  I  have  motive  to  be  brave  ; 

The  son  of  his  neglected  slave — 

Nav,  start  not,  't  was  the  term  he  gave — 

INIay  show,  though  little  apt  to  vaunt, 

A  heart  his  words  nor  deeds  can  daunt. 

Hh  son,  indeed  ! — yet  thardxs  to  thee. 

Perchance  I  arn,  at  least  shall  be  ; 

But  let  our  plighted  secret  vow 

Be  only  known  to  us  as  now. 

I  know  the  \\  retch  who  dares  demand 

From  Giafnr  thy  reluctant  hand  ; 

More  ill-ijot  wealth,  a  meaner  soul, 

Holds  not  a  Musselitn's  "^^  control  ; 

Was  he  not  bred  in  Egripo?  ^' 

A  viler  race  let  Israel  show ! 

Rut  let  that  pass — to  none  be  tcld 

Our  oath  ;   the  rest  shall  time  unfold. 

To  me  and  mme  leave  Osnian  Bey ; 

I've  partisans  for  peril's  day  : 

Think  not  i  am  what  I  appear  ; 

I  've  arms,  and  friends,  and  vengeance  near." 

XIII. 

"  Think  not  thou  art  what  thou  appearest !        d, 

Mv  Selim,  thou  art  sadiy  changed  :  ^ 

This  morn  I  saw  thee  gentlest,  d(;arest ;  c^ 

But  now  thou'rl  li-oni  thvself  estranged.  t- 

IMv  love  tl:0u  surely  knew'st  before,  f_ 

If  ii(,''er  was  iess^  nur. cau.bejiiorc.  _  ^ 

To  see  ihee,  hear  thee,,iieaiLthee,§lay,  *'' 

AndTiate  the  night  I  know  not  why,  4 

Save  tfiat  we'nieetljoOiutbj.' ^ay ;  ^^ 

With  thee  to  live,  wuh,thee  to  die.  ■( 

I  dare  not  to  my  lio^e_deny :  ^ 

Thv  cTTeek,  thine  eyes,  thy  iij)S  to  kiss, 
Lili'e  TlTi!?=ij:TiTt-  ttrrs^'ioTiKJm  than-  this  5 
For,:Alhi!  sii^ethr  it r«jftrjr  florae,  r"^""""^  ^ 

WTuitTev^rin  ihy  veins  is  flushing  ?      ,       ^ 
My  own  have  nearly  c.rught  the  sarae,  ^ 

ATTleast  I  feed  my  cheek  too  blushing.  J^ 

To  sootlie  thy  sickness,  watch  t!iy  health,        C 
Partake,  but  never  waste,  thy  wealth,  /". 

Or  stand  with  smiles  unmunriuriiig  by,  ^ 

And  lichten  half  thy  poverty;  ^ 

Do  all  but  close  thy  dvmg  eye,  J^ 

For  that  I  could  not  live  to  try  ;  f 

To  these  aione  my  thoiights  aspire: 
More  can  I  do,  or  thou  require  ? 


i^!',  Selim,  thou  must  answer  why 

W,;  n"ed  so  much  of  mystery  ? 

The  cause  I  cannot  dream  nor  tell, 

!>u'  be  it,  since  thou  say'st  'tis  weL  j 

V^■t  what  thou  mean'st  by  '  arms'  and  'friends 

Bevond  my  weaker  sense  extends. 

I  meant  tliat  Giaffir  should  have  heard 

The  very  vow  I  plignted  thee ; 
His  wrath,  would  not  revoke  my  word : 

But  surely  he  would  leave  me  free. 

Can  this  fond  wish  seem  strange  m  me, 
To  he  what  I  have  ever  been  ? 
What  other  hath  Zuleika  seen 
Frotn  simnle  childhood's  earliest  hour? 

U  iiat  other  can  she  seek  to  see 
Than  thee,  companion  of  her  bower, 

T!ie  partner  of  lier  infancy  ? 
These  cherish'd  thoughts  with  life  begun, 

Sav,  whv  must  I  no  more  avow  ? 
What  change  is  wrought  to  make  me  shun 

The  truth  ;   my  pride,  and  thine  till  now? 
To  meet  the  gaze  of  stranger's  eyes 
Our  law,  our  creed,  our  God  denies  ; 
Nor  shall  one  wandering  thought  of  mine 
At  such,  our  Prophet's  will,  repdne  : 
No  !   happier  made  by  that  decree  ! 
He  left  me  all  in  leaving  thee. 
Deep  were  my  anguish,  thus  compell'd 
To  wed  with  one  I  ne'er  behold: 
This  wherefore  should  I  not  reveal  ? 
Why  wilt  thou  urge  me  to  conceal? 
I  know  the  Pacha's  haughty  mood 
To  thee  hath  never  boded  good  ; 
And  he  so  often  storms  at  nought, 
Allah  !   forbid  that  e'er  he  ought ! 
And  why  I  know  not,  but  within 
Mv  heart  concealment  weighs  like  sin. 
If  then  such  secrecy  be  crime. 

And  such  it  feels  while  hirking  here ; 
Oh,  Selim  !  tell  me  yet  in  time. 

Nor  leave  me  thus  to  thoughts  of  fear. 
Ah  !   yonder  see  the  Tchocadar,^- 
Mv  fath^^r  leaves  the  mimic  war; 
I  tremble  now  to  meet  his  eye — 
Say,  Selim,  canst  thou  tell  me  why  ?" 

XIV. 

"  Zuleika  !   tathy  tower's  retreat 

Betake  thee — Giaffir  I  can  greet; 

And  /)ow  with  him  I  fain  must  praie 

Of  finnans,  imposts,  levies,  state. 

There's  fearfiil  news  from  Danube's  banks; 

Our  V'i/ier  nobly  thins  his  ranks, 

For  which  the  Giaour  may  give  him  thank?' 

Oar  SuUan  hath  a  shorter  way 

Sucii  costly  triumph  to  repay. 

But,  mark  me,  when  the  twilight  drum 
Hath  warn'd  the  troops  to  food  and  sleep, 

Unt'i  thv  cell  will  Selim  come: 
Tlien  softly  from  the  Harani  creep 
Where  we  may  wander  by  the  deep  : 
Our  gurden-batllements  are  steep; 

Nor  the-^e  will  rash  intruder  climb 

To  list  our  words,  or  stint  our  time, 

And  if  h(i  doth,  I  want  not  steel 

Which  some  have  felt,  and  more  may  feel, 

Then  shalt  thou  learn  of  Selim  more 

Than  thou  hast  heard  or  thought  before  . 

Trust  me,  Zuleika — fear  not  me  : 

Thou  know'st  I  hold  a  Haram  key." 


172 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


•*  Fear  thee,  my  Sebm !  ne'er  till  now 

Did  word  like  this " 

"  Delay  not  thou; 
1  Keep  the  key — and  Haroun's  guard 
Have  some,  and  ho|)p  of  more  reward. 
To-night,  Zuleika,  thou  shah  hear 
My  tale,  my  purpose,  and  my  fear: 
1  am  not.  love !   what  I  appear." 


CANTO  11. 


The  winds  are  high  on  Helle's  wave, 

As  on  that  night  of  stormy  water 
When  Love,  who  sent,  forgot  to  save 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

The  lonely  hope  of  Sestos'  daughter 
Oh  !   when  alone  along  the  sky 
Her  turret-torch  %Aas  blazing  high, 
Though  rising  gale,  and  breaking  foam. 
And  shrieking  sea-birds  warn'd  liim  home ; 
And  clouds  aloft  and  tides  below, 
With  signs  ard  sounds,  forbade  to  go ; 
He  could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear 
Or  sound  or  sign  foreboding  fear; 
His  eye  but  saw  that  light  of  love. 
The  only  star  it  hail'd  above  ; 
His  ear  but  rang  with  Hero's  song, 
"Ye  waves,  divide  not  lovers  long!" 
That  tale  is  old,  but  love  anew 
May  nerve  young  hearts  to  prove  as  tnie. 

H. 

The  winds  are  high,  and  ITelle's  tide 

Rolls  darkly  heaving  to  the  main  ; 
And  night's  descending  shadows  hide 

That  field  with  blood  heilew'd  in  vain. 
The  desert  of  old  Priam's  pride ; 
The  tombs,  sole  relics  of  his  reign, 
All — save  inimortal  dreams  that  could  beguile 
The  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle .' 

HI. 

Oh!   yet — for  there  my  step',      .vc  been; 

These  feet  have  press'd  tt.e  :•  icred  shore. 
These  limbs  that  buoyant  wave  hath  borne — 
Minstrel!   with  thee  to  muse,  to  mouri!, 

To  trace  again  those  fields  of  yore. 
Believing  every  hillock  green 

Contains  no  fiSlvid  hero's  ashes. 
And  that  around  the  undoubted  ^■cene 

Tiane  own  "  broad  Hellespont"  -^  still  dashes, 
He  long  my  lot !  and  cold  were  he 
Wno  there  could  gaze  denying  thee! 

IV. 

The  night  hath  closed  on  Helle's  stream. 

Nor  yet  hath  risen  on  Ida's  hill 
That  moon,  whirl)  shone  on  his  high  theme ; 
No  warrior  chides  her  peaceful  beam. 

But  conscious  sheplierds  bless  it  still. 
Tli<;ir  llocks  arc  :;.-a/,ing  on  the  tin'und 

Of  him  who  felt  the  Dardan's  arrow: 
Thai  mighty  heap  of  gath(;r'd  ground 
<Vni'"h  Amuion's^*  son  ran  proudly  round, 
By  nations  raised,  by  monarchs  crown'd, 

Is  new  a  lone  and  nameless  barrow  ! 

Witniu-  tliv  dwelling-nlace  how  narrow! 


Without — can  only  strangers  breaths 
The  name  of  him  that  was  beneatl   , 
Dust  long  outlasts  the  storied  stone, 
But  thou-: — thy  very  dust  is  gone  ! 


Late,  late  to-night  will  Dian  che-^r 

The  swain,  and  chase  the  boatman's  fear; 

Till  then — no  beacon  on, the  clitF 

May  shape  the  course  of  struggling  skiff 

The  scatter'd  lights  that  skirt  the  bay, 

All,  one  by  one,  have  died  away  ; 

The  only  lamp  of  this  lone  hour 

Is  ghmmerhig  in  Zuleika's  tower. 

Yes !  there  is  light  in  that  lone  chamber. 

And  o'er  her  silken  ottoman 
Are  thrown  the  fragrant  beads  of  amber, 

O'er  which  her  tairy  fingers  ran  ;  ^' 
Near  these,  with  emerald  rays  be.set, 
(How  could  she  thus  that  gem  forget?) 
Her  mother's  sainted  amulet,-'' 
Whereon  engravvid  the  Koorsee  text. 
Could  smooth  this  life,  and  win  the  next ; 
And  by  her  Comboloio  '-''  lies 
A  Koran  of  illumuied  dyes  ; 
And  many  a  bright  emblazon'd  rhyme 
By  Persian  scribes  rede(;ni'd  from  time; 
And  o'er  those  scrolls,  not  oft  so  mute, 
Reclines  her  now  neglected  lute  ; 
And  round  her  lamp  of  fretted  gold 
Bloom  flowers  in  urns  of  China's  mould; 
The  richest  work  of  Iran's  loom. 
And  Sheeraz'  tribute  of  perfume  ; 
All  that  can  eye  or  sense  delight 

Are  gather'd  in  that  gorgeous  room ; 

But  yet  it  hath  an  air  of  gloom. 
She,  of  this  Peri  cell  the  sfirite. 
What  doth  she  hence,  and  on  so  rude  a  night  1 

VI. 

Wrapt  in  the  darkest  sable  vest, 

Which  none  save  noblest  IMoslen  weai, 
To  guard  from  winds  of  heaven  the  breast 

As'hcLven  .'-elf  to  Se!i:n  dear, 
With  cautious  steps  the  rliickt?t.   (I'-eading, 

And  starting  oft,  as  through  'ae  glade 

The  gust  its  hollow  meanings  made. 
Till  on  the  smoother  ])athway  treading, 
More  free  her  timid  bosom  beat, 

The  maid  pursueil  her  silent  guide ; 
And  though  her  terror  urged  retreat. 

How  could  she  quit  her  Selim's  side? 

How  teach  her  tender  lips  to  chidu? 

VII. 

They  reach'd  at  length  a  grotto,  hewn 

By  Nature,  but  enlarged  by  art. 
Where  oft  her  lute  she  wont  to  tune, 

^And  oft  her  Koran  conn'd  apart ; 
And  oft  in  vouthful  reverie 
She  dream'd  what  Paradise  might  ne : 
Where  woman's  parted  sou!  shall  go 
H(;r  prop!',;!  had  d  sd:li:l^i  toshovv; 
But  Selim's  mansion  was  secure. 
Nor  deem'd  she,  could  he  long  endure 
His  iiower  in  other  worlds  of  bliss, 
Witliout  her,  most  beloved  in  this ! 
Oh  !   who  so  dear  with  him  could  dwell'/ 
What.  Houri  soothe  him  half  so  well? 


THE    BRIDE    OP    ABYDOS. 


273 


VIII. 

Slice  lail  she  visited  the  spot 

Some  change  seeni'd  wrought  within  the  grot: 

ft  might  be  only  that  the  night 

Disguised  things  seen  by  better  hght: 

That  brazen  hinip  but  dimly  threw 

A  ray  of  no  celestial  hue  ; 

But  in  a  nook  within  tiie  ce.. 

Her  eye  on  stranger  objects  fell. 

There  arms  were  piled,  not  such  as  wield 

The  turban'd  Delis  in  the  field ; 

But  brands  of  foreign  blade  and  hilt, 

And  one  was  red — perchance  with  guilt ! 

Ah  !   how  without  can  blood  be  spilt  ? 

A  cup  too  on  the  board  was  set 

That  did  not  seem  to  hold  sherbet. 

What  may  this  mean?  she  turn'd  to  see 

Her  Selim— "  Oh  !   can  this  be  he  ?" 

IX. 

His  robe  of  pride  was  thrown  aside, 

His  brow  no  high-crown'd  turban  bore. 
But  in  its  stead  a  siiawl  of  red, 

Wreathed  lightly  round,  his  temples  wore  ; 
That  dagger,  on  whose  hilt  the  gem 
Were  worthy  of  a  diadem, 
No  longer  glitter'd  at  his  waist. 
Where  pistols  unadorn'd  were  braced  ; 
And  from  his  belt  a  sabre  swung, 
And  from  his  shoulder  loosely  hung 
The  cloak  of  white,  the  thin  capote 
That  decks  the  wandering  Candiote: 
Beneath — his  golden- plated  vest 
Clung  like  a  cuirass  to  his  breast ; 
The  gf  cr.'S-  be.ow  his  knee  that  wound 
With  silvery  scales  were  sheathed  and  bound. 
But  were  :t  not  that  high  command 
Spake  in  his  eye,  and  tone,  and  hand, 
Ail  that  a  careless  eye  could  see 
Ir  him  was  some  young  Galiongee.^' 

X. 

"  1  iVLid  I  was  not  what  I  seern'd  ; 

And  now  thou  seest  my  words  were  true : 
I  have  a  tale  thou  hast  not  dream'd, 

If  sooth — its  truth  must  others  rue. 
My  story  now  't  were  vain  to  hide  ; 
I  must  not  see  thee  Osman's  bride  : 
But  had  not  thine  own  lips  declared 
Ho\y  much  of  that  young  heart  I  shared, 
I  could  not,  must  not,  yet  have  shown 
The  darker  secret  of  my  own. 
In  this  I  speak  not  now  of  love  ; 
That,  let  time,  truth,  and  peril  prove : 
But  first — Oh  !  never  wed  another — 
Zuleika !  I  am  not  thy  brother  !  " 

XI. 

*  Oil !   not  my  brother  ! — yet  unsay —  ' 

God !   am  I  lell  alone  on  earth 
1  >  mourn — I  dare  not  curse — the  daj 

That  saw  my  solitary  birth  ? 
Oil !  thou  wilt  love  me  now  no  more  . 

My 'sinking  heart  foreboded  ill ; 
But  know  me  all  I  was  before, 

Tliy  sister — friend — Zuleika  still. 
Thou  led'st  me  here  perchance  to  kill ; 

If  thou  hast  cause  for  %'eiigeance,  see 
My  breast  is  offer'd— take  thy  fill ! 

Far  better  w  ith  the  deo.d  to  be 

Than  livo  ihu^  nothing  now  to  thee: 
18 


Perhaps  far  worse,  for  now  I  Know 
Why  GiatTir  always  seern'd  thy  toe ; 
And  I,  alas  !   am  Giaffir's  cniid. 
For  whom  thou  wert  contemn'd,  revilod. 
If  not  thy  sister — wouldst  thou  save 
My  life.  Oh!   bid  me  be  thy  slave!" 

XII. 

"My  slave,  Zuleika  ! — nay,  I'm  thim 

But,  gentle  love,  this  transport  calm. 
Thy  lot  shall  yet  be  link'd  with  mine  ; 
I  swear  it  by  our  Prophet's  shrine, 

And  be  that  thought  thy  sorrow's  balm. 
So  may  the  Koran  ^^  verse  display'd 
Upon  Its  steel  direct  my  blade. 
In  danger's  hour  to  guard  us  both. 
As  I  preserve  that  awful  oath  ! 
The  name  in  which  thy  heart  hath  pridea 

Must  change ;  but,  my  Zuleika,  know, 
That  tie  is  widen'd,  not  divided, 

Although  thy  sire  's  my  deadliest  foe. 
My  father  was  to  Giaffir  all 

That  Selim  late  was  deem'd  to  thee  , 
That  brother  wrought  a  brother's  fall, 

But  spared,  at  least,  my  infancy  • 
And  lull'd  me  with  a  vain  deceit 
That  yet  a  like  return  may  meet. 
He  rear'd  rne,  not  with  tender  help. 

But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain ;  3° 
He  walch'd  me  like  a  lion's  whelp. 

That  gnaws  and  yet  may  break  his  chain. 

My  father's  blood  in  every  vein 
Is  boiling  ;   but  for  thy  dear  sake 
No  present  vengeance  will  I  take ; 

Though  here  I  must  no  more  remain. 
But  first,  beloved  Zuleika  !   hear 
How  Giaffir  wrought  this  deed  of  tear. 

xni. 

'■'  How  first  their  strife  to  rancour  grew^ 

If  love  or  envy  made  them  foes. 
It  matters  little  if  I  knew  ; 
In  fiery  spirits,  slights,  though  few 

And  thoughtless,  will  disturb  repose 
In  war  Abdallah's  arm  was  strong, 
Remeinber'd  yet  in  Bosniac  song, 
And  Paswan's"  rebel  hordes  attest 
How  little  love  they  bore  such  guest  • 
His  death  is  all  I  need  relate, 
The  stern  etfect  of  Giaffir's  h<ite  ; 
And  how  my  birth  disclosed  to  me, 
Whate'er  beside  it  makes,  hath  made  me  frty; 

XIV. 

"  When  Pis>van,  after  years  of  strife, 
At  la'^t  for  power,  but  first  for  life, 
In  Widin's  walls  too  proudly  sate. 
Our  Pachas  rallied  round  the  state ; 
Nor  last  nor  least  in  high  command 
Each  brother  led  a  separate  band  ; 
They  gave  their  horsetails  ^^  jq  tj,^  \vinu, 

And,  mustering  in  Sophia's  plain, 
Their  tents  were  pitch'd,  their  [)ost  assign'd  : 

To  one,  alas  !   assign'd  in  vain  ! 
What  need  of  words?  the  deadly  bf^wl, 

By  Giaffir's  order  drugg'd  and  given. 
With  venom,  subtle  as  kis  soul, 

Dismiss'd  Abdallah's  hence  to  heaven. 
Reclined  and  feverish  in  the  bath, 

He,  when  the  hunter's  sport  wa?  up. 


274 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


But  little  deeni'd  a  brother's  wrath 

To  oiicncii  his  thirst  had  such  a  cup ; 
The  bow.  u  oribcd  attendant  bore  ; 
He  drank  one  draught, ^^  nor  needed  more ! 
If  thou  ni}^  tale,  Zuieika,  doubt, 
Call  Haroun-   h';  can  tell  it  out. 

XV. 

"The  deed  once  done,  and  Paswan's  feud 

In  part  suppress'd,  though  ne'er  subdued, 

Abdallah's  pachalick  was  gain'd  : 

Thou  know'st  not  what  in  our  Divan 

Can  wealth  procure  for  worse  than  man — 

Abdallah  s  honours  were  obtain'd 

Bv  him  p  brother's  murder  stain'd  ; 

'T  is  true,  the  purchase  nearly  drain'd 

His  ill-t'ot  treasure,  soon  replaced. 

VVould'st  question  whence?   Survc  thf»  waste, 

And  ask  the  squalid  peasant  how 

Jiis  guins  repay  his  broihng  brow  ? 

Why  me  the  stern  usurper  spared, 

Why  thus  with  me  his  palace  shared, 

I  know  not.     Shame,  regret,  remorse, 

And  little  fear  from  infant's  force  ; 

Besides,  adojition  as  a  son 

Jiv  him  whom  Heaven  accorded  none, 

«')r  some  unknown  cabal,  caprice, 

Preserved  me  thus  ; — but  not  in  peace 

Me  cannot  curb  his  haughty  mood, 

Nor  I  forgive  a  father's  blood. 

XVI. 

'' Withii!  thy  father's  house  are  foes  ; 

Not  all  who  break  his  bread  are  true  : 
J'o  these  should  I  my  birth  disclose, 
His  davs,  his  very  hours  were  few. 
Tiiey  only  want  a  heart  to  lead, 
A  hand  to  point  ihem  to  the  deed. 
But  Haronn  onlv  knows,  or  knew 

This  tale,  whose  close  is  almost  nigh : 
He  in  Al)dallah's  palace  grew. 

And  held  that  post  in  his  Serai 

Which  holds  he  here — he  saw  him  die : 
But  what  could  single  slavery  do  ? 
Avenge  liis  lord  !   alas  !   too  late  ; 
Or  save  his  son  from  such  a  fate  ? 
He  chose  the  last,  and  when  elate 

With  (oes  subdued,  or  friends  betra.y'd, 
Proud  Giaifir  in  high  triumph  sate, 
He  led  me  helpless  to  his  gate, 

And  not  in  vain  it  seems  essay'd 

To  save  the  life  for  which  he  pray'd. 
The  knowledire  of  my  birth  secured 

From  all  and  each,  but  most  from  me ; 
Thus  Giaffir's  safety  was  insured. 

Removed  he  too  from  Roumelie 
To  this  our  Asiatic  side. 
Far  from  our  seats  by  Danube's  tide, 

With  none  but  Haronn,  who  retains 
Such  knowledge — and  the  Nubian  feels 

A  tyrant's  secrets  are  but  chains 
From  which  the  captive  gladly  steals, 
And  this  and   more  to  me  reveals: 
Such  stil'  to  guilt  just  Alia  sends — 
Slaves,  tool.-:,  accomplices — no  friends! 

XVII. 
"  All  this,  Zuieika,  lidrshly  sounds ; 

But  harsluT  still  my  tale  must  be  : 
Howe'^T  my  loni'iie  thy  softness  wounds, 

Vet  I  must  [)rove  all  truth  to  thee. 

I  sitvv  ilie.c  start  tnis  garb  to  see. 


Yet  is  h  one  1  oft  have  worn, 

And  long  must  wear :   this  Gahongee, 
To  whom  thy  plighted  voWTS"  §w6in, 

Is  leader  of  those   pirate  hordes, 
Whose  laws  and  lives  are  on  their  swords  : 
To  hear  whose  desolating  tale 
Would  make  thy  wanir  g  cheek  mote  pale  ; 
Those  arms  thou  see'st  my  band  b  jvi.  broug^it^ 
The  hands  that  wield  are  not  remt  to , 
Tills  cup  too  for  the  rugged  knaves 

Is  tiil'd — once  quaff'd,  they  ne'er  repine 
Our  Prophet  might  forgive  the  slaves  ; 

They  're  only  infidels  in  wine. 

XVTII. 

"  What  could  1  be?   Proscribed  at  home, • 

And  taunted  to  a  wish  to  roam ; 

And  listless  left — for  Giaffir's  fear 

Denied  the  courser  and  the  spear — 

Though  oft — Oh,  Mahomet !   how  oft ! — 

In  full  Divan  the  despot  scotF'd, 

As  if  my  weak  unwilling  hand 

Refused  the  bridle  or  the  brand : 

He  ever  n  ent  to  war  alone. 

And  pent  me  here  untried,  unknown  ; 

To  Haroun's  care  with  women  left, 

Bv  hope  uiiblest,  of  fame  bereft.    » 

While  thou — whose  softness  long  endear'd. 

Though  it  unniann'd  me,  still  had  cheer'd — 

To  Brusa's  walls  for  safety  sent, 

Awaited'st  there  the  field's  event 

Haroui),  who  saw  my  s|)irit  pining 

Bpueath  inaction's  sluggish  yoke, 
His  captive,  though  with  dread  res'gmng 

>Iv  thraUlom  for  a  season  broke, 
On  j)romise  to  return  before 
The  day  when  Giaffir's  charge  was  o'ei 
'T  is  vain — my  tongue  cannot  impart 
My  almost  drunkenness  of  heart. 
When  first  this  liberated  eye 
Survey 'd  earth,  ocean,  sun,  and  sky, 
As  if  my  spirit  pierced  them  through, 
And  all  their  inmost  wonders  knew  ! 
One  svord  alone  can  paint  to  thee 
That  more  than  feeling — I  was  free  ! 
E'en  for  thy  presence  ceased  to  pine  ; 
The  world — nay — heaven  itself  was  mine! 

XIX. 

"  The  shallop  of  a  trusty  Moor 
Convev'd  me  from  this  idle  shore ; 
I  long'd  to  see  the  isles  that  gem 
Old  Ocean's  purple  diadem: 
I  sought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all  ;  ^* 

But  when  and  v.here  I  joui'd  the  crew 
With  whom  I  'm  pledged  to  rise  or  fall, 

\Vhen  all  that  we  design  to  do 
Is  done,  'twill  then  he  time  more  meet 
•  To  tell  thee  when  the  tale's  complete. 

XX. 

'"Tis  true,  they  are  a  lawless^  brood, 
But  rough  in  form,  nor  mild  in  niooc  ; 
And  every  creed,  and  every  race, 
With  them  hath  found — may  (ind  a  plafv 
But  open  speech,  and  ready  han<I, 
Obedience  to  their  chit-f's  command  ; 
A  soul  for  evL'ry  <Miterpri;;e, 
That  nt.'ve-  sees  with  terror's  eyef  ; 
Friendship  f.r  otcIi,  and  fa-th  to  all, 
And  veii:.nanc«   von'd  for  those  who  fall. 


THE    BRIDE    OF    ABYDOS. 


Hav»j  maae  them  fittinc   iiistninients 

For  more  than  even  m\  own  intents. 

And  some — and  I  have  stiuhed  all 
Ditftinirnish'd  from  the  vulijar  rank, 

Hi  I?  rliit'tij'  to  my  council  call 
The  uisdom  of  the  cautions  Frank-  — 

And  some  to  hiirher  thoiiohls  aspire, 
The  last  of  Lambro's  ^^  patriots  there 
Anticipated  freedom  share  ; 

And  oft  around  the  cavern  fire 

On  visi'oiary  schemes  debate, 

To  snatcn  the  Rayahs  ^^  from  their  fate. 

So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 

Of  equal  riijhtSjjivlnch  man  ne'er  knew; 

t^ft7tr6_a"Tm-e  tqj  frp^Tn^T^rrTs:^::^-- 
y!   let  me  like  the  ocean-patriarch^"  roam, 
O'  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home !  '* 
My  tent  on  shore,  my  gallcj'  on  the  sea. 
Are  more  than  cities  and  serais  to  me  : 
Borne  by  my  steed,  or  wafted  by  my  sail, 
Across  the  desert,  or  before  the  gale, 
Bound  where  thou  will,  my  barb  !  or  glide,  mv  prou  ! 
Hut  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer,  thou ! 
Thou,  mv  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark  ; 
The  dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark  ! 
Or,  since  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of  strife, 
Be  thou  the  rainbow  to  the  storms  of  life  ! 
The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  clouds  away, 
And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  rav  ! 
Bl'st — as  the  Muezzin's  strain  from  Mecca's  wall 
Tc  pilgrims  pure  and  prostrate  at  his  call  : 
Soft — as  the  melody  of  youtliful  days, 
That  steals  the  trembling  tear  cf  speechless  [iraise  ; 
Drar — as  his  native  song  to  exile's'  ears, 
S!ia'l  sound  eacli  tone  thv  lon^-loved  voice  endears. 
Fur  thee  in  those  bright  isles  is  built  a  bower 
Blooming  a&  Aden''®  in  its  earliest  hour. 
A  thousand  swords,  with  Selim's  heart  and  hand. 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at  thy  command  ! 
Girt  by  my  band,  Zuleika  ai  my  side, 
The  s|)oil  of  nations  shall  bedeck  my  bride. 
The  haram's  languid  years  of  hstless  ease 
Are  well  resign'd  for  cares — for  joys  like  these; 
Not  blind  to  tiite,  I  see,  where'er  I  rove, 
Unnumher'd  perils — but  one  only  love  ! 
Vet  uell  my  toils  shall  that  fond  breast  repay, 
Timiiuh  tortnne  fi-own,  or  falser  friends  betray. 
Plow  tiear  the  dream  in  darkest  hours  of  ill, 
Should  all  be  changid.  to  find  thee  faithful  still ! 
Be  but  thv  soul,  like  Selim's,  firmly  shown  ; 
To  tluc  be  S>liin"s  tender  as  thine  own  ; 
'1  o  soothe  eacli  serrov,-,  share  in  each  delight, 
Bicnd  every  thought,  do  all — but  disunite! 
Ont;e  free,  "t  is  mine  our  horde  again  to  guide  ; 
Fri(;nds  to  each  i>*her,  toes  to  aught  beside  : 
Yet  there  we  lollow  Itut  the  bent  assign'd 
Hy  fatal  nature  to  man  s  warrmg  kind  : 
Mark  I   where  his  carnage  and  his  conquests  cease  ! 
He  makes  a  solitude',  and  calls  it — peace  ! 
J,  like  the  rest,  must  use  my  skill  or  streniith, 
]iv.  ask  no  land  bevond  mv  sabre's  length: 
Power  swavs  but  by  division — her  resource 
The  blest  all  ernUtive  of  f ra  id  or  force  ! 
Ours  be  the  last :   in  time  ci  ;ceit  may  come, 
When  cities  cage  us  in  a  social  home  : 
There  men  thv  soul  mioht  err — how  oft  the  heart 
Corruption  shakes  which  peril  could  not  part! 
A  ait  woman,  more  tlian  man,  when  death  or  woe 
O"-  even  disgrace  wouic'  lay  her  lover  low, 


Sunk  in  the  lap  of  luxury  will  shame — 
Away  suspicion! — iioi  Zu.^ika's  name! 
But  life  is  hazard  at  the  best  ;   and  here 
No  more  remains  to  win,  and  much  to  fear: 
Yes,  fear  ! — the  doubt,  the  dread  of  losing  il.ee, 
By  Osman's  power  and  Giaffir's  sfer-i  decee. 
That  dread  shall  vanish  with.the  favc-  iring  gale. 
Which  love  to-night  hath  promised  to  n.y  sail : 
No  du Hirer  daunts  the  pair  his  smile  hafn  blest. 
Their  steps  still  roving,  but  their  hearts  at  rest. 
With  thee  all  toils  are  sweet,  each  clime  hath  ehariiiS 
Earth — sea  alike — our  world  within  our  arms  ! 
Ay — let  the  loud  winds  whistle  o'er  the  deck, 
So  that  those  arms  cling  closer  round  my  neck: 
The  deepest  murmur  of  this  lip  shall  be 
No  si<rh  for  safefv,  but  a  prayer  for  thee  : 
The  wars  of  elements  no  fears  impart 
To  love,  whose  deadliest  bane  is  human  art  : 
There  lie  the  only  rocks  our  course  can  check  ; 
Here  moments  menace — there  are  years  of  wreck  ' 
But  hence  ye  thoughts  that  rise  in  horror's  shape  ! 
This  hour  bestows,  or  ever  bars  escape. 
Few  words  remain  of  mine  my  tale  to  close  ; 
Of  thine  but  one  to  waft  us  from  our  foes  ; 
Yea — foes — to  me  will  Giaffir's  hate  decline? 
And  is  not  Osman,  who  would  part  us,  thine  ? 

XXI. 

"  His  head  and  faith  from  doubt  and  death 

Return'd  in  time  mv  guard  to  save  ; 

Few  heard,  none  told,  that  o'er  the  wave 
From  isle  to  isle  I  roved  thp  while: 
And  since,  though  parted  from  my  band, 
Too  seldom  now  I  leave  the  land, 
No  deed  they  've  done,  nor  deed  shaL  do, 
Ere  I  have  heard  and  doom'd  it  too : 
I  form  the  plan,  decree  the  spoil, 
'T  is  fit  I  oftener  share  the  toil. 
But  now  too  long  I  've  held  thine  ear ; 
Time  presses,  floats  my  bark,  and  here 
We  leave  behind  but  hate  and  fear. 
To-morrow  Osman  with  his  train 
Arrives — to-night  must  break  thy  chain . 
And  wouldst  thou  save  that  haughty  Bey, 

Perchance  his  life  who  gave  thee  thine. 
With  me  this  hour  away — away  I 

But  yet,  though  thou  art  plighted  mine, 
Wouldst  thou  recall  thy  willing  vow, 
Appall'd  by  truths  imparted  now. 
Here  rest  1 — not  to  see  thee  wed : 
But  be  that  peril  on  ?ny  head  !" 

XXII. 

Zuleika,  mute  and  motionless. 

Stood  like  that  statue  cf  distress, 

When,  her  last  hope  for  ever  gone. 

The  mother  liarden'd  into  stone  ; 

All  in  the  maid  that  eye  could  see 

Was  but  a  younger  Niobe. 

But  ere  her  lip,  or  even  her  eye, 

Essav'd  to  speak,  or  look  reply, 

Beneath  the  garden's  wicket  porch 

Far  flash'd  on  high  a  blazing  torch 

Another — and  another — and  another — 

"  Oh  !  fly — no  more — yet  now  my  more  than  ItrovliCT  ' 

Far,  wide,  through  every  thicket  spread, 

The  fearful  lights  are  gleaming  red  ; 

Nor  these  alone — for  eacJi  right  hairi 

Is  ready  with  a  sheathless  brand. 


276 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


They  part,  pursue,  return,  and  vvheei 
With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel ; 
And  last  of  all,  his  sabre  waving. 
Stern  Giaffir  in  his  fury  raving : 
And  now  almost  they  touch  the  cave — 
Oh!  must  tlat  groi  be  Selim's  grave? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless  he  stood—"  'Tis  come— soon  past- 
One  kiss,  Zuleika — 't  is  my  last : 

But  yet  my  band  not  far  from  shore 
May  hoar  this  signal,  see  the  flash  ; 
Yet  now  too  few — the  attempt  were  rash : 

No  matter — yet  one  efl^ort  more." 
Forth  to  the  cavern  mouth  he  stept  ; 

His  pistol's  echo  rang  on  high. 
Zuleika  started  not,  nor  wept, 

Despair  benumb'd  her  breast  and  eye  ! — 
"  They  hear  me  not,  or  if  they  ply 
Their  oars,  'tis  but  to  see  me  die ; 
riiat  sound  hath  drawn  my  foes  more  nigh. 
Then  forth  my  father's  scimitar, 
TI;ou  ne'er  hast  seen  less  equal  war ! 

Farewell,  Zuleika !— Sweet !  retire: 
Yet  stay  within — here  hnger  safe, 
At  thee  his  rage  will  only  chafe. 
Stir  not — lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  should  glancfc. 

Fear'st  thou  for  him  ? — may  I  expire 

If  in  this  strife  I  seek  thy  sire  ! 
No — though  by  him  that  poison  pour'd  ; 
No — though  again  he  call  me  coward  ! 
But    amely  shall  I  meet  their  steel  ? 
So— as  each  crest  save  his  may  feel !" 

XXIV. 

One  bound  he  made,  and  gain'd  the  sand : 

Already  at  his  feet  hath  sunk 
The  foremost  of  the  prying  band, 

A  gasping  head,  a  quivering  trunk: 
Another  falls— but  round  liirn  close 
A  swarming  circle  of  his  foes  ; 
From  right  to  left  his  {)ath  he  cleft. 

And  almost  met  the  meeting  wave : 
His  boat  appears — not  five  oars'  length — 
His  comrades  strain  with  desperate  strength — 

Oh  !  are  they  yet  in  time  to  save  ? 

His  feet  the  foremost  breakers  lave  ; 
His  band  are  plunging  in  the  bay. 
Their  sabres  glitter  through  the  spray  ; 
Wet — v.'ild — unwearied  to  the  strand 
They  struggle — now  they  touch  the  land  ! 
They  come — 't  is  but  to  add  to  slaughter — 
His  heart's  best  blood  is  on  the  water ! 

XXV. 

Escaped  from  shot,  unhartn'd  by  steel, 
Or  scarcely  grazed  its  force  to  feel. 
Had  Selim  won,  betray'd,  beset, 
T  i  where  the  strand  and  billows  met : 
There  as  his  last  step  left  tlie  land. 

And  the  last  death-blow  dealt  his  hand— 

Ah  !   wherefore  did  he  turn  to  look 
F>r  her  his  eye  but  sought  in  vain? 

That  pause,  that  fatal  aa/e  h(^  took, 

Hath  dooni'd  his  di'atli,  or  lix'd  his  chair 

fead  proof,  in  peril  and  in  pain, 

H''W  late  will  lover's  hope  remain! 

His  ba(;k  was  to  the  dashing  spray ; 

Behind,  but  close,  his  "-ornrades  lay, 


When,  at  the  instant,  hiss'd  the  ball — 
"  So  may  the  foes  of  Giaffir  fall !" 
Whose  voice  is  heard  ?  whose  carbine  rang? 
Whose  bullet  through  the  night-air  sang. 
Too  nearly,  deadly  aim'd  to  err  ? 
'T  is  thine — Abdallah's  murderer ! 
The  father  slowly  rued  thy  hate. 
The  son  hath  found  a  quicker  fate  : 
Fast  from  his  breast  the  blood  is  bubb.ing, 
The  whiteness  of  the  sea-foam  troubling-  • 
If  aught  his  lips  essay'd  to  groan. 
The  rushing  billows  choak'd  the  tone  I 

XXVI. 
Morn  slowly  rolls  the  clouds  away ; 

Few  trophies  of  the  fight  are  there : 
The  shouts  that  shook  the  midnight  bay 
Are  silent ;  but  some  signs  of  fray 

That  strand  of  strife  may  bear. 
And  fragments  of  each  shiver'd  brand  : 
Steps  stamp'd  ;   and  dash'd  into  the  sand 
The  print  of  many  a  struggling  hand 
May  there  be  mark'd  ;   nor  far  remote 
A  broken  torch,  an  oarless  boat ; 
And  tangled  on  the  weeds  that  heap 
The  beach  where  shelving  to  the  deep 

There  lies  a  white  capote  ! 
'Tis  rent  in  twain — one  dark-red  stain 
The  wave  yet  ripples  o'er  in  vain  : 

But  where  is  he  who  wore  ? 
Ye !  who  would  o'er  his  relics  weep 
Go,  seek  them  where  the  surges  sweep 
Their  burtlien  round  Sig^eum's  steep, 

And  cast  on  Lemnos'  shore  : 
The  sea-birds  shriek  above  the  prey, 
O'er  which  their  hungry  beaks  delay, 
As  shaken  on  his  restless  pillow, 
His  head  heaves  with  the  heaving  billow; 
That  hand,  whose  motion  is  not  life. 
Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife, 
Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high. 
Then  levell'd  with  the  wave — 
What  recks  it,  though  that  corse  shall  .ifc 

Within  a  living  grave  ? 
The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 
Hath  only  robb'd  the  meaner  worm  : 
The  only  heart,  the  only  eye 
Had  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die. 
Had  seen  those  scatter'd  hmbs  composed, 
And  mourn'd  above  his  turban-stone,  *" 
That  heart  hath  burst — that  eye  was  closed -~ 
Yea — closed  before  his  own  ! 
XXVII. 
By  Hello's  stream  there  is  a  voice  of  wail ! 
And  woman's  eye  is  wet — man's  cheek  is  pale : 
Zuleika  !   last  of  Giaffir's  race, 

Thy  destined  lord  is  come  too  late  ; 
He  sees  not— n(i'er  shall  see  thy  face ! 

Can  he  not  hear 
The  loud  Wul-wulleh*'  warn  his  distant  ear?         ; 
Thy  handmaids  weeping  at  the  gate, 
The  Koran-chaunters  of  the  hymn  of  fate. 
The  silent  slaves  with  folded  arms  that  wait, 
Sighs  in  the  hall,  and  shrieks  upon  t' r.  ^a.e. 

Tell  him  thy  tale  ! 
Thou  didst  not  view  thy  Selim  fall ! 

That  fearful  moment  when  he  left  the  cave 
Thy  heart  grew  chill : 
He  was  thy  hope— tliy  joy— thy  love— thine  all  — 
And  that  last  though  on  him  thou  could^t  not  save- 
Sufficed  to  kill , 


THE    BRIDE    OF    ABYDOS. 


277 


Rnrst  forth  in  one  wild  cry — and  all  was  still. 

Peace  to  thy  broken  heart,  and  virgin  grave! 
All !  hai»py  !  but  of  iit'e  to  IjascJhia .wora^ ! 
"ITiat  grit£-4houahJtee^^to^^  ! 


TTirlorriali^pTr'ne'er  to  feel  nor  fc^r  the  force 
« It  "al'»scnce,11iame,  pride,  hate,j:eYP»^g^,,r61B['Q«^^r- 
A nd,  t3fr^^^trat^7)ang1ivTl(n^'  m        tha"  "liV'ilnfiSS  ^i^*^ ! 
Tin.  wwviTT 


lai  p. Ill"   »  "^  ,,V'. ""-"  ^'  ;''^i,'iii'fJHVliHliiilff 


rhouglit  ot  the  gloomy  daj  an^  ghastl}-  night, 
riKit Jrejids  thjl-dackilf  ffi.  aiadyAt.  loatlies  the  li^it, 
That  winds  around,  and  tears  the  quivering  heart! 
/\h  I  \vTieref(1i'e  not  consume  it — and  depar;t ! 

Woe  to  thee,  rash  and  unrelenting  chief! 
Vainlv  thou  heap'st  the  dust  upon  thy  nead, 
Vainly  the  sackcloth  o'er  thy  limbs  doth  spread  : 
By  that  same  hand  Abdallah — Selim  bled. 
Kow  let  it  tear  thv  beard  in  idle  grief: 
rhv  pride  of  heart,  thy  bride  for  Osman's  bed, 
Siie,  whom  thy  sultan  had  but  seen  to  wed, 
Thy  daughter  's  dead ! 
Hope  of  thine  age,  thy  twilight's  lonely  beam. 
The  star  hath  set  that  shone  on  Helle's  stream. 
tVhat  quench'd  its  ray  ? — the  blood  that  thou  hast  shed 
tiark !  to  the  hurried  question  of  despair: 
'  Where  iy  my  child  ?"  an  echo  answers — "Where  ?"^^ 

XXVIII. 

Within  the  place  of  thousand  tombs 

That  shine  beneath,  while  dark  above 
The  sad  but  living  cypress  glooms 
And  withers  not,  though  branch  and  leaf 
Are  stamp'd  with  an  eternal  grief. 

Like  early  unrequited  love, 
One  spot  exists,  which  ever  blooms 

Lven  in  that  deadly  grove — 
A  single  rose  is  shedding  there 

Its  lonely  lustre,  meek  and  pale : 
It  looks  as  planted  by  despair — 

So  white — so  faint — the  slightest  gale 
Might  whirl  the  leaves  on  high  ; 

And  yet,  though  storms  and  blight  assail, 
And  hands  more  rude  than  wintry  sky 
May  wring  it  from  the  stem — in  vain — 
To-morrow  sees  it  bloom  again ! 
The  stalk  some  spirit  gently  rears, 
And  waters  with  celestial  tears ; 

For  well  may  maids  of  Helle  deem 
That  this  can  be  no  earthly  flower, 
Wliich  mocks  the  tempest's  withering  hour, 
And  buds  unshelter'd  by  a  bower  ; 
Nor  droops,  though  spring  refuse  her  shower, 

Nor  woos  the  summer  beam : 
To  it  the  livelong  night  there  sings 
A  bird  unseen — but  not  remote  : 
Invisible  his  airy  wings, 
But  soft  as  harp  that  Houri  strings 
-       His  long  entrancing  note] 
\  It  were  the  bulbul ;   but  his  throat. 

Though  mournful,  pours  not  such  a  strain : 
For  thev  who  listen  cannot  leave 
The  spot,  but  linger  there  and  grieve 

As  if  they  loved  in  vain  ! 
And  yet  so  sweet  the  tears  they  shed, 
T  is  sorrow  so  unmix'd  with  dread, 
rhey  scarce  can  bear  the  morn  to  break 

Thfet  melancholy  spell. 
And  longer  yet  would  %veep  and  wake, 

He  sings  so  wild  and  well ! 
But  when  the  day-blush  bursts  from  high, 
Expires  that  mr.gic  melody. 


And  some  have  been  who  could  believe 
(So  fondly  youthful  dreams  deceive, 

Yet  harsh  be  they  that  blame) 
That  note  so  piercing  and  profound 
Will  shape  and  syllable  its  sound 

Into  Zuleika's  name.*' 
'T  is  from  her  cypress'  summit  heard, 
That  melts  in  air  the  li(iuid  word : 
'T  is  from  her  lowly  virgin  earth 
Tiiat  white  rose  takes  its  tender  birth. 
There  late  was  laid  a  marble  stone  ; 
Eve  saw  it  placed— the  morrow  gone! 
It  was  no  mortal  arm  that  bore 
That  deep-fix'd  pillar  to  the  shore  ; 
For  there,  as  Helle's  legends  tell, 
Next  morn  't  was  found  where  Seiim  feli ; 
Lash'd  by  the  tumbling  tide,  v  hose  wave 
Denied  his  bones  a  holier  grave: 
And  there,  by  night,  reclined,  't  is  said. 
Is  seen  a  ghastly  turban'd  head  : 
And  hence  extended  by  the  billow, 
'T  is  named  the  "  Pirate-phantom's  pillow  !" 
W^here  first  it  lay  that  mourning  flower 
Hath  tlourish'd  ;   flourisheth  this  hour. 

Alone  and  dewy,  coldly  pure  and  pale  ; 

As  weeping  beauty's  cheek  at  sorrow's  tale ! 


NOTES. 


Note  I.   Page  55,  Hne  8. 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gid  in  her  bloom. 
"Gul,"the  rose. 

Note  2.  Page  56,  line  9. 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done  ? 

"  Souls  made  of  fire,  and  children  of  the  sun. 
With  whom  revenge  is  virtue." 

Young's  Revenge. 

Note  3.  Page  57,  line  33. 
With  Mejnoun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song. 
Mejnoun  and  Leila,  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  the 
East.     Sadi,  the  moral  poet  of  Persia. 

Note  4.  Page  57,  line  34. 
Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour. 
Tambour,  Turkish  drum,  which  sounds  at  sunrise, 
noon,  and  twilight. 

Note  5.  Page  60,  line  3. 
He  is  an  Arab  to  my  sight. 
The  Turks  abhor  the  Arabs  (who  return  the  compii 
ment  a  hundred  fold),  even  more  than  they  hate  the 
Christiaps. 

Note  6.  Page  61,  line  4. 
The  mind,  the  music  breathing  from  her  face. 
This  expression  has  met  with  objections.  I  wiL  ttoi 
refer  to  "him  who  hath  not  Music  in  his  soul,"  but 
merely  request  the  reader  to  recollect,  for  ten  secondij. 
the  features  of  the  woman  whom  he  believes  to  be  tn*" 
most  beautiful  ;  and  if  he  then  does  not  compiehenH 
fully  what  is  feebly  expressed  in  the  above  line,  1  shaF 


278 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


oe  sorry  for  us  both  For  an  eloquent  passage  in  the 
•atest  work  of  the  first  female  writer  of  this,  perhaps 
of  any  age,  on  the  analogy  (and  the  immediate  com- 
parison excited  by  that  analogy),  between  "  j)ainting 
and  music,"  see  vol.  iii.  cap.  10.  De  L'Ai.lemagxe. 
And  is  not  this  connexion  still  stronger  with  the  original 
than  the  copy  ? — with  the  colouring  of  nature  than  of 
art?  After  all,  ihis  is  rather  to  be  felt  than  described  ; 
still  1  thmk  there  are  some  who  will  understand  it,  at 
leas*  they  would  have  done,  had  they  beheld  the  coun- 
tenance whose  speaking  harmony  suggested  the  idea ; 
for  this  passage  is  not  drawn  from  imagination,  but 
memory,  that  mirror  which  affliction  dashes  to  the 
earth,  and  looking  down  upon  the  fragments,  only  be- 
holds the  reflection  multiplied ! 

Note  7.  Page  61,  line  26. 
But  yei  the  line  of  Carasman. 
Carasman  Oglou,  or  Kara  Osman  Oglou,  is  the 
prmcipal  landholder  in  Turkey  :  he  governs  Magnesia: 
tho.-^e  who,  by  a  kind  of  feudal  tenure,  possess  land  on 
condition  of  service,  are  called  Timariots :  they  serve 
as  Spahis,  according  to  the  extent  of  territory,  and 
bring  a  certain  number  into  the  field,  generally  cavalry. 

Note  8.  Page  62,  line  5. 
And  teach  tl)e  meisenjjer  what  fate. 
When  a  Pacha  is  sufficiently  strong  to  resist,  the 
single  messenger,  who  is  always  the  first  bearer  of  the 
order  for  his  death,   is  strangled  instead,  and  some- 
times five  or  six,   one   after  the  other,  on  the  same 
errand,   by  command  of  the  refractory   patient ;   if,  on 
the  contrar}',  he  is  weak  or  loyal,  he  Ixjws,  kisses  the 
Sultan's  respectable  signature,  and  is  bowsirung  with 
great  complacency.     In  1810,  several  of  these  presenib 
were   exhibited    in    the    niche   of   the   Seraglio   gate; 
(UDioug   others   the    head   of   the   Piicha  of  Bagdad,  a 
brave  young  man,  cut  off  by  treachery,  after  a  despe- 
rate resistance. 

Note  9.   Page  62,  line  24. 
Thrice  clapp'd  his  hands,  and  culi'd  his  steed. 
C!aiiping  of  hands  calls  the  servants.      The   Turks 
hate  a  sui»erfluous  expenditure  of  voice,  and  they  have 
no  hells. 

Note  10.  Page  62,  line  25. 

Resign'd  his  gem-adorn'd  chibouque. 

Chibouque,  the  Turkish  pipe,   of  which   the  amber 

moutli-piece,  and  sometimes  the  ball  which  contains  the 

leaf,  is  adorned  with  precious  stones,  if  in  possession 

of  the  wealthier  orders. 

Note  11.  Page  62,  line  26. 
With  Maugrabee  and  Mamaluke. 
Maugrabee,  Moorish  mercenaries. 

Note  12.  Page  62,  line  27. 
His  way  amid  his  Delis  toolf. 
Deli,  liravos  who  form  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  cavalry, 
and  always  begin  the  action. 

Note  13.  Page  63,  line  8. 
Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt. 
A  twisted  fold  of  felt  is  used  for  scimitar  practice  by 
the  Turks,  and  few  but  Mussulnuin  arms  can  cut  through 
It  at  a  single  stroke;  sometimes  a  tough  turban  is  used 
for  the  same  purpose.  The  jerreed  is  a  game  of  blunt 
javelins,  animated  and  graceful. 

Note  U.  Page  63,  line  11. 
Nor  heard  their  Ollahs  wild  and  loud. 
"Ollahs,"  Alia  il  Allah,  the  "Leilics."  as  the  Spanish 
po«t8  <  all  them ;  the  sound  is  Ollah ;  a  cry  of  which  the 


Turks,  for  a  silent  people,  are  somu.vnat  piofus*!,  ,>d. 
ticularly  during  tne  jerreed,  or  in  the  chase,  but  mosUj 
in  battle.     Their  animation  in  the  field,  and  gravity  iti 
the  chamber,  with  their  pipes  and  cornboloios,  lorm  ail 
amusing  contrast. 

Note  15.  Page  63,  line  31. 
Tlie  Persian  Atar-gul's  perfume. 
"Atar-gul,"  ottar   of   roses.     The    Persian  is   the 
finest. 

Note  16.  Page  63,  line  33. 
The  pictured  roof  and  marble  floor. 
The  ceiling  am'  wainscots,  or  -ather  walls,  of  tht 
Mussulman  apartments  are  generally  painted,  in  grea 
houses,  with  one  eternal  and  hij.'hly  colf>urc;d  view  o*' 
Constantinople,  wherein  the 'principal  feature  is  a  nobi« 
contempt  of  perspective ;  below,  arms,  scimitars,  etc., 
are  in  general  fancifully  and  not  inelegantly  disposed. 

Note  17.  Page  64,  hue  16. 
A  message  from  the  Bulbul  bear.s. 
It  has  been  much  doubted  whether  the  notes  of  this 
"  I.,o\er  of  the  rose,"  are  sad  or  merry  ;  and  Mr.  Fox's 
remarks  on  the  subject  have  provoked  some  learned 
controversy  as  to  the  opinions  of  the  ancients  on  the 
subject.  I  dare  not  venture  a  conjecture  on  the  point, 
though  a  little  inclined  to  the  '*  errare  nialleni,"  etc., 
if  jVIr.  Fox  was  mistaken. 

Note  18.  Page  6-5,  line  17. 
Even  Azrael,  from  his  deadly  quiver 
"Azrael" — the  angel  of  death. 

Note  19.  Page  66,  line  19. 
Within  the  caves  of  Istakar. 
The  treasures  of  thePreadamite  Sultans.     See  D'Heb- 
BELOT,  article  Istakar. 

Note  28.  Page  ("6,  line  35. 
Holds  not  a  Musselim's  co'iUul. 
Musselim,  a  governor,  the  next  in  rank  after  a  Pacha, 
a  Way  wode  is  the  third  •   and  then  come  the  Agas. 

Note  21.  Page  67,  fine  1. 

Was  he  not  bred  in  Earripo  1 

Egripo — the  Negropont.     According  to  the  proverb, 

the  Turks  of  Egripo,  the  Jews  of  Salonica,  and  the 

Greeks  of  Athens,  are  the  worst  of  their  respective 

races. 

Note  22.  Page  69,  line  7. 
Ah  1  yonder  see  the  Tchocadar. 
"  Tchocadar" — one  of  the  attendants  who  precedes 
a  man  of  authority. 

Note  23.  Page  71,  line  19. 
Tiiinc  own  "  broad  Hellespont"  still  d;whes. 
The  wrangling  about  this  epithet,  "the  broad  Hel 
lespont"  or  the  "boundless  Hellespont,"  whetner  il 
means  one  or  *he  other,  or  what  it  means  at  all,  has 
been  beyond  all  possibility  of  detail.  I  have  even  heard 
it  disputed  on  tlie  spot ;  and,  not  foreseeing  a  speedy 
conclusion  to  the  cont»-oversy,  amused  myself  with 
swimming  across  it  in  the  mean  time,  and  probably 
may  again,  before  the  poim  is  settled.  Indeed,  the 
(piestion  as  to  the  truth  of  "  the  tale  of  Troy  diviiui " 
still  continues,  much  of  it  resting  upon  the  talismanic 
word  "  a-rrmiios :"  probably  Horner  had  the  same  notjt:o 
of  distance  that  a  coquette  has  of  time,  and  when  he 
talks  of  boundless,  means  half  a  mile  ;  as  the  latter,  by 
a  like  figure,  when  she  savh  eternal  attachment,  simnly 
specifies  three  weeks. 

Note  24.   Page  71,  hue  31. 
Which  Ammon's  s(in  van  prDtidly  rounrl. 
Before  his  Persian  invasion,  and   crowned   the  altar 
with  laurel,  etc.     lie  was  afterwards  imitatea  by  Cara- 


THE    BRIDE    OF    ABYDOS. 


27^) 


calla  111  Ills  race.  It  is  believed  that  the  last  also 
P'jisoned  a  friend,  named  Festus,  for  the  sake  of  new 
Patroclan  games.  I  have  seen  the  sheep  feeding  on 
JiC  tombs  of  .'Esietes  and  Antiloclms  ;  the  first  is  in 
ihe  centre  of  the  plain. 

Note  25.   Page  72,  line  17. 
O'er  wliich  her  fairy  fin(?ers  ran. 
"vVlwc  nibbed,  the  amber  is  susceptible  of  a  perfume, 
which  is  shght   but  not  disagreeable. 

Note  26.  Page  72,  line  20. 
Her  mother's  sainted  amulet. 
The  belief  in  amulets  engraved  on  gems,  or  inclosed 
in  qold  boxes,  containing  scraps  from  the  Koran,  worn 
lOimd  the  neck,  wrist,  or  arm,  is  still  universal  in  the 
East.  The  Koorsce  (tlirone)  verse  in  the  second  chap. 
of  the  Koran  describes  the  attributes  of  the  nwst  High, 
and  is  engraved  in  this  manner,  and  worn  bv  the  pious, 
a"  the  most  esteemed  and  sublime  of  all  sentences. 

Note  27.  Page  72,  line  17. 
And  by  her  Comboloio  lies. 
"Comboloio"— a  Turkish  rosary.  The  MSS.,  par- 
.icularly  thiiso  of  the  Persians,  are  richlv  adorned  and 
illuminated.  The  Greek  females  are  kept  in  utter  igno- 
•ance ;  out  many  o^  the  Turkish  girls  are  highly  ac- 
-.omplished,  though  not  actually  qualified  for  a  Chris- 
tian coterie  ;  perhaps  some  of  our  own  "Wj<es"  might 
not  be  the  worse  for  bleaching. 

Note  28.  Page  75,  line  4. 
In  him  was  some  youn?  Galiongee. 
GallQagre" — or  Gaiiongi,  a  sailor,  that  is,  a  Tiirk- 
i^h  sailor  ;  the  Greeks  navigate,  the  Turks  work  the 
guns.  Their  dress  is  picturesque  ;  and  1  iiave  seen  the 
Captain  Pacha  more  than  once  wearing  it  as  a  kind  of 
tnmg.  Their  legs,  howev^,  are  generallv  naked.  The 
ijuskins  described  in  the  text  as  sheathed  behind  with 
silver,  are  those  of  an  Arnaout  robber,  who  was  my 
ho3i  (he  had  quitted  the  profession),  at  his  Pvrgo,  near 
Gastouni  in  the  Morea ;  they  wore  plated  in  scales  one 
over  the  other,  like  the  back  of  an  armadillo. 

Note  29.   Page  76,  line  13. 
So  may  fiie  Koran  verse  display'd. 
The  characters  on  all  Turkish  scimitars  contain  some- 
dmes  the  name  of  the  place  of  their  manufacture,  but 
more  generally  a  text  from  the  Koran,  in  letters  of  oold. 
Amongst  those  in  my  possession  is  one  with  a  blade  of 
singular  construction  ,   it  is  very  broad,  and  the  edge 
notched  into  serpentine  curves  like  the  ripple  of  water, 
or  the  svavering  of  tlame.     I  asked  the  Armenian  who 
sold  it,  what  possible  use  such  a  figure  could  add :   he 
said,  in  Italian,  that  he  did  not  know ;   but  the  Mussul- 
mans had  an  idea  that  those  of  this  form  gave  a  severer 
wound;   and  liked  it  because  it  was  "piuferoce."     I 
did  not  much  admire  the  reason,  but  bought  it  for  its 
eculiarity. 

Note  30.  Page  76,  line  28. 
Rut  like  the  ncph(!W  of  a  (^ain. 
It  is  to  be  Vbserved,  that  every  allusion  to  anv  thing 
or  pertionage  in  the  Old  Testament,  such  as  the  Ark,  or 
Cain,  is  equally  th»,  privilege  of  Mussulman  and  Jew; 
indeed  the  former  profess  to  be  inuch  better  acquainted 
with  the  lives,  true  and  fabulous,  of  the  patriarchs,  than 
is  warranted  by  our  own  Sacred  writ,  and  not  content 
with  Adam,  they  have  a  biographv  of  Pre- Adamites. 
Solomon  is  the  monarch  of  all  necromancv,  and  Moses  a 
prophet  inferior  only  to  Christ  and  Mahomet.     Zuleika    ' 
is  the  Persian  name  of  Poti[)!iar's  wife,  and  her  amour 
with  Joseph  constitutes  one  of  the  finest  poern.s  in  their 


language.    It  is  therefore  no  violation   it  cosiume  to  pu 
the  «Hines  of  C  ain,  or  Noah,  into  the  mouth  of  a  Moslem. 

Note  31.  Page  77,  line  11. 
And  Pitsvvan's  rebel  hordes  attest. 
Paswan  Oglou,  the  rebel  of  Widin,  who  for  the  las" 
vears  of  his  life,  set  the  whole  power  of  the  Porle  at 
defiance. 

Note  32.  Page  77,  line  24. 
They  gave  their  horsetails  to  the  wind. 
Horsetail,  the  standard  of  a  Pacha. 

Note  33.  Page  78,  line  4. 
He  drank  one  drauj-'ht,  nor  needed  more  I 
Giaffir,  Pacha  of  Argyro  Castro,  or  Scutari,  I  am  noJ 
sure  which,  was  actually  taken  off  by  the  Albanian  Ali, 
in  the  manner  described  in  the  text.  Ali  Pacha,  while 
I  was  in  the  country,  married  the  daughter  of  his  victim, 
some  years  after  the  event  had  taken  place  at  a  bath  in 
Sophia,  or  Adrianople.  The  poison  was  mixed  in  the 
cup  of  coffee,  which  is  presented  before  the  sherbet  by 
the  bath-keeper,  after  dressing. 

Note  34.    Page  81,  line  18. 
I  soucht  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all. 
The  Turkish  notions  of  almost  all  islands  are  confined 
to  the  Archipelago,  the  sea  alluded  to. 

Note  35.  Page  82,  line  8. 
The  lost  of  Lambro's  patriots  there. 
Lambro  Canzani,  a  Greek,  famous  for  his  efforts  in 
1789-90  for  the  independence  of  his  country:  aban- 
doned by  the  Russians,  he  became  a  [)irafe,  and  the 
Archipelago  was  the  scene  of  his  enterprises.  He  is  said 
to  be  still  alive  at  Petersburgh.  He  and  Riga  are  the  two 
most  celebrated  of  the  Greek  revolutionists. 

Note  36.   Page  82,  line  12. 
To  sniUch  the  Rayahs  from  their  fate. 
"Ravahs,"  all  who  pay  the  capitation  tax,  called  the 
"Haratch." 

Note  37.  Page  82,  line  16. 
Ay!  let  me  like  the  ocean  patriarch  roam. 
This  first  of  voyages  is  one  of  the  few  with  which  the 
Mussulmans  profess  much  acquaintance. 

Note  38.  Page  82,  line  17. 
Or  only  know  on  land  ihe  Tartar's  home. 
The  wandering  life  of  the  Arabs,  Tartars,  and  Turko- 
mans, will  be  found  well  detailed  in  any  book  of  Eastern 
travels.  That  it  possesses  a  charm  peculiar  to  itself  can- 
not be  denied.  A  young  French  renegado  confessed  to 
Chateaubriand,  that  he  never  found  himself  alone,  gal- 
loping in  the  desert,  without  a  sensation  approaching  to 
rapture,  which  was  indescribable. 

Note  39.   Page  83,  line  2. 
Blooming  as  Aden  in  its  earliest  hour. 
"  Jannat  al  Aden,"  the  perpetual  abode,  the  Mussul- 
man Paradise. 

Note  40.    Page  89,  line  14. 
And  mourn'd  above  his  turban-stone. 
A  turban  is  carved  in  stone  above  the  graves  of  mm 
only. 

Note  41.   Page  89,  line  24. 
The  loud  Wul  wulleh  warn  his  distant  ear. 
The  death-song  of  the  Turkish  women.  The  "si'lenl 
slaves"  are  the  men  whose  notions  of  decorum  forbid 
complaint  in  public. 

Note  42.  Page  90,  line  25. 
"  Where  is  my  child  ?  "—an  echo  answers—"  Where  ?  ' 
"I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth  and  cried,  'tl» 


280 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKfe. 


friends  of  my  yoi  th,  where  are  the}'/'  and  an  Echo 
answered,  '  where  are  they '' ' " 

From  an  Arabic  MS. 

The  above  (juotation  (from  which  the  idea  in  the  text 
is  taken)  must  bo  already  famihar  to  every  reader — it  fs 
civen  mthe  first  annotation,  page  67,  of  "the  Pleasures 
of  Memory;"  a  poem  so  well  known  as  to  render  a 
reference  aimost  superfluous  ;  but  to  whose  pages  all 
will  be  delighted  to  recur. 

Note  43.  Page  92,  hne  6. 
Into  Zuleika's  name. 
'  And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names." 
MJLTON 
For  a  beHef  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  inhabit  the  tbrm 
of  birds,  we  need  not  travel  to  the  east.  Lord  Lyttleton's 
ghost  story  ;   the  belief  of  the  Duchess  of  Kendal,  that 
George  I.  flew  into  her  window  in  the  shape  of  a  raven 
(ft«ie  Orford's  Reminiscences),  and  many  other  instan- 
ces, bring  this  superstition  nearer  home.  The  most  singu- 
lar was  the  whim  of  a  Worcester  lady,  who,  believing 
her  daughter  to  exist  in  the  shape  of  a  singing-bird,  lit- 
erally furnished  her  pew  in  the  Cathedral  with  ca<'es-fuU 
of  the  kind ;  and  as  she  was  rich,  and  a  benefactress  in 
Deautifying  the  church,  no  objection  was  m?.de  to  her 
harmless  folly. — For  this  anecdote,  see  Orford's  Letters.' 


A  TALE. 


1  suoi  pensieri  in  lui  dormir  non  ponno. 

TASSO,  Canto  de.cimo,  Oerusaletnnie  Liberata 


TH03VEAS  IVIOOREj  ESQ 

MV  DEAR  MOORE, 

I  DEDICATE  to. you  thc  last  production  with  which  I 
shall  trespass  on  public  patience,  and  your  indulgence, 
for  some  years  ;  and  I  own  that  I  feel  anxious  to  avail 
rnvself  of  this  latest  and  only  opportunity  of  adorning 
my  pages  with  a  name,  consecrated  by  unshaken  public 
principle,  and  the  most  undoubted  and  various  talents. 
While  Ireland  ranks  you  among  the  firmest  of  her  pa- 
tri-jts  :  while  ycju.  stand  alone  the  first  of  her  bards  in  her 
esliujation,  and  liritain  repeats  and  ratifies  the  decree, 
permit  one j  whose  only  regret,  since  our  first  acquaint- 
ano(,,  .las  been  the  years  he  had  lost  before  it  commenced, 
to  add  the  humble  but  sincere  sufrr?ge  of  friendship,  to 
the  voice  of  mr)re  than  one  nation.  It  will  at  least  prove 
lo  you,  that  I  have  neither  forgotten  the  gratification 
derived  from  vour  society,  nor  al)andoned  the  prospect 
.'>fits  renewal,  wheirvcr  your  leihiire  ormclination  allows 
you  to  atone  lo  your  friends  for  too  long  an  absence.  It 
is  said  among  those  (Viends,  I  trust  truly,  that  yju  are 
•in^ajjed  in  the  comjutsition  of  a  pocjm  whose  see  \e  will 
bo  laid  m  the  Kast:  none  can  do  those  scenes  so  nuch 


justice.  The  wrongs  of  }'our  own  country,  the  magmf 
cent  and  fiery  spirit  of  her  sons,  the  beauty  and  feeling  « 
her  daughters,  may  there  be  found  ;  and  Collins,  when 
he  denominated  liis  Oriental  his  Irish  Eclogues,  was  no 
aware  how  true,  at  least,  was  a  part  of  his  parallel.  Youf 
imagination  will  create  a  warmer  sun,  and  less  clouded 
sky  ;  but  wildness,  tenderness,  and  originality,  are  part 
of  your  national  claim'of  oriental' descent,  to  which  you 
have  already  thus  far  proved  your  title  more  clearly  tlian 
the  most  zealous  of  your  country's  antiquarians. 

May  I  add  a  few  words  on  a  subject  onAvhich  all  men 
are  supposed  to  be  fluent,  and  none  agreeable?— Self. 
I  have  written  much,  and  published  more  than  enough 
to  demand  a  longer  silence  than  I  now  meditate  :  but  for 
some  years  to  come  it  is  my  intention .  to  t(!rnpt  no 
further  the  award  of  "gods,  men,  nor  columns."  In 
the  present  composition  I  have  attempted  not  the  most 
difficult,  but,  perhaps,  the  best-adapted  measure  to  our 
language,  the  good  old  and  now  neglected  heroic  couplet. 
The  stanza  of  Spenser  is  perhaps  too  slow  and  dignified 
for  narrative  ;  though  I  confess,  it  is  the  measure  most 
after  my  own  heart:-  Scott  alone,  of  the  present  gene- 
ration, has  hitherto  completely  triumphed  over  the  fatal 
facility  of  the  octo-syllkbic  verse  ;  andthis  is  not  the  leiast 
victory  of  his  fertile  and  mighty  genius:  in  blank  verse, 
Milton,  Thomson,  and  our  dramatist's,  are  the  beacons 
that  shine  along  the  deep,  but  warn  us  from  the  rough 
and  barren  rock  on  which  they  are  kindled.  The  heroic 
couplet  is  not  the  most  popular  measure  certainly  ;  but 
as  I  did  not  deviate  into  the  other  from  a.  wish  to  flatter 
what  is  called  public  opinion,  I  shall  quit  it  withcut 
further  apology,  and  take  my  chance  once  more  w''.'i 
that  versification,  in  which  I  have  hitherto  publish '^d 
nothing  but  compositions  whose  former  circulation  is 
part  of  my  present  and  will  be  of  my  future. regret. 

With  regard  to  my  story,  and  stories  in  genera ,  t 
should  have  been  glad  to  hav'^  rendered  my  persunagM 
more  perfect  and  amiable,  if  possible,  ina.smuch  as  1 
have  been  sometimes  criticised,  and  considered  no  less 
responsible  for  their  deeds  and  qualities  than  if  all  had 
been  personal.  Be  it  so — if  I  have  deviated  into  the 
gloomy  vanity  of  "  drawing  from  self,"  the  pictures  are 
probably  like,  since  they  are  unfavourable ;  and  if  not, 
those  who  know  me  are  undeceived,  and  those  who  do 
not,  I  have  little  interest  in  undeceiving.  I  have  no 
particular  desire  that  any  but  my  acquaintance  should, 
think  the  author  better  than  the  beings  of  his  imagining ; 
bqt  I  cannot  help  a  little  suprise,  and  perhaps  amuse- 
ment, at  some  odd  critical  exceptions  in  the  present 
instance,  when  I  see  several  bards  (far  more  deserving,- 
I  allow),  in  very  reputable  plight,  and  quite  exempted 
from  all  participation  hi  the  faults  of  those  heroes,  who, 
nevertheless,  might  be  found  with  little  more, morality 
than  "The  Giaour,"  and  perhaps — but  no — I  must  admit 
Childe  Harold  to  be  a  very  repulsive  personage  ;  and  as 
to  his  identit",  those  who  like  it  must  give  him  whalcver 
*' alias"  t*-<;y  please. 

If,  however,  it  were  worth  while  to  remove  the  iin- 
pression,  it  might  be  of  some  service  to  me,  that  the  ma 
who  is  alike  the  delight  of  his  readers  and  his  fri<-nds 
the  poet  of  all  circles,  and  the  idol  of  his  own,  pennil 
me  here  and  elsewhere  to  subscribe  myself, 

most  Tulv,  and  affectionately, 
nis  obedient  servant, 

BYRON. 
January  2,  1814. 


THE    CORSAIR. 


281 


CANTO  I. 


■     nessun  maggior  doloro, 

»  ■■'e  ricoidursi  del  tempo  fulice 

Vella  iniseria 

DANTE 


I. 

•'()''er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark-blue  sea, 

Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free, 

Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam. 

Survey  our  empire  and  behold  our  home ! 

These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway — 

Our  Hag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey. 

Ours  tlie  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 

From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 

Oh,  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave  ! 

Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the  heaving  wave ; 

Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease ! 

Whom  slumber  soothes  not — pleasure  cannot  please- 

Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried, 

And  danced  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide. 

The  exulting  sense — the  pulse's  maddening  play, 

That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way? 

That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  hght, 

And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight ; 

That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than  zeal, 

And  where  the  feebler  faint — can  only  feel — 

Feel — to  the  rising  bosom's  ismiost  core, 

Its  hone  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar? 

No  dread  of  death — if  whh  us  die  our  foes — 

Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose : 

C  :;nie  when  it  will — we  snatch  the  life  of  life  ; 

When  lost — what  recks  it — by  disease  or  strife  ? 

Let  hini  WHO  crawls  enamour'd  of  decay. 

Cling  to  his  couch,  and  sicken  years  awaj' ; 

Heave  his  thick  breath,  and  shake  his  palsied  head ; 

Ours — the  trusli  turf,  and  not  the  feverish  bed. 

While  gasp  by  gasp  he  falters  forth  his  soul. 

Ours  with  one  [)ang — one  bound — escapes  control. 

His  corse  may  boast  its  urn  and  narrow  cave, 

And  they  who  ioarhed  his  life  may  gild  his  grave  • 

Ours  are  the  tears,  though  few,  sii>cerely  shed, 

When  ocean  shrouds  and  sepulchres  our  dead. 

For  us,  even  banquets  fond  regret  supply 

In  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory  ; 

And  the  brief  epita[)h  in  danger's  day. 

When  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey. 

And  cry,  remembrance  saddening  o'er  each  brow, 

How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  now  /" 

II. 

Such  were  the  notes  that  from  the  pirate's  isle. 

Around  the  kindling  watch-fire  rang  the  while ; 

Such  were  the  sounds  that  thrill'd  the  rocks  along, 

And  unto  ears  as  rugged  seem'd  a  song ! 

In  scatter'd  groups  upon  the  golden  sand, 

They  game — carouse — converse — or  whet  the  brand  ; 

Select  the  arms — to  each  his  blade  assign. 

And  careless  eve  the  blood  that  dims  its  shin^ : 

Repair  the  boat,  replace  the  helm  or  oar. 

While  others  straggling  muse  along  the  shore ; 

For  the  wild  bird  the  busy  springes  set. 

Or  spread  beneath  the  sun  the  dripping  net ; 

Gaze  where  some  distant  sail  a  speck  supplies, 

With  all  the  thirsting  eye  of  enterprise  ; 

Tell  o'er  the  tales  of  many  a  night  of  toil, 

\nd  marvel  where  thev  next  shall  seize  a  spoil : 

No  matter  where — their  chief's  allotment  this, 

riieirs  lo  believe  nu  \  rey  n'^r  plan  amiss. 


But  who  that  Chief? — His  name  on  every  shore 

Is  famed  and  fear'd — they  ask  and  kiio\>  no  inorti. 

With  these  he  mingles  not  but  to  command  : 

Few  are  his  words,  but  keen  his  eye  anu  hand. 

Ne'er  seasons  he  with  mirth  tiieir  jovial  mess, 

But  they  forgive  his  silence  for  success. 

Ne'er  for  his  lip  the  purpling  cup  they  fill, 

That  goblet  passes  him  untasted  still — 

And  for  his  fare — the  rudest  of  his  crew 

Would  that,  in  turn,  have  pass'd  untasted  too , 

Earth's  coarsest  bread,  the  garden's  home  jest  ro<ils, 

And  scarce  the  summer  luxury  of  fruits. 

His  short  repast  in  humbleness  supply 

With  all  a  hermit's  board  would  scarce  deny. 

But  while  he  shuns  the  grosser  joys  of  sense, 

His  mind  seems  nourish'd  by  that  abstinence. 

"Steer  to  that  shore!" — they  sail.  "Do  this!" — 'tisd-ino 

"Now  form  and  follow  me!" — the  spoil  is  won. 

Thus  prompt  his  accents  and  his  actions  still. 

And  all  obey  and  few  inquire  his  will ; 

To  such  brief  answer  and  contemptuous  eye 

Convey  reproof,  nor  further  deign  reply. 

III. 
"A  sail! — a  sail !" — a  promised  prize  to  hope  ! 
Her  nation — flag — how  speaks  the  telescope? 
No  prize,  alas  ! — but  yet  a  welcome  sail : 
The  blood-red  signal  glitters  in  the  gale, 
Fes — she  is  ours — a  home-returning  bark — 
Blow  fair,  thou  breeze ! — she  anchors  ere  the  dark. 
Already  doubled  is  the  cape — our  bay 
Receives  that  prow  which  proudly  S|)urns  the  sprr 
How  gloriou'-ly  her  gallant  course  she  goes ! 
Her  white  wings  flying — never  from  her  foes—' 
She  walks  the  waters  liKe  a  thing  of  life. 
And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife. 
Who  would  not  brave  the  bartie-fire — the  wreck — 
To  move  the  monarch  of  her  peopled  deck? 

IV. 

Hoarse  o'er  her  side  the  rustling  cable  rings  ; 

The  sails  are  furl'd  ;  and  anchoring  round  she  swings : 

And  gathering  loiterers  on  the  land  discern 

Her  boat  descending  from  the  latticed  stern. 

'Tis  mann'd — the  oars  keep  concert  tathe  strand, 

Till  grates  her  keel  upon  the  shallow  sand. 

Hail  to  the  welcome  shout! — the  friendly  speech! 

When  hand  grasps  hand  uniting  on  the  beach ; 

The  smile,  the  question,  and  the  quick  reply, 

And  the  heart's  promise  of  festivity ! 


The  tidings  spread,  and  gathering  grows  the  crowd 
The  hum  of  voices,  and  the  laughter  loud. 
And  woman's  gentler  anxious  tone  is  heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers'  names  in  eachdear  womI; 
"Oh  !  are  thev  safe?  we  ask  not  of  success — 
But  shall  we  see  them  ?  will  their  accents  bless  ? 
From  where  the  battle  roars — the  billows  chafe — 
They  doubtless  boldly  died — but  who  are  safe  ? 
Here  let  them  has*'  ♦o  gladden  and  surprise, 
And  kiss  the  doubt  from  these  delighted  eyes  I**-— 

VI. 

"Where  is  our  chief?  for  him  we  bear  re]X)rt — 
And  doubt  that  joy — which  hails  our  coming — short ; 
Yei  thus  sincere — 't  is  cheerins,  though  so  brief, 
But,  Juan !   instant  guide  us  to  our  chief* 
Our  greeting  paid,  we  'il  feast  or.  our  return. 
And  all  shall  hear  what  each  may  wish  to  ifarn  ' 
Ascending  slowly  by  the  rock-hewn  way. 
To  where  his  watch- tower  beetles  o'er  the  bay, 


282 


B/ROx\'S    POETICAL    WORK? 


B>  bushy  brake,  and  v  ild-flowers  blossoming, 

And  freshness  breathing  from  each  silver  spring, 

Whose  scatter'd  streams  from  granite  basins  burst, 

Leap  into  life,  and  sparkling  woo  your  thirst ; 

From  crag  to  ciifT  they  mouni — Near  yonder  cave, 

What  loneiy  straggler  looks  along  the  wave  ? 

In  pensive  posture  leaning  on  tlie  brand, 

Not  oft  a  resting-statr  to  that  red  hand. 

"'Tis  he — 'tis  Conrad — here — as  wont — alone; 

0.1 — Juan!  on — and  make  our  purpose  known. 

The  bark  he  views — and  tell  him  we  would  greet 

His  ear  with  tidings  he  must  quickly  meet : 

We  dare  not  yet  approach — thou  know'st  his  mood, 

When  strange  or  uninvited  steps  intrude." 

VII. 
flim  Juan  sought,  and  told  of  their  intent — 
He  spake  not — but  a  sign  express'd  assent. 
These  Juan  cjills — they  come — to  their  salute 
H(!  bends  him  shi.'htly,  but  his  lips  are  mute. 
"These  letters,  Chief,  are  from  the  Greek — the  spy, 
Who  still  proclaims  our  spoil  or  peril  nigh: 
Whate'er  his  tidings,  we  can  well  report. 
Much  that" — "Peace,  peace!" — He  cuts  their  prating 

short. 
Wondering  they  turn,  abash'd,  while  each  to  each 
Conjecture  whispers  in  his  muttering  speech: 
Thcv  watch  his  glance  with  many  a  stealing  look, 
To  gather  how  that  eve  the  tidings  took ; 
But,  this  as  if  he  guess'd,  with  head  aside. 
Perchance  from  pome  emotion,  doubt,  or  pride. 
He  read  the  scroll — "  IVIy  tablets,  Juan,  hark — 
VVhere  is  Gonsalvo  ?" 

"In  the  anchored  bark," 
''  There  let  him  stay — to  him  this  order  bear. 
Back  to  your  duty — for  my  course  prepare: 
Myself  this  enter|>rise  to-mght  will  share." 
"  To-night,  Lord  Conrad?" 

"  Ay  I  at  set  of  sun : 
The  breeze  will  freshen  when  the  day  is  done. 
My  corslet — cloak — one  hour — and  we  are  gone. 
Sling  on  thy  huge — see  that,  free  from  rust. 
My  carbine-lock  springs  worthy  of  my  trust ; 
Be  the  edge  sharpen'd  of  my  boarding-brand, 
And  give  its  guard  more  room  to  ht  my  hand. 
This  let  the  armourer  with  speed  dispose  ; 
Last  time,  it  more  fatigued  my  arm  than  foes : 
Mark  that  the  signal-gun  be  duly  fired 
To  tell  us  when  the  hour  of  stay's  expired." 

VIII. 

They  make  obeisance,  and  retire  in  haste. 
Too  soon  to  seek  again  the  watery  waste : 
Yet  they  repine  not — so  that  Conrad  guides  ; 
And  who  dare  question  aught  that  he  decides? 
That  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery. 
Scarce  seen  to  smile,  and  seldom  heard  to  sigh ; 
Whose  name  appals  the  fiercest  of  his  crew. 
And  tints  each  swarthy  cheek  with  sallower  hue ; 
Still  sways  their  souls  with  that  commanding  art 
That  dazzles,  leads,  yet  chills  the  vulgar  heart. 
What  is  that,  spell,  that  thus  his  lawless  train 
Confess  and  envy,  yet  oppose  in  vain  ? 
What  should  it  be,  that  thus  their  faith  can  bind? 
The  power  of  Thought — the  magic  of  the  Mind  ! 
Link'd  \vith  success,  assumed  and  kept  with  skill, 
That  moulds  another's  weakness  to  its  will ; 
Wields  with  their  hands,  liut,  still  to  these  unknown. 
Makes  even  their  mighiiest  deeds  appear  liis  own. 
Such  hath  it  been — shall  be — beneath  tho  sun 
The  many  still  must  labour  for  the  one  ! 
'T  IS  Nature.'s  doom — but  let  the  wrench  who  toils 
Accuse  not,  hate  not  hin  vho  wears  the  spoils. 


Oh !  if  he  knew  the  weight  of  splenmd  chains, 
How  light  the  balance  of  his  humbler  paiiis ! 

IX. 

Unlike  the  heroes  of  each  ancieni  race. 

Demons  in  act,  but  gods  at  least  in  face, 

In  Conrad's  form  seems  little  to  admire, 

Though  his  dark  eyebrow  shades  a  glance  of  fiio 

Robust,  but  not  Herculean — to  the  sight 

No  giant  frame  sets  forth  his  common  height ; 

Vet,  in  the  whole,  who  paused  to  look  again. 

Saw  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar  men  , 

They  gaze  and  marvel  how — and  still  confess 

That  thus  it  is,  but  why  they  cannot  p^^'^z. 

Sun-burnt  his  cheek,  his  f^riLx^da  high  and  pale 

The  sable  curls  in  wild  profusion  veil  ; 

And  oft  perforce  his  rising  lip  reveals 

The  haughtier  thought  it  curbs,  but  scarce  concf  ais. 

Though  smooth  his  voice,  and  calm  his  genera!  'uirr. 

Still  seems  there  something  he  would  not  have  seen 

His  features'  dee])ening  lines  and  varying  hue, 

At  times  attracted,  yet  perplex'd  the  view. 

As  if  within  that  rnurkiness  of  mind, 

Work'd  feelings  fearful,  and  yet  undefined  ; 

Such  might  it  be — that  none  could  truly  tell — 

Too  close  in(juiry  his  stern  glance  would  quell. 

There  breathe  but  few  whose  as[)ect  might  defy 

The  full  encounter  of  his  searching  eye  ; 

He  had  the  skill,  when  Cunning  s  gaze  would  seek 

To  probe  his  heart  and  watch  his  changing  cheek, 

At  once  the  observer's  ])urpose  to  espy, 

And  on  himself  roll  back  his  scrutiny, 

Lest  he  to  Conrad  rather  should  betray 

Some  secret  thought  than  drag  that  chiei"'s  to  day. 

Tliere  was  a  hiughing  devil  in  his  sneer, 

Th;it  rai.-ed  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear; 

And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fell, 

Hope  withering  fled- and  Mercy  sigh'd  farewell ! 

X. 

Slight  are  the  outward  signs  of  evil  thought. 
Within— within — 't  was  there  the  spirit  wrought ! 
Love  shows  all  changes— Hate,  ambition,  guile, 
Betray  no  further  than  the  bitter  smile ; 
The  lip's  least  curl,  the  lightest  paleness  thrown 
Along  the  gsvern'd  aspect,  speak  alone 
Of  deeper  passions ;   and  to  judge  their  mien. 
He,  who  would  see,  must  be  himself  unseen. 
Then — with  the  hurried  tread,  the  upward  eye. 
The  clenched  hand,  the  pause  of  agony, 
That  listens,  starting,  lest  the  step  loo  near 
Ap|)roach  intrusive  on  that  mood  of  fear : 
Then — with  each  feature  working  from  the  heari 
With  feeUngs  loosed  to  strengthen — not  depart: 
That  rise — convulse — contend — that  freeze,  or  gk 
Flush  in  the  cheek,  or  damp  upon  the  brow  • 
Then — stranger !   if  thou  canst,  and  tremblest  not, 
Behold  his  soul— the  rest  that  soothes  his  lot ! 
Mark— how  that  lone  and  blighted  -.'Ctym  seara 
The  scathing  thought  of  execrateo  years ! 
Behold — but  who  hath  seen,  or  e'er  shall  aoc, 
Man  as  himself— the  secret  spirit  free? 

XI. 

Yet  was  not  Conrad  thus  by  nature  sent 
To  lead  the  guilty — guilt's  worst  instrument ; — 
His  soul  was  changed,  before  his  deeds  had  drivPi) 
Him  forth  to  war  with  man  and  forfeit  h(>aven. 
Warp'd  by  the  world  in  Disappointment's  school, 
In  words  too  w  ise,  in  conduct  there  a  fool ; 
Too  firm  to  yield,  and  far  too  proud  to  stoop, 
Doom'd  by  his  ve.ry  virtues  lor  a  dupe. 


THE    CORSAIR. 


283 


Fie  cursfd  those  virtues  as  the  cause  of  ill, 

And  not  the  trai  ors  who  betravM  him  still ; 

Nor  doem'd  that  gifis  hestowM  on  better  men 

Had  loft  him  jov,  and  means  to  give  a<jain. 

F'ear'd — shunu'd — belied — ere  youth  had  lost  her  force, 

He  hated  man  too  much  to  feel  remorse, 

And  tliouglu  the  voice  of  wrath  a  sacred  call 

Tc  pay  the  injuries  of  some  on  all. 

He  knew  himself  a  villain — but  he  deem'd 

The  rest  no  belter  than  the  thing  he  seem'd  ; 

And  scorn'd  the  best  as  hypocrites  who  hid 

Those  deeds  the  bolder  spirit  plainly  did. 

He  knew  himself  detested,  but  he  knew 

The  hearts  that  loathed  him  crouch'd  and  dreaded  too. 

Lone,  wild,  and  strange,  he  stood  alike  exempt 

F'rom  all  atfection  and  from  all  contempt : 

His  name  cwild  sadden,  and  his  acts  surprise  . 

But  they  that  fear'd  him  dared  not  to  despise, 

Man  s[)urns  the  worm,  but  pauses  ere  he  wake 

The  slumberins  venom  of  the  folded  snake ; 

The  first  may  turn — but  not  avenge  the  blow  , 

The  last  expires — but  leaves  no  living  foe  ;  \ 

Fast  to  the  doom'd  offender's  form  it  clings,  / 

And  he  may  crush — not  conquer — still  it  stings  \/ 

XII. 

None  are  all  evil — quickening  round  his  heart, 

One  softer  feeling  would  not  yet  depart  ; 

Oh  could  he  sneer  at  others  as  beguiled 

Bv  passions  worthy  of  a  fool  or  child  ; 

Yet  'gainst  that  passion  vainly  still  he  strove^ 

And  even  in  him  it  asks  the  name  of  love ! 

Yes,  it  was  love — unchangeable — unchanged, 

Felt  but  for  one  from  whom  he  never  ranged  ; 

Though  fairest  captives  daily  met  his  eye. 

He  shunn'd,  nor  sought,  but  coldly  pass'd  them  by » 

Though  many  a  beauty  droop'd  in  prison'd  bower. 

None  ever  soothed  his  most  unguarded  hour. 

Yes — it  was  love — if  thoughts  of  tenderness, 

Tried  in  temptation,  strengthen'd  by  distress, 

Unmoved  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime. 

And  vet — Oh  more  than  all  ! — untired  by  time  ; 

Which  nor  defeated  hope,  nor  baffled  wile 

Could  render  suHen  were  she  near  to  smile. 

Nor  rage  could  fire,  nor  sickness  fret  to  vent 

On  her  one  murmur  of  his  discontei.t ; 

Which  still  would  meet  with  joy,  with  calmness  part, 

Lest  that  his  look  of  grief  should  reach  her  heart ; 

Which  nought  removed,  nor  menaced  to  remove — 

If  there  be  love  in  mortals — this  w  as  love  ! 

He  was  a  villain — ay — reproaches  shower 

On  him — but  not  the  passion,  nor  its  power, 

Which  only  proved,  all  other  virtues  gone. 

Not  guilt  itself  could  quench  this  loveliest  one ! 

xni. 

He  paused  a  moment — till  his  hastening  men 
Pajrs'd  the  first  winding  downward  to  the  glen. 
"Strange  tidings! — many  a  peril  have  I  past, 
Nor  know  I  whv  this  next  ap])ears  the  last ! 
Yet  so  mv  heart  forebodes,  but  must  not  fear, 
Nor  shall  mv  followers  find  me  falter  here. 
*T  is  rash  to  meet,  but  surer  death  to  w  ait 
Till  here  they  hunt  us  to  undoubted  fate  ; 
And,  if  my  j)lan  but  hold,  and  fortune  smile, 
We'll  furnish  mourners  for  our  funeral-pile. 
Ay — let  thenj  slumber — peaceful  be  their  dreams  ! 
Morn  ne'er  awoke  them  whh  such  brilliant  beams 
As  kindle  high  to-night  (but  blow,  thou  breeze!) 
To  warm  these  slow  avenge  s  of  the  seas. 
Now  to  Medora — Oh !  my  sinking  heart, 
r^ong  niuv  her  own  be  lighter  than  thou  art ! 


Yet  was  I  brave — mean  boas'  wrer'?  iH  ar"hrave! 
Even  insects  sting  for  aught  they  seek  m  sav( 
This  common  courage  which  with  brutes  ^ve^hal•e, 
That  owes  its  deadliest  effi)rts  to  de^pau•, 
Small  merit  claims — but  't  was  m\  iiol)ler  hupe 
To  teach  mv  few  with  numbers  still  to  cope , 
Long  have  I  led  them — not  to  vain.y  bleed  ; 
No  medium  now — we  perish  or  succeed! 
So  let  it  be — it  irks  not  me  to  die  ; 
But  thus  to  urge  tliem  whence  they  cannot  tly. 
My  lot  hath  long  had  little  of  my  care, 
But  chafes  my  pride  thus  baffled  in  the  snaie  , 
Is  this  mv  skill  ?  my  craft  ?  to  set  at  last 
,   Hope,  power,  and  life  ujion  a  single  cast? 
I    Oh,  fate  ! — accuse  thy  folly,  not  thy  fate — 
\    She  may  redeem  thee  still — nor  yet  too  late. 

i  XIV. 

Thus  with  himself  communion  held  he,  till 
He  reach'd  the  summit  of  his  tower-crown'u  mil'. 
There  at  the  portal  i)aused — for  wild  and  soft 
He  heard  those  accents  never  heard  too  oft ; 
Through  the  high  lattice  far  yet  sweet  tney  rung, 
A.nd  these  the  notes  his  bird  cf  beauty  sung; 

\. 

"  Deep  in  mv  soul  that  tender  secret  dwells, 
Lonely  and  lost  to  light  lor  evermore, 

Save  when  to  thiiie  my  heart  responsive  swells, 
Then  trembles  into  silence  as  before. 


"  There,  in  its  centre,  a  sepulchral  lamp 
Burns  the  slow  flame,  eternal — but  unseen  ; 

Which  not  the  darkness  of  despair  can  damp, 
Though  vain  its  ray  as  it  had  never  been, 

3. 

''Remember  me— Oh !   pass  not  thou  my  grave 
Without  one  thought  whose  relics  there  recluir 

The  only  pang  my  bosom  dare  not  brave 
Must  be  to  find  forgetfulness  ui  llime. 

4. 

"  My  fondest — faintest — latest — accents  heai  . 

Grief  for  the  dead  not  virtue  can  reprove  ; 
Then  give  me  all  I  ever  asked — a  tear, 

The  first — last — sole  reward  of  jo  much  love  !" 

He  pass'd  the  portal— cross'd  the  r.orndore. 
And  reach'd  the  chamber  as  tne  strain  gave  o'er . 
"  INIy  own  Medora !   sure  thy  song  is  sad — " 

"In  Conrad's  absence  wouldst  thou  have  it  glad  / 
Without  thine  ear  to  listen  to  my  lay, 
Still  must  my  song  my  thoughts,  my  soul  betray : 
Siill  must  each  accent  to  my  bosom  suit, 
Mv  heart  unhush'd—ahhough  my  lips  were  mut..! 
Oh  !  many  a  night  on  tiiis  lone  couch  reclined. 
My  dreaming  fear  with  storms  hath  wing'd  the  wind 
And  deem'd  the  breath  that  faintly  fann'd  thy  s;iil 
The  murmuring  prelude  of  the  ruder  gale ; 
Though  soft,  it  seem'd  the  low  prophetic  dirge, 
That  mourn'd  thee  floating  on  the  savage  surge 
Still  would  I  rise  to  rouse  the  beacon-fire, 
Lest  spies  less  true  should  let  the  blaze  expire ; 
And  many  a  restless  hour  outwalch'd  each  star 
And  morning  came — and  still  thou  wert  afar. 
Oh  !   how  the  chill  blast  on  my  bosom  blew. 
And  day  broke  dreary  on  my  troubled  view, 
And  still  I  gazed  and  gazed— and  no*  a  prow 
Was  granted  to  my  tears — n.y  truth — my  vow . 


284 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


\t  length — 't  was  noon — I  hail'd  and  blest  the  mast 
That  met  my  sight — it  near'd — Aia5 !   it  past ! 
A.r  jcher  camo — Oh  God!   'twas  thine  at  last! 
Would  that  those  d;\vs  were  over !   wilt  thou  ne'er, 
My  Conrad  !   learn  tne  joys  of  peace  to  share  ? 
Sure  thou  hast  more  than  wealth  ;   and  many  a  home 
Aa  bright  as  this  invites  us  not  to  roam  ; 
Thou  know'st  it  is  not  peril  that  I  fear, 
I  only  tremble  svhen  thou  art  not  here : 
Then  not  for  mine,  but  that  far  dearer  life, 
Which  flies  fi-om  love  and  languishes  for  strife — 
How  strange  that  heart,  to  me  so  tender  still, 
Should  war  with  nature  and  its  better  will !" 

"Yes,  strange  indeed,  that.heart  hath  long  been  changed; 

Worm-like  'twas  trampled — adder-like  avenged. 

Without  one  hope  on  earth  beyond  thy  love, 

And  scarce  a  glimpse  of  mercy  from  above. 

Yet  the  same  feehng  which  thou  dost  condemn. 

My  very  love  to  thee  is  hate  to  them. 

So  closely  mingling  here,  that,  disentwined, 

I  cease  to  love  thee  when  I  love  mankind. 

Yet  dread  not  this — the  proof  of  all  the  i)ast 

Assures  the  future  that  my  love  wilt  last ; 

But — Oh,  Medora  !   nerve  thy  gentler  heart, 

This  hour  again — but  not  for  long — we  part." 

"  This  hour  we  part ! — my  heart  foreboded  this  : 

Thus  ever  fade  my  fairy  dreams  of  bliss. 

This  hour — it  cannot  be — this  hour  away ! 

Yon  bark  hath  hardly  anchored  in  the  bay : 

Her  consort  still  is  absent,  and  her  crew 

Have  need  of  rest  before  they  toil  anew  ; 

My  ove  !  thou  mock'st  my  weakness :  and  wouldst  steel 

My  br§ast  before  the  time  when  it  must  leel  j 

But  trifle  now  no  more  with  my  distress. 

Such  mirth  hath  less  of  play  than  bitterness. 

Be  silent,  Conrad! — dearest!   come  and  share 

The  feast  these  hands  delighted  to  prepare  ; 

Light  toil !   to  cull  and  dress  thy  frugal  fare  ! 

See,  I  have  pluck'd  the  fruit  that  promised  best. 

And  where  not  sure,  perplex'd,  but  pleas'd,  I  guess'd 

At  such  as  seem'd  the  fairest:   thrice  the  hill 

My  steps  have  wound  to  try  the  coolest  rill ; 

Yes!   thy  slierbet. to-night  will  sweetly  flow, 

See  how  it  sparkles  in  its  vase  of  snow  ! 

The  grape's  gay  juice  thy  bosom  never  cheers ; 

Thou  more  than  Moslem  when  the  cup  apj)ears ! 

Think  not  I  mean  to  chide— ^for  Trejoice 

What  others  deem  a  penance  is  thy  choice. 

But  come,  the  board  is  spread  ;,  our  silver  lamp  ,  , 

Is  trinim'd,  and  heeils  not  the  Sirocco's  damp  : 

Then  shall  my  handmaids  while  the  time  along,. 

And  join  with  me  the  dance,  or  wake  the  song ; 

Or  my  guitar,  which  still  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 

Shall  soothe  or  lull — or,  should  it  vex  thine  ear, 

We  '11  turn  the  tale,  by  Ariosto  told. 

Of  fair  Olympia  loved  and  left  of  old. ' 

Why — thou  wert  worse  than  he  who  broke  his  vow 

To  that  lost  damsel,  shotildst  thou  leave  me  now; 

Or  even  that  traitor  chief — I've  seen  thee  smile, 

When  the  clear  sky  show'd  Ariadne's  Isle, 

Which  I  have  jtointed  from  these  cliffs  the  while : 

And  thus,  half  sportive,  half  in  fear,  I  said. 

Lest  time  should  raise  that  doubt  to  more  than  dread, 

Thus  Conrad,  too,  will  rpnt  me  for  the  main  : 

And  he  deceived  me — for — he  came  again!" 

*'  Again — again — and  oft  again — my  love  ! 
If  there  be  life  belo'v  and  hope  above, 


He  will  return — but  now,  the  moments  bring 
The  time  of  parting  with  redoubled  wing : 
The  vvhy — the  where — what  boots  it  now  to  tell'' 
Since  all  must  end  in  that  wild  word — farewell ' 
Yet  would  I  fain — -did  time  allow — disclose — r 
Fear  not — these  are  no  formidable  foes  ; 
And  here  shall  watch  a  more  than  wonted  guajrd. 
For  suddsn  siege  and  long  defence  ppepar«d: 
Nor  be  thou  lonely — though  thy  lord's'aivay. 
Our  matrofis  and  thy  handmaids  with  thee  stay ; 
And  this  thy  comfort — that,  when  next  we  meet. 
Security  shall  make  repose  more  sweet:  ■ 

List! — 'tis  the  bugle — Juan  shrilly  blew — 
One  kiss — one  more— another — -Oh !  Adieu !" 

She  rose — she  sprung — she  clung  to  his  embrace. 

Tin  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  face. 

He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye. 

Which  downcast  droop'd  in  tearless  agony. 

Her  long  fair  hair  lay  floating  o'er  his  arms, 

In  all  the  wildness  of  disheyell'd  charms  ; 

Scarce  beat  that  bosom  where  his  image  dwelt 

So  full — thai  feeling  seem'd, almost  unfelt! 

Hark — peals  the  thunder  of  the  signal-gun! 

It  told  't  was  sunset — and  he  cursed  that  sunl  ■ 

Again — again — that  form  he  madly  press'd  ; 

Which  mutely  clasp'd,  imploringly  caress'd  !     -.    "■''■■'"' 

And,  tottering  to  the  couch,  his  bride  he  bore. 

One  moment  gazed— as  if  to  gaze  no  more  ;       "    '•  ' ;  ' 

Felt — that  for  huh  earth  held  but  her  alone, 

Kiss'd  her  cold  Torehead-^turn'd— is  Conrad  gone  1 

-XV. 

"And  is  he  gone  ?" — on  sudden  solitude 
How  oft  that  fearful  (]uestion  will  intrude  ! 
"  'T  was  but  an  instant  past — and  here  he  stood  ! 
And  now" — wiihuiu  the  portal's  porch  she.rush'd. 
And  then  at  lenv>th  her  tears  in  freedom  gush'd;    • 
Big — bright — and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they  fell;  - 
But  still  her  lips  refused  to  send — "farewell!" 
For  in  that  word — that  fatal  word — howe'er 
We  promise— hope — believe— there  breatlies  despair." 
O'er  every  feature  of  that  still  pale  face,  . 

Had  sorrow  fix'd  what  time  can  ne'er  erase; 
The  tender  blue  of  that  large  loving  eye 
Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  on  vacancy, 
Till — Oh,  how  far  I — it  caught  a  glimpse  of  him, 
And  then  it  flow'd — and  phrensied  seem'd  to  swim 
Through  these  long,  dark,  and  glistening  lashes,  dew'd 
With  drops  of  sadness  oft  to  be  renew'd. 
"He  's  gone! "--against  her  heart  that  hand  is  driven, 
Convulsed  and  quick — then  gently  raised  to  heaven; 
She  look'd  and  saw  the  heaving  of  the  main ; 
The  white  sail  set — she  dared  not  look  again ; 
'But  turn'd  with  sickening  soul  within  the  gate — 
"It  is  no  dream — and  I. am  desolate!" 

XVI. 

From  crag  to  crag  descending — swiftly  sped 
Stern  Conrad  down,  nor  once  he  turn'd  Ins  head; 
But  shrunk  whene'er  the  windings  of  liis  way 
Forceil  on  his  eye  what  he  would  not  survey^ 
His  lone,  but  lovely  dweUing  on  the  steep. 
That  hail'd  him  first  when  homeward  from  the  deep. 
And  she — the  dim  and  melancholy  star, 
Whose  ray  of  beauty  reach'd  him  from  afar, 
On  her  he  must  not  gaze,  he  must  not  think, 
There  he  might  rest,  but  on  destruction's  brinK  . 
Yet  once  almost  he  stopp'd — and  nearly  gave 
His  fate  to  chance,  his  projects  to  the  wave  ; 
But  no — it  must  not  be — a  worthy  cnief 
May  melt,  but  not  tetray  to  woman's  grief 


THE    CORSAIR. 


285 


He  sees  his  b.irk,  he  notes  how  fair  the  wind, 

And  :5terniy  gathers  all  his  might  of  mind : 

Again  he  hurries  on — and  as  he  hears 

The  clang  of  tumult  vibrate  on  his  ears, 

The  busy  sounds,  the  bustle  of  the  shore, 

The  shou',  ttie  signal,  and  the  dashing  oar ; 

As  inarKs  his  eye  the  sea-boy  on  the  mast, 

The  anchor's  rise,  the  sails  unfurling  fast, 

The  waving  kerchiefs  of  the  crowd  tuat  urge 

That  mute  adieu  to  those  who  stem  the  surge  ; 

And,  more  than  all,  his  blood-red  flag  aloft, 

He  marvell'd  how  his  heart  could  seem  so  soft. 

Fire  in  his  glance,  and  wildness  in  his  breast, 

He  feels  of  all  his  former  self  possest ; 

He  bounds — he  flies — until  his  footsteps  reach 

The  verge  where  ends  the  cliff,  begins  the  beach, 

There  checks  his  speed  ;  but  pauses  less  to  breathe 

The  breezy  freshness  of  the  deep  beneath. 

Than  there  his  wonted  stateli^^r  step  renew ; 

No.  rush,  disturb'd  by  haste,  to  vulgar  view : 

Ff .  well  had  Conrad  learn'd  to  curb  the  crowd. 

By  arts  that  veil,  and  oft  preserve  the  proud ; 

His  was  the  lofty  por^,  the  distant  mien. 

That  seems  to  shun  the  sight — and  awes  if  seen : 

The  solemn  aspect,  and  the  high-born  eye, 

That  checks  low  mirth,  but  lacks  not  courtesy  ; 

All  these  he  wielded  to  command  assent: 

But  where  he  wish'd  to  win,  so  well  unbent. 

That  kindness  cancell'd  fear  in  those  who  heard, 

And  others'  gifts  show'd  mean  beside  his  word, 

When  echoed  to  the  heart  as  from  his  own 

His  deep  yet  tender  melody  of  tone : 

But  such  was  foreign  to  his  wonted  mood, 

He  ;arcd  not  what  he  soften'd,  but  subdued  ; 

The  3vii  passions  of  his  youth  had  made 

Him  valuf.  less  who  loved — than  what  obev'd. 

XVII. 

Around  him  mustering  ranged  his  ready  guard  ; 
Before  hirr.  Juan  stands— "Are  all  prepared]'' 
"  They  are — nay  more — embark'd  :   the  latest  boat 

Waits  but  my  chief " 

"  My  sword  and  my  capote." 
So  firmly  girded  on,  and  lightly  slung, 
His  belt  and  cloak  were  o'er  his  shoulders  flung. 
"Call  Pedro  here!" — He  comes— and  Conrad  bends, 
With  all  the  courtesy  he  deign'd  his  friends  ; 
•'  Receive  these  tablets,  and  peruse  with  care. 
Words  of  high  trust  and  truth  are  graven  there ; 
Double  the  guard,  and  when  Anselmo's  bark 
Arrives,  let  him  alike  these  orders  mark : 
In  three  days  (serve  the  breeze)  the  sun  shall  shine 
On  our  return— till  then  all  peace  be  thine  !" 
This  said,  his  brother  Pirate's  hand  he  wrung, 
Then  to  his  boat  with  haughty  gesture  sprung. 
Flash'd  the  dipt  oars,  and  sparkling  with  the  stroke, 
Around  the  waves,  phosphoric  ^  brightness  broke  ; 
They  gain  the  vessel — on  the  deck  he  stands ; 
Shrieks  the  shrill  whistle— ply  the  busy  hands- 
He  marks  how  well  the  ship  her  helm  obeys, 
How  gallant  all  her  crew— and  deigns  to  praise. 
His  eyes  A  pride  to  young  Gonsalvo  turn — 
Why  (loth  he  start,  and  inly  seem  to  mourn? 
Alas  !   those  eyes  beheld  his  rocky  tower. 
And  hve  a  moment  o'er  the  parting  tiour ; 
She— his  Medora— did  she  mark  the  prow ! 
Ah  !   neve.-  loved  he  half  so  much  as  now ! 
But  much  must  yet  be  done  ere  dawn  of  day— 
Again  he  mans  himself  and  turns  away; 
Down  to  the  cabin  with  Gonsalvo  bends. 
And  there  untblds  his  plan— his  means— and  ends ; 
Before  them  burns  the  lamp,  and  spreads  the  chart, 
And  all  that  soeaks  and  aidi  the  naval  art  • 


They  to  the  midnight  watch  protract  deoate  j 
To  ai.xious  eyes  what  hour  is  ever  late  ? 
Meantime,  the  steady  breeze  serenely  blew, 
And  fast  and  falcon-like  the  vessel  flevv  ; 
Pass'd  the  high  headlands  of  each  clustering  isle, 
To  gain  their  port — long — long  ere  morning  smile  . 
And  soon  the  night-glass  through  the  narrow  bay 
Discovers  where  the  Pacha's  galleys  lay. 
Count  thev  each  sail — and  mark  how  there  supine 
The  lights  in  vain  o'er  heedless  Moslem  shine. 
Secure,  unnoted,  Conrad's  prow  pass'd  by. 
And  anchor'd  where  his  ambush  meant  to  lie  ; 
Screen'd  from  espial  by  the  jutting  cape, 
That  rears  on  high  its  rude  fantastic  shape. 
Then  rose  his  band  to  duty — not  from  sleep — 
Equipp'd  for  deeds  alike  on  land  or  deep  ; 
While  lean'd  their  leader  o'er  the  fretting  flood, 
And  calmly  talk'd — and  yet  he  talk'd  of  blood  ' 


CANTO  II. 


Conosceste  i  dubiosi  desiri  ? 

DANTE, 


I. 

In  Coron's  bay  floats  many  a  galley  light. 
Through  Coron's  lattices  the  lamps  are  oright, 
For  Seyd,  the  Pacha,  makes  a  feast  to-night : 
A  feast  for  promised  triumph  yet  to  come, 
When  he  shall  drag  the  fetter'd  Rovers  home , 
This  hath  he  sworn  by  Alia  and  his  sword, 
And  faithful  to  his  firman  and  his  word, 
His  summon'd  prows  collect  along  the  coast, 
And  great  the  gathering  crews,  and  loud  the  boart  j 
Already  shared  the  captives  and  the  prize. 
Though  far  the  distant  foe  they  thus  despise ; 
'T  is  but  to  sail — no  doubt  to-morrow's  sun 
Will  see  the  Pirates  bound — their  haven  won ! 
Meantime  the  watch  may  sluni!)cr,  if  they  will, 
Nor  only  wake  to  war,  but  dreaming  kill ; 
Though  all,  who  can,  disperse  on  shore  and  seek 
To  flesh  their  glowing  valour  on  the  Greek  ; 
How  well  such  deed  becomes  the  turban'd  brave- 
To  bare  the  sabre's  edge  before  a  slave ! 
Infest  his  dwelling — but  forbear  to  slay — 
Their  arms  are  strong,  yet  merciful  to-day, 
And  do  not  deign  to  smite  because  they  may ! 
Unless  some  gay  caprice  suggests  the  blow. 
To  keep  in  practice  for  the  coming  foe. 
Revel  and  rout  the  evening  hours  beguile. 
And  they  who  wish  to  wear  a  head,  must  smile  ; 
For  Moslem  mouths  produce  their  choicest  cheer, 
And  hoard  their  curses,  till  the  coast  is  clear. 

II. 

High  in  his  hall  reclines  the  turban'd  Soyd  ; 
Around— the  bearded  chiefs  he  came  to  lead. 
Removed  the  banquet,  and  the  last  pilaff*— 
Forbidden  draughts,  't  is  said,  he  dared  to  quaff, 
Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry's  juicCj^" 
The  slaves  bear  round  for  rigid  Moslem's  use  ; 
The  long  Chibouque's*  dissolving  cloud  supply, 
While  dance  the  Almas  ^  to  wild  minstrelsv 
The  rising  morn  will  view  the  chiefs  embark  , 
But  waves  are  somewhat  treacherous  in  the  dark 
And  revellers  may  more  securely  sleep 
On  silken  couch,  than  o'er  the  rugged  deep  ; 
Feast  there  who  can— nor  combat  till  they  inuBt, 
And  less  to  conquest  than  to  Korans  trust ; 


286 


BYr.ON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  yet  the  numbers  crowded  in  his  host 

Might  warrant  more  than  even  the  Pacha's  boast. 

III. 

tVith  cautious  reverence  from  the  outer  gate, 
Slow  stalks  the  slave,  whose  office  there  to  wait, 
Bows  his  bent  head — his  hand  salutes  the  floor, 
Ere  yet  his  tongue  the  trusted  tidings  bore  : 
•'  A  captive  Dervise',  from  the  pirate's  nest 
Escaped  is  here — himself  would  tell  the  "est." 
He  took  the  sign  from  Seyd's  assenting  eye. 
And  led  the  holv  man  in  silence  nigh. 
His  arms  were  folded  on  his  dark-green  vest, 
His  step  was  feebie,  and  his  look  deprest ; 
Yet  worn  he  seem'd  of  hardship  more  than  years, 
And  pale  his  cheek  with  penance,  not  from  fears. 
Vow'd  to  his  God — his  sable  locks  he  wore. 
And  these  his  lofty  cap  rose  proudly  o'er  : 
Aiound  his  form  his  loose  long  robe  was  thrown, 
And  wrapt  a  breast  bestow'd  on  heaven  alone  ; 
Submissive,  yet  with  self-possession  mann'd. 
He  calmly  met  the  curious  eyes  that  scann'd  ; 
And  question  of  his  coming  fain  would  seek, 
Before  the  Pacha's  will  aliow'd  to  speak. 

IV. 

"  Whence  cotn'st  thou,  Dervise  ?" 

"  From  the  oudaw's  den, 
A  fugitive — " 

"  Thy  capture  where  and  when  ?" 
-'From  Scalanova's  port  to  Scio's  isle. 
The  Saick  was  bound  ;   but  Alia  did  not  smile 
Upon  our  course — the  Moslem  merchant's  gains 
Tlie  Rovers  won  :   our  limbs  have  worn  their  chains. 

iiad  no  death  to  fear,  nor  wealth  to  boast. 
Beyond  the  wandering  freedom  which  I  lost ; 
At  lensjth  a  fisher's  humble  boat  by  night 
Afforded  hope,  and  otfer'd  chance  of  flight: 
I  seized  the  hour,  and  find  my  safety  here — 
With  thee — most  mighty  Pacha !   who  can  fear  ?" 

"  How  speed  the  outlaws  ?  stand  they  well  prepared. 
Their  j)lun(ier'd  wealth,  and  robber's  rock,  to  guard? 
Dream  they  of  this  our  preparation,  dooin'd 
To  view  with  fire  their  scorpion  nest  consumed?" 

"Pacha!   the  fetter'd  captive's  mourning  eye 

That  weeps  for  flight,  but  ill  can  pky  the  spy; 

I  only  heard  the  reckless  waters  roaK, 

Those  waves  that  would  not  bear  me  from  the  shore ; 

I  only  mark'd  the  glorious  sun  and  sky. 

Too  brijihl — too  blue — for  my  captivity  ; 

And  felt — that  all  which  Freedom's  bosom  cheers, 

IMust  break  mv  chain  before  it  dried  my  tears. 

This  muy'st  thou  judge,  at  least,  from  my  escai)e, 

They  little  deem  of  aught  in  peril's  shape  ; 

E!-e  vainly  had  I  pray'd  or  sought  the  chance 

That  leads  me  here — if  eyed  with  vigilance: 

The  careless  guard  that  did  not  see  me  fly. 

May  watch  as  idly  when  thy  power  is  nigh : 

P  icha! — my  limbs  are  faint — and  nature  craves 

P"  od  for  my  hunger,  rest  from  tossing  waves  ; 

P.rinit  my  absence — peace  be  with  thee !   Peace 

With  all  around! — now  grant  repose — release." 

Stay,  Dervise  !  1  have  more  to  question — stay, 
I  do  command  thee — sit — dost  hear? — obey! 
More  I  must  ask,  and  food  the  slaves  shall  bring ; 
liiou  shalt  not  [>ine  where  all  are  ban(|ueting 
The  si!p|)er  done — [)re|iure  thee  to  reply, 
rieariy  an''  full — 1  !ov«<  r  jt  mystery." 


'T  were  vain  to  guess  what  shook  the  pious  man 
Who  look'd  not  lovingly  on  that  Divan  ; 
Nor  show'd  high  relish  for  the  banquet  prest, 
And  less  respect  for  every  fellow-guest. 
'T  vvas  but  a  moment's  peevish  hectic  past 
Along  his  cheek,  and  tranquiUized  as  fast: 
He  sate  him  down  in  silence,  and  his  look 
Resumed  the  calmness  which  before  forsook: 
Tlie  feast  was  usher'd  in — but  sumptuous  faio 
He  shunn'd,  as  if  some  poison  mingled  there. 
For  one  so  long  condemn'd  to  toil  and  fast, 
Methinks  he  strangely  spares  the  rich  repast. 

"What  ails  thee,  Dervise?  eat — dost  thou  suppost 
This  feast  a  Christian's?  or  mv  friends  thv  foes? 
Why  dost  thou  shun  the  salt  ?  that  sacred  pledge 
Which,  once  partaken,  blunts  the  sabre's  edge. 
Makes  even  contending  tribes  in  j)eace  unite, 
And  hated  hosts  seem  brethren  to  the  sight !" 

"  Salt  seasons  dainties — and  my  food  is  still 
The  humblest  root,  my  drink  the  sinifdest  rill ; 
And  my  stern  vow  and  order's  ^  laws  oppose 
To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  fricinds  or  foes  ; 
It  may  seem  strange — if  there  be  aught  to  dread, 
That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head  ; 
But  for  thy  sway — nay  more — thy  Sultan's  throne 
I  taste  nor  bread,  nor  banquet — save  alone  ; 
i    Infrinrred  our  order's  rule,  the  Prophet's  rage 
To  INIecca's  dome  might  bar  my  [)ilgrimage." 

"Well — as  thou  v,ilt — ascetic  as  thou  art — 

One  (jucstion  answer  ;   then  in  peace  depart. 

How  many  ? — Ha  !   it  cannot  £ure  be  day  ! 

What  star — what  sun  is  bursting  on  the  bay? 

It  shines  a  lake  of  fire  ! — away — away! 

Ho !   treachery  !   my  guards  !   my  scimitar  ! 

The  galleys  feed  the  flames — and  I  afar ! 

Accursed  Dervise  ! — these  thy  tidings — thou 

Some  villain  spy — seize — cleave  him — slay  him  now   * 

Up  rose  the  Dervise  with   that  burst  of  light, 
Nor  less  his  change  of  form  appall'd  the  sight : 
Up  rose  that  Dervise — not  in  saintly  garb, 
But  like  a  warrior  bounding  on  his  barb, 
Dash'd  his  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away — 
Shone  his  mail'd  breast,  and  flash'd  his  sabre's  ray ! 
His  close  but  glittering  casspie,  and  sable  plume, 
More  glittering  eye,  and  black  brow's  sabler  gloom 
Glared  on  the  Moslems'  eyes  some  Afrit  sprite. 
Whose  demon  death-blow  left  no  hope  for  fight. 
The  wild  confus'on,  and  the  swarthy  glow 
Of  flames  on  high,  and  torches  from  below ; 
The  shriek  of  terror,  and  the  mingling  yell — 
For  swords  began  to  clash,  and  shouts  to  swell, 
Flung  o'er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  hell! 
Distracted,  to  and  fro,  the  flying  slaves 
Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  fiery  waves; 
Nought  heeded  they  the  Pacha's  angry  cry, 
Thet/  seize  that  Dervise  !   seize  on  Zatanai !  * 
He   saw  their  terror — check'd  the  first  despair 
That  urged  him  but  to  stand  and  perish  there. 
Since  far  too  early  and  too  well  obey'd. 
The  fl;ime  was  kindled  ere  the  signal  made ; 
He  saw  their  terror — from  his  baldric  drew 
His  bugle — brief  the  blast — but  shrilly  blew ; 
'T  is  answer'd — "  Well  ye  speed,  my  gallant  crew 
Why  did  I  doubt  their  quickness  of  career? 
And  deem  design  had  left  me  single  here  ?" 
Sweeps  hi-,  long  arm — that  sabre's  whirling  Sway 
Sheds  fast  atonement  for  i's  first  delay ; 


THE    CORSAIR. 


287 


Completes  his  fury,  what  their  fear  began, 

And  makes  the  many  basely  quail  to  one. 

Tiie  clovx-.i  turbans  o'er  the  chamber  spread, 

And  scarce  an  arm  dare  rise  to  guard  its  head: 

E\en  Seyd,  i  onvulsed,  o'erwhelm'd  with  rage,  surprise, 

Retreats  before  him,  though  he  still  defies. 

Nc  craven  he — and  j-et  he  dreads  the  blow, 

bo  inich  Confusion  magniiies  his  foe ! 

His  blazing  galleys  still  distract  his  sight. 

He  lore  liis  beard,  and  foaming  tied  the  tight ;' 

For  now  the  pirates  pass'd  the  Plaram  gate, 

And  burst  within — and  it  were  death  to  wait; 

Where  wild  amazement  shrieking — kneeling — throws 

The  sword  aside — in  vain — the  blood  o'erflows  ! 

I'iie  Corsairs  pouring,  haste  to  where  within 

Invited  Conrad's  bugle,  and  the  din 

Of  groan.na  victims,  and  wild  cries  for  hfe, 

Proclaini'd  how  well  he  did  the  work  of  strife. 

Thev  shout  to  find  him  grim  and  lonely  there, 

A  glutttd  tiizcr  manijling  in  his  lair  ! 

But  short  their  greeting — shorter  his  reply — 

*'  'T  is  well — but  Seyd  escajies — and  he  must  die. 

Much  hath  been  done — but  more  remains  to  do — 

Their  galleys  blaze — why  not  their  city  too?" 

V. 
Quick  at  the  word — they  seize  him  each  a  torch. 
And  firf!  the  dome  t>om  minaret  to  porch. 
V  stern  ileliiiht  was  fix'd  in  Conrad's  eye. 
Hut  sudden  sunk — for  on  his  ear  tlie  cry 
Of  women  struck,  and  like  a  deadly  knell 
KnockM  at  tln-t  heart  unmoved  by  battle's  yell. 
"Oh  I    hurst  the  Haram — wrouH  not  on  your  lives 
One  female  form — remember — ire  have  wives. 
On  them  such  outrage  vengeance  will  repay; 
M;in  is  our  foe,  and  such  't  is  ours  to  slay : 
But  still  we  spared — must  spare  the  weaker  prey 
Oh  !  I  forgot — but  Heaven  will  not  forgive 
If  at  mv  word  the  helpless  cease  to  live ; 
FolK)w  who  will — 1  go — we  yet  have  time 
Our  souls  to  lighten  of  at  least  a  crime." 
He  chnibs  the  crackling  stair — he  bursts  the  door, 
Nor  feels  his  fijet  glow  scorching  with  the  floor; 
His  br<'aili  choak'd  gasping  with  the  vohimed  smoke, 
But  still  from  room  to  room  his  way  he  broke. 
They  search — they  find — they  save:    with   lusty  arnxs 
E.ich  bears  a  prize  of  unregarded  charms; 
Calm  theii-  loud  fears  ;   sustain  tlieir  sinking  frames 
With  all  the  care  defenceless  beauty  claims: 
So  well  could  Conrad  tame  their  fiercest  mood. 
And  check  the  verv  hands  with  gore  imbrued. 
But  who  is  she  ?   whom  Conrad  s  arms  convey 
From  reeking  pile  and  combat's  wreck — awav — 
Who  but  the  love  of  him  he  dooms  to  bleed  ! 
Tile  liaram  queen — but  still  the  slave  of  Seyd! 

VI. 

Brief  time  had  Cf'nrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare,^ 

Few  words  to  reassure  the  trembling  fair; 

For  in  that  pause  compassion  snatch'd  from  war, 

The  foe,  before  retiring  fast  and  far. 

With  wonder  saw  their  footsteps  unpursued, 

FcfS  slowlier  fled — then  rallied — then  withstood. 

I'nis  Seyd  perceives,  then  first  perceives  how  few 

Compared  with  his,  the  Corsair's  roving  crew, 

And  blushes  o'er  his  error,  as  he  eyes 

The  ruin  wrought  by  panic  and  surprise. 

Alia  il  AUd !   Vengeance  swells  the  cry — 

Shame  mounts  to  rage  that  must  atone  or  die ! 

And  flame  for  flame  and  blood  for  blood  must  tell, 

The  fide  of  triumph  ebbs  that  flow'd  too  well — 

When  wrath  returns  to  renovated  strife. 

And  those  who  fought  for  conquest  strike  for  life. 


Conrad  beheld  the  {'.an<Ter — he  beheld 

His  tbllowers  faint  by  freshening  foes  repell'd: 

"  One  elfort — one — to  break  the  circling  host!" 

They  form — unite — charge — waver — all  is  lost ! 

Within  a  narrower  ring  compress'd,  befet, 

Hopeless  not  heartless,  strive  and  struggle  yet — 

Ah  !   now  they  fight  in  firmest  file  no  more — 

HcmniM  in — cut  olf — cleft  down — and  .rampled  o'er  ; 

But  each  strikes  singly,  silen-lly,  and  home, 

And  sinks  outwearicd  rather  than  o'ercome. 

His  last  flint  (juittance  rendering  with  his  breath, 

Till  the  blade  glimmers  in  the  grasp  of  death ! 

VII. 

But  first  (^re  came  the  rallying  host  to  blows, 
And  rank  to  rank  and  hand  to  hand  oppose, 
Gulnare  and  all  her  Haram  handmaids  freed, 
Safe  in  the  dome  of  one  who  held  their  creed, 
By  Conrad's  mandate  safely  were  bestow'd,     . 
And  dried  those  tears  for  life  and  flame  that  flow'd , 
And  when  that  dark-eyed  lady,  young  Gulnare, 
Recall'd  those  thoughts  late  wandering  in  despair, 
Much  did  she  marvel  o'er  the  courtesy 
That  smooth'd  his  accents  ;   soften'd  m  his  eye : 
'T  was  strange — that  robber  thus  with  gore  bedew'd, 
Seem'd  gentler  then  than  Seyd  in  fondest  mood. 
The  Pacha  woo'd  as  if  he  deem'd  the  slave 
Must  seem  delighted  with  the  heart  he  gave ; 
The  Corsair  vow'd  protection,  soothed  affright, 
As  if  his  homage  were  a  woman's  right. 
"The  wish  is  wrong — nay,  worse  for  female,  vam 
Yet  much  I  long  to  view  that  chief  again  ; 
If  but  to  thank  for,  what  my  fear  forgot, 
The  life — my  living  lord  remember'd  not!" 

VIII. 

And  him  she  saw,  where  thickest  carnage  spread. 

But  gather'd  breathing  from  the  happier  dead; 

Far  from  his  band,  and  battling  with  a  host 

That  deem  right  dearly  won  the  field  he  lost, 

Feird— bleeding — baffled  of  the  death  he  sought. 

And  suatclrd  to  expiate  all  the  ills  he  wrought; 

Preserved  to  linger  and  to  live  in  vain  ; 

While  Veriirei-uce  ponder'd  o'er  new  plans  of  pain, 

And  staunch'd  the  blood  she  saves  to  shed  again — 

But  drop  bv  drop,  for  Seyd's  unglutted  eye 

Would  doom  him  ever  dying — ne'er  to  die  ! 

Can  this  be  he?  triumphant  late  she  saw, 

When  his  red  hand's  wild  gesture  waved,  a  law ! 

'T  is  he  indeed — disarm'd  but  ijnde[)rest. 

His  sole  regret  the  life  he  still  possest ; 

His  wounds  too  sUght,  though  taken  with  that  wih, 

Which  would  have  kiss'd  the  hand  that  then  could kil- 

Oh  !   were  there  none,  of  all  the  many  given, 

To  send  his  soul  —he  scarcely  ask'd  to  htiv'n? 

Must  he  alone  of  all  retain  his  breath. 

Who  more  than  all  had  striven  and  strucK  for  death/ 

He  deeplv  felt — what  mortal  hearts  must  feel, 

When  thus  reversed  on  faithless  fortune's  whoel, 

For  crimes  committed,  and  the  victor's  threat 

Of  lingering  tortures  to  repay  the  debt — 

He  deeply,  darkly  felt ;   but  evil  pride 

That  leii  to  perpetrate — now  serves  to  hide. 

S'ill  in  his  stern  and  self-collected  mier 

A  conqueror's  more  than  captive's  air  is  seen ; 

Tlinugh  faint  with  wasting  toil  and  stiffening  wound. 

But  few  that  saw — so  calmly  gazed  around  • 

Though  the  far  shouting  of  the  distant  crowd, 

Their  tremors  o'er,  rose  insolently  loud. 

The  better  warriors  who  beheld  him  near. 

Insulted  not  the  foe  who  taugh*  them  fear ; 


288 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  tho  grim  guards  that  to  his  durance  led, 
In  science  eyed  him  with  a  secret  dread. 

IX. 

The  leech  was  sent — but  not  in  mercy — there 

To  note  how  much  the  life  yet  left  could  bear  ; 

He  found  enough  to  !oad  with  heaviest  chain, 

Ar.'d  promise  feelins  for  the  wrench  of  pain : 

To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's  evening  sun 

Will  sinking  see  impalement's  pangs  begun. 

And  rising  with  the  wonted  blush  of  morn 

Behold  how  well  or  ill  those  pangs  are  borne. 

Of  torments  this  the  longest  and  the  worst, 

Which  adds  all  other  agony  to  thirst, 

That  day  by  day  death  still  forbears  to  slake. 

While  famish'd  vultures  flit  around  the  stake. 

"  Oh  !   water — water !" — smiling  hate  denies 

The  victim's  prayer — for  if  he  drinks — he  dies. 

This  was  his  doom: — the  leech,  the  guard  were  gone, 

And  left  proud  Conrad  fetter'd  and  alone. 

X. 

'T  were  vain  to  paint  to  what  his  feelings  grew — 

It  even  were  doubtful  if  their  victim  knew. 

There  is  a  war,  a  chaos  of  the  mind, 

When  all  its  elements  convulsed — combined — 

Lie  dark  and  jarring  with  perturbed  force, 

And  gnashing  with  impenitent  remorse  ; 

That  juggling  fiend — who  never  spake  before — 

But  cries,  "I  warn'd  thee!"  when  the  deed  is  o'er. 

Vain  voice !   the  spirit  burnina  but  unhent, 

May  writhe — rebel — the  weak  alone  repent! 

Even  in  that  lonely  hour  when  most  it  feels, 

And,  to  itself,  all — all  that  self  reveals. 

No  single  passion,  and  no  ruling  thought 

That  leaves  the  rest  as  once  unseen,  unsought ; 

But  the  wild  prospect,  when  the  soul  reviews — 

All  rushing  through  their  thousand  avenues — 

Ambition's  dreams  expiring,  love's  regret, 

Endanger'd  glory,  life  itself  beget; 

Tiie  joy  untasted,  the  contempt  or  hate 

'Gainst  those  who  fain  would  triumph  in  our  fate  ; 

The  hopeless  past ;   the  hasting  future  driven 

Too  quickly  on  to  guess  if  hell  or  heaven ; 

Deeds,  thoughts,  and  words,  perhaps  remember'd  not 

So  keenly  till  that  hour,  but  ne'er  forgot ; 

Tiiinss  lighi  or  lovely  in  their  acted  time, 

But  now  to  stern  reflection  each  a  crime ; 

The  withering  sense  of  evil  unreveal'd. 

Not  cankering  less  because  the  more  conceal'd — 

All,  in  a  word,  from  which  all  eyes  must  start. 

That  opening  sepulchre— the  naked  heart 

Bares  with  its  buried  woes,  till  pride  awake. 

To  snatch  the  mirror  from  the  soul— and  break. 

Av — pride  can  veil,  and  courage  brave  it  all, 

All — all— before — beyond — the  deadliest  fall. 

Each  hath  some  fear,  and  he  who  least  betrays, 

The  only  hypocrite  deserving  praise : 

Not  the  loud' recreant  wretch  who  boasts  and  flies ; 

But  he  who  looks  on  death — and  silent  dies. 

So  steel'a  oy  pondering  o'er  his  far  career. 

He  halt-way  meets  him  should  he  menace  near ! 

XI. 

In  the  high  chamber  of  his  highest  tower. 

Sate  Conrad,  fetter'd  in  the  Pacha's  power. 

His  palace  perish'd  in  the  flame— this  fort 

Contain'd  at  once  his  captive  and  his  court. 

Not  much  could  Conrad  of  his  sentence  blame, 

His  Ibe,  if  vancpiish'd,  had  but  shared  the  same: — 

Alone  he  sate— in  solitude  had  scann'd 

His  guilty  bosom,  but  that  breast  he  mann'd; 


One  thought  alone  he  could  not — dared  not  tne«< 
"Oh  !   how  these  tidings  will  Medora  greet !" 
Then — only  then — his  clanking  hands  he  raised. 
And  strain'd  with  rage  the  chain  on  which  he  gazed, 
But  soon  he  found — or  feign'd — or  dream'd  relief, 
And  smiled  in  self-derision  of  his  grief: 
"  And  now  come  torture  when  it  will—  or  may, 
More  need  of  rest  to  nerve  me  for  the  day!" 
This  said,  with  languor  to  his  mat  he  crept, 
And,  whatsoe'er  his  visions,  quickly  slept. 
'T  was  hardly  midnight  when  that  fray  begun, 
For  Conrad's  plans  matured,  at  once  were  done  ; 
And  Havoc  loathes  so  much  the  waste  of  time, 
She  scarce  had  left  an  uncommitted  crime. 
One  hour  beheld  him  since  the  tide  he  stemm  d-- 
Disguised,  discovered,  conquering,  ta'en,  condenm'd 
A  chief  on  land — an  outlaw  on  the  deep — 
Destroying — saving — prison'd — and  asleep  ! 

XII. 
He  slept  in  calmest  seeming — for  his  breath 
Was  hush'd  so  deep — Ah !   happy  if  in  death  ! 
He  slept — Who  o'er  his  placid  slumber  bends  ? 
Ilis  foes  are  gone — and  here  he  hath  no  friends  , 
Is  it  some  seraph  sent  to  grant  him  grace  ? 
No,  'tis  an  earthly  form  with  heavenly  face  ! 
Its  white  arm  raised  a  lamp — yet  gently  hid. 
Lest  the  ray  flash  abruptly  on  the  lid 
Of  that  closed  eye,  which  opens  but  to  pain. 
And  once  unclosed — but  once  may  close  again. 
That  form,  with  eye  so  dark,  and  cheek  so  fair, 
And  auburn  waves  of  gemin'd  and  braided  hair ; 
With  shape  of  fairy  lightness — naked  foot, 
That  shines  like  snow,  and  falls  on  earth  as  mute  - 
Through  guards  and  dunnest  night  how  came  it  there  1 
Ah  !  rather  ask  what  will  not  woman  dare, 
Whom  vouth  and  pity  lead  like  thee,  Gulnare  ? 
She  could  not  sleep — and  while  the  Pacha's  rest 
In  muttering  dreams  yet  saw  his  pirate-guest, 
She  left  his  side — his  signet-ring  she  bore, 
Which  oft  in  sport  adorn'd  her  hand  before — 
And  with  it,  scarcely  question'd,  won  her  way 
Through  drowsy  guards  that  must  that  §ign  obey. 
Worn  out  with  toil,  and  tired  with  changing  blows, 
Their  eyes  had  envied  Conrad  his  repose  ; 
And  chill  and  nodding  at  the  turret  door. 
They  stretch  their  hstless  limbs,  and  watch  no  more; 
Just  raised  their  heads  to  hail  the  signet-ring, 
Nor  ask  or  wl  it  or  who  the  sign  may  bring. 

XIII. 

She  gazed  in  wonder,  "  Can  he  calmly  sleep. 
While  other  eyes  his  fall  or  ravage  weep  ? 
And  mine  in  restlessness  are  wandering  here — 
What  sudden  spell  hath  made  this  man  so  dear? 
True — 't  is  to  him  my  life,  and  more  I  owe. 
And  me  and  mine  he  si)ared  from  worse  than  woe: 
■'Tis  late  to  think— but  soft — his  slumber  breaks- 
How  heavily  he  sighs  ! — he  starts — awakes  !" 
He  raised  his  head — and,  dazzled  with  the  light. 
His  eye  seem'd  dubious  if  it  saw  aright: 
He  moved  his  hand — the  grating  of  his  chain 
Too  harshly  told  him  that  he  lived  again. 
"What  is  that  form?  if  not  a  shape  of  air, 
Methinks  my  jailor's  face  shows  wondrous  fair!'* 

"  Pirate  !   thou  know'st  me  not — but  I  am  one 
Grateful  for  deeds  thou  hast  too  rarely  done ; 
Look  on  me — and  remember  her,  thy  hand 
Snatch'd  from  the  flames,  and  thy  more  fearful  hand. 
I  come  through  darkness — and  I  scarce  know  why — 
Yet  not  to  hurt — I  would  not  see  thee  die." 


THE    CORSAIR. 


289 


**  If  so,  kind  lady  !  thine  the  only  eye 

That  would  not  here  in  that  gay  hope  delight : 

Theirs  is  ihe  cliance — and  let  theni  use  their  right. 

But  still  I  thank  their  courtesy  or  thine, 

That  would  confess  me  at  so  fair  a  shrine." 

Strange  1  hough  it  seem — yet  with  extremest  grief 

Is  link'd  •\  Miiilh — It  dolh  not  bring  relief — 

That  J. lawfulness  of  sorrow  ne'er  beguiles, 

And  smiles  in  bitterness — but  still  it  smiles  j 

And  sometimes  with  the  wisest  and  the  best, 

Till  even  the  scatibld  '°  echoes  with  their  jest! 

Yet  not  the  joy  to  which  it  seems  akin — 

It  may  deceive  all  hearts,  i;ave  that  within. 

Whate'er  it  was  that  Hasli'o  on  Conrad,  now 

A  laughing  w  ildness  half  uni>ent  his  brow : 

And  these  his  accents  had  a  sound  of  mirth, 

As  if  the  last  he  could  enjoy  on  earth  ; 

Yet  'gainst  his  nature — for  through  that  short  life, 

Few  thoughts  had  he  to  spare  from  gloom  and  strife. 

XIV. 

"  Corsair !   thy  doom  is  named — but  I  have  power 

To  soothe  the  Pacha  in  his  weaker  hour. 

Thee  would  I  spare — nay  more — would  save  thee  now, 

But  this — time — hope — nor  even  thy  strength  allow  j 

But  all  I  can,  I  will:   at  least,  delay 

The  sentence  that  remits  thee  scarce  a  day. 

More  now^  were  ruin — even  thyself  were  loth 

The  vain  attempt  should  bring  but  doom  to  both." 

"  Yes  ! — loth  indeed  : — my  soul  is  nerved  to  all 
Or  fall'n  too  low  to  fear  another  fall : 
Tempt  not  thvself  with  peril  ;   me  witli  hope, 
Of  llight  from  foes  with  whom  I  could  not  cope : 
Unfr,  to  vaiKjuish — shall  I  meanly  tly, 
1  he  one  of  all  my  band  that  would  not  die? 
Yjt  there  is  one — to  whom  my  memory  clings, 
TiU  to  these  eves  her  own  wild  softness  springs. 
My  sole  resources  in  the  path  I  trod 
Were  these — my  bark — my  sword — my  love — my  God ! 
The  last  I  left  in  youth — he  leaves  me  now — 
And  man  but  works  his  will  to  lay  me  low. 
I  have  no  thought  to  mock  his  throne  with  prayer 
Wrung  from  the  coward  crouching  of  despair; 
It  IS  enough — I  breathe — and  1  can  bear. 
My  sword  is  shaken  from  the  worthless  hand 
That  migiit  have  better  kept  so  true  a  brand ; 
My  bark  is  sunk  or  captive — but  my  love — 
For  her  in  sooth  my  voice  would  mount  above : 
Oh!   she  is  all  that  still  to  earth  can  bind — 
And  this  will  break  a  heart  so  more  than  kind, 
And  blight  a  form — till  thine  appear'd,  Gulnare ! 
Mine  eye  ne'er  ask'd  if  others  were  as  fair." 
"  Thou  lovest  another  then  ? — but  what  to  me 
Is  this — 'lis  nothing — nothing  e'er  can  be  : 
But  yet — thou  lovest — and— Oh  !  I  envy  those 
Who*"  hearts  on  hearts  as  faithtul  can  repose, 
VV  no  never  feel  the  void — the  w  andering  thought 
That  sighs  o'er  visions — such  as  mine  hath  wrought." 

•'  Lady — methought  thy  love  was  his,  for  whom 
This  arm  redeem'd  thee  from  a  fiery  tomb." 

'♦My  love  stern  Seyd's  !    Oh — no — no — not  my  love  — 
Vet  much  this  heart,  that  strives  no  more,  once  strove 
To  meet  his  pai^sion — but  it  would  not  be. 
I  feJ ',— I  feel— li  ve  dwells  with— with  the  free. 
I  am  a  slave,  a  'avour'd  slave  at  best, 
To  share  his  splendour,  and  seem  very  blest ! 
Oft  must  my  soul  the  (juestion  undergo, 
Of—'  Dost  thou  love  V  and  burn  to  answer  '  No  !' 
Oh !   hard  it  is  that  fondness  to  sustain. 
And  struggle  not  to  feel  averse  in  vain ; 
19 


But  harder  still  the  heart's  ret  oil  to  hear 
And  hide  from  one — perha[)s  another  there. 
He  takes  the  hand  I  give  not — nor  withhold — 
Its  pulse  nor  check'd — nor  quicken'd — calmly  colo 
And,  when  resign'd,  it  drops  a  lifeless  weight 
From  one  I  never  loved  enough  to  hate. 
No  warmth  these  lips  return  bv  his  imprest, 
And  chill'd  remembrance  shudders  o'er  the  rest. 
Yes — had  I  ever  proved  that  passion's  zeal, 
The  change  to  hatred  were  at  least  to  feel: 
But  still — he  goes  unmourn'd — returns  unsought — 
And  oft  when  present — absent  from  my  thought. 
Or  when  reflection  comes — and  come  it  niust- 
I  fear  that  henceforth  't  will  but  bring  disgust ; 
I  am  his  slave — but,  in  despite  of  pride, 
i    'T  were  worse  than  bondage  to  become  his  bride 
1    Oh  !  that  this  dotage  of  his  breast  would  cease  ! 
Or  seek  another  and  give  mine  release, 
But  yesterda) — I  could  have  said.  »o  peace! 
Yes — if  unwonted  fondness  now  I  'bign, 
Remember — v.aptivo!  'tis  to  breal*  '.hy  chain; 
Repay  the  lite  that  to  thy  hand  I  ows  ; 
To  give  thee  oack  to  all  endear'd  below, 
Who  share  sucfi  love  as  I  can  neve  know 
Farewell — morn  breaks — and  I  mus*  row  away  : 
'T  will  cost  me  dear — but  dread  no  death  to  oay  !** 

XV. 

She  press'd  his  fetter'd  fingers  to  her  h-^prt. 

And  bow'd  her  head,  and  turn'd  her  to  d  «part, 

And  noiseless  as  a  lovely  dream  is  gone. 

And  was  she  here  ?  and  is  he  now  alone  ? 

What  gem  hath  dropp'd  and  sparkles  o'er  his  chain/ 

The  tear  most  sacred,  shed  for  other's  pain, 

That  starts  at  once — bright — pure — from  pity's  mine, 

Already  polish'd  by  the  hand  divine ! 

Oh  !  too  convincing — dangerously  dear — 

In  woman's  eye  the  unanswerable  tear ! 

W^hat  weapon  of  her  weakness  she  can  wield, 

To  save,  subdue — at  once  her  spear  and  shield 

Avoid  it — virtue  ebbs  and  wisdom  errs. 

Too  fondly  gazing  on  that  grief  of  hers! 

What  lost  a  world,  and  bade  a  hero  fly  ? 

The  timid  tear  in  Cleopatra's  eye. 

Yet  be  the  soft  triumvir's  fault  forgiven. 

By  this — how  many  lose  not  earth — but  heaven! 

Consign  their  souls  to  man's  eternal  foe, 

And  seal  their  own  to  spare  some  wanton's  woe' 

XVI. 

'Tis  morn — and  o'er  his  alter'd  features  play 
The  beams — without  the  hope  of  yesterday. 
What  shall  he  be  ere  night?  perchance  a  thing 
O'er  w  fiich  the  raven  Haps  her  funeral  wing : 
By  his  closed  eye  unheeded  and  unfell. 
While  sets  that  sun,  and  dews  of  evening  melt, 
Chill — wet — and  misty  round  each  stiffen'd  limb 
Refreshing  earth — reviving  all  but  him  ! — 


CANTO  III, 


Come  vedl — ancor  non 


abhandona. 

DANTE, 


I. 

Slow  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run. 

Along  Morea's  hills,  the  settinu  sun  ; 

Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurelv  bright. 

But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light! 
I  O'er  the  hush'd  deep  tl  e  yellcw  beu.iii  he  ihrows, 
1  Gilds  the  green  wave,   hat  trembles  a3  if  glows. 


290 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


<Jn  old  ^g^na's  rocK,  and  Idra's  isle, 
The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile , 
O'er  his  own  regions  lingering,  loves  to  shine. 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconciuer'd  Salamis  ! 
Their  azure  arches  tlirough  the  long  expanse 
iMore  deeply  purpled  meet  ins  mellowing  glance, 
And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Mark  his  gay  course  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven; 
Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 
Behind  his  Delphian  clitf  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  cast, 
When,  Athens !   here  thy  wisest  look'd  his  last. 
How  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sage's  ' '  latest  day ! 
Not  yet — not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  the  hill — 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still; 
But  sad  his  light  to.  agonizing  eyes. 
And  dark  the  mouHtain's  once  delightful  dyes; 
Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour. 
The  land,  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before  ; 
But,  ere  he  sunk  below  Cith;eron's  head. 
The  cup  of  woe  was  quati"'d — the  spirit  fled; 
The  soul  of  him  who  scorn'd  to  fear  or  fly — 
Who  lived  and  died,  as  none  can  live  or  die ! 

But  lo !   from  high  Hymettiis  to  the  plain, 

The  qween  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign."* 

No  mi.rky  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm. 

Hides  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form ; 

With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moon-beams  play, 

There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray. 

And,  bright  around  with  quivering  beams  beset, 

Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret: 

The  o-roves  of  olive  scatter'd  dark  and  wide 

Wheie  meek  Cephisus  pours  his  scanty  tide. 

The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 

The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk, '^ 

And,  dun  and  sombre  'mid  the  holy  calm. 

Near  Theseus'  fane  yon  solitary  palm. 

All  tinged  with  varied  hues,  arrest  the  eye — 

And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

Ayain  the  iEgean,  heard  no  more  afar, 

Lv.llri  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war ; 

Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 

Their  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 

INIi.xt  witli  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle. 

That  frown — where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile."* 

n. 

Not  now  my  theme — why  turn  my  thoughts  to  tliee? 

Oh!  \Nho  can  look  along  thy  native  sv;\, 

Nor  dwell  upon  thy  name,  whate'er  the  tale. 

So  much  its  magic  must  o'er  all  prevail'/ 

Who  that  beheld  that  sun  upon  thee  set. 

Fair  Athens  !   could  thine  evening  face  forget  ? 

Not  he — whose  heart  nor  time  nor  distance  frees, 

►-5peii-l>otind  within  the  clustering  Cyclades  ! 

Nor  seems  this  homage  foreign  to  his  strain, 

His  Cor«iir's  isle  was  once  thine  own  domain — 

Would  that  with  freedom  it  were  thine  again ! 

III. 

The  sun  hath  sunk — and,  darker  than  the  night. 
Sinks  with  its  beam  u[)oii  the  l)(;arori  height 
Medora's  heart — the  third  day  's  come  and  gone — 
With  it  he  comes  not — sends  not — faithless  one  ! 
Th(!  wind  was  fair  though  light  ;  and  storms  were  none. 
F.ast  eve  Anselmo's  bark  rcturu'd,  and  yet 
n.^  only  tidings  thai  they  had  not  met! 


Though  wil  1,  as  now,  far  different  were  the  tale, 
flad  Conrad  waited  for  that  single  sail. 

The  night-breeze  freshens — she  that  day  had  ;.fiSl 

In  watching  all  that  hope  proclaim'd  a  mast; 

Sadly  she  sate — on  high — Impatience  bore 

At  last  her  footsteps  to  the  midnight  shore. 

And  there  she  wander'd  heedless  of  the  spray 

That  dash'd  her  garinenis  oft,  and  warn'd  away 

She  saw  not — felt  not  this — nor  dared  depart. 

Nor  deein'd  it  cold — her  chill  was  at  her  heart ; 

Till  grew  such  certainly  from  that  suspense — 

His  very  sight  had  shock'd  from  life  or  sense ! 

It  came  at  last — a  sad  and  shatter'd  boat. 

Whose  inmates  first  beheld  whom  first  they  sought. 

Some  bleediii;; — all  most  wretched — these  the  few  — 

Scarce  knew  they  how  escaped — tJiis  all  they  knew. 

In  silence,  darkling,  each  a[)pear'd  to  wait 

His  fellow's  mouriiful  guess  at  Conrad's  fate  . 

Something  they  would  have  said;   but  seem'd  to  fear 

To  trust  their  accents  to  Medora's  ear. 

She  saw  at  once,  yet  sunk  not — trembled  not — 

Beneath  that  grief,  that  loneliness  of  lot, 

Within  that  incek  fair  form  were  feelings  high, 

That  deem'd  not  till  they  found  their  energy. 

While  yet  was  Hope — they  soften'd — flutter'd — wept- 

Ail  lost — that  softness  died  not — but  it  slept ; 

And  o'er  its  slumber  rose  that  strength  which  said, 

"  With  nothing  left  to  love — there's  nought  to  dread.* 

'Tis  more  than  nature's  ;   like  the  burning  might 

Delirium  gathers  from  the  fever's  height. 

"  Silent  vou  stantl — nor  would  I  hear  you  tell 

What — speak  nwt — breathe  not — for  I  know  it  wcl^— 

Yet  would  i  ask — almost  my  lip  denies 

The — quick  your  answer — tell  me  where  hi  lies." 

"  Ladv  !  we  know  not — scarce  with  life  we  I'ed  ; 

Hut  here  is  one  denies  that  he  is  dead  : 

He  saw  him  bound,  and  bleeding — but  alive.*' 

She  heard  no  further — 't  was  in  vain  to  strive — 

So  throbb'd  each  vein — eai;h  thought — till  then  with 

stood  ; 
Her  own  dark  soul — these  words  at  once  subdued : 
Siie  totters — falls — and  senseless  had  the  wave 
Perchance  but  snatch'd  her  from  another  grave  ; 
Hut  that  with  hands  though  rude,  yet  weepins.'  eyes, 
They  yield  such  aid  as  Pity's  haste  sui)))lies  : 
Dash  o'er  her  deathlike  cheek  the  ocean  dew. 
Raise — fan — sustain  till  life  returns  anew  ; 
Awake  her  haiulinaids,  with  the  matrons  leave 
That  fainting  form  o'er  which  they  gaze  and  grieve; 
Then  seek  Anselmo's  cavern,  to  re[)ort 
The  tale  loo  tedious — when  the  triumph  short. 

IV. 

In  that  wild  council  words  wax'd  warm  and  strarce, 
W^ith  thoughts  of  ransom,  rescue,  and  revenge; 
All,  save  re[)0se  or  flight:   still  lingering  there 
HreJithed  Conrad's  spirit,  and  forbade  despair; 
Whate'er  his  fate — the  breasts  he  form'd  and  led 
Will  save  him  living,  or  appease  him  dead. 
Woe  to  his  foes !   th(!re  yet  survive  a  few. 
Whose  deeds  are  daring,  as  their  hearts  are  true. 

V. 

Within  the  Haram's  secret  chamber  sate 

Stern  Sevd,  still  pondering  o'er  his  ca|)tive's  faie  j 

His  thou;:hts  on  love  and  hate  a'ternate  dwell, 

Now  with  Gulnare,  and  now  in  Conrad's  cell ; 

Here  at  his  feet  the  lovely  slave  reclined 

Surveys  his  brow — would  soothe  his  gloom  of  mind, 

While  maiiv  an  anxious  glance  her  large  dark  evi> 


THE    CORSAIR. 


29j 


Sends  in  its  idle  search  for  sympathy, 

His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads,'* 

But  inlv  views  his  victim  as  he  bleeds. 

"  Pacha  !   the  day  is  thine  ;   and  on  thy  crest 
Sits  triumph — Conrad  taken — fall'n  the  rest!  * 
His  doom  is  tix'd — he  dies:    and  well  his  fate 
Was  eiirn'd — yet  much  too  worthless  for  thy  hate; 
Methinks,  a  shvirt  release,  for  ransom  told 
With  all  his  treasure,  not  unwisely  sold  ; 
Report  s|)eaks  largely  of  his  pirate-hoard — 
Would  that  of  this  my  Pacha  were  the  lord! 
Wliile  badied,  weaken'd  by  this  fatal  fray — 
WatchM — follow'd — he  were  then  an  easier  prey  ; 
But  once  cut  oti^ — the  remnant  of  his  band 
Embark  their  wealth,  and  seek  a  safer  strand." 
"  Gulnare  ! — If  for  each  drop  of  blood  a  gem       .  . 
Were  olier'd  rich  as  Stamboul's  diadem ; 
[f  lor  each  hair  of  his  a  massv  mine 
Of  virgin  ore  should  supplicating  shine  ; 
If  all  our  Arab  tales  divulge  or  dream 
Of  wealth  were  here — that  gold  should  not  redeem! 
It  had  not  now  redeem'd  a  single  hour, 
But  that  I  know  him  felter'd,  in  my  power ; 
And,  thirsting  for  revenge,  I  ponder  still 
On  pangs  that  longest  rack  and  latest  kill." 
"Nay, — Seyd  I — I  seek  not  to  restrain  thy  rage. 
Too  jiistiv  moved  for  mercy  to  assuage  ; 
My  thouwhts  were  only  to  secure  for  thee 
His  riches — thus  released,  he  were  not  free : 
Disal)led,  shorn  of  half  his  might  and  band, 
His  capture  could  but  wait  thy  first  command." 

"  His  capture  could  ! — and  shall  I  then  resign 

One  day  to  l;im — the  w  retch  already  mine  ? 

Release  my  foe  ! — at  whose  remonstrance? — thine! 

Fair  suitor  ! — to  tliy  virtuous  gratitude, 

That  thus  repays  this  Giaour's  relenting  mood 

Which  thee  and  thine  alone  of  all  could  spare. 

No  doubt — regardless  if  the  prize  were  fair, 

Mv  thanks  and  praise  alike  are  due — now  hear! 

I  have  a  counsel  for  thy  gentler  ear: 

I  do  mistrust  thee,  woman!   and  each  word 

Of  thine  stamps  truth  on  all  suspicion  he<ard. 

Borne  in  his  arms  through  fire  from  yon  Serai — 

Sav,  wert  thou  lingering  there  with  him  to  fly  ? 

Thou  need'st  not  answer — thy  confession  sj)caks. 

Already  reddening  on  thy  guilty  cheeks  ; 

Then,  lovely  dame,  bethink  thee!   and  beware: 

'Tis  not  kis<  life  alone  may  claim  such  care! 

Another  word  aai! — nay — I  need  no  more. 

Accursed  was  the  moment  when  he  bore 

Thee  from  the  flanics,  which  better  far — but — no — 

I  then  had  monrnM  thee  with  a  lover's  woe — 

Now  't  is  thv  lord  that  warns — deceitful  thing! 

Know'st  thou  that  [  can  clip  thy  wanton  wing? 

In  words  alone  I  am  not  wont  to  chafe : 

Look  to  thyself — nor  deem  thy  falsehood  safe !" 

He  rose — and  slowlv,  sternly  thence  withdrew, 
Rase  in  his  eve,  and  threats  in  his  adieu: 
All  !   little  reckM  that  chief  of  womanhood — 
Which  frowns  ne'er  quell'd,  nor  menaces  subdued  ; 
Arid  little  deem'd  he  what  thv  heart,  Gulnare! 
When  soft  could  feel,  and  when  incensed  could  dare. 
His  doubts  appeared  to  wrong — nor  yet  she  knew 
How  dee|>  the  root  from  whence  compassion  grew — 
She  was  a  slave — from  such  may  captives  claim 
A  fellow-feeling,  differing  but  in  name  ; 
Still  half-unconscious — heedless  of  his  wrath, 
Again  sh«  ventured  on  the  dangerouf  path, 


Again  his  rage  repell'd — mti  arose 

That  strife  of  tJiought,  the  soarce  of  woman's  woes! 

VI. 

MeanwJiile — long  anxious — weary — still — the  same 
Roll'd  (lav  and  night — his  soul  couUl  terror  tame — 
This  fearful  interval  of  doubt  and  dread. 
When  every  hour  might  doom  him  worse  thar  dead, 
When  every  stej)  that  echo'd  by  the  gate. 
Might  entering  lead  where  axe  and  stake  await: 
When  every  voice  that  grated  on  his  ear 
Might  be  the  last  that  he  could  ever  hear ; 
Could  terror  tame — that  spirit  stern  and  hiiW 
Had  |)roved  unwilling  as  unfit  to  die  ; 
'T  was  worn — ])erhaps  decay'd — yet  silent  bore 
That  conflict  dt^adlier  far  than  all  before : 
The  heat  of  fight,  the  hurry  of  tJie  gale. 
Leave  scarce  one  thought  inert  enough  to  quail ; 
B'.'t  bouid  and  fix'd  in  fetter'd  sohuide. 
To  ()ine,  the  prey  of  every  changing  mood  ; 
To  gaze  on  thine  own  heart,  and  meditate 
Irrevocable  faults,  and  coming  fate — 
Too  late  the  last  to  shun — the  first  to  mend- 
To  count  the  hours  that  struggle  to  thine  end, 
With  not  a  friend  to  animate,  and  tell 
To  other  ears  that  death  became  thee  well ; 
Around  thee  foes  to  forge  the  ready  lie, 

I    And  blot  life's  latest  scene  with  calumny  ; 

i    Before  the  tortures,  which  the  soul  can  dare, 

!    Yet  doubts  how  well  the  shrinking  flesh  may  bear; 
But  deeply  feels  a  single  cry  would  shame, 

I    To  valour's  praise  thy  last  and  dearest  claim ; 
The  life  thou  leavest  below,  denied  above 
By  kind  monopolists  of  heavenly  love  ; 
And  more  than  doubtful  paradise — thy  heaven 
Of  earthly  hope — thy  loved  one  from  thee  riven. 
Such  were  the  thoughts  that  outlaw  must  sustain, 
And  govern  pangs  sur[)assing  mortal  pain  : 
And  those  sustain'd  he — boots  it  well  or  ill  ? 
Since  not  to  sink  beneath  is  something  stdl ! 

VII. 

The  first  day  pass'd — he  saw  not  her— Gulnare — 
The  second — third — and  still  she  came  not  there; 
But  what  her  words  avouch'd,  her  charms  had  don>, 
i    Or  ^e  he  had  not  seen  another  sun. 
'    The  fourth  day  roll'd  along,  and  with  the  night 
i    Came  storm  and  darkness  in  their  mingling  might ; 
I    Oh  !   how  he  listen'd  to  the  rushing  deep, 
I    That  ne'er  till  now  so  broke  upon  his  sleep  ; 
I    And  his  wild  spirit  wilder  wishes  sent, 
i    Roused  by  the  roar  of  his  own  element ! 
I    Oft  had  he  ridden  on  that  winged  wave, 
j    And  loved  its  roughness  for  the  speed  it  gave ; 
I    And  now  its  dashing  echo'd  on  his  ear, 
A  long-kno.vn  voice — alas  !   loo  vainly  near. 
Loud  sung  the  wind  aJ:)Ove  ;   and,  doubly  loud, 
Shook  o'er  his  turret  cell  the  thunder-cloud  ; 
And  flash'd  the  lightning  by  the  latticed  bar, 
To  him  more  genial  than  the  midnight  star  : 
Close  to  the  glimmering  grate  he  dragg'd  his  chatRf 
And  ho])ed  that  peril  might  not  prove  m  vam. 
He  raised  his  iron  hand  to  Hea'  en,  and  piay'd 
One  pitying  flash  to  mar  the  f<.  m  it  made : 
His  steel  and  impious  prayer  attract  n'ike- 
rht  storm  roll'd  onward,  and  disdain'd  to  sink«  , 
Its  peal  wax'd  fainter — ceased — he  felt  alone, 
As  if  some  faithless  triend  had  spurn'd  his  groajt 

VIII. 
The  midnight  pass'd — and  to  the  massy  door, 
A  light  step  came — it  paused— it  moved  once  nvira 


2^2 


BYRON'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Slow  turns  the  grating  bolt  jjid  sullen  key  ; 
'T  is  as  his  heart  forboded — that  fair  she  ! 
Whate'er  her  sins,  to  him  a  guardian  saint, 
And  beauteous  still  as  hermit's  hope  can  paint , 
Vet  changed  since  last  within  that  cell  she  came, 
More  pale  her  cheek,  more  tremulous  her  frame : 
On  him  she  cast  her  dark  and  hurried  eye, 
fV  hich  spoke  before  her  accents — 'f  thou  must  die! 
Yes,  thou  must  die — there  is  but  one  resource, 
The  last — the  worst — if  torture  were  not  worse." 

*'  Lady  !   I  lor»k  to  none — mv  lips  proclaim 
What  last  proclaim'd  they — Conrad  still  the  same: 
Why  shouldst  thou  seek  an  oudaw's  life  to  spare, 
And  change  the  sentence  I  deserve  to  bear '! 
Weil  have  I  earn'd — nor  here  alone — the  meed 
Of  Seyd's  revenge,  by  many  a  lawless  deed." 

"  Why  should  I  seek  ?  because— Oh  !   didst  thou  not 

Reiieem  my  life  from  worse  than  slavery's  lot  ? 

Why  should  I  seek?— hath  misery  made  thee  blind 

To  the  fond  workings  of  a  woman's  mind  ? 

And  must  I  say  ?  albeit  my  heart  rebel 

With  all  that  woman  feels,  but  should  not  tell — 

Because — despite  thy  crimes— that  heart  is  moved  : 

It  fear'd  thee — thaiik'd  thee — pitied— madden'd — loved. 

Reply  not,  tell  not  now  thy  tale  again, 

Thou  lov'st  another — and  I  love  in  vain ; 

Though  f  )nd  as  mine  her  bosom,  form  more  fair, 

I  rush  through  peril  which  she  would  not  dare. 

[f  that  th>  heart  to  hers  were  truly  dear, 

Were  I  thine  own — thou  wert  not  lonely  here : 

\n  outlaw's  spouse — and  leave  her  lord  to  roam ! 

Whu'  hath  such  gentle  dame  to  do  with  home '/ 

But  speak  not  now — o'er  thine  and  o'er  my  head 

Hang,-  the  keen  sabre  by  a  single  thread ; 

'f  thou  hast  courage  still,  and  woul(J~;t  be  free, 

Heceive  this  poniard — rise  and  follow  me !" 

"  Ay — in  my  chains  !   my  steps  will  gently  tread, 
With  these  adornments,  o'er  each  slumbering  head! 
Thou  hast  forgot — is  this  a  garb  for  flight  ? 
Or  is  that  instrument  more  tit  for  fight?" 


"  Misdoubting  Corsair!  I  have  gain'd  the  guard, 

Ripe  for  revolt,  and  greedy  for  reward.  "y^ 

A  single  word  of  mine  removes  that  chain : 

Without  some  aid,  how  here  could  I  remain? 

Well,  since  we  met,  hath  sped  my  busy  time. 

If  in  aught  evil,  for  thy  sake  the  crime: 

The  crime — 'tis  none  to  punish  those  of  Seyd. 

That  hated  tyrant,  Conrad — he  must  bleed! 

I  see  thee  shudder — but  my  soul  is  changed — 

Wrong'd — spurn'd — reviled — and  it  shall  be  avenged — 

Accused  of  what  till  now  my  heart  disdain'd — 

Too  faithful,  though  to  bitter  bondage  chain'd. 

Yes,  smile !   but  he  had  htfle  cause  to  sneer, 

I  was  not  treacherous  then — nor  thou  too  dear: 

But  he  has  said  it — and  the  j<'alous  well, 

Tliose  tyrants,  teasing,  temptmg  to  rebel, 

Deserve  the  fate      «ir  fretting  lips  foretell. 

I  never  loved — he  i>.    inht  me — somewhat  lugh — 

Since  >vith  me  came  a     eart  hi;  could  not  iiuy. 

I  was  a  slave  unmurmui.    •;    Ip'  tiafh  said 

But  for  his  rescue  I  with  tii<;c  had  tied. 

'T  was  false  thou  know'st — hut  let  such  augurs  rue, 

Their  words  are  ouK-ns  insult  renders  true. 

Nor  was^thy  respite  granted  to  my  prayer; 

Thi>r  fleeting  grace  was  only  to  prepare 

Nev\  torments  for  thy  life,  and  my  despair. 

MiiH)  loo  he  threatens  ;   but  his  dota<,M;  still 

Woii'd  fain  reserve  me  for  his  lordly  will. 


When  wearier  of  these  fleeting  char  ■<  and  me, 

There  yawns  the  sack — and  yonder  rolls  the  sea  ■ 

What,  am  I  then  a  toy  for  dotard's  play. 

To  wear  but  till  the  gilding  frets  away  ? 

I  saw  thte — loved  thee — owe  thee  all — woula  save, 

If  but  to  show  how  grateful  is  a  slave. 

But  had  he  not  thus  menaced  fame  and  life 

(And  well  he  keeps  his  oaths  pronounced  in  strifn", 

I  still  had  saved  thee — but  the  Pacha  sparea. 

Now  I  am  all  thine  own — for  all  prepared : 

Thou  lov'st  me  not — nor  know'st — or  but  the  worst. 

Alas  !   this  love — that  hatred  are  the  first — 

Oh!  couldst   thou   prove   my  truth,  thou  vvouldst  n<v 

start, 
Nor  fear  the  fire  that  lignts  an  eastern  heart ; 
'T  is  now  the  beacon  of  thy  safetv — now 
It  points  within  the  port  a  Mainote  prow  : 
But  in  one  chamber,  where  our  path  must  lead. 
There  sleeps — he  must  not  wake — the  oppressor  Seyd  " 

"  Gulnare — Gulnare — I  never  felt  till  now 
fNIy  abject  fortune,  wither'd  fame  so  low : 
Seyd  is  mine  enemy  :   had  swept  my  band 
From  earth  with  ruthless  but  with  open  hand, 
And  therefore  came  I,  in  my  bark  of  war. 
To  smite  the  smiter  with  the  scimitar; 
Such  is  my  weapon — not  the  secret  knife — 
Who  spares  a  woman's  seeks  not  slumber's  life. 
Thine  saved  I  gladly,  lady,  not  for  this — 
Let  me  not  deem  that  mercy  shown  amiss. 
Now  fare  thee  well — more  peace  be  with  thy  breast 
Night  wears  apace — my  last  of  earthly  rest !" 

"  Rest !   rest !   by  sunrise  must  thy  sinews  shake. 

And  thy  limbs  writhe  around  the  readv  stake. 

I  heard  the  order — saw — I  will  not  see — 

If  thou  wilt  perish,  I  will  fall  with  thee. 

My  lif(; — my  love — my  hatred — all  below 

Are  on  this  cast — Corsair !  't  is  but  a  blow! 

Without  it  flight  were  idle — how  evade 

His  sure  pursuit  ?  my  wrongs  too  unrepaid. 

My  youth  disgraced — the  long,  long  wasted  years, 

One  blow  shall  cancel  with  our  future  fears  ; 

But  since  the  dagger  suitj  thee  less  than  brand, 

I  '11  try  the  firmness  of  a  female  hand. 

The  guards  are  gain'd — one  moment  all  were  o'er— 

Corsair !  we  meet  in  safety  or  no  more  ; 

If  errs  my  feeble  hand,  the  morning  cloud 

Will  hover  o'er  thy  scaflx)ld,  and' my  shroud." 

IX. 
She  turn'd,  and  vanish'd  ere  he  could  reply. 
But  his  glance  follow'd  far  with  eager  eye  ; 
And  gathering,  as  he  could,  the  links  that  bound 
His  form,  to  curl  their  length,  and  curb  their  sound. 
Since  bar  and  bolt  no  more  his  steps  prei^'ude. 
He,  fast  as  fetter'd  limbs  allow,  pur>^iied. 
'T  was  dark  and  winding,  and  he  kiiLW  nr»  where 
That  |)assage  led  ;   nor  lamp  nor  guard  were  tlier« 
He  sees  a  dusky  glimmering — shall  he  seek 
Or  shun  that  ray  so  indistinct  and  weak? 
Chancre  guides  his  steps — a  freshness  seems  to  bca/ 
Full  on  his  brow,  as  if  from  morning  air — 
He  reach'd  an  open  gallery — on  his  eye 
Gleam'd  the  last  star  of  night,  the  clearing  sky? 
Yet  scarcely  heeded  these — another  light 
From  a  lone  chamber  struck  upon  his  sighi. 
Towards  it  he  moved,  a  scarcely  closing  door 
Reveal'd  the  ray  within,  but  nothing  more. 
With  hasty  step  a  figure  outward  past. 
Then  paused — and  turn'd — and  paused — 'tis  she  dtlasrt 


THE    CORSAIR. 


293 


No  poniard  in  that  lianrt — nor  sign  of  ill — 

"'J  hanks  to  that  softening  heart — she  could  not  kill!" 

Again  ne  look'd,  the  wililness  of  her  eye 

Starts  troin  the  day  abrupt  and  fcarfullv. 

She  stopp'd — threw  back  her  dark  far-lloatnig  ^air, 

That  nearly  veii'd  iier  face  and   bosom  fair  : 

As  if  she  late  had  bent  her  leaning  head 

Above  some  object  of  her  doubt  or  dread. 

They  meet — upon  fler  brow — unknown — forgot — 

Her  hurrying  hand  had  left — 't  was  but  a  spot — 

Its  hue  was  all  he  saw,  and  scarce  withstood — 

Oh  !   slight  but  certain  pledge  of  crime — 't  is  blood  . 


He  had  seen  battle — he  had  brooded  lone 

O'er  promised  pangs  to  sentenced  guilt  foreshown  ; 

He  had  been  tempted — chasten'd — and  the  chain. 

Vet  on  his  arms  might  ever  there  remain: 

But  ne'er  tVom  strife — ca[)tivity — remorse — 

FroiH  all  his  feelings  in  their  imiiost  force — 

So  ihrill'd — S.J  shudder'd  every  creeping  vein, 

As  now  they  froze  before  that  purjjie  stain. 

That  spot  of  bl(X)d,  that  light  but  guilty  streak 

Had  banish'd  all  the  beauty  from  her  cheek ! 

Blood  he  had  view'd — could  view  unmoved — but  then 

It  flow'd  in  combat,  or  was  shed  by  men ! 

XI. 

"'T  is  done — he  nearly  waked — but  it  is  done. 
Corsair!    he  perish'd — thou  art  dearly  won. 
All  words  would  now  be  vain — away — away ! 
Our  bark  is  tossing — 'l  is  alreadv  dav. 
The  few  gain'd  over,  now  are  whoiSy  mine, 
And  these  thy  yet  surviving  band  shall  join: 
Anon  my  voice  shall  vindicate  rny  hand. 
When  once  our  sail  forsakes  this  hated  strand." 

XII. 
She  clapp'd  her  hands — and  through  the  gallery  pour, 
Equipp'd  for  flight,  her  vassals — Greek  and  Moor  ; 
Silent  but  quick  they  stoop,  his  chains  unbind ; 
Once  more  his  limbs  are  free  as  mountain-wind  I 
But  on  his  heavy  heart  such  sadness  sate. 
As  if  they  there  transferr'd  that  iron  weight. 
No  words  are  utter'd — at  her  sign,  a  dftor 
Reveals  the.  secret  passage  to  the  shore  ; 
The  City  lies  behind — they  speed,  they  reach 
The  glad  waves  dancing  on  the  yellow  beach ; 
And  Conrad  following,  at  her  beck,  obey'd, 
Nor  cared  he  now^  if  rescued  or  betray'd ; 
Resistance  were  as  useless  as  if  Seyd 
Yet  lived  to  view  the  doom  his  ire  decreed. 

XIII. 

Embark'd,  the  sail  unfurl'd,  the  light  breeze  blew — 
How  much  had  Conrad's  memory  to  review! 
Sunk  he  \u  conlenijjlation,  till  the  cape 
Where  last  he  anchor'd  rear'd  its  giant  shape. 
Ah  ! — since  that  fatal  night,  though  brief  the  time, 
Had  swept  an  age  of  terror,  grief,  and  crime. 
As  it?  far  shadow  frown'd  above  the  mast. 
He  veii'd  liis  face,  and  sorrow'd  as  he  past; 
He  thounln  of  all — Gonsalvo  and  his  band, 
His  fleeting  triumph  and  his  failing  hand. 
Ho  iliought  on  her  afar,  his  lonely  bride : 
He  turn'd  and  saw — Gulnare,  the  homicide ! 

XIV. 

She  vvat-h'd  his  features  till  she  could  not  bear 
Their  ficszing  aspect  and  averted  air 
^nu  tbf,t  strange  fierceness,  foreign  to  her  eve, 
Pel.  i^-ter.cU'd  in  tears,  too  late  to  shed  or  dry. 


She  knelt  beside  him,  and  his  nand  she  prcst 
"Thou  may'st  forgive,  though  Alla's  self  dettst; 
But  for  that  deed  of  darkness,  what  wert  thou  ? 
Reprf)ach  me — but  not  yet — Oh  !   spare  me  noio  .' 
I  am  not  what  I  seem — this  fearful  night 
My  brain  bcwilder'd — do  not  madden  ([uite ! 
If  I  had  never  loved — though  less  my  guilt, 
Thou  hadst  not  lived  to — hate  me — if  thou  wilt." 

XV. 

She  wrongs  his  thoughts,  they  more  himself  upbraid 

Than  her,  though  undesign'd,  the  wretch  he  made ; 

But  s|ieechless  iall,  deep,  dark,  and  unexprest, 

They  bleed  within  that  silent  cell — his  breast. 

Still  onward,  fair  the  breeze,  nor  rough  the  surge, 

The  blue  waves  sport  around  the  stern  they  urge; 

Far  on  the  horizon's  verge  appears  a  speck, 

A  spot — a  mast — a  sail — an  armed  deck  ! 

Theii-  li  tie  brak  her  men  of  watch  descry, 

And  ampler  canvas  woos  the  wind  from  high; 

She  bears  her  down  majestically  near, 

Speed  on  her  prow,  and  terror  in  her  tier  ; 

A  flash  is  seen — the  ball  beyond  their  bow 

Booms  harmless,  hissing  to  the^deep  below. 

Up  rose  keen  Conrad  from  his  silent  trance, 

A  long,  long  absent  gladness  in  his  glance  ; 

•"T  is  mine — my  blood-red  flag!   again — again — 

I  am  not  all  deserted  on  the  main !" 

They  own  the  signal,  answer  to  the  hail, 

Hoist  out  the  boat  at  once,  and  slacken  sail. 

*"Tis  Conrad!   Conrad!"  shouting  from  the  deck, 

Command  nor  duty  could  their  transport  check! 

With  light  alacrity  and  gaze  of  pride, 

They  view  him  mount  once  more  his  vessel's  side ; 

A  smile  relaxing  in  each  rugged  face. 

Their  arm,  can  scarce  forbear  a  rough  embrace. 

He,  half-forgetting  danger  and  defeat, 

Returns  their  greeting  as  a  chief  ma,y  greet. 

Wrings  with  a  cordial  grasp  Anselmo's  hand, 

And  feels  he  yet  can  conquer  and  command ! 

XVI. 

These  greetings  o'er,  the  feelings  that  o'erflow, 
Yet  grieve  to  win  him  back  w ithout  a  blow ; 
They  sail'd  prepared  for  vengi^ance — had  they  knowc 
A  woman's   hand  secured  that  deed  her  own. 
She  were  their  queen — less  scrupulous  are  they 
Than  haughty  Conrad  how  they  win  their  way. 
With  many  an  asking  smile,  and  wondering  stare. 
They  whisper  round,  and  gaze  upon  Gulnare; 
And  her,  at  once  above — beneath  her  sex. 
Whom  blood  appali'd  not,  their  regards  perplex. 
To  Conrad  turns  her  faint  imploring  eye. 
She  drops  her  veil,  and  stands  in  silence  by  ; 
Her  arms  are  meekly  folded  on  that  breast. 
Which — Conrad  safe — to  fate  resign'd  the  rest. 
Though  worse  than  phrensy  could  that  bosom  fill, 
Extreme  in  love  or  hate,  in  good  or  ill. 
The  worst  of  crimes  had  left  her  woman  still ! 

XVII. 

This  Conrad  mark'd,  and  felt — ah!   could  he  Iwe'* 
Hate  of  that  deed — but  grief  for  her  distress  ; 
W  hat  she  has  done  no  tears  can  wash  away. 
And  heaven  must  punish  on  its  angry  day: 
But — it  was  done :   he  knew,  whate'er  he.   guilt. 
For  him  that  poniard  smote,  that  blood  was  spilt , 
And  he  was  free! — and  she  for  him  had  given 
Her  a.l  on  earth,  and  more  than  all  m  heaven ! 
And  now  he  turn'd  him  to  that  dark-eyed  slave. 
Whose  brow  was  bow'd  beneath  the  glance  lie  gave 


J94 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Who  now  seem'd  changed  and  humbled: — faint  and 

mecu, 
But  varying  oft  the  colour  of  her  cheek 
To  deeper  shades  of  i)aleness — all  its  red 
That  fearful  spot  whicli  staiii'd  it  from  the  dead ! 
He  took  that  hand — it  trembled — now  too  late — 
So  soft  in  love — so  wildly  nerved  in  hate  ; 
He  ciasp'd  that  hand — it  trembled — and  his  own 
Had  lost  its  firmness,  and  his  voice  its  tone. 
"Gulnare!" — but  she  replied  not — "dear  Gulnare!" 
She  raised  her  eye — her  only  answer  there — 
At  once  she  sought  and  sunk  in  his  embrace : 
If  he  had  driven  her  from  that  resting-place, 
His  had  been  more  or  less  than  mortal  heart, 
But — good  or  ill — it  bade  her  not  depart. 
Perchance,  but  for  the  bodings  of  his  breast, 
His  latest  virtue  then  had  join'd  the  rest. 
Yet  even  Medora  might  forgive  the  kiss 
That  ask'd  from  tbrm  so  fair  no  more  than  this, 
The  first,  the  last  that  frailty  stole  from  faith — 
To  lips  where  love  had  lavish'd  all  his  breath. 
To  lips — whose  broken  sighs  such  fragrance  fling, 
As  he  had  fann'd  them  freshly  with  his  wing ! 

XVIII. 

They  gain  by  twilight's  hour  their  lonely  isle : 

To  them  the  very  rocks  ap{)ear  to  smile  ; 

The  haven  hums  vvith  many  a  cheering  sound, 

The  beacons  blaze  their  wonted  stations  round. 

The  boats  are  darting  o'er  the  curly  bay, 

And  sportive  dolphins  bend  thera  through  the  spray; 

Even  the  hoarse  sea-bird's  shrill  discordant  shriek 

Greets  lik"^  the  welcome  of  his  tuneless  beak  !         ^ 

BeneatJi  each  lamp  that  through  its  lattice  gleains, 

Their  fancy  paints  the  friends  that  trim  the  beams. 

Oh  !   what  can  5anct)fy  the  joys  of  home, 

Like  hope's  gay  glance  from  ocean's  troubled  foam "? 

XIX. 

The;  liohts  are  high  on  beacon  and  from  bower. 

And  'midst  them  Conrad  seeks  Medora's  tower: 

He  looks  in  vain — 'i  is  strange — and  all  remark. 

Amid  so  many,  hers  alone  is  dark. 

'T  is  strange — of  yore  iiS,  welcome  never  fail'd. 

Nor  now,  perchance,  extiuguish'd,  only  veil'd. 

With  the  first  boat  descends  he  for  the  shwe, 

And  looks  impatient  {«!•  the  lingering  oar. 

Oh  !   for  a  wing  beyond  the  falcon's  flight. 

To  bear  him  like  an  arrow  to  that  height ! 

With  the  first  pause  the  resting,  rowers  gave. 

He  waits  not — -Jooks  not — rleaps  into  the  wave. 

Strives  through  the  si>rge,  bestrides  the  beach,  and  high 

Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye. 

He  reach'd  his  turret  door^-he  paused — no  sound 

Broke  from  within;  ,and  all. was  night  around. 

He  knock'd,  and  loudly — footstep  nor  rei>ly 

Announced  that  any  heard  or  deem'd  him  nigh  ; 

He'  knock'd — but  faintly — for  his  trembling  hand 

Refused  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 

The  portal  oi)ens — 't  is  a  well-known  face — 

But  not  the  form  he  panted  to  enibrace; 

Its  lips  are  silent— twice  his' own  essay'dj      <=      ' 

And  fail'd  to  frame  the  qucistion  they  delay'd  ; 

He  snatcli'd  the  lamp — its  li<Tht  will  answer  all — 

It  quits  his  grasp,  e.xpiritic  In  the  fall. 

He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray — 

As  soon  could  he  have  imger'd  thfire  for  day ; 

But,  glimmering  through  the  dusky  corridore, 

Vnother  chequers  o'er  the  shadow'd  flcwr  ; 

His  steps  the  chamber  gain — his  eyes  behold 

All  that  his  heart  believed  not— yet  foretold! 


XX. 

He  tu'n  d  not — spoke  not — sunk  not — fi.\'d  his  look. 
And  set  the  anxious  frame  that  lately  shook : 
He  gazed — how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain. 
And  know,  but  dare  not  own,  we  gaze  in  vain! 
In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair, 
That  death  with  gentler  aspect  wither'd  there  .5 
And  the  cold  flowers  '"  her  colder  hand  (jontain'd,    ■ 
In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strain'd  , 

As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feign'd  a  sleep. 
And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep  : 
The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow, 
And  veil'd — thought  shrinks  from  all  that  lurk'dbeloVI 
Oh  !   o'er  the  eye  death  m;>st  exerts  his  might. 
And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  of  light ! 
Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  that  long  last  eclipse, 
But  spares,  as  yet,  the  charm  around  her  lips — 
Yet,  yet,  they  seem  as'they  forbore  to  smile. 
And  wish'cf  repose — but  only  for  a  while;     , 
But  the  white  shroyd,  and  each  extended  tress, 
Long — feir — biit  spread  in  utter  lifelessness. 
Which,  late  the  sport  of  every  summer  wind. 
Escaped  the  baffled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind  ; 
These^anJ  the  pale  pure  cheek,  became  the  bier-  , 
But  sheis  nothing — wherefore  is  he  here  ? 

XXI.  ■      •  ' 

He  ask'd  no  question — all  were  answer'd  now 
By  the  first  glance  on  that  stiU— marble  brow. 
It  was  enough — she  died — what  reck'd  it  how? 
The  love  of  voiith,  the  hope  of  hotter  years, 
The  source  of  softest  wishes,  tenderest  fears,      =• .  ^ 
The  only  living  thing  he  could  not  hale, 
•  Was  reft  at.  once — and  he  deserved  hit.  fate, 
But  did  not  feel  it  less  ; — the  good  explore, 
For  peab^,  those  realms  where  guili  can  never  soai: 
The  proud — the  wayward — who  have  fix'd  below 
Their  joy — and,  find  this  earth  enough,  for  woe,.^ 
Lose  in  that  one  their  all — perchapce  afcnite-;^ 
But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all, delight? 
Full  many  a  stoic  eye  and  aspect,  stern 
Mask  hearts  where  grief  hath- little  left  to  learn; 
And  many_  a  withering  thought  lies  hid,  not  lost 
In  smiles  that  least  befit  who  wear  them  most. 

xxn. 

By  those,  that  deepest  feel,  is  ill  exprest 

The  indistinctness  of  the  suffering  breast ; 

W^here  thousand  thoughts  begin  to  end  in  one 

Which  seeks  from  all  the  refuge  found  in  none ; 

No  words  suffice  the  secret  soul  to  show. 

For  Truth  denies  all  eloquence  to  Woe.         i   . '   .... 

On  Conrad's  stricken  soul  exhaustion  prest,     '  .  .;•. . 

And  stupor  almost  lull'd  it, into  rest ; 

So  feeble  now — his  mother's  softness  crept 

To  those  wild  eyes,  which  like  an  infant's  wept  : 

It  was  the  very  weakness  of  his  brain, 

Which  thus  confess'd  without  relieving  pain. 

None  saw  his  trickling  tears— perchance,  if  seen,     '^ 

That  useless  flood  of  grief  had  never  been : 

Nor  long  they  flow'd— he  dried  them  to  depart, 

In  helpless— hopeless — brokenness, of  heart: 

The  sur>  goes  forth — but  Conrad's  day  is  dim ; 

And  the  nii^ht  cometh — ne'er  to  pass  from  him. 

There  is  no  darkness  like  the  cloud  of  mind, 

On  griefs  vain  eye — the  blindest  of  the  blind  ! 

Which  may  not — dare  not  see — but  turns  aside 

To  blackest  shade — nor  will  endure  a  guide  ! 

XXIII. 

His  heart  was  forni'd  for  softness — warp'd  to  wrong j 
Betray'd  too  earlv,  and  beguiled  too  long : 


THE    CORSAIR. 


295 


Ecch  feo.mg  pure — as  falls  the  dropping;  dew 

Within  the  grot — like  that  had  h.irdeu'd  loo  ; 

Less  clear,  perchance,  its  earthly  trials  pass'd, 

But  sunk,  aii<i  cluird,  and  pelrilied  at  last, 

Ve*  ♦enipests  wear,  and  lightnnig  cleaves  the  rock ; 

li  £ii<;h  Ivis  heart,  so  shatter'd  it  the  sliock. 

There  grew  one  Hower  beneatii  its  rugged  brow, 

Though  dark  the  shade— it  siielter'd,— saved  till  now. 

Tlietliunder  came — that  boll  liath  blasted  bolii, 

The  granite's  tirinneas,  and  the  lily's  growth : 

The  geiiUe  plant  iiath  left  no  leaf  to  tell 

Its  tale,  but  shrunk  and  witlier'd  where  it  fell, 

And  of  its  cold  protector,  blacken  round 

But  shiver'd  fragmenis  on  the  barren  ground! 

XXIV. 

'T  IS  morn — to  venture  on  his  lonely  hour 

Few  dare  ;   though  now  Anselnio  sought  his  tower. 

He  was  not  there — nor  seen  along  the  shore  ; 

Ere  night,  alarm'd,  their  isle  is  traversed  o'er: 

Another  morn— another  bids  them  seek, 

Anci  shout  his  name  till  echo  waxeth  weak  ; 

Mount — grotto — cavern — vallev  search'd  in  vain, 

They  fuut  on  shore  a  sea-boat's  broken  chain  : 

Their  hope  revives — they  follow  o'er  the  main. 

'T  is  idle  all — moons  roll  on  moons  away, 

And  Conrad  comes  not — came  not  since  that  day: 

Nor  trace  nor  tiduiiis  of  his  doom  declare 

Where  lives  his  grief  or  perish'd  Ins  despair ! 

Long  rnourn'd  his  band  whom  none  could  mourn  beside  ; 

And  fav   *he  monument  they  gave  his  bride : 

F  )r  him  they  raise  not  the  recording  stone — 

His  death  vet  dubious,  deeds  too  widely  known; 

He  left  a  Corsair's  name  to  other  times, 

Link'd  with  one  virtue,  and  a  thousand  crimes.'^ 


NOTES. 

1"he  ume  in  this  poem  may  seem  too  short  for  the 
occurrences;  but  the  uliole  of  the  Aegean  isles  arc 
within  a  few  hours'  sail  ol  the  continent,  and  the  reader 
must  be  kind  enough  to  take  ttie  mnd  as  I  have  often 
found  it. 

Note  1.   Page  119,  lino  23. 
Of  fair  Olympia  loved  and  left  of  oid. 
Orlando,  Cunto  10. 

Note  2.   Page  123,  line  19. 

Around  the  wiives  phosphoric  brightness  broke. 

By   night,    particularly    in    a    warm   latitude,    every 

stroke  of  the  oar,  every  motion  of  the  boat  or  ship,  is 

frllowed  by  a  slight  flash  like  sheet  lightning  from  the 

wa'er. 

Note  3.   Page  125,  line  25. 
Though  to  the  rest  the  isober  berry's  juice. 
CotTee. 

Not^  4.   Page  123,  line  27. 
The  long  Ciiibou'jue's  dissolving  cloud  supply. 
Pipe. 

Note  5.   Page  125,  hne  28. 
v\hile  dance  the  Ainiiis  lo  wild  mii;strelsy 
Dancing-;;  als. 

NoTu  TO   Canto  II.   Page  ir5,  line  55. 
It  has  been  objected  that  Conrad's  enlermg  disguised 
8is  a  spv,  ia  out  of  nature. — Perhaps  so. — I  find  some- 
thing not  un  ike  it  in  history. 

"Anxious  to  explore  with  his  own  eyes  the  state  of 
the  Vandals,  Majorian  ventured,  after  disguising  the 


colour  of  his  hair,  to  visit  Carthagr  m  the  character  ol 
his  own  ambassador;  and  Gensenc  was  afterwards 
mortified  by  the  discovery,  that  he  had  entertained  and 
dismissed  the  Emperor  of  the  Romans.  Such  an  anec- 
dote may  be  rejected  as  an  impiobablc  hction  ;  but  it  ia 
a  fiction  which  would  not  have  been  imagined  unless  in 
the  life  of  a  hero."    Gihhon,  D.  and  F.  Vol.  \  i.  p.  ISO. 

That  Conrad  is  a  character  not  altogether  out  of  na- 
ture, I  shall  attempt  to  prove  by  some  historical  L;om- 
cidences  which  I  have  met  with  since  writing  ''The 
Corsair." 

"  Eccelin  prisonnier,"  dit  Rolatulini,  "  s'enft.-rmoit 
dans  un  silence  menacant ;  il  fixoit  sur  la  terre  son  visage 
feroce,  el  ne  donnoit  point  d'essor  a  sa  profimde  in- 
dignation.— De  toutes  parts  cependant  les  soldais  et  les 
peuples  accouroient,  lis  vou'.oient  voir  eel  homme,  jadis 
si  puissant,  et  la  joie  universelle  eclatoitde  toutes  parts. 
♦  ♦=*  +  +  *+■* 

"  Eccelin  etoit  d'une  petite  taille  ;  niais  tout  I'aspect 
de  sa  personne,  tous  ses  mouvements  indi(]uoient  un 
soldat. — Son  langage  etoit  amer,  sen  de|)ortem(;nt  su- 
perbe — et  par  son  seul  regard  il  faisoit  trembler  les 
plus  hardis."     Sismondi,  tome  iii.  pp.  219,  220. 

"Gizericus  (Genseric,  king  of  the  Vandals,  the  con- 
cfueror  of  both  Carthage  and  Rome),  statura  meriiocns. 
et  equi  casu  claudicans,  animo  profunous,  sermone  ra- 
ms, luxuri;E  contemptor,  ira  turbiflus,  habendi  cupidus, 
ad  sollicitandas  gentes  providentissimus,"  etc.,  etc. 
Jornnndes  de  Rehus  Geiicis,  c.  33. 

I  beif  leave  to  quote  these  gloomy  realities,  to  keep  in 
countenance  my  Giaour  and  Corsaii. 

Note  6.   Page  128,  line  l4. 
And  my  stern  vow  and  or<ier's  laws  oppose. 
The  Dervises  are  in  colleges,  and  of  different  orders, 
as  the  jMonks. 

Note  7.  Page  129,  hne  23. 
They  seize  that  Dervise  1 — seize  on  Zatanai ! 
Satan. 

Note  8.  Page  130,  line  10. 
He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fish 
A  common  and  not  very  novel  ertect  of  Mussulman 
anger.  See  Prince  Eugene's  Memoirs,  j)age  24.  "The 
Seraskier  received  a  wound  in  ^he  thigh  ;  he  plucked 
up  his  beard  by  the  roots,  because  he  was  obliged  to 
quit  the  field." 

Note  9.   Page  131,  line  20. 
Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare. 
Gulnare,   a  female   name  ;    it  means,    literally,  the 
flower  of  the  pomegranate. 

Note  10.  Page  138,  hne  II. 
Till  even  tlu;  scaftold  ecliof>s  with  thfir  jest! 
In  Sir  Thomas  More,  for  instance,  on  the  scaflbld. 
and  Anne  Boleyn  in  the  Tower,  when  grasping  her  neck, 
she  reinarked,  that  "  it  was  too  slender  to  trouble  tha 
headsman  much."  During  one  part  of  the  French  Rev- 
olution, it  became  a  fashion  to  leave  some  "  mot  "  as  a 
legacy  ;  and  the  quantity  of  facetious  last  words  s[)oken 
duriuCT  that  [leriod,  would  form  a  melancholy  j«.st-book 
•f  a  considerable  size. 

Note  11.   Page  142,  line  16. 
That  closed  their  murder'd  saiic's  latest  day  ! 
Socrates  drauK  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sun- 
set   (the  hour  of  execution),   notwithstanding  the  en 
Vrcaties  of  his  disciples  to  wait  till  the  sun  went  down. 

Not.:  12.   Page  142,  line  28. 
The  qiieen  of  niifht  asserts  her  silent  reign 
The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  tha«  :n  ouf 
own   country  ;   the   days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  ir 
summer  of  shorter  dm^ation. 


296 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Note  13.  Page  143,  line  4. 
Tlio  gleaming  turret  of  tho  gay  Kiosk. 
The  kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house  ;  the  palm  is 
A'ilh.)ut  the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the 
temple  of  Theseus,  between  which  and  the  tree  the  wall 
intervenes.—Cephisus'  stream  is  indeed  scanty,  and 
llissus  has  no  stream  at  all. 

Note  14.  Page  143,  line  14. 
That  Crown— whore  ^jentler  oeean  seems  to  smile. 
The  opening  lines  as  far  as  Section  II.  have,  perhaps, 
lii  de  business  here,  and  were  annexed  to  an  unpub- 
lished, (though  i)rinted)  ooem ;  but  they  were  written 
on  the  spot  in  the  spring  of  1811,  and — I  scarce  know- 
why — the  reader  must  excuse  their  appearance  here  if 
he  can. 

Note  1^.  Page  14G,  line  2. 
His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads. 
The  comboloio,  or  Mahometan  rosary  ;  the  beads  aro 
in  number  ninety-nine. 

Note  16.     Page  160,  line  7. 
And  the  cold  flowers  her  colder  hand  contain'd. 
In  the  Levant  it  is  the  custom  to  strew  flowers  on  the 
bodies  of  the  dead,  and  m  the  hands  of  young  persons 
to  place  a  nosegay. 

Note  17.   Page  162,  line  34. 
Link'd  with  one  virtue,  and  a  thousand  crimes. 

That  the  point  of  honour  which  is  represented  in  one 
instance  of  Conrad's  character  has  not  been  carried 
bevond  the  bounds  of  probability,  may  perhaps  be  in 
some  degree  confirmed  by  the  following  anecdote  of  a 
brother  buccaneer  in  the  present  vear,  1814. 

Our  readers  have  all  seen  the  account  of  the  enter- 
prise against  the  pirates  of  Barrataria  ;  but  few,  we  be- 
lieve, were  inforu-ed  of  the  situation,  history,  or  nature 
of  that  establishment.  For  the  information  of  such  as 
wore  unacquainted  with  it,  we  have  procured  from  a 
friend  the  following  interesting  narrative  of  the  main 
facts,  of  which  he  has  personal  knowledge,  and  which 
cannot  fail  to  interest  some  of  our  readers. 

Barrataria  is  a  bay,  or  a  narrow  arm  of  the  gulf  of 
Mexico;  It  runs  through  'a  rich  but  very  flat  country, 
until  it  reaches  within  a  mile  of  the  INlississippi  river, 
fifteen  miles  below  the  Mtv  of  New-Orleans.  The  bay 
has  branches  almost  innumerable,  in  which  persons 
can  lie  concealed  irorn  the  severest  scrutiny.  It  com- 
municates with  three  lakes  which  lie  on  the  south-west 
side,  and  these,  with  the  lake  of  the  same  name,  and 
which  lies  contiguous  to  the  sea,  where  there  is  an  island 
formed  by  the  two  arms  of  this  lake  and  the  sea.  The 
east  and  west  points  of  this  island  were  fortified  in  the 
year  1811,  by  a  band  of  pirates,  under  the  command  of 
one  Monsieur  La  Fitte.  A  large  majority  of  these  out- 
laws are  of  that  class  of  the  population  of  the  state  of 
Louisiana  who.  fled  from  the  island  of  *  St.  Doniinao 
urii.g  the  troubles  there,  and  took  refuge  in  the  island 
f  Cuba  :  and  when  the  last  war  between  France  and 
Spain  commenced,  they  were  compelled  to  leave  that 
island  with  the  short  notice  of  a  few  days.  Without 
ceremony,  they  entered  the  United  States,  the  most  of 
them  the  State  of  Louisiana,  with  all  the  negroes  they 
had  possesse  I  in  Cuba.  They  were  notified  by  the  Gov- 
ernor of  that  State  of  the  clause  in  the  constitution 
vvhich  forbad  the  importation  of  slaves ;  but,  at  the 
name  time,  received  the  assurance  ofth(!  Governor  that 
V,e  would  obtain,  if  pussihlr,  the  approbation  of  the  gen- 
eral Government  for  their  retaining  this  property. 

The  island  of  Barrataria  is  situated  about  lat.  29.  deg. 
Kb  nun.  Ion.  92.  30.  and  is  as  remarkabh;  for  its  health  as 
fortne  superior  scble  and  shell-fish  with  which  its  waters 


abound.  The  chief  of  this  horde,  like  Charies  de  Mtw*, 
had  mixed  with  his  many  vices  some  virtues.  In  the  3'eju 
1813,  this  party  had,  from  its  turpitude  and  boldness, 
claimed  the  attcntionof  the  Governor  of  Louisiana;  anu 
to  break  up  the  estabhshment,  he  thought  proper  to 
strike  at  the  head.  He  therefore  offered  a  reward  of  300 
dollars  for  the  head  of  Monsieur  La  Fitte,  who  was  weU 
known  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  of  New-Orleans, 
from  his  immediate  connexion,  and  his  once  having  been 
a  fencing-master  in  that  city  of  great  reput.i'ion,  which 
art  he  learnt  in  Buonaparte's  army,  where  he  was  a 
Captain.  The  reward  which  was  offered  by  the  Governor 
for  the  head  of  La  Fitte  was  answered  by  the  offer  of  a 
reward  from  the  latter  of  15,000  for  the  head  of  the 
(iovernor.  The  Governor  ordered  out  a  company  to 
march  from  the  city  to  La  Fitte's  island,  and  to  burn  and 
destroy  all  the  property,  and  to  bring  to  the  city  of  New- 
Orleans  all  his  banditti.  This  company,  under  the  com- 
mand of  a  man  who  had  been  the  intimate  associate  of 
this  bold  Captain,  ap[)roached  very  near  to  the  fortified 
island,  before  he  saw  a  man,  or  heard  a  sound,  until  he 
heard  a  whistle,  not  unlike  a  boatswain's  call.  Then  it 
was  he  found  himself  surrounded  by  armed  men,  who 
had  emerged  from  the  secret  avenues  which  led  into 
Bayou.  Here  it  was  that  the  modern  Charles  de  Moor 
developed  his  few  noble  traits  ;  for  to  this  man,  who  had 
come  to  destroy  his  life,  and  all  that  was  dear  to  him,  h«! 
I  not  only  spared  his  life,  but  offered  him  that  which  wouki 
have  made  the  honest  soldier  easy  tor  the  remainder  ol 
his  days,  which  was  indignantly  refused.  He  then,  with 
the  approbation  of  his  captor,  returned  to  the  city.  This 
circumstance,  and  some  concomitant  events,  {)roveJ  that 
this  band  of  jiirates  was  not  to  be  taken  by  land.  Ou: 
naval  force  having  always  bcpn  small  in  that  (juarter, 
exertions  for  the  destruction  of  this  illicit  estahlishmenl 
could  not  be  cxinjcted  from  them  until  augmented  :  fo» 
an  officer  of  the  navy,  with  most  of  the  gun-boats  or. 
that  station,  had  to  retreat  from  an  overwhehniiig  forc4 
of  La  Fitte's.  So  soon  as  the  augmentation  of  the 
navy  authorized  an  attack,  one  was  made ;  the  over- 
throw of  this  banditti  has  been  the  result;  and  now  thia 
almost  invulnerable  i)omt  and  key  to  New-Orleans  \<t 
clear  of  an  enemy,  it  is  to  be  hoped  the  governmen* 
%viri  hold  it  by  a  strong  military  force. — From  on  Ameri 
can  JVewspnper. 

In  Noble's  continuation  of  Granger's  Biograjjhicar 
Dictionary,  there  is  a  singular  passajje  in  his  account  of 
archbishop  Blackbourne,  and  as  in  some  measure  con- 
nected with  the  [irofession  of  the  hero  of  the  ft)regoing 
poem,  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  extracting  it  : 

"There  is  something  mysterious  in  the  history  and 
character  of  Dr.  Blackbourne.  The  former  is  but  im- 
perfectly known ;  and  report  has  even  asserted  he  was 
a  buccaneer ;  and  ihat  one  of  his  brethren  in  that  pro- 
fession having  asked,  on  his  arrival  in  Eni;!and,  whal 
had  become  of  his  old  chum,  Blackbourne,  was  an- 
swered, he  is  Archbishop  of  York.  We  are  informed, 
that  Blackbourne  was  installed  sub-dean  of  Exeter  ii 
1694,  which  oflice  he  resigned  in  1702:  but  after  ■'..i 
successor,  Lewis  Barnet's  death,  in  1704,  he  regaa  •<) 
it.  In  the  following  year  he  became  dean  ;  and,  in  17  11 
held  with  it  the  arch/leanery  of  Cornwall.  He  was  con 
secrated  bisnop  of  Exeter,  February  24,  1716;  anJ 
translated  to  York.  November  28,  1724,  as  a  reward, 
according  to  court  scandal,  f()r  unitin<r  George  I.  to  the 
Duchess  of  Miinster.  This,  however,  a|)pears  ro  have 
been  an  unfounded  caluijjiiy.  As  archbishop,  he  behaved 
with  great  prudence,  and  was  ecjual'y  respectable  as  the 
I  guardian  of  the  revenues  of  the  see.  Rumour  whis- 
;   pered  he  retained  the  vices  of  his  youth,  and  tliat  a 


LARA. 


297 


passicii  for  the  fair  sex  formed  an  item  m  the  hst  of  his 

weaknesses  ;  but  so  far  from  being  co.ivictecl  by  seventy 
witnesses,  he  does  not  appear  to  have  been  directly 
criminated  by  one.  In  short,  I  look  upon  these  asper- 
sions as  the  etfects  of  mere  malice.  How  is  it  possible  a 
huecaneer  should  have  been  so  jiood  a  scholar  as  Hlack- 
Dourne  certainly  was  ?  he  w  lio  had  «o  perfe(!t  a  know- 
ledge of  the  classics  (particularly  of  the  Greek  trage- 
dians), as  to  be  able  to  read  them  with  the  same  ease 
as  ne  could  Sliakspeare,  must  have  taken  great  pains 
lev  acijuire  the  learned  languages;  and  have  had  both 
leisure  and  good  masters.  But  he  was  undoubtedly 
edu.-ated  at  Christ-church  College,  Oxford.  He  is  al- 
owed  lokave  been  a  i)leasant  man  :  this,  however,  was 
turned  against  him,  by  its  being  said,  '  he  gained  more 
hearts  than  sonls.'  " 

"  'Die  only  voice  that  could  soothe  the  passions  of  the 
savage  (Alphonso  ad)  was  tha'  of  an  amiable- and  vir- 
tiiou^ wife,  the  sole  object  of  his  love;  the  voice  of 
Donna  Isabella,  the  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy, 
and  the  grand-daughter  of  Philip  II.  King  of  Spain.— 
Her  dv  inn  words  sunk  deep  into  his  memory  ;  his  fierce 
spirit  mclied  into  tears;  and,  after  the  last  embrace, 
Aljihonso  retired  into  his  chamber  to  bewail  his  irre- 
parable loss,  and  to  meditate  on  the  vanity  of  human 
life." — jMixrellancous  IVorks  of  Gibbon,  new  edition, 
Suo.  vol.  3.  pcif^e  473. 


CANTO  I. 

1. 

The  serfs  are  ji'afl  through  Lara's  wide  domain,  ^ 

And  slaverv  half  fcrge^ls  her  feudal  chain  i?,*^'- 

He,  tlieir  unlioiierl,  but    unforgotten   locd,  i, 

I'he  loii;,'  selt-f\iled  chieftain  is  restored:'-^ 

There  be  t-wi^ht  faces  in  the  busy  hall,      -- 

Bowls  on  the  board,  and  banners  on  the  wall  ji—  » 

F'ar  checkeruiij  o'er  the  pictured  window,  plays  ^ 

The  unwonted  faggots'  hospitable  blaze ; 

AiiH  sav  retainers  gather  round  the  hearth, 

With  tongues  all  loudness,  and  with  eyes  all  mirth 

n. 

The  chief  of  Lara  is  returrfd  again : 
And  why  had  Lara  crossM  the  bounding  main? 
Left  In-  his  sire,  too  \oung  such  loss  to  know, 
Lord  ol   himse.f ; — that  heritai^e  of  woe — 
Thai  fearf  il  empire  which  the  human  breast 
But  holds  to  rob  the  heart  within  of  rest  !  — 
U'lth  HOIK!  to  check,  and  f'w  to  point  in  time 
The  thoiisan  I  pains  ihat  slo[ie  the  wav  to  crime; 
Then,  v.hen  he  most  reijiiireii  commandment,  then 
Had  Lara's  daring  bovhood  Jovern'd  men. 
It  skills  not,  boots  not,  step  by  step  to  trace 
His  youth  through  all  the  mazes  of  its  race ; 


Short 


the  course  his  restlessr.ef-s  had  run. 


But  long  enough  to  leave  him  half-undone. 

III. 
And  Lara  left  m  youth  his  father-land  ; 
But  from  the  hour  he  waved  his  parting  hand 
Each  trace  wax'd  fainter  of  his  course,  till  all 
Had  nearly  ceased  his  memory  to  recall. 
His  sire  was  dust,  his  vassals  could  declare, 
'T  was  all  they  knew,  that  Lara  was  not  there; 
Nor  sent,  nor  came  he,  till  conjecture  grew 
Cold  in  the  many,  anxious  in  the  few. 
His  hall  scarce  echoes  with  his  wonted  name, 
His  pr^rtrait  darkens  in  its  fading  frame. 
Another  cnief  consoled  his  destined  bride, 
The  youni;  forgot  him,  and  the  old  had  died : 
"  Yet  doth  he  live  ?"  exclaims  the  iinjjatient  heir, 
And  si<:hs  for  sables  which  he  must  not  wear. 
A  hundred  'scutcheons  deck  with  gloomy  grace 
The  Laras'  last  and  longest  dwelling-place  ; 
But  one  is  absent  from  the  mouldering  file, 
That  now  were  welcome  in  that  Gothic  pile. 

IV. 

He  comes  at  last  in  sudden  loneliness. 

And  whence  thev  know  not,  why  they  need  not  guess 

They  more  might  marvel,  when  the  greeting  's  o'er, 

Not  that  he  came,  but  came  not  long  before : 

No  train  is  his  beyond  a  single  page, 

Of  foreign  aspect,  and  of  tender  age 

Years  had  roll'd  on,  and  fast  they  speed  away, 

To  those  that  wander  as  to  those  that  stay  : 

But  lack  of  tidings  from  another  clime. 

Had  lent  a  flagging  wing  to  weary  time. 

They  see,  they  recognise,  yet  almost  deem 

The  present  dubious,  or  the  pa«t  a  dreani. 

He  lives,  nor  yet  is  pass'd  his  manhood's  prime. 

Though  sear'd  by  toil,  and  something  touch'd  by  I'me 

His  faults,  w-hate'er  they  were,  if  scarce  forgot. 

Might  be  untaught  him  by  his  varied  lot; 

Nor  good  nor  ill  of  late  were  known,  his  name 

Might  yet  uphold  his  patrimonial  fame  : 

His  soul  in  youth  was  haughty,, but  his  sins 

No  more  than  pleasure  from  the  stripling  wins  ; 

And  such,  if  no!  yet  harden'd  in  their  course. 

Might  be  redeem'd,  nor  ask  a  long  remorse. 

V. 

And  they  indeed  were  changed — 't  is  quickly  seen 
Whate'er  he  be,  't  was  not  what  he  had  been  : 
That  brow  in  furrow'd  lines  had  fix'd  at  last, 
And  spake  of  passions,  but  of  passion  past: 
The  pride,  but  not  the  fire,  of  early  days. 
Coldness  of  mien,  and  carelessness  of  praise; 
A  high  demeanour,  and  a  glance  that  took 
Their  thoughts  from  others  by  a  single  look  ; 
And  that  sarcastic  levity  of  tongue, 
The  stineing  of  a  heart  the  world  hath  stung. 
That  darts  in  seeming  playfulness  around, 
And  makes  those  feel  that  will  not  own  the  wound; 
ixW  these  seem'd  his,  and  something  more  beneath, 
Than  jjlance  could  well  reveal,  or  accent  breathe. 
[  Ambition,  glory,  love,  the  common  aim. 
That  some  can  contpier,  and  that  ail  would  clainu 
Within  his  breast  appear'd  no  more  to  strive, 
Yet  seem'd  as  lately  they  had  been  alive  ; 
And  some  deep  feeling  it  were  vain  to  trace 
At  moments  hgl.ten'd  o'er  his  livid  face. 

VI. 

Not  much  he  loved  long  question  of  the  past. 
Nor  told  of  wondrous  wilds,  and  deserts  vast- 


BYRON'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  those  far  lands  where  he  had  wander'd  lone, 
And — as  himself  would  have  it  seem — unknown: 
Yet  these  in  vain  his  eye  could  scarcely  scan, 
Nor  gleai  experience  from  his  fellow-man  ; 
But  what  he  had  beheld  he  shunn'd  to  show, 
As  hardly  worth  a  stranger's  care  to  know ; 
If  still  more  pryinp,  such  inquiry  grew, 
His  brow  fell  darker,  and  his  words  more  few. 

VII. 

Isut  unrejoiced  to  see  him  once  again. 
Warm  wa?  his  welcome  to  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Born  of  high  lineage,  link'd  in  high  command, 
He  mingled  with  the  magnates  of  his  land; 
Join'd  the  carousals  of  the  great  and  gay. 
And  saw  them  smile  or  sigh  their  hours  away 
lint  still  he  only  saw,  and  did  not  share 
The  common  pleasure  or  the  general  care ; 
He  did  not  f  )liow  what  they  all  pursued 
With  ho|ie  still  baffled,  still  to  be  renew'd ; 
Nor  shadowy  hcriour,  nor  substantial  gain. 
Nor  beanty'L  preference,  and  the  rival's  ))ain: 
Around  liim  some  mysterious  circle  thrown 
Re|)ell'd  a|)proach,  and  shovv'd  him  still  alone ; 
U|)on  his  eye  sat  something  of  reproof, 
That  kept  at  least  frivolity  aloof; 
And  things  more  timid  that  beheld  him  near, 
In  silence  gazed,  or  whisper'd  mutual  tear : 
And  they  the  wi-^er,  friendlier  few  confest       * 
They  deem'd  him  better  than  his  air  exprest. 

VIII. 

'T  was  strange — in  youth  all  action  and  all  life, 
Burning  for  pleasure,  not  averse  from  strife  ; 
V\\)man    -'  '    field— the  o;ean — all  that  gave 
Piaini^e  of  iiUdness,  t)fril  of  a  grave, 
In  turn  he  tried — he  ransack'd  all  below, 
And  found  his  recoin|)ense  in  joy  or  woe. 
No  tauie,  trite  medium  ;  for  his  feelings  sought 
In  that  intenseness  an  escape  from  thorght: 
The  tempest  of  his  heart  in  scorn  had  gazed 
On  that  the  feebler  elements  ha-th  raised ; 
The  rapture  of  his  near-t  had  look'd  on  high, 
And  ask'd  if  greater  dwelt  beyond  the  sky: 
Chain'd  to  excess,  the  slave  of  each  extreme, 
How  woke  he  from  the  wildiKiss  of  that  dream? 
Alas  !   he  told  not — but  he  did  awake 
To  curse  the  wither'd  heart  that  would  not  break. 

IX. 
Books,  for  his  volume  heretofore  was  Man, 
With  eye  more  curious  he  appear'd  to  scan, 
And  oft,  in  sudden  mood,  for  many  a  day 
From  all  communion  he  would  start  away  : 
And  then,  his  rarely-call'd  attendants  said, 
Through  night's  long  hours  would  sound  his  hurrio^ 

tread 
O'er  the  dark  gallery,  where  his  fathers  frown'd 
In  rude  but  anti<)ue  jiortraiture  around: 
They  heard,  but  whisper'd,   "  that  must  not  be  known— 
The  sound  of  words  less  earthly  than  his  own. 
Yes,  they  wlio  chose  might  smile,  but  some  had  seen 
Thev  scarce  knew  what,  but  more  than  should  have 

been. 
Why  gazed  he  so  u[)on  the  ghastly  head 
Which  hands  profane  had  gather'd  from  the  dead, 
That  still  beside  his  open'd  volume  lay, 
As  if  to  startle  al.  save  him  away? 
Why  slept  he  not  wluui  olhcrs  were  at  rest  ? 
Why  heard  no  music,  and  re(!cived  no  guest? 
\ll  was  not  well  llu^y  deem'd — liut  whfjre  the  wrong? 
Some  knew  perchance — but  'twere  a  tale  too  long; 


And  such  besides  were  loo  discreetly  wiso, 
To  more  than  hint  their  knowledge  in  surmise  ' 
But  if  they  would — they  could" — around  the  bo3ia, 
Thus  Lara's  vassals  ]irattled  of  their  '.^rd. 


It  was  the  night — and  Lara's  glassy  stream 

The  stars  are  studding,  each  with  imaged  beam 

So  calm,  the  waters  scarcely  seem  to  stray, 

And  yet  they  glide  like  happiness  away  ; 

Reflecting  far  and  fairy-'ike  from  high 

The  immortal  lights  that  live  along  the  sky : 

Its  banks  are  fringed  with  many  a  goodly  tree, 

And  flowers  the  fairest  that  may  feast  the  bee^ 

Such  in  her  cha})let  infant  Dian  wove'. 

And  Innocence  would  offer  to  her  love. 

These  deck  the  shore ;   the  waves  their  channel  make 

In  windings  briglit  and  mazv  like  the  snake. 

All  was  so  still,  so  soft  in  earth  and  air. 

You  scarce  would  start  to  mee!  a  sp.rit  there,; 

Secure  that  nought  of  evil  could  delight 

To  walk  in  such  a  scene,  on  such  a  night ! 

It  was  a  moment  only  foi  the  good : 

So  Lara  deem'd,  nor  longer  there  he  stood, 

But  turn'd  in  silence  to  his  castle-gate ; 

Such  scene  his  soul  no  more  could  contemplate: 

Such  scene  reminded  him  of  other  days. 

Of  skies  more  cloudless,  moons  of  purer  blaze. 

Of  nights  more  soft  and  frequent,  hearts  that  now- 

No — no — the  storm  may  beat  upon  his  brow, 

Unfelt — unsparing — but  a  night  like  this, 

A.  night  of  beauty,  mock'd  such  breast  as  his. 

XI. 

He  turn'd  within  his  solitary  hall, 
And  his  high  shadow  shot  along  the  wall ; 
There  were  the  painted  forms  of  other  times, 
'T  was  all  they  left  of  virtues  or  of  crimes. 
Save  vague  tradition  ;   and  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  hid  their  dust,  their  foibles,  and  their  faults ; 
And  half  a  column  of  the  pompous  page, 
That  speeds  the  specious  tale  from  age  to  age  ; 
Wliere  history's  pen  its  praise  or  blame  supplies, 
And  lies  like  truth,  and  still  most  truly  lies. 
He  wandering  mused,  and  as  the  moonbeam  shono 
Through  the  dim  lattice  o'er  the  floor  of  stone, 
And  the  high  fretted  roof,  and  saints,  that  there 
O'er  Gothic  windows  knelt  in  pictured  prayer, 
Reflected  in  fimtastic  figures  grew. 
Like  life,  but  not  like  mortal  life,  to  view  ; 
His  bristling  locks  of  sable,  brow  of  gloom, 
And  the  wide  waving  of  his  shaken  plume. 
Glanced  like  a  s|)eclre's  attributes,  and  gave 
His  aspect  all  that  terror  gives  the  grave. 

xn. 

'T  was  midnight— all  was  slumber ;  the  lone  light 
Dimm'd  in  the  lamp,  as  loth  to  break  the  night. 
Hark !   there  be  murmurs  heard  in  Lara's  hall — 
A  sound — a  voice — a  shriek — a  fearful  call ! 
A  long,  loud  shriek— and  silence— did  they  hear 
That  frantic  echo  burst  the  sleeping  ear? 
They  heard  and  rose,  and,  tremulously  brave, 
Rush  where  the  sound  invoked  their  aid  'o  save; 
They  come  with  half-lit  tapers  in  their  hands, 
And  snatch'd  in  startled  haste  unbelted  brands. 

XIII. 

Cold  as  the  marble  where  his  length  was  laid, 
Pale  as  the  beam  that  o'er  his  features  play'd. 
Was  Lara  stretch'd  ;   his  half-drawn  sabre  near, 
Dropp'd  it  should  seem  in  more  tl  an  nature's  fca   \ 


LARA. 


290 


Vet  Ke  \va<5  firm,  or  had  been  firm  till  now, 

And  still  dcfianre  knit  his  <;ath«ii'd  brow  ; 

Though  mix'd  wiili  terror,  senseless  as  he  lay 

There  lived  upon  his  lip  the  wish  to  slav  ; 

Some  iMilt-tbrni'd  threat  in  utterance  there  had  died, 

Some  imprecation  of  despairing  pride; 

His  eye  was  almost  seal'd,  but  not  forsook, 

Even  in  its  trance,  the  gladiator's  look, 

That  oft  awake  iiis  aspect  could  disclose, 

And  now  was  fix'd  in  horrible  repose. 

Tliey  raise  him — bear  iiim;  hush!  he  breathes,  bespeaks, 

The  swarthy  blush  recolours  in  bis  cheeks, 

His  iip  resumes  its  red,  his  eye,  though  dim, 

Rolls  wide  and  wild,  each  slowly-quivering  limb 

Recalls  its  function,  but  his  words  are  strung 

In  terms  that  seem  not  of  his  native  tongue ; 

Distinct,  but  strange,  enough  they  understand 

To  deem  them  accents  of  another  land ; 

And  sucli  they  were,  and  meant  to  meet  an  ear 

That  hears  him  not — alas  !   that  cannot  hear ' 

XIV. 

His  page  approach'd,  and  he  alone  appear'd 

To  know  the  import  of  the  words  they  heard  ; 

And,  by  the  changes  of  his  cheek  and  brow, 

Thev  were  not  such  as  Lara  should  avow, 

Nor  he  interpret,  yet  with  less  sui  prise 

Than  those  around  their  chieftain's  state  he  eyes; 

But  Lara's  prostrate  form  he  bent  beside. 

And  in  that  tongue  which  seem'd  bis  own  replied  ; 

And  Lara  heeds  those  tones  that  gently  seem 

To  soothe  away  the  horrors  of  his  dream, 

If  dream  it  were,  that  thus  could  overthrow 

A  breast  that  heeded  not  ideal  woe. 

XV. 

Whate  er  his  phrensy  dreom'd,  or  eye  beheld. 

If  yet  remeinber'd  ne'er  to  be  reveal'd, 

Rests  at  his  heart. — The  'custom'd  morning  came, 

And  breathed  new  vigour  in  his  shaken  frame ; 

And  solace  sought  he  none  from  priest  nor  leech. 

And,  soon  the  same  in  movement  and  in  speech, 

As  heretofore  he  till'd  the  passing  hours, 

Nor  less  he  smiles,  nor  more  his  forehead  lours. 

Than  these  were  wont ;   and  if  the  coming  night 

Appear'd  less  welcome  now  to  Lara's  sight, 

He  to  his  marvelling  vassals  show'd  it  not, 

Whose  shuddermg  proved  their  fear  was  less  forgot.. 

In  trembling  pairs  (alone  they  dare  not)  crawl 

Ph"  astonish'd  slaves,  and  shun  the  fated  hall ; 

f  ne  waving  banner,  and  the  clapping  door. 
The  rustling  tapestry,  and  the  echoing  Door; 
The  long  dim  shadows  of  surrounding  trees, 
The  flapping  bat,  the  night-song  of  the  breeze; 
Aught  they  behold  or  hear  their  thought  appals, 
As  evening  saddens  o'er  the  dark  gray  walls. 

XVI. 

Vain  thought !   that  hour  of  ne'er  unravell'd  gloom 
Came  not  again,  or  Lara  could  assume 
A  seeming  of  ibrgetfulness,  that  marie 
His  vassals  more  ama/ed  nor  less  dtraid — 
Had  memory  vanished  then  with  sense  restored  ? 
Since  word,  nor  look,  nor  gesture  of  their  lord 
Betray'd  a  feeling  that  recall'd  to  these 
That  fever'd  moment  of  his  mind's  disease. 
Was  it  a  dream?   was  his  the  voice  that  spoke 
Those  strange  wild  accents  ?   his  the  cry  that  broke 
Their  slumber  ?  his  the  oppress'd  o'er-labour'd  heart 
Thii*  cepsed  to  beat,  the  look  that  made  them  start  / 


Could  he  who  thus  h\<.  sufTer'd  so  forg»u, 
When  such  as.saw  that  sud'ermg  shudd(!r  yet  ? 
Or  did  that  silence  prove  his  memorv  fix'd 
Too  deep  for  words,  indelible,  immix'd 
In  that  corroding  s(;crecv  which  gnaws 
The  heart  to  show  the  effect,  but  lujt  the  cause  ? 
Not  so  in  him ;   his  breast  had  buried  both. 
Nor  common  gazers  could  discer-n  the  growth 
Of  thoughts  that  mortal  li[)S  must  leave  half-told ; 
They  choke  the  feeble  words  that  would  unfoid. 

XVII. 

In  him  inexplicably  mix'd  a[)pear'd 

Much  to  be  loved  and  hated,  sought  and  fear'd ; 

Opinion  varying  o'er  his  hidden  lot, 

In  praise  or  railing  ne'er  his  name  forgot ; 

His  silence  form'd  a  theme  for  othi  rs'  i)rate — 

Thevguess'd — they  gazed — they  fain  would  know  hisfatc 

What  had  he  beep?  what  was  he,  thus  unknown, 

Who  walk'd  their  world,  his  lineage  only  known? 

A  hater  of  his  kind  .'  yet  some  would  say, 

With  them  he  could  seem  gay  amidst  the  gay ; 

But  own'd,  that  smile,  if  oft  observed  and  near, 

Waned  in  its  mirth,  and  wither'd  to  a  sneer  ; 

That  smile  niisht  reach  his  lip,  but  pass'd  not  by, 

None  e'er  could  trace  its  laiiuhter  to  his  eye  : 

Yet  there  was  softness  too  in  his  regard, 

At  times,  a  heart  as  not  by  nature  hard. 

But  once  perceived,  his  spirit  seem'd  to  chide 

I    Such  weakness,  as  unworthy  of  its  pride, 

I    And  steel'd  itself,  as  scorning  to  redeem 

j    One  doubt  from  others'  half-withheld  esteem ; 
In  self-intlicted  penance  of  a  breast 

I    Which  tenderness  might  once  have  wrung  from  rc£i 

!    In  vigilance  of  grief  that  would  compel! 

I    That  soul  to  hate  for  having  loved  too  wew. 

I  XVllI. 

[    There  was  in  him  a  vital  scorn  of  all : 
As  if  the  worst  had  fali'n  which  could  befall. 
He  stood  a  stranger  in  this  breathing  world. 
An  erring  spirit  from  another  hurl'd  ; 
A  thing  of  dark  imaginings,  that  shaped 
By  choice  the  perils  he  by  chance  escaped  ; 
But  'scaped  in  vain,  for  in  their  memory  yet 
His  miiid  would  half  exult  and  half  regret ; 
With  more  capacity  for  love  than  earth 
Bestows  on  most  of  mortal  mould  and  birth, 
His  early  dreams  of  good  outstripp'd  the  truth, 

I    And  troubled  manhood  follow'd  batfled  youth ; 
With  thought  of  years  in  phantom  chase  mispeni, 
And  wasted  powers  lor  better  pur])ose  tent ; 
And  fiery  passions  that  had  pour'd  their  wrath 
In  hurried  desolation  o'er  his  [lath, 
And  left  the  better  feelings  all  at  strife 
In  wild  reflection  o'er  his  stormy  life  ; 
But  haughty  still,  and  loth  himself  to  blame. 
He  call'd  on  Nature's  self  to  share  the  shame. 
And  charged  all  faults  u))on  the  fleshlv  form 
She  gave  to  clog  the  soul,  a-iid  feast  the  worm; 
Till  he  at  last  confounded  good  and  ill, 
And  half  mistook  for  fate  the  acts  of  will : 
Too  high  for  common  selfishness,  he  could    " 
At  times  resign  his  own  for  others'  good. 
But  not  in  pity,  not  because  he  ought. 
But  in  some  strange  perversity  of  thought. 
That  sway'd  him  onward  with  a  secret  pride 
To  do  what  few  or  none  would  do  beside ; 
And  this  same  impulse  would,  in  tempting  time 
Mislead  his  spirit  equally  to  crime  ; 
So  much  he  soar'd  beyond,  or  sunk  beneath 
The  men  with  whom  he  felt  condemu'dto  bteatlio, 


300 


T?  Y  R  0  N '  S    POETICAL    W  0  Tl  K  F,. 


And  long'd  by  goo  1  or  ill  to  separate 
flirnself  from  all  who  shared  his  mortal  state ; 
His  mind  abhorring  this  had  fix'd  her  throne 
Far  from  the  world,  in  regions  of  her  own: 
Thus  ooldlv  passing  all  that  pass'd  below, 
His  blotxl  in  temperate  seeming  now  would  flow : 
Ah  !  happier  if  it  ne'er  with  guilt  had  glow'd, 
But  ever  ii;  tha*.  icy  smoothness  flow'd  ! 
'Tis  true,  witli  other  men  their  path  he  walk'd, 
And  like  the  rest  in  seeming  did  and  lalk'd, 
Nor  outraged  reaton's  rules  by  flaw  nor  start, 
flis  madness  was  not  of  the  head,  but  heart ; 
And  rarely  wandv^r'd  in  his  speech,  or  drew 
His  thoughts  so  fo.-ta  as  to  offend  the  view. 

XIX. 

With  all  that  chilling  mystery  of  mien. 
And  seeming  gladnass  to  remain  unseen. 
He  had  (if  'twere  ml  nature's  boon)  an  art 
Of  fixintj  memory  on  another's  heart: 
It  was  not  love  perchance — nor  hate — nor  aught 
Tliat  words  can  image  to  e.\|)ress  the  thought; 
liut  thev  who  saw  him  did  not  see  in  vain. 
And  once  beheld,  would  ask  oC  him  again: 
And  those  to  whom  he  spake  lemember'd  w-ell, 
And  on  the  words,  however  'i^iht,  would  dwell: 
None  knew,  nor  how,  nor  why,  but  he  entwined 
Himself  [)erforce  around  the  h.iarer's  mind  ; 
There  he  was  stamp'd  in  liking,  or  in  hate, 
If  greeted  once  ;   however  brief  the  date 
That  friendship,  pity,  or  aversion  knew. 
Still  tliere  witiiin  the  inmost  thoiiiiht  he  grew. 
You  could  not  penetrate  his  soul,  but  found, 
Despite  your  wonder,  to  vour  own  he  wound ; 
His  presence  hfhmted  still ;   and  from  the  breast 
He  forced  an  all-unwiiling  interest: 
Vain  was  the  struggle  in  that  mental  net, 
His  spirit  seem'd  to  dare  you  to  forget! 

XX. 

There  is  a  festival,  where  kniglits  and  dames, 
And  aught  that  wealth  or  lofty  lineage  claims 
Appear — a  hiwh-born  and  a  welcome  guest. 
To  Otho's  hall  came  Lara  with  the  rest. 
The  long  carousal  shakes  the  illumined  hall, 
Well  speeds  alike  the  banquet  and  the  ball ; 
And  the  gay  dance  of  bounding  beauty's  train 
Links  grace  and  harmony  in  happiest  chain : 
Blest  are  the  early  hearts  and  gentle  hands 
That  mingle  there  in  weil-accoi>.ing  bands; 
It  is  a  sight  the  careful  brow  might  smooth, 
And  make  age  smile,  and  dream  itself  to  youth, 
And  vouth  forget  such  hour  was  pass'd  on  earth, 
So  springs  the  exulting  bosom  to  that  mirth ! 

XXI. 

And  Lara  gazed  on  these,  sedately  glad. 
His  !)row  belied  him  if  his  soul  was  sad  ; 
And  his  glance  foilow'd  fast  each  fluttering  fair, 
Whose  steps  of  lightness  woke  no  echo  theru: 
He  le;in'(i  against  the  lofty  pillar  nigh. 
With  foliled  arms  nnd   Inns'  attentive  eye, 
Nor  mark'd  a  gbuict;  so  stt-riily  Hx'd  on  his — 
lit  brooK'd  hiiih  Lara  scrutiny  like  this: 
At  len-jth  he  cau<;lit  it,  't  is  a  face  unknown, 
But  seems  as  scnrching  bis,  and  his  alone; 
Prying  and  dark,  a  straiiircr's  by  liis  mien. 
Who  still  till  now  had  gazed  on  him  unseen; 
At  length  (encountering  meets  the  mutual  gaze 
Of  keen  impiirv,  and  of  mut(;   amaze  ; 
On  Lara's  >i-lance  emution   gathering  grew. 
As  i^  distrusting  that  the  stranger  threw  ; 


Along  the  stranger's  aspect  fix'd  and  stern, 
Flash'd  more  than  thence  the  vulgar  eye  cou  1  i^ain 

xxn. 

*"T  is  he!"  the  stranger  cried,  and  those  that  heaid 

Re-echoed  fast  and  far  the  whisper'd  word. 

"  'T  is  he  !" — "  'T  is  who  ?"  thev  uuestion  far  and  neaJ 

Till  louder  accents  rung  on  Lara's  ear ; 

So  widely  spread,  few  bosoms  well  could  brook 

The  general  marvel,  or  that  single  look  : 

But  Lara  stirr'd  not,  changed  not,  the  surprise 

That  s|)rung  at  first  to  his  arrested  eyes, 

Seem'd  now  subsided,  neither  sunk  nor  raised. 

Glanced  his  eye  round,  though  stdl  the  stranger  gazed  ^ 

And  drawing  nigh,  exclaim'd,  with  haughty  snetir, 

*'  'T  is  he! — how  came  he  thence  ? — w  hat  doth  he  here?*" 

XXIII. 
It  were  too  much  for  Lara  to  pass  by 
Such  question,  so  re[)eated  fierce  and  high  ; 
With  look  collected,  but  with  accent  cold. 
More  mildly  firm  than  petulantly  bold. 
He  turn'd,  and  met  the  impjisitorial  tone — 
"Mv  name  is  Lara! — when  thine  own  is  known, 
Doubt  not  my  fitting  answer  to  re(]uite 
The  unlook'd-for  courtesy  of  such  a  knight. 
'Tis  Lara! — furlher  woulJst  thou  mar|i  or  ask, 
I  shun  no  (piestion,  and  I  wear  no  mask." 

"  Thou  shun'st  no  question  !   Ponder — is  there  none 

Thy  heart  must  answer,  though  thme  ear  would   shun? 

And  deem'st  thou  me  unknown  too  ?   Gaze  again  i 

At  least  thy  memory  was  not  given   in  vain. 

Oh  !   never  canst  thou  cancel   half  her  debt. 

Eternity  forbids  thee  to  forget." 

With  slow  and  searching  glance  upon  his  face 

Grew  Lara's  eyes,  but   nothing  there  could  tracf. 

Thev  knew,  or  chose  to  know — with  dubious  look 

He  deigii'd  no  answer,  but  his  head  he  shook, 

And  haif-conteriiptuous  turn'd  to  pass  away  ; 

But  the  stern  stranger  motion'd  him  to  stay. 

"  A  word  I — I  charge  thee  stay,  and  answer  here 

To  one  who,  wert  thou  noble,  were  thy  |)eer, 

But  as  thou  wast  and  art — nay,  frown  not,  lord, 

If  false,  't  is  easv  to  disprove  the  won! — 

But,  as  thou  wast  and  art,  on  thee  looks  down. 

Distrusts  thy  smiles,  but  shakes  not  at  thy  frown. 

Art  thou  not  he?   whose  deeds " 

"Whate'er  I  be, 
Words  wild  as  tiiese,  accusers  like  to  thee 
I  list  no  further;    those  with  whom  they  weigh 
May  hear  the  rest,  nor  venture  to  gainsay 
The  wond'rous  tale  no  doubt  thy  tongue  can  tell. 
Which  thus  bcirins  so  courteously  and  well. 
Let  Oilio  cherish  here  his  polish'd  guest, 
To  him  my  thanks  and  thoughts  shall  be  exjjrest.*' 
And  here  their  wondering  host  hath  interposed — 
"Whate'er  there  be  between  you  undisclosed. 
This  is  no  time  nor  tilting  place  to  mar 
The  mirthfiil  meeting  with  a  wordy  war. 
If  thou,  Sir  Ezzelin,  hasl  aught  to  show 
Which  it  befits  Count  Lara's  ear  to  know, 
To-morrow,  here;,  or  elsewhere,  as  may  best 
Beseem  your  mutual  judgment,  speak  the  re^; 
I  pledge  mvself  for  thee,  as  not  unknown. 
Though  like  Count  Lara  now  retiirn'd  alone 
From  other  lands,  almost  a  stranger  grown  ; 
And  if  from  Lara's  blooc'  and  gentle  birth 
I  augur  right  of  courage  and  of  worth, 
He  %vill  not  that  untainted  line  belie. 
Nor  aught  that  knighthood  may  accord  deny." 


LARA. 


80] 


"  rti-morrow  be  it,"  Ezzelin  replied, 

'*  And  here  our  several  wortli  and  truth  be  tried ; 

I  ffagc  my  life,  my  falchion  to  attest 

My  vNords,  so  may  I  mingle  with  the  blest  !^' 

What  answers  Lara?   to  its  centre  shrunk 

His  soal,  ir  i'i'.(i\)  abstraction  sudden  sunk  ; 

riie  word:  of  many,  and  the  eyes  of  all 

]•  at  there  were  gather'd,  seem'd  on  him  to  fall ; 

Bui  his  were  silent,  his  appeared  to  stray 

In  liir  tbrgol fulness  away — away — 

Alas  !   that  heedlessness  of  all  around 

Bespoke  remembrance  only  too  profound. 

XXIV. 

"  To-morrow  ! — ay,  to-morrow !"  further  word 
Than  those  repeated  none  from  Lara  heard ; 
Upon  his  brow  no  outward  passion  spoke, 
From  his  large  eye  no  flashing  anger  broke  ; 
Yet  there  was  something  tix'd  in  that  low  tone, 
Which  show'd  resolve,  determined,  though  unknow^n. 
He  seized  his  cloak — his  head  he  slightly  bow'd, 
And,  passing  Ezzelin,  he  left  the  crowd  ; 
And,  as  he  pass'd  him,  smiling  met  the  frown 
With  which  that  chieftain's  brow  would  bear  him  down: 
It  was  nor  smile  of  mirth,  nor  struggling  pride, 
That  curbs'to  scorn  the  wrath  it  cannot  hide ; 
But  that  of  one  in  his  own  heart  secure 
Of  all  that  he  would  do,  or  could  endure. 
Could  this  mean  peace?   the  calmness  of  the  good  / 
Or  guilt  grown  old  in  desperate  hardihood  ? 
Alas  !   too  like  in  confidence  are  each. 
For  man  to  trust  to  mortal  look  or  speech  ; 
From  de-ids,  and  deeds  alone,  may  he  discern 
ruth*  which  it  wrings  the  unpractised  heart  to  learn. 

XXV. 

And  Lara  call'd  his  page,  and  went  his  way — 

W\>11  could  that  stripling  word  or  sign  obey : 

His  only  follower  from  those  climes  afar, 

Where  the  soul  glows  beneath  a  brighter  star  ; 

For  Lara  left  the  shore  from  whence  he  sprung, 

In  duty  patient,  and  sedate  though  young ; 

Silent  as  him  he  served,  his  faith  appears 

Above  his  station,  and  beyond  his  years.  , 

Thouorh  not  unknown  the  tongue  of  Lara's  land, 

In  such  from  him  he  rarely  heard  command; 

But  fleet  his  step,  and  clear  his  tones  would  co*ie, 

W^hen  Lara's  lip  breathed  forth  the  words  of  home  : 

Those  accents,  as  his  native  mountains  dear. 

Awake  their  absent  echoes  in  his  ear. 

Friends',  kindreds',  parents',  wonted  voice  recall, 

Now  lost,  abjured,  for  one — his  friend,  his  all : 

For  him  earth  now  disclosed  no  other  guide ; 

What  marvel  then  he  rarely  left  his  side  ? 

XXVI. 

I.rght  was  b-<  form,  and  darkly  delicate 

'i'haf  br<»w  wnereon  his  native  sun  had  sate, 

But  had  not  marr'd,  though  in  his  beams  he  grew, 

The  cheek  where  oft  the  untiidden  blush  shone  through; 

Yet  not  such  blush  as  mounts  when  health  would  show 

.\.ll  the  heart's  hue  in  that  delishted  glow  ; 

But 't  was  a  hectic  tint  of  sccrt  t  care 

Tiiat  for  a  burning  moment  fever'd  there  ; 

And  the  wild  sparkle  of  his  eye  seem'd  caught 

From  high,  and  lighten'd  with  electric  thought, 

Though  its  black  orb  those  long  low  lashes  fringe, 

Had  temper'd  with  a  melancholy  tinge ; 

Vet  less  of  sorrow  than  of  prid«   was  there. 

Or  if  't  were  ^rief,  a  grief  that  none  should  share : 


And  pleased  not  iiim  the  sports  that  please  his  age. 

The  tricks  of  youth,  the  frolics  of  the  i)age  : 

For  hours  on  Lara  he  would  fix  his  glance. 

As  all-lbrgotten  in  that  watchful  trance  ; 

And  from  his  chief  withdrawn,  he  wander'd  lone, 

Brief  were  his  answers,  and  his  questions  none  , 

His  walk  the  wood,  his  sport  some  foreign  book  ; 

His  resting-place  the  bank  that  curiis  the  brook: 

He  seem'd,  like  him  he  served,  to  live  apart 

From  all  that  lures  the  eye,  and  fills  the  heart ;  ^ 

To  know  no  brotherhood,  and  take  from  earth 

No  gift  beyond  that  bitter  boon — our  birth. 

xxvn. 

If  ausht  he  loved,  't  was  Lara  ;   but  was  shown 
His  faith  in  reverence  and  in  deeds  alone  ; 
In  mute  attention  ;   and  his  care,  which  guess'd 
Each  wish,  fulfill'd  it  ere  the  tongue  express'd. 
Still  there  was  haughtiness  in  all  he  Jid, 
A  spirit  deep  that  brook'd  not  to  be  chid  ; 
His  zeal,  though  more  than  that  of  servile  hands, 
In  act  alone  obeys,  his  air  commands ; 
As  if  't  w^as  Lara's  less  than  hin  desire 
That  thus  he  served,  but  surely  not  for  hire. 
Slight  were  the  tasks  enjoin'd  him  by  his  lord. 
To  hold  the  stirrup,  or  to  bear  the  sword  ; 
To  tune  his  lute,  or  if  he  will'd  it  more. 
On  tomes  of  other  times  and  tongues  to  pore ; 
But  ne'er  to  mingle  with  the  menial  train. 
To  w  hom  he  show'd  nor  deference  nor  disdain. 
But  that  well-worn  reserve,  which  proved  he  knew 
No  sympathy  w  ith  that  familiar  crew  ; 
i    His  soul,  whate'er  his  station  or  his  stem, 
I    Could  bow  to  Lara,  not  descend  to  them. 
Of  higher  birth  he  seem'd,  and  better  days. 
Nor  mark  of  vulgar  toil  that  hand  betrays, 
So  femminely  white  it  might  bespeak 
'    Another  sex,'  w  hen  match'd  with  that  smooth  cheek 
I    But  for  his  garb,  and  something  in  his  gaze. 
More  w  ild  and  high  than  woman's  eye  betrays ; 
A  latent  fierceness  that  far  more  became 
His  fiery  climate  than  his  tender  frame  : 
True,  in  his  words  it  broke  not  from  his  breast. 
But,  from  his  aspect,  might  be  more  than  guess'd. 
Kaled  his  name,  though  rumour  said  he  Iwre 
Another,  ere  he  left  his  mountain-shore  ; 
For  sometimes  he  would  liear,  however  nigh, 
That  name  repeated  loud  without  reply. 
As  unfamiliar,  or,  if  roused  again. 
Start  to  the  sound,  as  but  remember'd  then ; 
Unless  't  was  Lara's  wonted  voice  that  spake. 
For  then,  ear,  eyes,  and  heart  would  all  awake. 
i  XXVIII. 

;    He  had  look'd  down  upon  the  festive  hall, 
i    And  mark'd  that  sudden  strife  so  mark'd  of  all ; 
i    And  when  the  crowd  around  and  near  him  told 
I    Their  wonder  at  the  calmness  of  the  bold; 
'    Their  marvel  how  the  high-born  Lara  bore 
Such  insult  from  a  stranger,  doubly  sore, 
The  colour  of  younir  Kaled  went  and  came, 
The  lip  of  ashes,  and  the  cheek  of  flame  ; 
And  o'er  his  brow  the  damp'ning  heart-drops  threvj 
j    The  sickening  iciness  of  that  cold  dew, 
!    That  rises  as  the  busy  bosom  sinks 
I    W^ith  heavy  thoughts  from  which  reflection  shrinks. 
I     Ves— there  be  things  that  we  must  dream  and  dar«\ 
i     And  execute  ere  thought  be  naif  aware  : 
Whate'er  might  Kaled's  be,  it  was  enow 
To  seal  his  lip,  but  agonize  his  brow. 
He  gazed  on  Ezzelin  till  Lara  cast 
^    That  sidelong  smile  upon  the  knight  bt^  past ; 


802 


BVRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


When  Kaled  saw  that  smile,  his  visage  fell, 

As  if  on  something  recognise<l  right  well ; 

His  memory  read  in  such  a  meaning,  more 

Than  Lara  s  aspect  unto  others  wore : 

Forward  he  sprung — a  moment,  both  were  gone, 

And  all  within  that  hall  seemM  left  alone ; 

Each  had  so  tix'd  his  eye  on  Lara's  mien, 

All  had  so  mix'd  their  feelings  with  that  scene. 

That  when  his  long  dark  shadow  through  the  porch 

N^inore  relieves  the  glare  of  yon  high  torch. 

Each  pulse  beats  quicker,  and  all  bosoms  seem 

To  bound,  as  doubting  from  too  black  a  dream, 

Such  as  we  know  is  false,  yet  dread  in  sooth, 

Because  the  worst  is  ever  nearest  truth. 

And  they  are  gone — but  Ezzehn  is  there. 

With  thoughtful  visage  and  imperious  air: 

But  long  rcniain'd  not ;   ere  an  hour  expired, 

He  waved  his  hand  to  Otho,  and  retired. 

XXIX. 
The  crowd  are  gone,  the  revellers  at  rest; 
The  courteous  host,  and  all-approving  guest, 
A^niin  to  that  accustom'd  couch  must  creep 
Where  jov  subsides,  and  sorrow  sighs  to  sleep. 
And  man,  o'er-labour'd  with  his  being's  strife, 
Shrinks  to  that  sweet  forgetfulness  of  life: 
There  lie  love's  feverish  hojte  and  cunning's  guile, 
Hate's  working  brain,  and  lull'd  ambition's  wile : 
O'er  each  vain  eve  oblivion's  pinions  wave, 
And  (piench'd  existence  crouches  in  a  grave. 
Wiiat  better  name  may  slumber's  bed  become? 
Night's  sepulchre,  the  universal  home, 
Where  weakness,  strength,  vice,  virtue,  sunk  sujnne. 
Alike  in  naked  helplessness  recline; 
Glad  for  a  while  to  heave  unconscious  breath, 
Vet  wake  to  wrestle  with  the  dread  of  death, 
And  shun,  though  day  but  dawn  on  ills  increast, 
T/iai  sleep,  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  the  least. 


CANTO  II. 


L 

Night  wanes — the  vapours  round  the  mountains  curl'd 

Melt  into  morn,  and  light  awakes  the  world. 

Man  has  another  day  to  swell  the  past, 

And  lead  him  near  to  little,  but  liis  last ; 

But  niiohty  Nature  bounds  as  from  her  birth. 

The  sun  is  in  the  heavens,  and  life  on  earth  ; 

Flowers  in  the  valley,  splendour  in  the  beam, 

Health  on  the  gale,  and  freshness  in  the  stream. 

Immortal  man  !   behold  her  glories  shine, 

And  cry,  exulting  inly,  "they  are  thine  !" 

Gaze  on,  while  yet  thy  gladden'd  eye  may  see ; 

A  morrow  conies  when  they  are  not  for  thee : 

And  grieve  what  may  above  thy  senseless  bier, 

Nor  earth  nor  sky  will  yield  a  single  tear ; 

Nor  cloud  shall  gather  more,  nor  leaf  shall  fall, 

Nor  gale  breathe  forth  one  sigh  fo:  thee,  for  all ; 

But  creeping  things  shall  revel  in  their  spoil, 

Aiiti  fit  thy  clay  to  fertilize  the  soil. 

II. 
T  is  morn — 't  is  noon — assembled  in  the  hall. 
The  gather'd  chieftains  come  to  Otho's  call ; 
T  IS  now  the  promised  hour,  that  must  proclaim 
Tho  lire  or  death  of  Lara's  future  fame  ; 
Who.v  Ezzelin  his  charge  may  here  unfold. 
And  whatsoe'er  the  tale,  it  must  be.  told. 
His  faith  was  pledued,  and  Lara's  [)romise  given, 
Vo  meet  it  in  the  eye  of  man  and  heaven. 


Why  comes  he  Jot  ?  Such  truths  to  be  divulged 

Melhinks  the  accuser's  rest  is  long  indulged. 

III. 

The  hour  is  past,  and  Lara  too  is  there, 

With  seif-contiding,  coldly  patient  air; 

Why  comes  not  Ezzelin  ?   The  hour  is  past, 

And  Liiurnuirs  rise,  and  Otho's  brow  's  o'ercasL 

*'  I  know  my  friend !   his  failh  I  cannot  fear, 

If  yei  he  be  on  earth,  expect  him  here ; 

The  roof  that  held  him  in  the  valley  stands 

Between  iny  own  and  noble  Lara's  lands  ; 

jNIy  halls  from  such  a  guest  had  honour  gain'd, 

Nor  had  Sir  Ezzelin  his  host  dlsdain'd, 

But  that  some  previous  proof  forbade  him  stay, 

And  urged  him  to  prepare  against  to  day  ; 

The  word  I  [iledged  for  his  I  pledge  again, 

Or  will  myself  redeem  his  knightho()d's  stain." 

He  ceased — and  Lara  answer'd^  "I  am  here 

To  lend  at  thy  demand  a  listening  ear 

To  tales  of  evil  from  a  stranger's  tongue. 

Whose  words  already  might  my  heart  have  wrung, 

But  that  I  deem'd  him  scarcely  less  than  mad, 

Or,  et  the  worst,  a  foe  ignobly  bad. 

I  know  him  not — but  me  it  seems  he  knew 

In  lands  where — but  I  must  not  triHe  too: 

Produce  this  babbler— cr  redeem  the  pledge  ; 

Here  in  thy  hold,  and  with  thy  falchion's  edge." 

Proud  Otho,  on  the  instant,  reddening,  threw 

His  glove  on  earth,  and  forth  his  sabre  flew. 

"  The  last  alternative  befits  me  best. 

And  thus  I  answer  for  mine  absent  guest." 

With  cheek  unchanging  from  its  sallow  glooin,- 

However  near  his  own  or  other's  tomb  ; 

With  hand,  whose  almost  careless  coolness  spoke 

Its  grasp  well  used  to  d*^il  the  sabre-stroke ; 

With  eye,  though  calm,  determined  not  to  spare, 

Did  Lara  too  his  willing  weapon  bare. 

In  vain  the  circling  chieftains  round  them  closed ; 

For  Otho's  phrensy  would  not  be  opposed ; 

And  from  his  lip  those  words  of  insult  fell — 

*'  His  sword  is  good  who  can  maintain  them  well." 

IV. 

Short  was  the  conflict ;   furious,  blindly  rash. 

Vain  Otho  gave  his  bosom  to  the  gash : 

He  bled,  and  fell,  but  not  with  deadly  wouna, 

Stretch'd  by  a  dexterous  sleight  along  the  ground. 

«'  Demand  thy  life  :"     He  answer'd  not  :   and  then 

From  that  red  floor  he  ne'er  had  risen  again. 

For  Lara's  brow  upon  the  moment  grew 

Almost  to  blackness  in  its  demon  hue  ; 

And  fiercer  shook  his  angry  falchion  now 

Than  when  his  foe's  was  levell'd  at  his  brow  ; 

Then  all  was  stern  collectedness  and  art, 

Now  rose  the  unleaven'd  hatred  of  his  heart; 

So  little  sparing  to  the  foe  he  fell'd. 

That  when  the  approaching  crowd  his  arm  withheld 

He  almost  turn'd  the  thirsty  point  on  those 

Who  thus  for  mercy  dared  to  interpose ; 

But  to  a  moment's  thought  that  purpose  bent : 

Yet  look'd  he  on  hiin  still  with  eye  intent. 

As  if  he  loathed  the  mefl'ectual  strife 

That  left  a  foe,  howe'er  o'erthrown,  with  life; 

As  if  to  search  how  far  the  wound  he  gave 

Had  sent  its  victim  onward  to  his  grave. 

V. 

They  raised  t!>c  bleeding  Otho,  and  the  leech 
Forbade  all  present  (luestion,  sign,  and  speech  , 
The  otlKTS  met  within  a  ncighlxiuring  h;dl. 
And  he,  mceiiseil  and  heedless  of  them  all. 


LARA. 


803 


1  he  coiiso  and  conqueror  in  t.-.is  sudden  fray, 
In  haughtv  silence  slowly  strode  away  ; 
He  l)ack"(i  his  steed,  his  homeward  path  he  took, 
Nor  cast  on  Olho's  towers  a  single  look. 

VI. 

But  where  was  he?  that  meteor  of  a  night, 
Who  menaced  but  to  disajjpear  with  Tunit '/ 
Where  was  this  Ezzelin  ?   wiio  came  and  went, 
To  leave  no  other  trace  of  his  intent. 
He  left  the  dome  of  Otho  long  i-re  morn, 
In  darkness,  yet  so  well  the  path  was  worn 
He  could  not  nnss  it :   near  his  tlweiimg  lay  • 
Hilt  there  he  was  not,  and  with  coming  dav 
Came  fast  iii(]inry,  which  mifulded  nought 
E.\ce[)t  the  absence  of  the  chief  it  sought. 
A  chamber  tenantless,  a  steed  at  rest. 
His  host  alarm'd,  his  murmuring  squires  distrest. 
riieir  search  extends  along,  around  the  path. 
In  dread  to  meet  the  marks  of  prowlers'  wrath: 
But  none  are  there,  and  not  a  brake  hafh  borne 
Nor  gout  of  blood,  nor  shred  of  mantle  torn  ; 
Nor  fall  nor  struggle  hath  defaced  the  i^^rass, 
Whi(.h  still  retains  a  mark  w here  murder  was ; 
Nor  (hibblmg  fingers  left  to  teil  t!;e  tale. 
The  bitter  print  of  each  convulsive  nail, 
When  agonized  hands,  that  cease  to  guard, 
Wound  in  that  pang  the  smoothness  of  the  sward, 
Some  such  had  been,  if  here  a  life  was  left, 
But  these  were  not;   and  doubting  hone  is  left; 
And  strafige  suspicion  whispering  Lara's  name. 
Now  daily  mutters  o'er  his  bhu^ken'd  fame  ; 
Then  sydtlen  silent  when  his  form  appear'd. 
Awaits  the  absence  of  the  thing  it  fear'd 
Again  its  wontf.d  wond<iring  to  renew, 
A-.'^  dye  conjecture  with  a  darker  hue. 

VII. 
Days  roll  alouH,  and  Otho's  wounds  are  heai'd, 
But  not  his  pride ;   and  hate  no  more  conceal'd  : 
He  Wis  a  man  of  power,  and  Lara's  foe,      • 
The  triend  of  all  who  sought  to  work  him  woe, 
And  !"rom  his  :'ountry's  justice  now  demands 
Acc<niiit  of  Ezzelin  at  Lara's  hands. 
Who  else  than  Lara  could  nave  (':ause  to  fear 
His  presence  .'   who  had  made  him  disappear. 
If  not  tiie  mail  on  whom  his  menaced  charge 
Hid  sate  too  deeply  were  he  let;  at  large? 
The  general  rumour  ignorantlv  loud, 
The  mystery  dearest  to  the  curious  i:rowd  ; 
The  seeming  friendiessness  of  liim  who  strove 
To  win  no  confidence,  and  wake  no  love  ; 
The  sweeping  fierceness  which  his  soul  betray'd, 
The  skill  with  which  he  wielded  his  keen  blade; 
Where  had  his  arm  unwarlike  caught  that  art? 
Where  had  that  fierceness  grown  upon  his  heart? 
For  it  was  not  the  blind  capricious  rage 
A  word  ran  kindle  and  a  word  assuatje  ; 
Hut  tlie  deep  working  of  a  soul  'i.imi.x'd 
Wrh  aught  of  pity  where  its  wrath  had  fix'd ; 
Su(  h  as  long  ])ower  and  overgorged  success 
Concentrates  into  all  that 's  merciless  : 
These,  Imk'd  with  that  desire  which  ever  sw^ys 
Mankind,  the  rather  to  condemn  liian  praise, 
■\iains«  J^ara  gathering  raised  at  length  a  storm, 
iur.n  a^  himself  might  fear,  anil  foes  would  form. 
And  he  mr.st  answer  for  the  absent  head 
Of  one  that  haunts  him  still,  alive  or  dead. 

VIII. 

Wif\i!n  that  land  was  many  a  malcontent. 
Who  cursed  the  tyranny  to  which  ha  bent; 


That  soil  full  many  a  wringing  despot  sav/, 

W  ho  work'd  his  wantonness  in  form  of  bw ; 

Long  war  without  and  frequent  broil  withm 

Had  made  a  path  for  blood  and  giant  sin, 

That  naited  but  a  signal  to  beg.n 

New  havoc,  such  as  civil  discord  blends, 

^^  hich  knows  no  neuter,  owns  but  foes  or  friends- 

Fix'd  in  his  feudal  fortress  each  was  lord. 

In  word  and  deed  obey'd,  in  ijoul  abhorr'd. 

Thus  Lara  had  inherited  liis  lands. 

And  with  them  pining  tiearts  and  sluaoish  hands- 

But  that  long  absence  from  his  native  clime 

Had  left  him  stainless  of  oppression's  crime, 

And  now  diverted  by  his  milder  sway. 

All  dread  by  slov  degrees  had  worn  away ; 

The  menials  felt  their  usual  awe  alone. 

But  nion-  tor  him  than  them  that  fi^ar  was  orown  • 

They  de<'m'd  him  now  unhappy,  though  at  first 

Their  evil  jiidg!i<ent  aiigur'd  of  the  worst. 

And  each  long  restless  night,  and  silent  mood, 

Was  traced  to  sickness,  fed*y  solitude : 

And  though  his  lonely  habits  threw  of  late 

Gloom  o'er  his  chamber,  cheerfiii  w  as  his  gate ; 

From  thence  the  wretched  ne'er  unsoothed  withdrew 

For  ihetn.  at  least,  his  soul  compassion  knew. 

Cold  to  the  great,  contemptuous  to  the  hiah 

The  humble  pass'd  not  his  unheeding  eye  ; 

Much  he  would  speak  not,  but  beneath  his  roof 

They  found  asylum  oft,  and  ne'er  reproof. 

And  they  who  watched  might  mark  that  day  by  aay. 

Some  new  retainers  gather'd  to  his  sway ;  " 

But  most  of  late,  since  Ezzelin  was  lost, 

H<;  play'd  the  courteous  lord  and  bounteous  host; 

Perchance  his  strife  with  Otho  made  him  dread 

Some  snare  prefiared  for  his  obnoxious  head  : 

\\  hate'er  his  view,  his  lavour  mere  obtains 

With  these,  the  people,  than  his  fellow  thanes. 

If  this  were  policy,  so  far  'twas  sound, 

The  milliuu  judged  but  of  him  as  thev  found; 

From  him,  by  sterner  chiefs  to  exile  (Iriven, 

They  but  required  a  shelter,  and  't  was  given. 

By  hi!!i  no  peasant  mourn'd  his  rifled  cot, 

And  scarce  the  serf  could  murmur  o'er  his  loi , 

U  ith  h.in  old  Avarice  ftund  its  hoard  secure, 

With  him  contempt  forbore  to  moek  the  poor; 

Youth,  [)reseiit  cheer,  and  promised  recompense 

Detain'd,  till  all  too  late  to  part  from  thence: 

To  hate  he  ofier'd,  v.ith  the  coming  change. 

The  deep  reversion  of  deiay'd  revenge; 

To  love,  !.;ng  1  atHed  by  the  unequal  match, 

The  well-won  charms  success  was  sure  to  snatch. 

All  now  was  ripe,  he  waits  but  to  proclaim 

That  shivery  nothing  which  was  still  a  name. 

The  moment  came,  the  hour  when  Otho  thought 

Spcure  at  la-t  the  vengeance  which  he  sought* 

His  summon-  found  the  destined  criminal 

Begirt  bv  thousands  in  his  swarming  hall, 

Fresh  from  their  feudal  fetters  newly  riven. 

Defying  earth,  and  confident  of  heaven. 

That  morning  he  had  freed  the  soil-bound  slaves, 

U  ho  dig  no  land  for  tyrants  but  their  graves ! 

Such  is  their  cry— some  watch-woid  for  the  fight 

INIiist  vindicate  the  wrong,  and  warp  the  right: 

RehiTion — freedom — vengeance — what  you  will, 

A  word  's  enough  to  raise  mankind  to  kill: 

Some  factious  phrase  by  cunning  caught  and  spread, 

That  guilt  may  reign,  and  wolves  and  worms  be  fed' 

IX. 

Throughout  that  clime  the  feudal  chiefs  had  gain'd 
Such  sway,  their  infant  monarch  hardly  reign'd  ; 


804 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WOKKS. 


Now  was  the  hour  for  faction's  rebel  growth, 
The  serfs  contemn'd  the  one,  and  hated  both  : 
They  waited  but  a  leader,  and  they  found 
One  to  their  cause  inseparably  bound  ; 
By  circumstance  compell'd  to  plunge  again, 
In  self-defence,  amidst  the  strife  of  men. 
Cut  off  by  some  mysterious  fate  from  those 
Whom  birth  and  nature  meant  not  for  his  foes, 
Had  Lara  from  that  night,  to  him  accurst, 
Prepared  to  meet,  but  not  alone,  the  worst: 
'  Some  reason  urged,  vvhate'er  it  was,  to  shun 
Inquiry  into  deeds  at  distance  done  ; 
By  mingling  with  his  own  the  cause  of  all, 
E'en  if  he  fail'd,  he  still  dcilay'd  his  fall. 
Thr  sullen  calm  that  long  his  bosom  kept, 
The  storm  that  once  had  spent  itself  and  slept, 
Roused  by  events  that  seem'd  foredoom'd  to  urge 
His  gloomy  fortunes  to  their  utmost  verge. 
Burst  forth,  and  made  him  all  he  once  had  been, 
And  is  again ;   he  only  changed  the  scene. 
Light  care  had  he  for  life,  and  less  for  fame, 
But  not  less  fitted  for  the  desperate  game : 
He  deem'd  himself  mark'd  out  for  others'  hate, 
And  mock'd  at  rum  so  they  shared  his  fate. 
Wtiat  cared  he  for  the  freedom  of  the  crowd? 
"■**"~fie  raised  the  humble  But  to  bend  the  proud. 
He  had  hoped  quiet  in  his  sullen  lair, 
But  man  and  destiny  beset  him  there ; 
Inured  to  hunters,  he  was  found  at  bay. 
And  they  must  kill,  they  cannot  snare  the  prey. 
Stern,  unambitious,  silent,  he  had  been 
Henceforth  a  calm  spectator  of  life's  scene ; 
But,  dragg'd  again  upon  the  arena,  stood, 
A  leader  not  unequal  to  the  feud ; 
In  voice — mieh — gesture — savage  nature  spoke, 
And  from  his  eye  the  gladiator  broke. 

X. 
What  boots  the  oft-repeated  tale  of  strife, 
The  feast  of  vultuies,  and  the  waste  of  life? 
The  varying  furtiiiie  of  each  separate  field. 
The  tierce  that  vanquish  and  the  faint  that  yield  ? 
The  smokiuii  ru-n,  and  the  crumbled  wall? 
In  this  the  struggle  was  the  same  with  all ; 
Save  that  distemper'd  passions  lent  their  force 
In  bitterness  that  banish'd  all  remorse. 
None  sued,  for  Mercy  knew  her  cry  was  vain. 
The  captive  died  upon  the  battle-plain  : 
In  either  cause,  one  rage  alope  j)ossest 
The  empire  of  the  alternate  victor's  breast ; 
And  they  that  smote  for  freedom  or  for  sway, 
Deem'd  few  were  slain,  while  more  remain'd  to  slay. 
It  was  too  late  to  check  the  wasting  brand. 
And  desolation  reap'd  the  famish'd  land  ; 
The  lorcli  was  lighted,  and  the  flame  was  spread, 
And  carnage  smiled  upon  her  daily  dead. 

XI. 

Fresh  with  the  nerve  the  new-born  impulse  strung, 

The  first  success  to  Lara's  numbers  clung  : 

But  that  vain  victory  hath  ruin'd  all, 

They  form  no  longer  to  their  leader's  call ; 

In  blind  confusion  on  the  foe  they  press, 

Ai  d  think  to  snatch  is  to  secure  success. 

TIic  lust  of  booty,  and  the  thirst  of  hate. 

Lure  on  th'j  broken  brigands  to  their  fate  ; 

In  vam  he  doth  whate'er  a  chief  may  do, 

To  check  the  headlong  fury  of  that  crew ; 

In  vain  their  stubborn  ardour  he  would  tame, — 

File  hanil  that  kindles  cannot  (juench  the  flame  j 

The  wary  foe  alone  hath  turn'd  their  mood, 

And  shown  their  rashness  *o  their  erriii''  brood : 


The  feign'd  retreat,  the  nightly  ambuscaae, 

The  daily  harass,  and  the  light  delay'd, 

The  long  privation  of  the  hoped  su[)p!;' 

The  tenlless  rest  beneath  the  humid  sky, 

The  stubborn  wall  that  mocks  the  leaguer's  art 

And  palls  the  patience  of  his  baffled  heart. 

Of  these  they  had  not  deem'd  :   the  battle-day 

They  could  encounter  as  a  veteran  may. 

But  more  preferr'd  the  fury  of  the  strife. 

And  prese.'it  death  to  hourly  suffijring  life  : 

And  famine  wrings,  and  fever  sweeps  away 

His  numbers  melting  fast  from  their  array  ; 

Intemperate  triumph  fades  to  discontent. 

And  Lara's  soul  alone  seems  still  uiibtMit: 

But  {'e\\  remain  to  aid  his  voice  anii  hand. 

And  thousands  dwindled  to  a  scanty  band: 

Desperate,  though  few,  the  last  and  best  remained 

To  mourn  the  discipline  they  late  disdain'd. 

One  hope  survives,  the  frontier  is  not  far, 

And  thence  they  may  escape  ft'om  native  war; 

And  bear  within  them  to  the  neighbouring  stale 

An  exile's  sorrows,  or  an  outlaw's  hate : 

Hani  is  the  task  their  father-land  to  quit, 

But  harder  still  to  perish  or  submit. 

XII. 
It  is  resolved — thev  march — consenting  Night 
Guides  with  her  star  their  dim  and  torchless  fliglit; 
Already  they  [)erceive  its  tranquil  beam 
Sleep  on  the  surface  of  the  barrier  stream; 
Already  they  descry — Is  yon  the  bank? 
Away  !   't  is  lined  with  many  a  hostile  rank. 
Return  or  fly  ! — What  i^litters  in  the'rear? 
'T  is  Otho's  banner — the  pursuer's  spear  ! 
Are  those  the  shepherds'  fires  upon  the  height? 
Alas  !   they  blaze  too  widely  for  the  flight: 
Cut  off  from  hope,  and  compass'd  m  the  toil. 
Less  blood  perchance  hath  bought  a  richer  spoil ! 

XIII. 

A  moment'*  pause,  't  is  but  to  breathe  their  band, 
Or  shall  they  onward  press,  or  here  withstand  ? 
It  matters  little — if  they  charge  the  foes 
Who  by  the  border-stream  their  march  o{)pose. 
Some  few,  perchance,  may  break  and  pass  the  line, 
However  link'd  to  baffle  such  design. 
"The  charge  be  ours  I   to  wait  for  their  assault 
Were  fite  well  worthy  of  a  coward's  halt." 
Forth  flies  each  sabre,  rein'd  is  every  steed, 
And  the  next  word  shall  scarce  outstrip  the  deed: 
In  the  next  tone  of  Lara's  gathering  breath 
How  many  shaU  but  hear  the  voice  of  death ! 

XIV. 

His  blade  is  bared,  in  him  there  is  an  air 
As  deep,  but  far  too  tranquil  for  despair; 
A  something  of  indifference  more  than  then 
Becomes  the  bravest,  if  they  feel  for  men — 
He  turn'd  his  eye  on  Kaled,  ever  near, 
And  still  too.faithful  to  betray  one  fear ;' 
Perchance  't  was  but  the  moon's  dim  twilight  thr  w 
Along  his  aspect  an  unwonted  hue 
Of  mournful  paleness,  whose  deep  tint  exprest 
The  truth,  and  not  the  terror  cf  his  breast. 
This  Lara  mark'd,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his : 
It  treml)led  not  in  such  an  hour  as  this ; 
I    His  lip  was  silent,  scarcely  beat  his  heart, 
!    His  eye  alone  proclaini'd,  "We  will  not  part! 
Thy  band  may  perish,  or  thy  friends  may  flee. 
Farewell  to  life,  but  not  adieu  to  thee !" 
The  word  hath  pass'd  his  lips,  and  onward  driven. 
Pours  the  link'd  band  through  ranks  asunder  riven , 


LARA. 


305 


Well  has  each  steed  obev'd  the  armed  heel, 
And  flash  the  scimitars,  and  rings  the  steel : 
Outiiumher'd,  not  outbraved,  they  rtill  oppose 
Despair  to  daring,  and  a  front  to  foes  ; 
And  blood  is  mingled  with  the  dashing  stream, 
Wh'cb  runs  all  redly  till  the  morning  beam. 

XV. 

Comniaaduicr,  aiding,  animating  all, 
Wtiere  foe  appear'd  to  press,  or  friend  to  fall, 
Cheers  Lara's  voice,  and  waves  or  strikes  his  steel, 
Cnspiring  liope,  himself  had  ceased  to  feel. 
None  Hed,  for  well  ihey  knew  that  flight  were  vain; 
But  those  that  waver  turn  to  smite  again, 
>Vhil<'  yet  they  find  the  firmest  of  the  foe 
ilecoil  before  their  leader's  look  and  blow: 
Now  girt  with  numbers,  now  almost  alone, 
He  foils  their  ranks,  or  reunites  his  own ; 
Himself  he  spared  not — once  they  seem'd  to  fly — 
>f()w  was  the  time,  he  waved  his  hand  on  high, 
And  shook — why  siulden  droops  that  plumed  crest? 
riie  shaft  is  sped — the  arrow's  in  his  breast! 
That  t'atal  gesture  left  the  imguarded  side. 
And  Death  hath  stricken  dowti  yon  arm  of  pride. 
The  word  of  triumph  fainted  from  his  tongue ; 
Thai  hand,  so  raised,  how  droopingly  it  hung! 
But  yet  the  sword  instinctively  retains, 
Thoush  from  its  fellow  shrink  the  fallinsr  reins: 
These  Kaled  snatches:   dizzy  with  the  blow. 
And  sfMiseiess  bending  o'er  his  saddle-bow. 
Perceives  not  Lara  that  his  anxious  page 
Beguiles  his  charger  from  the  combat's  rage : 
Meantime  his  followers  charge,  and  charge  again ; 
'i  -y)  mix'd  the  slayers  now  to  heed  the  slain  ! 

XVL 

D5y  glimmers  on  the  dving  and  the  dead, 
n  K  cloven  cuirass,  and  the  he-'mless  head ; 
Tl.e  war-horse  masterless  is  on  the  earth, 
And  that  last  gasp  hath  burst  his  bloody  girth  ; 
And  near,  vet  quivering  with  what  life  remain'd. 
The  heel  that  urged  him  and  the  hand  that  rein'd ; 
And  some  too  near  that  ro'.liug  torrent  lie. 
Whose  waters  mock  the  lip  of  those  that  die ; 
That  [lantiiig  thirst  which  scorches  in  the  breath 
Of  those  that  die  the  soldier's  fiery  death, 
In  vain  impels  the  burning  mouth  to  crave 
One  drop — the  last — to  cool  it  for  the  grave  j 
With  feeble  and  convulsive  eflfort  swept. 
Their  limbs  along  the  crimson'd  turf  have  crept ; 
The  faint  remains  of  life  such  struggles  waste. 
But  yet  thev  reach  the  stream,  and  bend  to  taste: 
They  feel  its  freshness,  and  almost  partake — 
Why  pause?  No  further  thirst  have  they  to  slake— 
It  is  unquench'd,  and  yet  they  feel  it  not ; 
It  was  an  agony — but  now  forgot ! 

XVIL 

Beneath  a  hnie,  remoter  from  tne  scene. 
Where  but  for  him  that  strife  had  never  been, 
A  breathing  but  devoted  warrior  lay  : 
'T  wa3  Lara,  bleeding  fast  from  life  away. 
His  foll( wer  once,  and  now  his  only  guide. 
Kneels  Kaled   watchful  o'er  his  welling  side. 
And  with  his  scarf  would  staunch  the  tides  that  rush. 
With  each  convulsion,  in  a  blacker  gush  ; 
And  then,  ari  his  faint  breathing  waxes  low, 
In  feebler,  not  less  fatal  tricklings  flow :   , 
He  scarce  can  speak,  but  motions  him  't  is  vain, 
And  merely  adds  another  throb  to  pain. 
20 


He  clasps  the  hand  that  pang  whi*  i  would  assuage, 
And  sadly  smiles  his  thanks  to  that  c.ark  page. 
Who  nothing  fears,  nor  feels,  nor  heeds,  nor  sees, 
Save  that  damp  brow  which  rests  upon  his  knees  ; 
Save  that  pale  aspect,  where  the  eye,  though  dim. 
Held  all  the  light  that  shone  on  earth  for  him 

XVIII. 

The  foe  arrives,  who  long  had  search'd  the  field, 
Their  triumph  nought  till  Lara  too  should  yield  ; 
They  would  remove  him,  but  they  see  't  were  vain. 
And  he  regards  them  with  a  calm  disdain. 
That  rose  to  reconcile  him  with  his  fate, 
And  that  escape  to  death  from  living  hate  : 
And  Otho  comes,  and,  leaping  from  his  steed, 
Looks  on  the  bleeding  foe  that  made  him  bleed, 
And  questions  of  his  state ;   he  answers  not, 
Scarce  glances  on  him  as  on  one  forgot, 
And  turns  to  Kaled: — each  remaining  word. 
They  understood  not,  if  distinctly  heard  ; 
His  dying  tones  are  in  that  other  tongue. 
To  which  some  strange  remembrance  wildly  clung 
Thev  spake  of  other  scenes,  but  what — is  known 
To  Kaled,  whom  their  meaning  reach'd  alone  ; 
j    And  he  replied,  though  faintly,  to  their  sound, 
I    While  gazed  the  rest  in  dumb  amazement  round  : 
They  seem'd  even  then — that  twain — un'o  the  last 
To  half  forget  the  present  in  the  past  ; 
To  share  between  themselves  some  separate  fate,. 
Whose  darkness  none  beside  should  penetrate. 

!  XIX. 

Their  words,  though  faint,  were  many — from  the  tone 
Their  import  those  who  heard  could  judge  alone; 
From  this,  you  might  have  deem'd  }'oung  Kaled's-  dcatl 
More  near  ihnn  Team's  bv  his  voice  and  breath, 
So  sad,  so  deep  and  hesitaling,  broke 
The  accents  his  scarce-moving  pale  lips-spoke; 
But  Lara's  voice  though  low,  at  first  was  clear 
And  calm,  till  murmuring  death  gasp'd  hoarsely  near, 
But  from  his  visage  little  could  we  guess, 
:     So  unrepentant,  dark,  and  passionless. 

Save  that,  when  struggling  nearer  to  his  last. 

Upon  that  page  his  eye  was  kindly  cast ; 

And  once  as  Kaled's  answering  accents  ceast, 

Rose  Lara's  hand,  and  [)ointed  to  the  East : 

Whether  (as  then  the  breaking  sun  from  high 

RoU'd  back  the  clouds)  the  nibrrow  caught  his  ej'e. 

Or  that  't  was  chance,  or  some  reinember'd  scene 

That  raised  his  arm  to  point  where  such  had  been. 

Scarce  Raled  seem'd  to  know,  but  turn'd  away 

As  if  his  heart  abhorr'd  that  coming  fkiy. 

\nd  shrunk  his  glance  before  that  morning  light. 

To  look  on  Lara's  brow — where  all  grew  night. 

Yet  sense  seem'd  left,  though  better  were  its  loss  , 

For  when  one  near  displav'd  the  absolving  cross, 

And  proffcr'd  to  his  touch  the  holy  bead. 

Of  which  his  parting  soul  might  own  the  need. 

He  look'd  upon  it  with  an  eye  profane. 

And  smiled — Heaven  pardon !   if  'twere  with  disJain 

And  Kaled,  though  he  spoke  not,  nor  withdrew 

From  Lara's  face  his  fix'd  despairing  view, 

With  brow  repulsive,  and  with  gesture  swift, 

Flung  back  the  hand  which  held  the  sacred  gift 

As  if  such  but  disturb'd  the  expiring  man, 

Nor  seem'd  to  know  his  life  but  then  began. 

That  life  of  immortality,  ^ecure 

To  none,  save  them  whose  faith  in  Christ  is  smo. 

XX. 

But  gasping  heaved  the  breath  that  Lara  drew 
And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew  ; 


806 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


His  limbs  strctch'd  fluttering,  and  his  head  droop'd  o'er 

The  weak,  yet  still  untiring  knee  that  bore  ; 

He  press'd  the  hand  he  held  upon  his  heart — 

It  beats  no  more,  but  Kaled  will  not  part 

With  the  cold  grasp,  but  feels,  and  feels  in  vain 

For  that  faint  throb  which  answers  not  again. 

*'  It  beats !"  Away,  thou  dreamer  ! — he  is  gone — 

It  once  %-  as  Lara  which  tii  ju  look'st  upon. 

XXL 

He  gazed,  as  if  not  yet  had  pass'd  away 

The  haughty  spirit  of  that  humble  clay ; 

And  those  around  have  roused  him  from  his  trance, 

But  cannot  tear  from  thence  his  fixed  glance  ; 

And  when,  in  raising  him  from  where  he  bore 

Within  his  arms  the  form  that  felt  no  more, 

He  saw  the  head  his  breast  would  still  sustain, 

Roll  down  like  earth  to  earth  upon  the  plain  ; 

He  did  riot  dash  himself  thereby,  nor  tear 

The  glossy  tendrils  of  his  raven  hair. 

But  strove  to  stand  and  gaze,  but  reel'd  and  fell. 

Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  loved  so  well. 

Than  that  he  loved  !   Oh  !   never  yet  beneath 

The  breast  of  man  such  trusty  love  may  breathe ! 

That  trying  moment  hath  at  once  reveal'd 

The  secret  long  and  yet  but  half  conceal'd ; 

In  baring  to  revive  that  lifeless  breast. 

Its  grief  seem'd  ended,  but  the  sex  confess'd ; 

And  life  return'd,  and  Kaled  felt  no  shame — 

What  now  to  her  was  Womanhood  or  Fame! 

XXII. 

And  Lara  sleeps  not  where  his  fathers  sleep ; 

But  where  he  died  his  grave  was  dug  as  deep, 

No    is  his  mortal  slumber  less  profound, 

Though  priest  nor  bless'd,  nor  marble  deck'd  the  mound, 

A  ad  he  was  mourn'd  by  one  whose  quiet  grief, 

Less  loud,  outlasts  a  people's  for  their  chief. 

Vain  was  all  cjuestion  ask'd  her  of  the  past, 

And  vain  even  menace — silent  to  the  last, 

She  told  nor  whence,  nor  why  she  left  behind 

Her  all  for  one  who  seem'd  but  little  kind. 

Why  did  she  love  him?   Curious  fool! — be  still — 

Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will? 

To  her  he  might  be  gentleness  ;  the  stern 

Have  deeper  thoughts  than  your  dull  eyes  discern. 

And  when  they  love,  your  smilers  guess  not  how 

Beats  the  ijtrong  heart,  though  less  the  lips  avow. 

They  were  not  common  links,  that  form'd  the  chain 

That  bound  to  Lara  Kaled's  heart  and  brain ; 

But  that  v\ild  tale  she  brook'd  not  to  unfold, 

And  seal'd  is  now  each  li[)  that  could  have  told. 

XXIII. 

They  laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  on  his  breast, 
Besides  the  wound  that  sent  his  soul  to  rest, 
They  foiMid  the  scatter'd  dints  of  many  a  scar, 
Which  were  not  planted  there  in  recent  war; 
Where'er  had  pass'd  his  sunmier  years  of  life, 
It  seems  ihey  vanish'd  in  a  land  of  strife  ; 
Hut  all  unknown  his  glory  or  his  guilt. 
These  only  told  that  somewhere  blood  was  spilt, 
And  E/zelin,  who  might  have  spoke  the  past, 
Return'd  no  more — that  night  appear'd  his  last. 

XXIV. 

Upon  that  night  ^a  peasant's  is  the  tale), 

A  serf  that  cross'd  the  intervening  vale, 

Whtii  Cynthia's  light  almost  gave  way  to  mom, 

And  n<!arlv  Vf'il'd  in  mist  her  waning  horn  ; 

A  serf,  that  rose  betimes  to  thread  the  wood. 

And  new  the  bough  that  boughi  his  children's  foot). 


Pass'd  by  the  river  that  divides  tlie  plain 
Of  Otho's  lands  and  Lara's  broad  domain : 
He  heard  a  tramp — a  horse  and  horsen.an  broke 
From  out  the  wood — before  him  was  a  cloaii 
Wrapt  round  some  burthen  at  his  sadd'e-bow, 
Bent  was  his  head,  and  hidden  was  his  brow. 
Roused  by  the  sudden  sight  at  such  a  time, 
And  some  foreboding  that  it  might  be  crime. 
Himself  unheeded  watch'd  the  stranger's  course, 
Who  reach'd  the  river,  bounded  from  his  horse. 
And,  lifting  thence  the  burthen  which  he  bore. 
Heaved  up  the  bank,  and  dash'd  it  from  the  shore, 
Then  paused,  and  look'd,  and  turn'd,   and  seem'd   .3 

watch, 
And  still  another  hurried  glance  would  snatch. 
And  follow  with  his  step  the  stream  that  flow'd. 
As  if  even  yet  too  much  its  surface  show'd : 
At  once  he  started,  stoop'd,  around  him  strown 
The  winter  floods  had  scatter'd  heaps  of  stone ; 
Of  these  the  heaviest  thence  he  gather'd  there. 
And  slung  them  with  a  more  than  common  care. 
Meantime  the  serf  had  crept  to  where  unseen 
Himself  might  safely  mark  what  this  might  mear  , 
He  caught  a  ghmpse,  as  of  a  floating  breast, 
And  something  glitter'd  star-like  on  the  vest, 
But  ere  he  well  could  mark  the  buoyant  trunk, 
A  massy  fragment  smote  it,  and  it  sunk  : 
It  rose  again  but  indistinct  to  view. 
And  left  the  waters  of  a  purple  hue. 
Then  deeply  disappear'd  :   the  horseman  gazed 
Till  ebb'd  the  latest  eddy  it  had  raised  ; 
Then  turning,  vaulted  on  his  pawing  steed. 
And  instant  spurr'd  him  into  panting  speed. 
His  face  was  mask'd — the  features  of  the  dead, 
If  dead  it  were,  escajjcd  the  observer's  dread ; 
But  if  in  sooth  a  star  its  bosom  t>ore. 
Such  is  the  badge  that  knighthood  ever  wore, 
-And  such   lis  known  Sir  Ezzehn  had  worn 
Upon  the  night  that  led  to  such  a  morn. 
If  thus  he  perish'd,  Heaven  receive  his  soul! 
His  undiscover'd  limbs  to  ocean  roll ; 
And  charily  upon  the  hope  would  dwell 
It  was  not  Lara's  hand  by  which  he  fell. 

XXV. 

And  Kaled— Lara— Ezzelin,  are  gone. 

Alike  without  their  monumental  stone  ! 

The  first,  all  efforts  vainly  strove  to  wean 

From  lingering  where  her  chieftain's  blood  had  been. 

Grief  ha<l  so  tamed  a  spirit  once  too  proud. 

Her  tears  were  few,  her  wailing  never  loud  ; 

But  furious  would  you  tear  her  from  the  spot 

Where  yet  she  scarce  believed  that  he  was  not. 

Her  eye  shot  forth  with  all  the  living  fire 

That  haunts  the  tigress  in  her  whelpless  ire : 

But,  left  to  waste  her  weary  moments  there, 

She  talk'd  all  idly  unto  sha|)es  of  air. 

Such  as  the  busy  brain  of  sorrow  paints. 

And  woos  to  listen  to  her  fond  complaints  : 

And  she  would  sit  beneath  the  very  tree 

Where  lay  his  droopina  head  upon  her  knee; 

And  in  that  posture  where  she  saw  him  fall, 

His  words,  his  looks,  his  dying  grasj)  recall ; 

And  she  had  shorn,  but  saved  her  raven  hair. 

And  oft  would  snatch  it  from  her  bosom  there, 

And  fold,  and  press  it  gently  to  the  groimd, 

As  if  sht!  stauuch'd  anew  some  phantom's  wound. 

Herself  would  (piestion,  anil  for  him  reply ; 

Then  rising,  Btart,  and  beckon  him  to  fly 

{    From  some  imatzineti  spectre  in  pursuit ; 

:    Then  «»-at  her  down  ui)on  some  linden's  rooL 


MO RG ANTE    MAGGIORE. 


307 


'Vnd  hide  he-  visage  with  her  meagre  hand, 
Dr  t'^ace  stranije  characters  along  tlie  sand — 
This  could  not  last — she  lies  by  him  siie  lo\  ad 
Her  tale  untold — her  truth  too  dearly  proved. 


NOTE. 


TfiE  event  in  section  24,  Canto  II,  was  suggested  by 
llie  description  of  the  death,  or  rather  burial,  of  the 
Duke  of  Gandia. 

The  most  interesting  and  particular  account  of  this 
mysterious  event,  is  given  by  Burchard  ;  and  is  in  sub- 
feiiice  as  follows:  "On  the  eighth  day  of  June,  the 
(^rainal  of  Valenza,  and  the  Duke  of  Gundia,  sons  of 
the  Pope,  supped  with  their  mother,  \  anozza,  near  the 
church  of  <S.  Pietro  ad  vincula  ;  several  other  persons 
being  present  at  the  entertainment.  A  late  hour  ap- 
proaching, and  the  cardinal  having  reminded  his  brother, 
that  it  was  time  to  return  to  the  apostolic  palace,  they 
mounted  their  horses  or  mules,  with  only  a  few  attend- 
ants, and  proceeded  together  as  far  as  the  palace  of 
cardinal  Ascanio  Sforza,  when  the  duke  informed  the 
cardinal,  that  before  he  returned  home,  he  had  to  pay 
a  visit  of  pleasure.  Dismissing,  therefore,  all  his  at- 
tendants, excepting  his  stqffiero,  or  footman,  and  a 
person  in  a  mask,  who  had  [)aid  him  a  visit  whilst  at 
supper,  and  who,  durmg  the  s[)ace  of  a  month,  or  there- 
abouts, previous  to  this  tune,  had  called  upon  him 
almost  dailv,  at  Uie  apostohc  palace  ;  he  took  this  per- 
son behind  him  on  his  mule,  and  proceeded  to  the 
street  of  ne  Jews,  where  he  quitted  his  servant,  direct- 
ing nim  to  remain  there  until  a  certain  hour;  when, 
il'  he  did  not  return,  he  might  repair  to  the  palace. 
The  duke  then  seated  the  person  in  the  mask  behind 
him,  and  rode,  I  know  not  whither;  but  in  that  night 
he  was  assassinated,  and  thrown  into  the  river.  The 
servant,  after  having  been  dismissed,  was  also  assaulted 
and  mortally  wounded  :  and  although  he  was  attended 
with  great  care,  yc,  Sach  was  his  situation,  that  he 
could  ^ive  no  intelligible  account  of  what  had  befallen 
his  master.  In  the  morning,  the  duke  not  having  re- 
turned to  the  palace,  his  servants  began  to  be  alarmed ; 
and  one  of  them  informed  the  pontiff  of  the  evening 
excursion  of  his  sons,  and  that  the  duke  had  not  yet 
made  his  appearance.  This  gave  the  Pope  no  small 
auxietv  j  but  he  conjectured  that  the  duke  had  been 
attracted  by  some  courtesan  to  pass  th^  niglit  with 
her,  and,  not  choosing  to  quit  the  house  in  open  day, 
had  waited  till  the  following  evening  to  return  home. 
When,  however,  the  evening  arrived,  and  he  found 
himself  disappointed  in  his  expectations,  he  became 
deeply  atHicted,  and  began  to  make  inquiries  from 
ditiVrent  persons,  uhom  he  ordered  to  attend  him  for 
that  pur[)or-e.  Amongst  these  was  a  man  named  Gior- 
gio Sciiiavoni,  who,  having  discharged  some  timber 
from  a  bark  in  the  river,  had  remained  on  board  the 
vessel,  to  watch  it,  and  being  interrogated  whether  he 
had  seen  anv  one  thrown  into  the  river,  on  the  night 
[srecediiig,  he  replied,  that  he  saw  two  men  on  foot, 
who  came  down  the  street,  and  looked  diligently  about, 
to  observe  whether  any  person  was  passing.  That  see- 
iiiiin^  oi.e,  faey  returned,  and  a  short  time  afterwards 
two  others  came,  and  looked  around  in  the  same 
munt.er  as  the  former  ;  no  person  still  appearing,  they 
gave  a  sign  to  their  companions,  when  a  man  came,  i 
mounted  on  a  white  horse,  having  behind  him  a  dead  j 
body,  the  head  and  arms  of  which  hung  on  one  side, 
and  the  feet  on  the  other  side  of  the  horse  ;  the  two 
pers^ms  on  foot  supporting  the  body,  to  prevent  its 
falling.  Thev  thus  proceeded  towards  that  part,  where 
the  filth  of  the  city  is  usually  discharged  into  the  river, 
and,  turning  the  horse  with  liis  tail  towards  the  water, 


the  two  persons  took  the  dead  body  Vy  the  arms  and 
feet,  and  with  all  their  s»r<Tigth  tiung  it  into  the  river. 
The  person  on  horseback  then  asked  li  they  had  thrown 
it  in,  to  whicl'  they  replied,  Signor,  .si,  (yes.  Sir).  Ho 
then  looked  towards  the  river,  and  seeing  a  niaiitie 
floating  on  the  stream,  he  inquired  what  it  was  that 
appeared  black  ;  to  which  they  answered,  it  was  a 
mantle;  and  one  of  them  threw  stones  upon  it,  in 
consequence  of  which  it  svnik.  The  attendants  of  the 
pontiff  th<;n  inquired  from  Giorgio,  why  he  had  not 
revealed  this  to  the  governor  of  the  city  ;  to  which  he 
re[)lied,  that  he  had  seen  in  his  time  a  hundred  dead 
bodies  thrown  into  the  river  at  the  same  place,  withoiU 
any  inquiry  being  made  respectvng  them,  and  that  he 
had  not,  therefore,  considered  it  as  a  matter  of  any 
imjjortance.  The  fishermen  and  seamen  were  then 
collected,  and  ordered  to  search  the  river ;  wher*',  on 
the  following  evening,  they  found  the  body  of  the 
duke,  with  his  habit  entire,  and  thirty  ducats  in  his 
purse.  He  was  pierced  with  nine  wounds,  one  of 
which  was  in  his  throat,  the  others  in  his  head,  body, 
and  limbs.  No  sooner  was  the  pontiff  informed  of 
the  death  of  his  son,  and  that  he  had  been  thrown, 
like  filth,  into  the  river,  than,  giving  way  to  his  grief, 
he  shut  himself  up  in  a  chamber,  and  wept  bitterly. 
The  cardinal  of  Segovia,  and  ot!ier  attendants  on  the 
Pope  svent  to  the  door,  and  after  many  hours  spent  in 
persuasions  and  exhortations,  prevailed  upon  him  to 
admit  them.  From  the  evening  of  Wednesday,  till  the 
following  Saturday,  the  Pope  took  no  food  ;  nor  did  he 
sleep  from  Thursday  morning  till  the  same  hour  on  ihe 
ensuing  day.  At  length,  however,  giving  way  to  the 
entreaties  of  his  attendants,  he  began  to  restrain  his 
sorrow,  and  to  consider  the  injury  which  his  own 
health  might  sustain,  by  the  further  indulgence  of  b'S 
grief." — Roscoe''s  Leo  Tenth,  vol.  i.  page  265. 

TRANSLATED    FROM 

THE   ITALIAN  OF  PULCI. 


ADVERTISE3IENT. 

The  Morgante  Maggiore,  of  the  first  canto  of  which 
this  translation  is  offered,  divides  with  the  Orlando  In- 
namorato  the  honour  of  having  formed  and  suwcrested 
the  style  and  story  of  Ariosto.  The  great  defects  oi 
Boiardo  were  his  treating  too  seriously  the  narratives 
of  chivalry,  and  his  harsli  style.  Ariosto,  in  his  con- 
tinuation, by  a  judicious  mixture  of  the  gaietv  of  Pulci, 
has  avoided  the  one,  and  Berni,  in  his  retormation  ol 
Boiardo's  poem,  has  corrected  the  other.  Pulci  may  be 
considered  as  the  precursor  and  model  of  Berni  al 
together,  as  he  has  partly  been  to  Ariosto,  however 
inferior  to  both  his  coi)yists.  He  is  no  less  the  founder 
of  a  new  style  of  poetry  very  lately  sprung  up  i  Eng- 
land. I  allude  to  that  of  the  ingenious  Whistlccrafu 
The  serious  poems  on  Roncesvalles  in  the  same  language, 
and  more  particularly  the  excellent  one  of  Mr.  Merivale, 
are  to  be  traced  to  the  same  source.  It  has  never  yet 
been  decided  entirely,  whether  Pulci's  intention  was  or 
was  not  to  deride  the  religion,  which  is  one  of  nis  fa- 
vourite topics.  It  appears  to  me,  that  such  an  intention 
would  have  been  no  less  hazardous  to  the  poet  than  to 
the  priest,  particularly  in  that  age  and  country ;  and 
the  permission  to  publish  the  poem,  and  its  recefition 
among  the  classics  of  Italy,  prove  that  it  neither  was 
nor  is  so  interpr*  ted.  That  he  intended  to  ridicule 
the  monastic  life,  and  suffered  his  imagination  to  phiv 
with  the  simple  dulness  of  bis  converteo  gian»,  seen»s 


308 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


evident  enough";  but  surely  it  were  as  unjust  to  accuse 
hJm  of  irreligion  on  this  account,  as  to  denounce  Fielding 
for  his  Parson  Adams,  Barnabas,  Thwackum,  Supple, 
and  the  Ordinary  in  Jonathan  Wild, — or  Scott,  for  the 
exquisite  use  of  his  Covenanters  in  the  "Tales  of  my 
Landlord." 

In  the  following  translation  I  have  used  the  liberty 
of  the  original  with  the  proper  names  ;  as  Pulci  uses 
Gan,  Ganellon,  or  Ganellone  ;  Carlo,  Cariomagno,  or 
Carlomano  ;  Rondel,  or  Rondello,  etc.  as  it  suits  his 
cjnvenience,  so  has  the  translator.  In  other  respects 
tile  version  is  faithful  to  the  best  of  the  translator's 
ability  in  combining  his  interpretation  of  the  one  lan- 
guage with  the  not  very  easy  task  of  reducing  it  to 
the  same  versification  in  the  other.  The  reader  is  re- 
quested to  remember  that  the  antiquated  language  of 
Pulci,  however  pure,  is  not  easy  to  the  generality  of 
Italians  themselves,  from  its  great  mixture  of  Tuscan 
proverbs  ;  and  he  may  therefore  be  more  indulgent  to 
the  present  attempt.  How  far  the  translator  has  suc- 
ceeded, and  whether  or  ro  he  shall  continue  the  work, 
are  questions  which  the  public  will  decide.  He  was 
induced  to  mnke  the  experiment  partly  by  his  love  for, 
and  partial  intercourse  with,  the  Italian  language,  of 
which  it  is  so  easy  to  acquire  a  slight  knowledge,  and 
with  which  it  is  so  nearly  impossible  for  a  foreigner  to 
become  accurately  conversant.  The  Italian  language 
is  like  a  capricious  beauty,  who  accords  her  smiles  to 
all,  her  favours  to  few,  and  sometimes  least  to  those  who 
have  courted  her  longest.  The  translator  wished  also 
to  present  in  an  English  dress  a  part  at  least  of  a  poem 
never  yet  rendered  into  a  northern  language :  at  the 
same  time  that  it  has  been  the  original  of  some  of  the 
most  celebrated  productions  on  this  side  of  the  Alps, 
es  well  as  of  those  recent  experiments  in  poetry  in 
England  which  have  been  already  mentioned. 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 


CANTO  1. 


I. 

In  the  beginning  was  the  Word  next  God  ; 

God  was  the  Word,  the  Word  no  less  was  he ; 
This  was  in  the  beginning,  to  my  mode 

Of  thinking,  and  without  hiin  nought  could  be : 
Therefore, just  Lord!  from  out  thy  high  abode, 

Benign  and  pious,  bid  an  angel  flee. 
One  only,  to  be  my  com[)anion,  who 
Shall  help  my  famous,  worthy,  old  song  through. 

II. 

And  thou,  oh  Virgin  !   daughter,  mother,  bride. 

Of  the  same  Lord,  who  gave  to  you  each  key 
Of  heaven,  and  hell,  and  every  thing  beside. 

The  day  thy  Gabriel  said,  "All  hail !"  to  thee, 
Since  to  thy  servants  pity's  ne'er  denied. 

With  flowing  rhymes,  a  pleasant  style  and  free, 
Be  to  my  verses  then  benignly  kind, 
And  to  the  end  illuminate  my  mind. 

III. 
'Twas  in  the  season  when  sad  Philomel 

Weeps  with  her  sister,  who  r(!TiietMbers  and 
Deplores  the  ancient  woes  wnich  both  befell. 

And  makes  the  iiymi)hs  en.imourM,  to   he  hand 
Of  Phaeton  by  Phatbus  loved  so  weh 

His  car  (but  tcmper'd  by  his  s  re's  command) 
Was  given,  and  on  the  horizon's  verge  just  now 
Appear'd,  so  that  Tilhonus  scrulch'd  his  brow  ; 


IV. 

When  I  prepared  my  bark  first  to  obey 

As  it  should  still  obey,  the  helm,  my  itiind. 
And  carry  prose  or  rhyme,  and  this  my  lay 

Of  Charles  the  Emperor,  whom  you  will  find 
By  several  pens  already  praised  ;   but  they 

Who  to  diifuse  his  glory  were  inclined. 
For  all  that  I  can  see  in  prose  or  verse. 
Have  understood  Charles  badly — and  wrote  worse. 

V. 
Leonardo  Aretino  said  already, 

That  if,  like  Pepin,  Charles  had  had  a  writer 
Of  genius  quick,  and  diligently  steady. 

No  hero  would  in  history  look  brighter ; 
He  in  the  cabinet  being  always  ready. 

And  in  the  field  a  most  victorious  fighter. 
Who  for  the  Church  and  Christian  faith  had  wrought 
Certes  far  more  than  yet  is  said  or  thought. 

VI. 
You  still  may  see  at  Saint  Liberatore, 

The  abbey  no  great  way  from  Manopell, 
Erected  in  the  Abruzzi  to  his  glory. 

Because  of  the  great  battle  in  which  fell 
A  pagan  king,  according  to  the  story, 

And  felon  people  whom  Charles  sent  to  hell: 
And  there  are  bones  so  many,  and  so  many. 
Near  them  GiusaflTa's  would  seem  few,  if  an)% 

VII. 
But  the  worid,  blind  and  ignorant,  don't  prize 

His  virtues  as  I  wish  to  see  them :   thou, 
Florence,  by  his  great  bounty  don't  aruie, 

And  hast,  and  may  have,  if  thou  wilt  allow, 
All  proper  customs  and  true  courtesies  : 

Whate'er  thou  hast  acquired  from  then  till  now, 
With  knightly  courage,  treasure,  or  the  lance, 
Is  sprung  from  out  the  noble  blood  of  France. 

vni. 

Twelve  paladins  had  Charies,  in  court,  of  whon» 
The  wisest  and  most  famous  was  Orlando  ; 

Him  traitor  Gan  conducted  to  the  tomb 
In  Roncesvalles,  as  the  villain  plann'd  too. 

While  the  horn  ran^  so  loud,  and  knell'd  the  doom 
Of  their  sad  rout,  though  he  did  all  knight  can  do» 

And  Dante  in  his  comedy  has  given 

To  him  a  happy  seat  with  Charles  in  heaven. 

IX. 

'T  was  Christmas-day  ;   in  Pans  all  his  court 
Charies  held ;   the  chief,  I  say,  Orlando  was, 

The  Dane ;   Astolfo  th^re  too  did  resort. 
Also  Ansuigi,  the  gay  time  to  pass 

In  festival  and  in  triumphant  sport. 

The  much  renown'd  Saint  Dennis  being  th*»  caiiso 

Angiolin  of  Bayonne,  and  Oliver, 

And  gentle  Belinghieri  too  came  there  : 

.     X. 

Avolio,  and  Anno,  and  Othone 

Of  Normandy,  and  Richard  Paladin, 

Wise  Hamo,  and  the  ancient  Salemone, 
Walter  of  Lion's  Mount,  and  Baldovin, 

Who  was  the  son  of  the  sad  Ganellone, 
Were  there,  exciting  too  much  gladness  in 

The  son  of  Pepin: — when  his  knights  came  hithei 

He  groan'd  with  joy  to  see  them  altogether. 

XL 

But  watchful  fortune  lurking,  takes  good  heed 
Ever  some  bar  'gainst  our  intents  to  bring. 

While  Charies  reposed  him  thus  m  wrd  and  d«ed 
Oriando  ruled  court,  Charies,  and  every  thing; 

Curst  Gan,  with  envy  bursting,  had  such  need 

To  vent  liis  suite    that  thus  wi  li  Charles  the  kmft 


MORGANTE    MAGGIORE. 


300 


One  day  ho  oj)erty  began  to  say, 

^  Orlandc  must  wc  always  then  obey  ? 

XII. 

*'  A  tliousand  times  I  've  been  about  to  say, 

Orlando  too  presumptuously  goes  on  ; 
H  're  are  we,  counts,  kings,  dukes,  to  own  thy  sway, 

Hauio,  and  Otho,  Ogier,  Solomon, 
Each  have  to  honour  thee  and  to  obey  ; 

Hut  he  has  too  much  credit  near  the  throne, 
Which  we  won't  sutler,  but  are  quite  decided 
By  such  a  boy  to  be  no  longer  guided. 

XIII. 
*♦  And  even  at  Aspramont  thou  didst  begin 

To  let  him  know  he  was  a  gallant  knight. 
And  bv  the  fount  did  much  the  day  to  win ; 

But  I  know  wko  that  day  had  won  the  right 
If  it  had  not  for  good  Gherardo  been : 

The  victory  was  Almonte's  else  ;   his  sight 
He  kept  upon  the  standard,  and  the  laurels 
In  fact  and  fairness  are  his  earning,  Charles. 

XIV. 
•»  If  thou  rememberest  being  in  Gascony, 

When  there  advanced  the  nations  out  of  Spain, 
The  Christian  cause  had  suifered  shamefully. 

Had  not  his  valour  driven  them  back  again. 
Best  speak  the  truth  when  there  's  a  reason  why : 

Know  then,  oh  emperor  !   that  all  complain  • 
As  for  myself,  I  shall  repass  the  mounts 
O'er  which  I  cross'd  with  two  and  sixty  counts. 

XV. 

"  'T  is  fit  thy  grandeur  should  dispense  relief, 

So  that  each  here  may  have  his  proper  part. 
For  the  whole  court  is  more  or  less  in  grief: 

Perliaps  thou  deem'st  this  lad  a  Mars  in  heart?" 
Orlando  one  day  heard  this  speech  in  brief, 

As  by  himself  it  chanced  he  sate  apart  : 
Displeased  he  was  with  Gan  because  he  said  it, 
But  much  more  still  that  Charles  should  give  him  credit 

XVI. 
And  with  the  sword  he  would  have  murder'd  Gan, 

But  Oliver  thrust  in  between  the  pair. 
And  from  his  hand  extracted  Durlindan, 

And  thus  at  length  they  separated  were. 
Orlando,  angry  too  with  Carloman, 

Wanted  but  little  to  have  slain  him  there; 
Then  forth  aione  from  Paris  went  the  chief. 
And  burst  and  madden'd  with  disdain  and  grief. 

XVII. 
From  Ermellina,  consort  of  the  Dane, 

He  took  Cortana,  and  then  took  RondoU, 
And  on  towards  Brara  prick'd  him  o'er  the  plain  ; 

And  when  she  saw  him  coming,  Aldabelle 
Slretch'd  forth  her  arms  to  clasp  her  lord  again : 

Orlan.lo,  in  whose  brain  all  was  not  well. 
As  "  Welcome  my  Orlando  home,"  she  said. 
Raised  up  his  sword  to  smite  her  on  the  head. 

XVIIl. 
Like  him  a  fury  counsels  ;   his  revenge 

On  Gan  ia  that  rash  act  he  seem'd  to  take. 
Which  Aldabella  thought  ext«-emely  strange, 

But  soon  Orlando  found  iumself  awake  ; 
And  his  spouse  took  his  bridle  on  this  change. 

And  he  dismounted  from  his  horse,  and  spake 
Of  every  thing  which  pass'd  without  demur, 
And  then  reposed  himself  some  days  with  her. 

XIX. 
Then  full  of  wrath  departed  from  the  place. 

And  far  as  Pagan  countries  roam'd  astray 
And  while  he  rode,  yet  still  at  every  pace 

The  traitor  Gan  remember'd  by  the  way  ; 


And  wandering  on  in  error  a  long  space. 

An  abbey  which  in  a  lone  desert  lay, 
'Midst  glens  obscure,  and  distant  lands  he  Ijund, 
Which  form'd  the  Christian's  and  the  Pagan's  bound. 

XX. 
The  abbot  was  call'd  Clermont,  and  by  blood 

Descended  from  Angrante  :   under  cover 
Of  a  great  mountain's  brow  the  abbey  stood. 

But  certain  savage  giants  look'd  him  over! 
One  Passamont  was  foremost  of  the  brood. 

And  Alabaster  and  Morgante  hover 
Second  and  third,  with  certain  slings,  and  throw 
In  daily  jeopardy  the  place  below. 

XXL 
The  monks  could  pass  the  convent  gate  no  more, 

Nor  leave  their  cells  for  water  or  for  wood. 
Orlando  knock'd,  but  none  would  ope,  before 

Unto  the  prior  it  at  length  seem'd  good  ; 
Enter'd,  he  said  that  he  was  taught  to  adore 

Him  who  was  born  of  Mary's  holiest  blood, 
And  was  baptized  a  Christian  ;   and  then  show'd 
How  to  the  abbey  he  had  found  his  road. 

XXII. 
Said  the  abbot,  "  You  are  welcome  ;   what  is  mine 

W^e  give  you  freely,  since  that  you  beheve 
With  us  in  Mary  Mother's  son  divine  ; 

And  that  you  may  not,  cavalier,  conceive 
The  cause  of  our  delay  te  let  you  in 

To  be  rusticity,  you  shall  receive 
The  reason  why  our  gate  was  barr'd  to  you  ; 
Thus  those  who  in  suspicion  live  must  do. 

XXIII. 
"  When  hither  to  inhabit  first  we  came 

These  mountains,  albeit  that  they  are  obscure, 
As  vou  perceive,  yet  without  fear  or  blame 

They  seem'd  to  promise  an  asylum  sure  : 
From  savage  brutes  alone,  too  fierce  to  tame, 

'T  was  fit  our  quiet  dwelling  to  secure  ; 
But  now,  if  here  we  'd  stay,  we  needs  must  guard 
Against  domestic  beasts  with  watch  and  ward. 

XXIV. 
"  These  make  us  stand,  in  fact,  upon  the  watch, 

For  late  there  have  appear'd  three  giants  rough , 
What  nation  or  what  kingdom  bore  the  batch 

I  know  not,  but  they  are  all  of  savage  stuff; 
When  force  and  mahce  with  some  genius  match. 

You  know,  they  can  do  all — ire  are  not  enough ; 
And  these  so  much  our  orisons  derange, 
I  know  not  what  to  do  till  matters  change. 

XXV. 
"  Our  ancient  fathers  living  the  desert  in. 

For  just  and  holy  works  were  duly  fed  ; 
Think  not  they  lived  on  locusts  sole,  't  is  certain 

That  manna  was  rain'd  down  from  heaven  instead  ; 
But  here  't  is  fit  we  keep  on  the  alert  in 

Our  bounds,  or  taste  the  stones  shower'd  deem  fox 
bread, 
From  off  yon  mountain  daily  raining  faster, 
And  flung  by  Passamont  and  Alabaster. 

XXVI. 
"  The  third,  Morgante,  's  savagest  by  far  ;   he 

Plucks  up  pines,  beeches,  poplar-trees,  and  oaka, 
And  flings  them,  our  community  to  bury. 

And  all  that  I  can  do  but  more  provokes." 
While  thus  they  parley  in  the  cemetery, 

A  stone  from  one  of   .ueir  gigantic  strokes. 
Which  nearly  crush'd  Rondell,  came  tumbling  over, 
So  that  he  took  a  long  leap  under  cover. 

xxvn. 

*'  For  God's  sake,  cavalier,  come  in  with  speed. 
The  manna's  falling  now  '"  the  abbot  cried: 


810 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


"Tliis  fellow  dutis  not  wisti  my  horse  should  feed, 
Dear  :ibbot,"  Roland  unto  him  replied  ; 

"  Of  restiveness  he  'd  cure  him  had  he  need  ; 

That  stone  seems  with  good-will  and  aim  applied." 

The  holy  father  said,  "  I  don't  deceive  ; 

Tliey  '11  one  day  fling  the  mountam,  I  believe." 

XXVIII. 

Orlando  bade  them  take  care  of  Rondello, 

And  also  made  a  breakfast  of  his  own  : 
«  Abbot,"  he  said,  ''  I  want  to  find  that  fellow 

Who  flung  at  my  good  horse  yon  corner-stone." 
Said  the  abbot,  "  Let  not  my  advice  seem  shallow, 

As  to  a  brother  dear  I  speak  alone  ; 
I  would  dissuade  you,  baron,  from  this  strife, 
As  knowing  sure  that  you  will  lose  your  life. 

XXIX. 

"  That  Passamont  has  in  his  hand  three  darts — 
Such  slings,  clubs,  ballast-stones,  that  yield  you  must; 

You  know  that  giants  have  much  stouter  hearts 
Than  us,  with  reason,  in  proportion  just; 

If  go  you  will,  guard  well  against  their  arts, 
For  these  are  very  barbarous  and  robust." 

Orlando  answer'd,  "  This  I  Ml  see,  be  sure. 

And  walk  the  wild  on  foot  to  be  secure." 

XXX. 

rhe  abbot  sign'd  the  great  cross  on  his  front, 
"  Then  go  you  with  God's"benison  and  mine  ;" 

Orlando,  afler  he  had  scaled  the  mount. 
As  the  abbot  had  directed,  kept  the  line 

Right  to  the  usual  haunt  of  Passamont; 
Who,  seeing  him  alone  in  this  design, 

Survev'd  him  fore  and  aft  with  eyes  observant, 

Then  asked  him,  "If  he  wish'd  to  stay  as  servant?" 

XXXI. 

And  promised  him  an  ofiice  of  great  ease  ; 

But,  said  Orlando,  "  Saracen  insane  ! 
1  come  to  kill  you,  if  it  shall  so  please 

God,  not  to  serve  as  footboy  in  your  train ; 
You  with  his  monks  so  oft  have  broke  the  peace — 

Vile  dog  !   't  is  past  his  patience  to  sustain." 
The  giant  ran  to  fetch  his  amis,  quite  furious. 
When  he  received  an  answer  so  injurious. 

XXXII. 
And  being  return'd  to  where  Orlando  stood. 

Who  had  not  moved  him  from  the  spot,  and  swinging 
The  cc-d,  he  hurl'd  a  stone  with  strength  so  rude. 

As  show'd  a  sample  of  his  skill  in  slinging  ; 
It  roU'd  on  Count  Orlando's  helmet  good 

An!  head,  and  set  both  head  and  helmet  ringing. 
So  that  he  swoon'd  with  pain  as  if  he  died. 
But  more  than  dead,  he  seem'd  so  stupified. 

XXXIII.  • 
Then  Passamont,  who  thought  him  slain  outright, 

Said,  "  I  will  go,  and,  while  he  lies  along. 
Disarm  me:   why  such  craven  did  I  fight  ?" 

But  Christ  his  servants  ne'er  abandons  long, 
Especially  Orlando,  such  a  knight. 

As  to  desert  would  almost  be  a  wrong. 
While  the  giant  2oes  to  put  off  his  defences, 
Orlando  has  recall'd  his  force  and  senses  : 

XXXIV. 
And  loud  he  shouted,  "Giant,  where  dost  go? 

Thou  thought'st  me  doubUess  for  the  bier  outlaid  ; 
To  the  right  about — without  wings  thou  'rt  too  slow 

To  fly  mv  vengeance — currish  renegade  ! 
T  was  but  by  treachery  thou  laid'st  me  low." 

The  giant  his  astonishnient  betray'd, 
\nd  turn'd  about,  and  stopj.'d  his  journey  on 
\nJ  then  he  stoop'd  to  i)ick  up  a  great  stone 


XXXV. 

Orlando  had  Cortana  bare  in  hand, 

To  split  the  head  in  twain  was  what  he  schemed- 
Coilana  clave  the  skull  like  a  true  brand, 

And  pagan  Passamont  died  unredeem'd. 
Yet  harsh  and  haughty,  as  he  lay  he  bann'd, 

And  most  devoutly  Macon  still  blasphemed  ; 
But  while  his  crude,  rude  blasphemies  he  heard, 
Orlando  thank'd  the  Father  and  the  Word, — 

XXXVl. 
Saying,  "What  grace  to  me  thou'st  g  ven ! 

And  I  to  thee,  oh  Lord,  am  ever  bound. 
I  know  my  life  was  saved  by  thee  l"rom  heaven, 

Since  by  the  giant  I  was  fairly  down'd. 
All  things  by  thee  are  measured  just  and  even; 

Our  power  without  thine  aid  would  nought  be  found 
I  pray  thee  take  heed  of  me,  till  I  can 
At  least  return  once  more  to  Carloman." 

XXXVII. 
And  having  said  thus  much,  he  went  his  way ; 

And  Alabaster  he  found  out  below, 
Doing  the  very  best  that  in  him  lay 

To  root  from  out  a  bank  a  rock  or  two. 
Orlando,  when  he  reach'd  him,  loud  'gan  say, 

"  How  think'st  thou,  glutton,  such  a  stone  to  throw?* 
When  Alabaster  heard  his  deep  voice  ring, 
He  suddenly  betook  him  to  his  sling. 

XXXVIII. 
And  hurl'd  a  fragment  of  a  size  so  large, 

That  if  it  had  in  fact  fulfill'd  its  mission. 
And  Roland  not  avail'd  liim  of  his  targe. 

There  would  have  been  no  need  of  a  physician. 
Orlando  set  himself  in  turn  to  charge, 

And  in  his  bulky  bosom  made  incision 
With  all  his  sword.    The  lou*  fell ;   but,  o'erthrown,  he 
However  by  no  means  forgot  Macone. 

XXXIX. 
Morgante  had  a  palace  in  his  mode, 

Composed  of  branches,  logs  of  wood,  and  earth, 
And  stretch'd  himself  at  ease  in  this  abode, 

And  shut  himself  at  night  within  his  birth. 
Orlando  knock'd,  and  knock'd  again,  to  goad 

The  giant  from  his  sleej) ;  and  he  came  forth, 
The  door  to  open,  like  a  crazy  thing, 
For  a  rough  dream  had  shook  him  slumbering. 

XL. 

He  thought  that  a  fierce  serpent  had  attack'd  him, 
And  Mahomet  he  call'd,  but  Mahomet 

Is  nothing  worth,  and  not  an  instant  back'd  him  •■ 
But  [)raying  blessed  Jesu,  he  was  set 

At  liberty  from  all  the  fears  which  rack'd  him ; 
And  to  the  gate  he  came  with  great  regret — 

"Who  knocks  here  ?"  grumbling  all  the  while,  said  ho 

"That,"  said  Orlando,  "you  will  quickly  see." 

XLI. 

"  I  come  to  preach  to  you,  as  to  your  brothers. 

Sent  oy  t'ne  miserable  monks — repentance  ; 
For  Providence  divine,  in  you  and  others, 

Condemns  the  evil  done  by  new  acquaintance. 
'T  is  writ  on  high — your  wrong  must  pay  another's; 

From  heaven  itself  is  issued  out  this  sentence; 
Know  then,  that  colder  now  than  a  pilaster 
I  left  your  Passamont  and  Alabaster." 

XLII. 
Morgante  said,  "  O  gentle  cavalier  ! 

Now  by  thy  God  say  me  no  villany ; 
The  favour  of  your  name  I  fain  would  hear. 

And  if  a  Christian,  speak  for  courtesy." 
Re[)lied  Orlando,  "  So  much  to  your  ear 
^       I  by  my  faith  disclose  contentedly ; 


MORGANTE    MAGGIORE. 


51 


Onnst  I  adore,  who  is  the  genuine  Lord, 
Ani,  if  you  please,  by  you  may  be  adored." 

XLIII. 

The  Saracen  rejoin'd  in  humble  tone. 

"  I  have  had  an  extraordinary  vision  j 
A  savage  serpent  tell  on  me  alone, 

And  Maoon  would  not  pity  mv  condition  ; 
flence  to  thy  God,  who  for  ye  did  atone 

Upon  the  cross,  preterr'd  I  my  petition  ; 
His  timely  succour  set  me  safe  and  free, 
And  I  a  Christian  am  disposed  to  ••e." 

XLIV. 
Orlando  answer'd,  "  Baron  just  and  pious, 

If  this  good  wish  your  heart  can  renlly  move 
To  the  true  God,  who  will  not  then  deny  us 

Eternal  honour,  you  will  go  above. 
And,  if  yoi'  please,  as  friends  we  will  ally  us, 

And  I  will  love  you  with  a  jierfect  love. 
Your  idols  are  vain  liars  full  of  fraud. 
The  only  true  God  is  the  Christian's  God. 

XLV. 

"  The  Lord  descended  to  the  virgin  breast 

Of  Mary  Mother,  sinless  and  divine  ; 
If  you  acknowlc'ilge  the  Redeemer  blest. 

Without  whom  neither  sun  or  star  can  shine, 
Al>jure  bad  Macon's  false  and  felon  test. 

Your  reiu'Siulo  God,  and  worship  mine, — 
Baptize  yourself  with  zeal,  since  vou  repent." 
To  which  Morgante  answer'd,  ••  I  'm  content." 

XLVI. 
And  then  Orlan/lo  to  embrace  him  tiew. 

And  made  mi^ch  of  his  convert,  as  he  cried, 
•*Tothe  abbey  I  will  gladly  marshal  vou:" 

To  whom  Morgante,  "  Let  us  go,"  replied  ; 
*  I  to  the  friars  have  for  peace  to  sue." 

Which  thing  Orlanio  heard  with  inward  pride. 
Saying,  "  My  brother,  so  devout  and  good, 
Ask  the  abbot  pardon,  as  I  wish  you  would: 

XL  VII. 
**  Since  God  has  granted  your  illumination. 

Accepting  you  in  mercy  for  his  own. 
Humility  should  be  your  tirsl  oblation." 

Morgante  said,  "  For  goodness'  sake  make  known- 
Since  that  your  God  is  to  be  mine — your  station, 

And  let  your  name  in  verity  be  shown  ; 
Then  will  I  every  thing  at  your  command  do." 
On  which  the  other  said,  he  was  Orlando. 

XLVIII. 

"Then,"  quoth  the  giant,  "blessed  be  Jesu, 
A  thousand  times  with  gratitude  and  praise ! 

Oft,  perfect  baron  I   have  I  heard  of  you 

Through  all  the  different  period  of  my  days : 

And,  iis  I  sail',  to  be  your  vassal  too 
I  wish,  for  your  great  gallantry  always." 

Thus  reasoning,  they  continued  much  to  say, 

And  onwards  to  the  abbey  went  their  way. 

XLIX. 

And  by  (nc  way,  about  the  giants  dead 

Orlando  with  Morgante  reason'd  :   "  Be, 
For  their  decease,  I  pray  you,  comforted. 

And  since  it  is  God's  pleasure,  pardon  me  ; 
A  thousaiul  wroiiiTs  unto  the  monks  they  bred. 

And  our  true  scri|)tiire  sountleth  oi)enly — 
Gooil  is  rewarded,  and  chastised  the  ill. 
Which  the  Lord  never  faileth  to  fulfil : 

L. 
**  Because  his  love  of  justice  unto  all 

Is  such,  he  wills  his  judgment  should  devour 


All  who  have  sin,  however  great  or  small; 

But  good  he  well  remembers  to  restore  : 
Nor  without  justice  holy  could  we  call 

Him,  whom  I  now  require  you  to  adore: 
All  men  must  make  his  will  their  wishes  sway. 
And  quickly  and  spontaneously  obey. 

LI. 

"  And  here  our  doctors  are  of  one  accord. 

Coming  on  this  point  to  the  same  conclusion— 

That  in  their  thoughts  who  praise  in  heaven  the  Lord 
If  pit\  e'er  was  guilty  of  intrusion 

For  their  unfortunate  relations  stored 

In  hell  below,  and  damn'd  in  great  confr.sion, — 

Their  happiness  would  be  reduced  to  nought, 

And  thus  unjust  the  Almighty's  self  be  thought. 

LII. 

"  But  they  in  Christ  have  firmest  hope,  and  all 
Which  seems  to  him,  to  them  too  must  appear 

Well  done  ;   nor  could  it  otherwise  befall ; 
He  never  can  in  any  [)urpose  err : 

If  sire  or  mother  suffer  endless  thrall. 

They  don't  disturb  lliemselves  for  him  or  her 

What  pleases  God  to  them  must  joy  inspire ; 

Such  IS  the  observance  of  the  eternal  choir." 

LIII. 

"  A  word  unto  the  wise,"  .Morgante  said, 

"Is  wont  to  be  enough,  and  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  grieve  about  my  brethren  dead; 

And  if  the  will  of  God  seem  jjood  to  me. 
Just,  as  you  tell  me,  't  is  in  heaven  ohey'd — 

Ashes  to  ashes, — merry  let  us  be  ! 
I  will  cut  otf  the  hands  from  both  their  trunks, 
And  carry  them  unto  the  holy  monks. 

LIV. 
"  So  that  all  persons  may  be  sure  ana  certain 

That  they  are  dead,  and  have  no  further  fea> 
To  wander  solitary  this  desert  in. 

And  that  they  may  perceive  my  spirit  clear 
By  the  Lord's  grace,  who  hath  withdrawn  the  cir(a« 

Of  darkness,  making  his  bright  realm  appeai." 
He  cut  his  brethren's  hands  otT  at  these  words. 
And  left  them  to  the  savage  beasts  and  birds. 

LV. 
Then  to  the  abbey  they  went  on  together. 

Where  waited  them  the  abbot  in  great  doubt. 
The  monks,  who  knew  not  yet  the  fact,  ran  thither 

To  their  superior,  all  in  breathless  rout. 
Saying,  with  tremor,  "  Please  to  tell  us  whether 

You  wish  to  have  this  person  in  or  out  ?" 
The  abbot,  looking  through  upon  the  giant. 
Too  greatly  fear'd,  at  first,  to  be  compliant. 

LVI. 
Orlando,  seeing  him  thus  agitated, 

Said  quicklv,  "  Abbot,  be  thou  of  good  cheer, 
He  Christ  believes,  as  Christian  must  be  rated. 

And  hath  renounced  his  Macon  false  ;"  which  here 
Morgante  with  the  hands  corroborated, 

A  proof  of  both  the  giants'  fate  quite  clear : 
Thence,  with  due  thanks,  the  abbot  God  adored, 
Saying,  "Thou  hast  contented  me,  oh  Lord  '" 

LVII. 
He  gazed  ;   Morgante's  height  he  calculated, 

And  more  than  once  contemplated  his  size ; 
And  then  he  said,  "  Oh  giant  celebrated. 

Know,  that  no  more  my  wonder  will  arise, 
How  you  could  tear  and  thng  the  trees  you  late  did. 

When  I  behold  your  form  with  my  own  eves. 
You  now  a  true  and  perfect  friend  will  show 
Yourself  to  Clirist,  as  once  you  were  a  fix'.. 


812 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LVIIl. 

•  And  one  of  our  apostles,  Saul  once  named, 

Long  persecuted  sore  the  faith  of  Christ, 
nil  one  day  by  the  Spirit  being  intlatned, 

'  Why  dost  thou  persecute  me  thus  ?'  said  Christ ; 
And  then  from  his  offence  he  was  reclaim'd, 

And  went  for  ever  after  preaching  Christ ; 
And  of  the  faith  became  a  trump,  whose  sou.iJing 
O'er  the  whole  earth  is  echoing  and  rebounding. 

LIX. 
«*  So,  my  Morgante,  you  may  do  likew  ise  ; 

He  who  repents,— thus  writes  the  EvangeUst,— 
Occasions  more  rejoicing  in  the  skies 

Than  ninety-nine  of  the  celestial  list. 
You  may  be  sure,  should  each  desire  arise 

With  just  zeal  for  the  Lord,  that  you  '11  exist 
Among  the  happy  saints  for  evermore  ; 
But  you  were  lost  and  damn'd  to  hell  before  !' 

LX 
And  thus  great  honour  to  Morgante  paia 

The  aboot :   many  days  they  did  repose. 
One  day,  as  with  Orlando  they  both  stray'd. 

And  saunter'd  here  and  there,  where'er  thev  chose. 
The  abbot  show'd  a  chamber  where  array'd 

Much  armour  was,  and  hung  up  certain  bows  ; 
And  one  of  these  Morgante  for  a  whim 
Girt  on,  though  useless,  he  believed,  to  him. 

LXL 
There  being  a  want  of  water  in  the  place, 

Orlando,  like  a  worthy  brother,  said, 
»*  Morgante,  I  could  wish  you  in  this  case 
'  To  go  for  water."     "  You  shall  be  obey'd 
in  aU  commands"  was  the  reply,  "straightway." 

Upon  his  shoulder  a  great  tub  he  laid. 
And  went  out  un  his  way  unto  a  fountain. 
Where  he  was  wont  to  drink  below  the  mountain. 

LXII. 
Arrived  there,  a  prodigious  noise  he  hears, 

Which  suddenly  along  the  forest  spread ; 
Whereat  from  out  his  quiver  he  prepares 

An  arrow  for  his  bow,  and  lifts  his  head  ; 
And  lo !   a  monstrous  herd  of  swine  appears, 

And  onward  rushes  with  ♦emi)estuous  ti-ead, 
And  to  the  fountain's  brink  precisely  pours, 
So  that  the  giant 's  join'd  by  all  the  boars. 

Lxin. 

Morgante  at  a  venture  shot  an  arrow, 

Which  pierced  a  pig  precisely  in  the  ear. 
And  pass'd  unto  the  other  side  quite  through, 

So  that  the  boar,  defunct,  lay  tri[)p'd  up  near. 
Another,  to  revenge  his  fellow  farrow. 

Against  the  giant  rush'd  in  fierce  career, 
And  reach'd  the  passage  with  so  swift  a  foot, 
Morgante  was  not  now  in  time  to  shoot. 

LXIV. 
Perceiving  that  the  pig  was  on  him  close, 

He  gave  him  such  a  punch  upon  the  head* 
As  floor'd  him,  so  that  he  no  more  arose — 

Smashing  the  very  bone  ;   and  he  fell  dead 
Next  to  the  other.     Having  seen  such  blows, 

The  other  pigs  along  the  valley  fled  ; 
Morgante  on  his  neck  the  bucket  took. 
Full  from  the  spring,  which  neither  swerved  nor  shook. 

LXV. 
The  tun  was  on  ono  shoulder,  and  there  were 

The  hogs  on  t'otlicr,  and  he  brush'd  apace 
On  to  the  abbey,  though  by  no  means  near, 

Nor  spilt  one  dro|)  of  water  in  his  race. 
OHando,  seeing  him  so  soon  apjx^ar 

With  the  dead  boars,  and  with  that  brimfu  vase, 
MarveTd  to  see  his  strength  so  very  great  j^- 

o  aid  the  abbot   and  set  wide  the  "ate. 


LXVI. 

The  monks,  who  saw  the  water  fresh  and  good, 

RejoictKl,  but  much  more  to  perceive  the  pork  , 
All  animals  are  glad  at  sight  of  food  : 

They  lay  their  breviaries  to  sleep,  and  work 
With  greedy  pleasure,  and  in  such  a  mood. 

That  the  flesh  needs  no  salt  beneath  their  fork, 
Of  rankness  and  of  rot  there  is  no  fear. 
For  all  the  fasts  are  now  left  in  arrtar. 

LXVIL 
As  though  they  wish'd  to  burst  at  once,  tfiey  ato ; 

And  gorged  so  that,  as  if  the  bones  had  beei 
In  water,  sorely  grieved  the  dog  and  cat. 

Perceiving  that  they  all  were  pick'd  too  clean. 
The  abbot,  who  to  all  did  honour  great, 

A  few  days  after  this  convivial  scene, 
Gave  to  Morgante  a  fine  horse  well  truin'd. 
Which  he  long  time  had  for  hirnselt  mdiniain'd 

Lxvni. 

The  horse  Morgante  to  a  meadow  led, 

To  gallop,  and  to  put  him  to  the  proof, 
Thinking  that  iie  a  back  of  iron  had. 

Or  to  skim  eggs  unbroke  was  light  enough ; 
But  the  horse,  sinking  with  the  pain,  fell  dead, 

And  burst,  while  cold  on  earth  lay  head  and  hi.K>l 
Morgante  said,  "  Get  up,  thou  sulky  cur  !" 
And  still  contir.ued  prii;king  with  the  spur. 

LXIX. 
But  finally  he  thouglit  fit  to  dismount. 

And  said,  "  I  am  as  light  as  any  feather, 
And  he  has  burst — to  this  what  sa}  you,  coi.nt  ?** 

Orlando  answer'd,  "  Like  a  ship's  m.  .st  rather 
You  seem  to  me,  and  with  the  truck  for  front: — 

Let  him  go  ;   fortune  wills  that  we  together 
Should  march,  but  you  on  toot,  Morgante,  still,'' 
To  which  the  giant  answer'd,  "  So  I  will. 

LXX. 

"When  there  shall  b^  occasion,  you  shi^ll  see 

How  I  approve  my  courage  in  the  fight." 
Orlando  said,  "  I  really  think  you  '11  be. 

If  it  should  prove  God's  wil\  a  goodly  knight, 
Nor  will  you  napping  there  discover  me  : 

But  never  mind  your  horse,  though  out  of  sight 
'T  were  best  to  carry  him  into  some  wood, 
If  but  the  means  or  way  I  understood." 

LXXI. 
The  giant  said,  "  Then  carry  him  I  will. 

Since  that  to  carry  me  he  was  so  slack — 
To  render,  as  the  gods  do,  good  for  ill ; 

But  lend  a  hand  to  place  him  on  my  back." 
Orlando  answer'd,  "  If  my  counsel  still 

May  weigh,  Morgante,  do  not  undertake 
To  lift  or  carry  this  dead  courser,  who. 
As  you  have  done  to  him,  will  do  to  you. 

Lxxn 

"Take  care  he  don't  revenge  himself,  though  dead, 
As  Nessus  did  of  old  beyond  all  cure ; 

I  don't  know  if  the  fact  you  've  heard  or  read. 
But  he  will  make  you  burst,  you  may  be  sure." 

♦*  But  hel})  him  on  my  back,"  Morgante  said, 
"And  you  shall  see  what  weight  I  can  enauie: 

In  place,  my  gentle  Roland,  of  this  palfrey. 

With  all  the  bells,  I  'd  carry  yonder  belfry." 

LXXIII, 

The  abbot  saiil,  *'  The  steeple  may  do  well 

But,  for  the  bells,  you  've  broken  them,  I  wot.** 

Morgante  answer'd,  "  Let  them  pay  in  hell 
The  penalty,  who  lie  dead  in  yon  grot:" 

And  hoisting  up  the  horse  from  where  he  fell, 
He  said,  "  Now  look  if  I  the  gout  have  got. 


MORGANTE    MAGGIORE. 


313 


Oriandc,  in  the  legs — or  if  I  have  force  ;**— 
Ajid  then  he  made  two  gambols  with  the  horse. 
I.XXIV. 

Moigante  was  hke  any  mountain  framed  ; 

So  if  he  did  this,  'tis  no  prodigy ; 
But  secretly  himself  Orlando  blamed, 

Because  he  svas  one  of  his  family  ; 
And,  fearing  that  he  might  be  hurl  or  maim'd, 

Once  more  he  bade  him  lay  his  burthen  by: 
"Put  down,  nor  bear  him  further  the  desert  in." 
Morgantp  said,  "I'll  carry  him  for  certain." 

LXXV. 

He  did  ;  and  stow'd  him  in  some  nook  away, 
And  to  the  abbey  then  return'd  with  speed. 

Orlando  said,  "  Why  longer  do  we  stay ; 
Morgante,  here  is  nought  to  do  indeed." 

The  abbot  by  the  hand  he  took  one  day, 
And  said  with  great  respect,  he  had  agreed 

To  leave  his  reverence ;   but  for  this  decision 

He  wish'd  to  have  his  pardon  and  permission. 

LXXVI. 

The  honours  they  continued  to  receive 

Perhaps  exceeded  what  his  merits  claim'd 
He  said,  "I  mean,  and  quickly,  to  retrieve 

The  lost  days  of  time  past,  which  may  be  blamed  ; 
Some  days  ago  I  should  have  ask'd  your  leave, 

Kind  father,  but  I  really  was  ashamed, 
And  know  not  how  to  show  my  sentiment. 
So  much  I  see  you  with  our  stay  content. 

LXXVII. 
*♦  But  in  my  heart  I  bear  through  every  clime. 

The  abbot,  abbev,  and  this  solitude — 
So  much  I  love  you  in  so  short  a  time ; 

For  me,  from  heaven  reward  you  with  all  good, 
The  God  so  true,  the  eternal  Lord  sublime ! 

Whose  kingdom  at  the  last  hath  open  stood : 
Meanwhile  we  stand  expectant  of  your  blessing, 
And  recommend  us  to  your  prayers  with  pressing." 

LXXVIII. 
Now  when  the  abbot  Count  Orlan.do  heard, 

His  heart  grew  soft  with  inner  tenderness. 
Such  fervour  in  his  bosom  bred  each  word  ; 

And,  "  Cavalier,"  he  said,  "  if  1  have  less 
Courteous  and  kind  to  your  great  worth  appear'd. 

Than  fits  me  for  such  gentle  blood  to  express, 
I  know  I  've  done  too  little  in  this  case  ; 
But  blame  our  ignorance,  and  this  poor  place 

LXXIX. 
"We  can  indeed  bat  honour  you  with  masses. 

And  sermons,  thanksgivings,  and  paler-nosters, 
Hot  suppers,  dinners  (fitting  other  places 

In  verity  mucti  rather  than  the  cloisters); 
But  such  a  love  for  you  my  heart  embraces. 

For  thousand  virtues  which  your  bosom  fosters. 
That  whercsoe'er  you  go,  I  too  shall  be. 
And,  on  the  other  part,  you  rest  with  me. 

LXXX. 
•*This  may  involve  a  seeming  contradiction. 

But  you,  I  know,  are  sage,  and  feel,  and  tasle,     ■ 
And  understand  my  speech  with  full  conviction. 
For  your  just  j)ious  deers  may  you  be  graced 
With  the  Lord's  great  reAt.rd  and  benediction. 

By  'A-hom  you  were  directed  to  tiiis  waste : 
To  hio  high  mercy  is  our  freedom  due. 
For  which  we  render  thanks  to  him  and  you. 

LXXXI. 
"  You  saved  at  once  our  life  and  soul :   such  fear 

The  giants  caused  us,  that  the  way  was  lost 
By  which  we  could  pursue  a  fit  career 
In  search  of  Jesus  and  the  saintly  host ; 


And  your  departure  breeds  such  sorrow  here, 

That  comfortless  we  al  are  to  our  cost ; 
But  months  and  years  you  could  not  stay  m  sloth. 
Nor  are  you  form'd  to  wear  our  sober  cloth  ; 

LXXXII. 
•'  But  to  bear  arms  and  wield  the  lance  ;   indeed, 
With  these  as  much  is  done'  as  with  this  cowl. 
In  proof  of  which  the  scripture  you  may  read. 
This  giant  up  to  heaven  may  bear  his  soul 
By  your  compassion  ;   now  in  peac.e  proceed. 

Your  state  and  name  I  seek  not  to  unroll. 
But,  if  I  'm  ask'd,  this  answer  shall  be  given. 
That  here  an  angel  was  sent  down  trom  heaVen. 

LXXXIII. 
"  If  you  want  armour  or  aught  else,  go  in. 

Look  o'er  the  wardrobe,  and  take  what  you  choose , 
And  cover  with  it  o'er  this  giant's  skm." 

Orlando  answer'd,  "If  there  should  lie  loose 
Some  armour,  ere  our  journey  we  oegin, 

Which  might  be  turn'd  to  my  companion's  use, 
The  gift  would  be  acceptable  to  me." 
The  abbot  said  to  him,  "  Come  in  and  see." 

LXXXIV. 
And  in  a  certain  closet,  where  the  wall 

Was  cover'd  with  old  armour  like  a  crust, 
The  abbot  said  to  them,  "  I  give  you  all." 

Morgante  rummaged  piecemeal  from  the  dust 
The  whole,  which,  save  one  cuirass,  was  too  small 

And  that  too  had  the  mail  inlaid  with  rust. 
They  wonder'd  how  it  fitted  him  exactly. 
Which  ne'er  had  suited  others  so  compactly. 

LXXXV. 
'T  was  an  immeasurable  giant's,  who 

By  the  great  Milo  of  Argante  fell 
Before  the  abbey  many  years  ago. 

The  story  on  the  wall  was  figured  well  ; 
In  the  last  moment  of  the  abbey's  foe. 

Who  long  had  waged  a  war  implacable: 
Precisely  as  the  war  occurr'd  they  drew  him. 
And  there  was  Milo  as  he  overtnrew  him. 

LXXXVI. 

Seeing  this  history.  Count  Orlando  said 

In  his  own  heart  "Oh  God !   who  m  the  sky 

Know'sf  all  things,  how  was  Milo  hither  led. 
Who  caused  the  giant  in  this  place  to  die?" 

And  certain  letters,  weepins,  then  h.'.  read. 
So  that  he  could  not  keep  his  visage  dry,— 

As  I  will  tell  in  the  ensuing  story. 

From  evil  keep  you,  the  high  Kmg  of  Gloiy! 


Note  1. 
He  frave  liim  such  a  punch  upon  the  head. 
"Glidette  in  sulla  testa  un  gran  pimzone."  It  is 
strange  that  Pulci  should  have  literally  anticipated  the 
tecbnlcal  terms  of  my  old  friend  and  master,  .lackson, 
and  the  art  which  he  has  carried  to  its  highest  piuji. 
"^  pwnch  on  the  head,"  or,  "a  punch  in  the  head^' 
*•  un  punzone  in  sulla  testa,"  is  the  exact  and  frequent 
phrase  of  our  best  pugilists,  who  little  dream  that  lliey 
are  talking  the    urest  Tuscan. 


814 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


THE 


SirM  of  CavCntii* 


TO  JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ. 

THIS  POEIVE  IS  INSCRIBED, 

BY  HIS  FRIEx\D 
January  22,  1816. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 


Fne  grand  army  of  the  Turks  (in  1715),  under  the 
Prime  Vizier,  to  open  to  themselves  a  way  into  the 
heart  of  the  Morea,  and  to  form  the  siege  of  Napoli 
di  Romania,  the  most  considerahle  place  in  all  that 
country,"  thought  it  best  in  the  first  place  to  attack 
Corinth,  upon  which  they  made  several  storms.  The 
garrison  being  weakened,  and  the  governor  seeing  it 
was  impossible  to  hold  out  against  so  mighty  a  force, 
thouaht  it  fit  to  beat  a  parley:  hiu  while  they  were 
treating  about  the  articles,  one  of  the  magazines  m 
the  Turkish  camp,  wherein  they  had  six  hundred  bar- 
rels of  powder,  blew  up  by  accident,  whereby  six  or 
seven  hundred  men  were  killed  :  which  so  enraged 
the  infidels,  that  they  would  not  grant  any  capitula- 
tion, hut  stormed  the  place  with  so  much  fury,  that 
they  took  it,  and  put  most  of  the  garrison,  with  Signer 
Minotti,  ihe  governor,  to  the  sword.  The  rest,  with 
Antonio  Bembo,  proveditor  extraordinary,  were  made 
pnsoners  of  war."  History  of  the  Turks,  vol.  iii.  p.  151. 


SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


Manv  a  vanish'd  year  and  age, 

And  tempest's  breath,  and  battle's  rage, 

Have  swept  o'er  Corinth;  yet  she  stands, 

A  fortress  form'd  to  Freedom's  hands. 

The  whirlwind's  wrath,  the  earthquake's  shock, 

Have  left  untouch'd  her  hoary  rock, 

The  keystoiii^  of  a  land  which  still. 

Though  fall'n,  looks  proudly  on  thai  hill, 

The  landmark  to  the  double  tide 

That  purpling  rolls  on  either  side. 

As  if  their  waters  chafed  to  meet. 

Yet  pause  and  crouch  beneath  her  feet. 

But  could  the  blood  before  her  shed 

Since  first  Timoleon's  brother  bled. 

Or  haflled   Persia's  desf)ot  fled, 

Arise  from  out  the  earth  which  drank 

The  stream  of  slaughter  as  it  sank. 


1  Napoli  di  U  /miinia  is  not  now  tlie  most  considerable  place  in 
the  Miireii,  oul  TripDlitzfi,  wliore  tin;  Pacha  resides,  and  main- 
tuing  hie  jrovernrneiil.  Napoh  is  near  Arcos.  I  visited  ali  three  in 
1810-11 ;  and  in  the  conrse  of  journeyiiif;  Ihroutrh  the  country 
from  my  first  arrival  in  M)!t,  1  crossed  the  Isthmus  eicht  times 
Ln  my  way  from  Attica  to  the  Morea,  over  tlie  mountains, 
or  In  he  ot tier  direction,  wht^n  passinjr  from  thcGuif  of  Athena 
to  that  of  licpiinto.  Moth  the  routes  arc  picturesque  and  heau 
tifill,  thouirh  very  diHerent :  that  l)y  sea  has  more  sameness, 
out  the  voyase  bi^miz  always  in  siirlit  of  land,  and  often  very 
nea:  it,  presents  many  attractive  views  of  the  islands  Saittinis. 
<Kj{ina   Port.,  etc..  anJ  ttie  coast  of  the  coiitintint. 


That  sanguine  ocean  would  o'erflow 

Her  isthmus  idly  spread  below  : 

Or  could  the  bones  of  all  the  slain, 

Who  perish'd  there,  be  piled  again, 

That  rival  pyramid  would  rise 

More  mountain-like,  through  those  clear  skies. 

Than  yon  tower-capt  Acropolis 

Which  seoms  the  very  clouds  to  kiss. 

II. 

On  dun  Cithairon's  ridge  appears 
The  gleam  of  twice  ten  thousand  spean  , 
And  downward  to  the  Isthmian  plain, 
From  shore  to  shore  of  either  main. 
The  tent  is  pitch'd,  the  crescent  shine? 
Along  the  Moslem's  leaguering  lines  ; 
And  the  dusk  Spahi's  bands  advance 
Beneath  each  beaided  pacha's  glance, 
And  far  and  wide  as  eye  can  reach. 
The  turban'd  cohorts  throng  the  beach 
And  there  the  Arab's  camel  kneels. 
And  there  his  steed  the  Tartar  wheels 
The  Turcoman  hath  left  his  herd,' 
The  sabre  round  his  loins  to  gird  ; 
And  there  the  volleying  thunders  poui 
Till  waves  grow  smoother  to  the  roar. 
The  trench  is  dug,  the  cannon's  breath 
Wings  the  far  hissing  globe  of  death  ; 
Fast  whirl  the  fragments  from  the  wall, 
Which  crumbles  with  the  ponderous  ba» 
And  from  that  wall  the  foe  replies^ 
O'er  dusty  plain  and  smoky  skies. 
With  fires  that  answer  fast  and  well 
The  summons  of  the  Infidel. 

111. 

But  near  and  nearest  to  the  wall 
Of  those  who  wish  and  work  its  fall, 
With  deeper  skill  in  war's  black  art 
Than  Othman's  sons,  and  high  of  heart 
As  any  chief  that  ever  stood 
Triumphant  in  the  fields  of  blood ; 
From  [)Ost  to  post,  and  deed  to  deed, 
Fast  spurring  on  his  reeking  steed. 
Where  sallying  ranks  the  trench  assail, 
And  make  the  foretnost  Moslem  quail ; 
Or  where  the  battery,  guarded  well, 
Remains  as  yet  impregnable. 
Alighting  chettrly  to  inspire 
The  soldier  slackening  in  his  fire  ; 
The  first  and  freshest  of  the  host 
Which  Siamboul's  sultan  there  can  boast, 
To  guide  the  follower  o'er  the  field. 
To  point  the  tube,  the  lance  to  wield. 
Or  wliirl  around  the  bickering  blade, — 
Was  Alp,  the  Adrian  renegade ! 

IV. 

From  Venice — once  a  race  of  worth 

His  gentle  sires — he  drew  his  birth  ; 

But  late  an  exile  from  her  shore, 

Against  his  countrymen  he  bore 

The  arms  they  taught  to  bear  ;   and  now 

The  turban  girt  his  shaven  brow. 

Through  many  a  change  had  Corinth  pass  0 

With  Greece  to  Venice'  rule  at  last; 

And  here,  before  her  walls,  with  those 

To  Greece  and  Venice  equal  foes, 

He  stood  a  foe,  with  all  the  zeal 

Which  young  and  fierv  converts  feel, 


T  TI  E    SIEGE    OF    C  0  III  N  T  IT. 


315 


Wilhin  whose  he?  tod  bosom  throngs 
Th»>  metnory  of  a  thousand  wrongs. 
To  him  had  Venice  ceased  to  be 
Her  ancient  civic  boast — "the  Free  ;" 
And  in  the  palace  of  St.  Mark 
Unnamed  accusers  in  the  dark 
Within  the  "  Lion's  mouth  "  had  placed 
A  charge  against  him  uneffliced  : 
He  fled  m  time,  ;uid  saved  his  hfe 
To  waste  his  future  years  in  strife, 
Ttiat  taught  his  laiui  how  great  her  loss 
In  him  who  triiimph'd  o'er  the  Cross, 
^Gainst  which  he  rcar'd  the  Crescent  high, 
And  battled  to  avenge  or  die. 


Coumourgi  * — he  whose  closing  scene 
Adorn'd  the  triuin[)h  of  Eugene, 
When  on  Cariowitz'  bloody  plain, 
The  last  and  mii;htiest  of  the  slain, 
He  sank,  regrettinsj  not  to  die, 
But  curst  the  Christian's  victory — 
Coumourgi — can  his  glory  cease, 
That  latest  concpieror  of  Greece, 
Till  Christian  hands  to  Greece  restore 
The  freedom  Venice  gave  of  yore  ? 
A  bundled  years  have  roll  d  away 
Since  he  refix'd  the  Moslem's  sway; 
And  now  he  led  the  Mussulman, 
And  gave  tb.e  guidance  of  the  van 
To  Alp,  who  well  repaid  the  trust 
B}  cities  levell'd  with  the  dust ; 
And  proved,  by  many  a  deed  of  death, 
How  firm  his  heart  in  novel  faith. 

VI. 

The  walls  grew  weak  ,   and  fast  and  hot 

Against  them  poiir'd  the  ceaseless  shot, 

With  unabating  fury  sent 

From  battery  to  battlement ; 

And  thunder-like  the  pealing  din 

Rose  from  each  heated  culverin ; 

And  here  and  there  some  crackling  dome 

Was  fired  before  the  exploding  bomb : 

And  as  the  fabric  sank  beneath 

The  shattering  shell's  volcanic  breath. 

In  red  and  wreathing  columns  riash'd 

The  flame,  as  loud  the  ruin  crash'd, 

Or  into  countless  meteors  driven. 

Its  earth-stars  melted  into  heaven  ; 

Whose  clouds  that  dav  grew  doubly  dun, 

Impervious  to  the  hidden  sun. 

With  volumed  smoke  that  slowly  grew 

To  one  wide  sky  of  sulphurous  hue. 

VII. 

But  not  for  vengeance,  long  delay'd, 

Alone,  did  Alp,  the  renegade. 

The  Moslem  warriors  sternly  teach 

His  skill  to  pierce  the  promised  breach: 

Within  these  walls  a  maid  was  pent 

His  hope  would  win,  without  consent 

Of  that  inexorable  sire. 

Whose  heart  refused  him  in  its  ire, 

When  Alp,  beneath  his  Christian  name, 

Her  virgin  hand  aspired  to  claim. 

In  happier  mood  and  earlier  time. 

While  unimpeach'd  for  traitorous  crime, 

Gayest  in  gondola  or  hall. 

He  glitter'd  through  the  Carnival; 

And  tuned  the  softest  serenade 


Tliat  e'er  on  Ailria's  waters  play'd 
At  midnight  to  Italian  maid. 

VIII. 

And  many  deem'd  her  heart  wag  won; 
For,  sought  by  numbers,  given  to  none. 
Hat!  young  Francesca's  hand  remain'd 
Still  by  the  church's  bonds  unchain'd : 
And  when  the  Adriatic  bore 
Lanciotto  to  the  Payniin  shore. 
Her  wonted  smiles  were  seen  to  fail, 
And  pensive  wax'd  the  maid,  and  pale ; 
More  constant  at  confessional, 
More  rare  at  masque  and  festival ; 
Or  seen  at  such,  with  downcast  eyes. 
Which  conquer'd  hearts  they  ceased  to  pnze 
With  listless  look  she  seems  to  gaze ; 
With  humbler  car.:;  her  form  arrays  ; 
Her  voice  less  lively  in  the  song  ; 
Her  step,  though  light,  less  fleet  among 
The  pairs,  on  v.  bom  ihe  morning's  glance 
Breaks,  yet  unsated  with  the  dance. 

IX. 

Sent  by  the  state  to  guard  the  land 
(Which,  wrested  from  the  Moslem's  haiv^ 
V^hile  Sol)ieski  tamed  his  pride 
By  Buda's  wall  and   Danube's  side. 
The  chiefs  of  \'enice  wrung  away 
From  Paira  lo  Eubcpa's  l)av), 
Minotti  held  m  Corinth's  lowers 
The  Doge's  delegated  powers. 
While  yet  the  pitying  eye  oC  peace 
Smiled  o'er  her  loiig-rorj.'(>t'en  G'sece 
And,  ere  that  faillilcss  f.-ure  was  broke 
W^hich  freed  her  fro:n  the  unchristian  yoke 
With  him  his  gentle  daughter  came  : 
Nor  ihere,  since  Meneinus'  dame 
Forsook  her  lord  and  land,  to  prove 
What  woes  await  on  lawless  love. 
Had  fairer  form  adorn'd  the  shore 
Than  she,  the  matchless  stranger,  bore. 

X. 

The  wall  is  rent,  the  ruins  yawn. 
And,  with  to-morrow's  earliest  dawn. 
O'er  the  disjointed  mass  shall  vault 


The  foremost  of  the  fierce  assault 
The  bands  arc  rank'd  ;   the  chosen  van 
Of  Tartar  and  of  Mussulman, 
The  full  of  hOjie   misnamed   "  forlorn," 
Who  ho'd  t!ie  Vaought  of  death  in  scorn, 
And  win  their  way  with  falchions'  t'orce. 
Or  pave  the  path  with  many  a  corse. 
O'er  which  the  following  brave  may  rise 
Their  stepping-stone — the  last  who  dies ! 

XI. 

'T  is  midnight :   on  the  mountain's  brown 

The  cold  round  moon  shines  deejily  dov  n , 

Blue  roll  the  waters,  blue  the  sky 

Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high. 

Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light. 

So  wildly,  sjiiritually  bright ; 

W"ho  ever  gazed  ujion  them  shining, 

And  turn'd  to  earth  without  repining. 

Nor  wish'd  for  wings  lo  flee  away, 

And  mix  witli  their  eternal  ray? 

The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 

Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air, 

And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shooK, 

But  murrnur'd  meeklv  as  the  brook. 


316 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


The  winds  v  ere  pillow'd  on  the  waves ; 
The  banners  droop'd  along  their  staves, 
And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling, 
Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curhng ; 
And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke. 
Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke. 
Save  where  the  steed  iieigh'd  oft  and  shrill, 
And  echo  answer'd  from  the  hill. 
And  the  wide  hum  of  tha"^  »*'ild  host 
Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast. 
As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 
In  midnight  call  to  wonted  prayer  ; 
It  rose,  that  cliaunted  mournful  strain. 
Like  some  lone  spirit's  o'er  the  [)lain.* 
'T  was  musical,  but  sadly  sweet, 
Such  as  when  winds  and  harp-strings  meet. 
And  take  a  long  unmeasured  tone, 
To  mortal  ministrelsy  unknown. 
It  seem'd  to  those  within  the  wall 
A  crj'  prophetic  of  their  fal' : 
t  struck  even  the  besieg(ir's  ear 
With  something  ominous  and  drear. 
An  undefined  and  sudden  thrill, 
Which  makes  the  heart  a  moment  still, 
Then  beat  svilh  quicker  pulse,  ashamed    . 
Of  that  strange  sense  its  silence  framed ; 
Such  as  a  sudden  passing-bell 
Wakes,  though  but  for  a  stranger's  knell. 

XII. 
The  tent  of  Alp  was  on  the  shore  , 
The  sound  was  hush'd  thr  prayer  was  o'er; 
The  watch  was  set,  the  night-round  made, 
All  mandates  issued  and  obey'd  5 
'T  is  but  another  anxious  night. 
His  pains  the  morrow  may  requite 
With  all  revenge  and  love  can  pay, 
In  guerdon  for  their  long  delay. 
Few  hours  remain,  and  he  hath  need 
Of  rest,  to  nerve  for  many  a  deed 
Of  slaughter ;   but  within  his  soul 
The  thoughts  like  troubled  waters  roll. 
He  stood  alone  among  the  host ; 
Not  his  the  loud  fanatic  boast 
To  plant  the  Crescent  o'er  the  Cross, 
Or  risk  a  life  with  little  loss. 
Secure  in  j)aradise  to  be 
By  Houris  loved  immortally  : 
Nor  his,  what  burning  patriots  feel, 
The  stern  exaltedness  of  zeal, 
Profuse  of  blood,  untired  in  toil, 
When  battling  on  the  parent  soil. 
He  stood  alone — a  renegade 
Against  the  country  he  betray'd ; 
He  stood  alone  amidst  his  band. 
Without  a  trusted  heart  or  hand  : 
They  foUow'd  him,  for  he  was  brave, 
And  great  the  spoil  he  got  and  gave  ; 
They  crouch'd  to  him,  for  he  had  skill 
To  warp  and  wield  the  vulgar  will: 
But  stilL  his  Christian  origin 
With  them  was  little  less  than  sin. 
They  envied  evcni  the  faithless  fame 
He  earn'd  bcjneath  a  Moslem  name; 
Since  he,  their  mightiest  chief,  had  been 
In     -)uth  a  bitter  Nazarene. 
They  did  not  know  how  pride  can  stoop, 
Wlien  bain.'d  feelings  wUluiring  droop  ; 
rhey  did  not  know  how  hate  can  burn 
In  hearts  once  changed  trom  soft  to  stern ; 
Nor  all  the  false  and  fatal  zeal 
The  convert  of  r<;venge  can  feel. 


He  ruled  them — man  may  rule  the  woftit, 
By  ever  daring  to  be  first : 
So  lions  o'er  the  jackal  sway  ; 
The  jackal  points,  he  fells  the  prey, 
Then  on  the  vulgar  yeUing  press. 
To  gorge  the  relics  of  success. 

XIII. 

His  head  grows  fever'd.  and  his  pulse 
The  quick  successive  tnroos  convulse  : 
In  vain  from  side  to  side  ne  throws 
His  form,  in  courtship  of  repose  ; 
Or  if  he  dozed,  a  sound,  a  start 
Awoke  him  with  a  sunken  heart. 
The  turban  on  his  hot  brow  press'd. 
The  mail  weigh'd  lead-like  on  his  breasi., 
Though  oft  and  long  beneath  its  weight 
Upon  his  eyes  had  slumber  sate, 
Without  or  couch  or  canopy. 
Except  a  rougher  field  and  sky 
Than  now  might  yield  a  warrior's  bed 
Than  now  along  tiie  heaven  was  sfiread 
He  could  not  rest,  he  couKi  not  stay 
Within  his  tent  to  wait  for  day, 
But  walk'd  him  forth  along  the  sand, 
Where  thousand  sleepers  strew'd  the  strand 
What  pillow'd  them '/   and  why  should  he 
More  wakeful  than  the  humblest  be  ? 
Since  more  their  peril,  worse  their  toil, 
And  yet  they  fearless  dream  of  spoil ; 
While  he  alone,  where  thousands  pass'd 
A  mght  of  sleep,  perchance  their  last. 
In  sickly  vigil  wander'd  on. 
And  envied  all  he  gazed  upon. 


XIV. 

He  felt  his  soul  become  more  light 
Beneath  the  freshness  of  the  night. 
Cool  was  the  silent  sky,  though  calm, 
And  bathed  his  brow  with  airy  balm : 
Behind,  the  camp— before  him  lay. 
In  many  a  winding  creek  and  bay, 
Lepanto's  gulf:   and,  on  the  brow 
Of  Delphi's  hill,  unshaken  snow. 
High  and  eternal,  such  is  «hone 
Through  thousand  summers  Jrightly  gone, 
Along  the  gulf,  the  mount,  the  clime ; 
It  will  not  melt,  like  man,  to  time : 
Tyrant  and  slave  are  swept  away, 
Less  form'd  to  waar  before  the  ray. 
But  that  white  veil,  the  lightest,  frailest. 
Which  on  the  mighty  mount  thou  hailest 
While  tower  and  tree  are  torn  and  rent. 
Shines  o'er  its  craggy  battlement; 
In  form  a  peak,  in  height  a  cloud, 
In  texture  like  a  hovering  *hroud, 
Thus  high  by  partit.g  Freedom  spread, 
A.,  from  her  fond  abode  she  tied. 
And  linger'd  on  the  spot,  where  long 
Her  prophet  spirit  spake  in  song. 
Oh,  still  her  step  at  moments  falters 
O'er  wither'd  fields  and  ruin'd  altars, 
And  fain  would  wake,  in  souls  too  brokei^ 
By  pointing  to  each  glorious  token. 
But  vain  her  voice,  till  better  days 
Dawn  in  those  yet  remember'd  ray8 
Which  shone  upon  the  Persian  flying, 
And  saw  the  Spartan  smile  Ji  ayin^. 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH 


317 


XV. 

Noi  mindless  of  these  mighty  times 

Was  Alp,  despite  his  flight  and  crimes; 

And  through  this  night,  as  on  he  wander'd, 

And  o'er  the  past  and  present  ponder'd, 

And  thought  u^.on  the  glorious  dead    ' 

Who  there  in  lietter  cause  had  bled, 

He  fi'lt  how  faint  and  feebly  dim 

The  fame  that  could  accrue  to  Jiim, 

Who  ciieer'd  the  band,  and  waved  the  swojq 

A  traitor  in  a  turban'd  horde ; 

And  led  them  to  the  lawless  siege, 

Whose  best  success  were  sacrilege. 

Not  so  had  those  his  fancy  nurnber'd, 

The  chiefs  whose  dust  around  him  slumber'O 

Their  phalanx  marshall'd  on  the  plain. 

Whose  bulwarks  were  not  then  in  vain. 

They  fell  devoted,  but  undving  ; 

The  very  gale  their  names  seem'd  sighing : 

The  wafers  murmur'd  of  their  name  ; 

The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame; 

The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray, 

Claun'd  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay; 

Their  spirits  wrapt  the  dusky  mountain, 

Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain ; 

The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river 

Roll'd  mingling  with  their  fame  for  ever. 

Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears, 

That  land  is  glory's  still  and  theirs  ! 

'Tis  still  a  watch- word  to  the  earth: 

When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth 

Ho  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread, 

So  sanction 'd, on  the  tyrant's  head: 

H';  look^  to  her,  and  rushes  on 

Waere  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won. 

XVI. 
Still  by  the  shore  Alp  mutely  mused. 
And  woo'd  the  freshness  night  diffused. 
There  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tideless  sea,' 
Which  changeless  rolls  eternally  ; 
So  that  wildest  of  waves,  in  their  angriest  mood, 
Scarce  break  on  the  bounds  of  the  land  for  a  rood  ; 
And  the  powerless  moon  beholds  them  flow, 
Heedless  if  she  come  or  go : 
Calm  or  high,  in  main  or  bay. 
On  their  course  she  hath  no  sway. 
The  rock  unworn  its  base  doth  bare. 
And  looks  o'er  the  surf,  but  it  comes  not  there  ; 
And  the  fringe  of  the  foam  may  be  seen  below, 
On  the  line  that  it  left  long  ages  ago : 
A  smooth  shoit  space  of  yellow  sand 
Between  it  and  the  greener  land. 

He  wander'd  on,  along  the  beach, 

Till  within  the  range  of  a  carbine's  reach 

Of  the  leaguer'd  wall ;   but  they  saw  him  not. 

Or  low  could  he  'scape  from  the  hostile  shot  ? 

Did  trauors  lurk  in  the  Christian's  hold? 

VVere  their  hands  grown  stiff,  or  their  hearts  wax'd  cold  ? 

I  know  not,  in  sooth  ;   but  from  yonder  wall 

There  flash'd  no  fire,  and  there  hiss'd  no  ball. 

Though  he  stood  beneath  the  bastion's  frown. 

That  flank'd  the  sea-ward  gate  of  the  town  ; 

Though  he  heard  the  sound,  and  could  almost  tell 

The  sullen  words  of  the  sentinel, 

As  his  measured  step  on  the  stone  below 

Clank'J,  as  he  paced  it  to  and  fro; 

And  he  saw  the  lean  do<js  beneath  the  wall 

Hold  o'er  the  dead  tlieir  carnival , 

Gorging  and  growhng  o'er  carcass  and  limb ; 

They  wei  e  too  busy  to  bark  at  him ! 


From  a  Tartar's  skull  they  ;iad  stripp'd  tne  flesh, 

As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  the  fruit  is  fresh  ; 

And  their  white  tusks  crunch'd  o'er  the  whiter  skull,* 

As  it  slipp'd  through  their  jaws,  when  their  edge  grew  dull, 

As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead. 

When  they  scarce  could  rise  from  the  snot  where  they  fed, 

So  well  had  they  broken  a  lingering  fast 

With  those  who  had  fallen  for  that  night's  repast. 

And  Alp  knew,  by  the  turbans  that  'oll'd  on  the  sand. 

The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  his  band : 

Crimson  and  green  were  the  shawls  of  their  wear, 

And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hair,* 

All  the  rest  was  shaven  and  bare. 

I    The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dog's  maw, 

I    The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  jaw. 

I     But  close  by  the  shore  on  the  edge  of  the  gulfj 
There  sat  a  vulture  flapping  a  wolf, 
Who  had  stolen  from  the  hills,  but  kept  away, 

I     Scared  by  the  dogs,  from  the  human  prey  ; 
But  he  seized  on  his  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 
Pick'd  by  the  birds,  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 

xvn. 

Alp  turn'd  him  from  the  sickening  sight : 
Never  had  shaken  his  nerves  in  fight ; 
But  he  better  could  brook  to  behold  the  dying, 
Deep  in  the  tide  of  their  warm  blood  lying, 

j     Scorch'd  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writhing  in  vain, 

i     Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past  all  pain. 
There  is  something  of  pride  in  the  perilous  hour, 

I    Whate'er  be  the  shape  hi  which  death  may  lour; 

j     For  Fame  is  there  to  say  who  bleeds. 
And  Honour's  eye  on  daring  deeds! 
But  when  all  is  past,  it  is  humbling  to  tread 
O'er  the  weltering  field  of  the  tombless  dead. 
And  see  worms  of  the  earth,  and  fowls  of  the  air, 
Beasts  of  the  forest,  all  gathering  there ; 
All  regarding  man  as  their  prey, 
All  rejoicing  in  hi^  decay. 

XVIII. 

There  is  a  temple  in  ruin  stands, 

Fashion'd  by  long-forgotten  hands  ; 

Two  or  three  columns,  and  many  a  stone, 

Marble  and  granite,  with  grass  o'ergrown ! 

Out  upon  time  !   it  will  leave  no  more 

Of  the  things  to  come  than  the  things  before ! 

Out  upon  time  !  who  for  ever  will  leave 

But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 

O'er  that  which  hath  been,  and  o'(;r  that  which  must  ^ 

What  we  have  seen,  our  sons  shall  see ; 

Remnants  of  things  that  have  pass'd  away, 

Fragments  of  stone,  rear'd  by  creatures  of  clay ! 

XIX. 

He  sate  him  down  at  a  pillar's  base. 

And  pass'd  his  hand  athwart  his  face ; 

Like  one  in  dreary  musing  mood, 

Declining  was  his  attitude  ; 

His  head  was  drooping  on  his  breast, 

Fever'd,  throbbing,  and  opprest ; 

And  o'er  his  brow,  so  downward  bent. 

Oft  his  beating  fingers  went. 

Hurriedly,  as  you  may  see 

Your  own  run  over  the  ivory  key. 

Ere  the  measured  tone  is  taken 

By  the  chords  j'ou  would  awaken. 

There  he  sate  all  heavily. 

As  he  heard  the  night- wind  sigh. 

Was  it  the  wind,  through  some  hollowr  gtone, 

Sent  that  sjft  and  tender  moan  ? 


318 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


He  lifted  his  head,  and  he  look'd  on  the  sea, 

But  it  was  unrippled  as  glass  may  be ; 

He  losk'd  on  the  long  grass — it  waved  not  ablade; 

How  was  that  gentle  sound  convey'd  ? 

He  look'd  to  the  banners — each  flag  lay  still, 

So  did  the  leaves  on  Citha^ron's  hill. 

And  he  felt  not  a  breath  come  over  his  cheek ; 

What  did  that  sudden  sound  bespeak? 

He  turn'd  to  the  left — is  he  sure  of  sight  ? 

There  sate  a  lady,  youthful  and  bright ! 

XX. 

He  started  up  with  more  of  fear 

Than  if  an  armed  foe  were  near. 

"  God  of  my  fathers  !   what  is  here'' 

Who  art  thou,  and  wherefore  sent 

So  near  a  hostile  armament?" 

His  tremltling  hands  refused  to  sign 

The  cross  he  deein'd  no  more  divine : 

He  had  resumed  it  in  that  hour, 

But  conscience  wrung  away  the  power. 

He  gazed,  he  saw  :   he  knew  the  face 

Of  beauty,  and  the  form  of  grace ; 

It  was  Francesca  by  his  side. 

The  maid  who  might  have  been  his  bride  ! 

The  rose  was  yet  upon  her  cheek. 

But  mellow'd  with  a  tender  streak : 

Where  was  the  play  of  her  soft  lips  jfled  ? 

Gone  was  the  smile  that  enliven'd  their  red. 

The  ocean's  calm  within  their  view, 

Beside  her  eye  had  less  of  blue  ; 

But  like  that  cold  wave  it  stood  still, 

Anu  its  glance,  though  clear,  was  chill. 

Around  her  form  a  thin  robe  twining. 

Nought  conceal'd  her  bosom  shining ; 

Through  the  parting  of  her  hair, 

Floating  darkly  downward  there. 

Her  rounded  arm  show'd  white  and  bare : 

And  ere  yet  she  made  reply, 

Once  she  raised  her  hand  on  high ; 

It  was  so  wan,  and  transparent  of  hue. 

You  might  have  seen  the  moon  shine  through. 

XXI. 

**  I  come  from  my  rest  to  him  I  love  best. 

That  I  may  be  happy,  and  he  m?y  be  blest. 

I  have  pass'd  the  guards,  the  gate,  the  wall ; 

Sought  thee  in  safety  through  foes  and  all. 

'T  is  baid  the  lion  will  turn  and  flee 

From  a  maid  in  the  pride  of  her  purity ; 

And  the  power  on  high,  that  can  shield  the  good 

Thus  from  ihe  tyrant  of  the  wood. 

Hath  extended  its  mercy  to  guard  me  as  well 

From  the  hands  of  the  leaguering  infidel. 

I  come — and  if  I  come  in  vain. 

Never,  oh  never,  we  meet  again ! 

Thou  hast  done  a  fearful  deed 

In  falling  away  from  thy  father's  creed  : 

But  dash  that  turban  to  earth,  and  sign 

I'he  sign  of  the  cross,  and  for  ever  be  mine ; 

Wring  the  black  drop  from  thy  iieart. 

And  to-morrow  unites  us  no  more  to  part." 

"  And  where  should  our  bridal  couch  be  spread  ? 
n  the  midst  of  the  dying  and  the  dead  ? 
For  to-morrow  we  give  to  the  slaughter  and  flame 
The  sons  and  the  shrines  of  the  Christian  name: 
None  save  thou  and  thine,  I  've  sworn, 
Sliali  be  left  upon  the  morn: 


But  thee  will  1  bear  to  d  lovely  spot, 

Where  our  hands  shall  be  join'd,  and  our  sorrow  forgot. 

There  thou  yet  shalt  be  my  bride, 

When  once  again  I  've  quell'd  the  pride 

Of  Venice  ;   and  her  hated  race 

Have  telt  the  arm  they  would  debase,-— 

Scourge,  with  a  whip  of  scorpions,  thoae 

Whom  vice  and  envy  made  my  foes." 

Upon  his  hand  she  laid  her  own — 
Light  was  the  touch,  but  it  thrill'd  to  the  bone, 
And  shot  a  chilhiess  to  his  heart. 
Which  fix'd  him  beyond  the  power  to  start. 
Though  slight  was  that  grasp  so  mortal  cold, 
He  could  not  loose  him  from  its  hold ; 
But  never  did  clasi)  of  one  so  dear 
Strike  on  the  pulse  with  such  feeling  of  fear, 
As  those  thin  fingers,  long  and  white, 
Froze  through  his  blood  by  their  touch  that  night. 
The  feverish  glow  of  his  brow  was  gone, 
And  his  heart  sank  so  still  that  it  felt  like  stone. 
As  he  look'd  on  the  face,  and  beheld  its  hue 
So  deeply  changed  from  what  he  knew : 
Fair  but  faint — without  the  ray 
Of  mind,  that  made  each  feature  play 
Like  sparkling  waves  on  a  sunny  day  j 
And  her  motionless  lips  lay  still  as  death, 
And  her  words  came  forth  without  her  breath. 
And  there  rose  not  a  heave  o'er  her  bosom's  swell, 
And  there  se'im'd  not  a  pulse  in  her  veins  to  dwell. 
Though  her  eye  shone  out,  yet  the  lids  were  fix'd, 
And  the  glance  that  it  gave  was  wild  and  unmix'd 
With  aught  of  change,  as  the  eyes  ma}  seem 
Of  the  restless  who  walk  in  a  troubled  dream , 
Like  the  figures  on  arras,  that  gloomily  glare, 
Stirr'd  by  the  breath  of  the  wintry  air, 
So  seen  by  the  dying  lairip's  fitful  light. 
Lifeless,  but  life-like,  and  awful  to  sight ; 
As  they  seem,  through  the  dimness,  about  to  come  dowll 
From  the  shadowy  wall  where  their  images  frown ; 
Fearfully  flitting  to  and  fro. 
As  the  gusts  on  the  tapestry  come  and  go. 
"If  not  for  love  of  me  be  given 
Thus  much,  then,  for  tlie  love  of  Heaven,— 
Again  I  say — that  turban  tear 
From  otf  thy  faithless  brow,  and  swear 
Thine  injured  country's  sons  to  spare, 
Or  thou  art  lost ;   and  ncer  shalt  see. 
Not  earth — that 's  past — but  heaven  or  me. 
If  this  thou  dost  accord,  albeit 
A  heavy  doom  't  is  thine  to  meet. 
That  doom  shall  half  absolve  thy  sin, 
And  Mercy's  gate  may  receive  thee  within . 
But  pause  one  moment  more,  and  take 
The  curse  of  Him  thou  didst  forsake; 
And  look  once  more  to  heaven,  and  see 
Its  love  for  ever  shut  from  thee. 
There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon — '' 
'T  is  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon— 
If,  by  the  time  its  vapoury  sail 
Hath  ceased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil. 
Thy  heart  within  thee  is  not  changed. 
Then  God  and  man  are  both  avenged ; 
Dark  will  thy  doom  be,  darker  still 
Thine  immortality  of  ill." 
Alp  look'd  to  heaven,  and  saw  on  high 
The  sign  she  spake  of  in  the  sky ; 
But  his  heart  was  swollen,  and  turn'd  aside. 
By  deep  interminable  pride. 
This  first  false  passion  of  his  breast 
Roll'd  like  a  torrent  o'er  the  rest. 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 


319 


lit  sue  for  mercy !   He  dismay'd 
Bj  wild  words  of  a  timid  maid ! 
He,  wrong'd  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 
Her  sons  devoted  to  tlie  grave ! 
^fo_thougll  tliat  cloud  were  thunder's  worst, 
And  charged  to  cru^h  him — let  it  burst ! 

He  look'd  upon  it  earnestly, 

Without  an  accent  of  reply  ; 

He  watch'd  it  passmg  ;   it  is  flown : 

Full  on  his  eye  the  clear  moon  shone, 

And  thus  he  spake— "Whate'er  my  fate, 

I  am  no  changeling — 't  is  too  late : 

The  reed  in  storms  may  bow  and  quiver, 

Then  rise  again  ;  the  tree  must  shiver. 

What  Venice  made  me,  1  must  be, 

Her  foe  in  all,  save  love  to  thee : 

But  thou  art  safe :  oh,  fly  with  me ! — " 

He  turn'd,  but  she  is  gone ! 

Nothinw  is  there  but  the  column  stone. 

Hath  she  sunk  in  the  earth,  or  melted  in  air? 

He  saw  not,  he  knew  not ;  but  nothing  is  there. 

XXII. 

The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun 

As  if  that  mo'-n  were  a  jocund  one. 

Ijighdv  and  brightly  breaks  away 

The  morning  from  her  mantle  gray, 

And  the  moon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day. 

Hark  to  the  trump,  and  the  drum, 
And  the  mournful  sound  of  the  barbarous  horn, 
And  the  flap  of  the  banners,  that  flit  as  they're  borne, 
AnJ  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multitude's  hum, 
And  the  clash,  and  the  shout,  "they  come,  they  come!" 
The  horsetails'^  are  pluck'd  from  the  ground,  and  the 

sword 
From  its  sheath ;   and  they  form,  and  but  wait  for  the 

word. 
Tartar,  and  Spahi,  and  Turcoman, 
Strike  your  tents,  and  throng  to  the  van ; 
Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain, 
riiat  the  fugitive  may  flee  in  vain, 
Wnen  he  breaks  from  the  town ;   and  none  escape. 
Aged  or  young,  in  the  Christian  shape ; 
While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a  fiery  mass, 
Bloodstain  the  breach  through  which  they  pass. 
The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein; 
Curved  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane; 
White  is  the  foam  of  their  chanij)  on  the  bit  : 
The  spears  are  uplifted  ;  the  matches  are  lit ; 
The  cannon  are  pointed  and  ready  to  roar, 
And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  before: 
Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  Janizar ; 
Alp  at  their  head  ;   his  right  arm  is  bare, 
So  is  tlie  blade  of  his  scimitar ; 
The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post ; 
The  vi/.ier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 
When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fir(;d,  then  on ; 
Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  hving  one — 
A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  halls, 
A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls. 
God  and  the  propliet — Alia  Hu  ! 
Up  to  ,he  skies  witn  that  wild  halloo! 
"  There  the  breach  lies  for  passage,  the  ladder  to  scaie; 
And  your  hands  on  your  sabres,  and  how  should  ye  fail  ? 
He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may  crave 
Mis  heart's  dearest  wish  ;  let  him  ask  it,  and  have  !" 
Thus  utter'd  Coumourgi,  the  dauntless  vizier ; 
The  reply  was  the  brandish  of  sabre  and  spear, 


And  the  shout  vjf  fierce  thousands  in  joyous  ire: — 
Silence — hark  to  the  signal — fire  ' 

XXIII. 

As  the  wolves,  that  headlong  go 

On  the  stately  butfalo, 

Though  with  fiery  eyes,  and  angry  roar, 

And  hoofs  that  stamp,  and  horns  that  gore, 

He  tramples  on  earth,  and  tosses  on  high 

The  foremost,  who  rush  on  his  strength  but  to  die 

Thus  against  the  wall  they  went. 

Thus  the  first  were  backward  bent ; 

Manv  a  bosom,  sheathed  m  brass, 

Strew'd  the  earth  like  broken  glass, 

Shiver'd  by  the  shot,  that  tore 

The  ''round  whereon  they  moved  no  more : 

Even  as  they  fell,  in  files  they  lay. 

Like  the  mower's  grass,  at  the  close  of  day, 

When  his  work  is  done  on  the  levell'd  plain; 

Such  was  ilie  fall  of  the  foremost  slain. 

XXIV. 

As  the  spring-tides,  with  heavy  plash, 
From  the  cliifs  invading  dash 
Huge  fragments,  sapp'd  by  the  ceaseless  flow, 
Till  white  and  thundering  down  they  go. 
Like  the  avalanche's  snow 
On  the  Alpine  vales  below  ; 
Thus  at  length  outbreathed  and  worn, 
Corinth's  sons  were  downward  borne 
I  By  the  long  and  oft-renew'd 

Charge  of  the  Moslem  multitude. 
In  firmness  they  stood,  and  in  masses  they  fell, 
Heap'd  by  the  host  of  the  infidel, 
Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot : 
;  Nothing  there,  save  death,  was  mute  • 

Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flasn,  ana  cry 
For  (juarter,  or  for  victory, 
Minole  there  with  the  volleying  thundur, 
Which  makes  the  distant  cities  v/onder 
How  the  sounding  battle  goes. 
If  with  them,  or  for  their  foes  , 
If  they  must  mourn,  or  may  rejoice 
In  that  annihilating  voice. 

Which  pierces  the  deep  hills  through  and  through 
With  an  echo  dread  and  new  : 
You  might  have  heard  it,  on  that  aay, 
O'er  Salamis  and  Megara  ; 
(We  have  heard  the  hearers  say,) 
Even  unto  Pira3us  bay. 

XXV. 

From  the  point  of  encountering  blades  to  the  hilt 

Sabres  and  swords  with  blood  were  gilt. 

But  the  rampart  is  won,  and  the  spoil  '  t^gun. 

And  all  but  the  after-carnage  done. 

Shriller  shrieks  now  mingling  come 

From  within  the  plunder'd  dome  ; 

Hark  to  the  haste  of  flying  feet. 

That  splash  in  the  blood  of  the  slippery  street  j 

But  here  and  there,  where  'vantage  ground 

Against  the  foe  may  still  be  found, 

De-perate  groups,  of  twelve  or  ten. 

Make  a  pause,  and  turn  again — 

With  banded  backs  against  the  wall, 

Fiercely  stand,  or  fighting  fall. 

There  stood  an  old  man — his  hairs  were  white 
But  his  veteran  arm  was  full  of  might: 
So  gallantly  bore  he  the  brunt  of  the  fray. 
The  dead  before  him  on  that  day 
In  a  semicircle  lay  ; 


320 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Still  he  combated  unwounded, 

Though  retreatirio,  unsurrounded. 

Many  a  scar  of  former  fight 

Lurk'd  beneath  his  corslet  bright , 

But  of  every  wound  his  body  bore, 

Each  and  aU  had  been  tJen  before; 

Though  aged,  he  was  so  iron  of  hmb, 

Few  of  our  youth  could  cope  with  him ; 

And  the  foes  whom  he  singly  kept  at  bay 

Outnumber'd  his  thin  hairs  of  silver  gray. 

From  right  to  left  his  sabre  swept: 

Many  an  Othman  mother  wept 

Sons  that  were  unborn,  when  dipp'd 

His  weapon  first  in  Moslem  gore, 

Ere  his  years  could  count  a  score. 

Of  all  he  might  have  been  the  sire, 

Who  fell  that  day  beneath  his  ire: 

For,  sonless  left  long  years  ago. 

His  wrath  made  many  a  childless  foe; 

And  since  the  day,  when  in  the  strait ' 

His  only  boy  had  met  his  fate, 

His  parent's  iron  hand  did  doom 

More  than  a  human  hecatomb. 

If  shades  by  carnage  be  appeased, 

Patroclus'  s])irit  less  was  pleased 

Than  his,  Minotti's  son,  who  died 

Where  Asia's  bounds  and  ours  divide. 

Buried  he  lay,  where  thousands  before 

For  thousands  of  years  were  inhumed  on  the  shore: 

What  of  them  is  left  to  tell 

Where  they  lie,  and  how  they  fell  ? 

Not  a  stone  on  their  turf,  nor  a  bone  in  their  graves, 

But  they  live  in  the  verse  that  immortally  saves. 

XXVI. 

Hark  to  the  Allah  shout !  a  band 

Of  the  Mussulman  bravest  and  best  is  at  hand : 

Their  leader's  nervous  arm  is  bare, 

Swifter  to  smite,  and  never  to  spare — 

Unclothed  to  the  shoulder  it  waves  them  on; 

Thus  in  the  fight  he  is  ever  known : 

Others  a  gaudier  garb  mav  show. 

To  tempt  the  spoil  of  the  greedy  foe ; 

Many  a  hand  's  on  a  richer  hilt, 

But  none  on  a  steel  more  ruddily  gilt  , 

Many  a  loftier  turban  mav  wear  — 

Alp  is  but  known  by  the  wnite  arm  bare ; 

Look  through  the  thick  of  the  fight,  't  is  thp.r« 

There  is  not  a  standard  on  that  shore 

So  well  advanced  the  ranks  before* 

There  is  not  a  banner  in  Mosle.m  wa; 

Will  lure  the  Delhis  half  so  fa-  , 

It  glances  like  a  falling  star ! 

Where'er  that  mighty  arm  is  seen. 

The  bravest  be,  or  late  have  been  ! 

There  the  craven  cries  for  quarter 

V  ainly  to  the  vengeful  Tartar  ;  • 

Or  the  hero,  silent  lying. 

Scorns  to  yield  a  groan  in  dying  ; 

Mustering  his  last  feeble  blow 

'Gainst  the  nearest  levell'd  foe. 

Though  faint  beneath  the  mutual  wound, 

Grappling  on  the  gory  ground. 

XXVII. 

Still  the  old  man  stood  erect. 
And  Alp's  career  a  moment  check'd. 
"  Yield  thee,  Minotti ;  quarter  take, 
For  thine  own,  thy  daughter's  sake." 


"Never,  renegado,  never! 

Though  the  life  of  thy  gift  would  last  for  ever." 

"  Francesca  ! — Oh  my  promised  bride ! 
Must  she  too  perish  by  thy  pride  ?" 

"  She  is  safe." — "Where?  where?" — "In  heaven 

From  whence  thy  traitor  soul  is  driven — 

Far  from  thee,  and  undefilcd." 

Grimly  then  Minotti  smiled, 

As  he  savv  Alp  staggering  bow 

Before  his  words,  as  with  a  blow. 

"  Oh  God  !  when  died  she?" — "  Yesttmignt — 

Nor  weep  I  for  he.r  spirit's  flight : 

None  of  my  pure  race  shall  be 

Slaves  to  Mahomet  and  thee — 

Come  on  !" — That  challenge  is  in  vain-  - 

Alp 's  already  with  the  slain  ! 

While  Minotti's  words  wct",  wreaking 

More  revenge  in  bitter  speaking 

Than  his  falchion's  point  had  found. 

Had  the  time  allow'd  to  wound, 

From  within  the  neighbouring  porch 

Of  a  long-defended  church. 

Where  the  last  and  desperate  few 

Would  the  failing  fight  renew. 

The  sharp  shot  dash'd  Alp  to  the  ground ; 

Ere  an  eye  could  view  the  wound 

That  crash'd  through  the  brain  of  the  infidel, 

Roimd  he  spun,  and  down  he  fell ; 

A  flash  like  fire  within  his  eyes' 

Blazed,  as  he  bent  no  more  to  rise. 

And  then  eternal  darkness  sunk 

Through  all  the  palpitating  trunk  : 

Nought  of  life  left,  save  a  quivering 

Where  his  limbs  were  slightly  shivering  • 

■^J'hey  turn'd  him  on  his  back ;   his  breast 

And  brow  were  siain'd  with  gore  and  dust, 

And  through  his  lips  the  life-blood  oozed, 

From  its  deep  veins  lately  loosed ; 

But  in  his  pulse  there  was  no  throb, 

Nor  on  his  hps  one  dying  sob ; 

Sigh,  nor  word,  nor  struggling  breath 

Heralded  his  way  to  death  ; 

Ere  his  very  thought  could  pray, 

Unanel'd  he  pass'd  away. 

Without  a  hope  from  mercy's  aid, — 

To  the  last  a  reneijade. 

XXVIII. 

Fearfiilly  the  yell  arose 
Of  his  followers,  and  his  foes ; 
These  in  joy,  in  fury  those  : 
Then  again  in  conflict  mixing. 
Clashing  swords  and  spears  transfixing, 
Interchan^fed  the  blow  and  thrust. 
Hurling  warriors  in  the  dust. 
Street  by  street,  and  foot  by  foot, 
Still  Minotti  dares  dispute 
The  latest  portion  of  the  land. 
Left  beneath  his  high  command  ; 
With  him,  aiding  heart  and  hand. 
The  remnant  of  his  gallant  band- 
Still  the  church  is  tenable. 

Whence  issued  late  the  fate(!  hall 

That  half-avenged  the  city's  fall, 
When  Alp,  her  fierce  assailant,  fell : 
Thither  bending  sternly  back, 
They  leave  before  a  bloody  track  , 
And,  with  their  faces  to  the  foe. 
Dealing:  wounds  with  every  blow, 


THE    SIEGE    OF    C  0  R  I  N  T  IT. 


321 


The  chief,  and  his  retreating  train, 
Join  to  those  within  the  fane  : 
There  they  yet  may  breathe  awhile, 
Shoher'd  by  the  massy  pile. 

XXIX. 

Krief  breathing-time!   tlie  turban  d  host, 

With  added  ranks,  and  r-'.'jing  boast, 

Press  onwards  with  sucn  streiii^th  and  heat, 

Their  numbers  balk  tlicir  own  retreat ; 

For  narrow  the  way  that  led  to  the  spot 

Where  still  the  Christians  yielded  not; 

And  the  toremost,  it'  fi\arful,  may  vainly  try 

Through  the  massy  column  to  turn  and  fly: 

They  perforce  must  do  or  die. 

Thev  die ;   but  ere  their  eyes  could  close 

Avengers  o'er  their  bodies  rose ; 

Fresh  and  furious,  fast  they  till 

The  ranks  unthinn'd,  though  slaughter'd  still  j 

And  faint  the  weary  Christians  wax 

Before  the  still  renew'd  attacks : 

And  now  the  Othmans  gain  the  gate ; 

Still  resists  its  iron  weioht. 

And  still  all  deadlv  aiin'd  and  hot, 

From  every  crevice  comes  the  shot ; 

From  everv  shatter'd  svindow  pour 

The  volleys  of  the  sulphurous  shower : 

But  the  portal  wavering  grows  and  weak — 

The  iron  yields,  the  hinges  creak — 

It  bends — it  falls — and  all  is  o'er  ; 

Lost  Corinth  may  resist  no  more  ! 

XXX. 

Darkly,  sternly,  and  all  alone, 

Minotti  stood  o'er  the  altar-stone  : 

Madonna's  face  upon  him  shone, 

Painted  in  heavenly  hues  above, 

With  eves  of  light  and  looks  of  love ; 

And  placed  upon  that  holy  shrine 

To  fix  our  thoushts  on  thmgs  divine, 

When  pictured  there,  we  kneeling  see 

Her  and  the  bov-god  on  her  knee, 

Smiling  sweetly  on  each  praver 

To  heaven,  as  if  to  waft  it  there. 

Still  she  smiled  ;   even  now  she  smiles. 

Though  slaughter  streams  along  her  aisles  : 

Minotti  lifted  his  aged  eye. 

And  made  the  sign  of  a  cross  with  a  sigh. 

Then  seized  a  torch  which  blazed  thereby ; 

And  sti-11  h(.'  stood,  while,  with  steel  and  flame. 

Inward  and  onward  the  IVIussulman  came. 

XXXI. 

Tne  vaults  beneath  the  mosaic  stone 
Contain'd  the  liead  of  ages  gone  ; 
Their  names  were  on  the  graven  floor. 
But  now  illegible  with  gore  ; 
The  carved  crests,  ami  curious  h'.ies 
The  varied  marble's  v^ins  diffu.te, 
Were  srnear'd,  and  slippery — siiin'd  and  strewn 
With  broken  swords  and  helms  o  erthrown ; 
There  were  dead  above,  and  the  dead  below 
Lav  cold  in  manv  a  cofliin'd  row, 
You  might  see  them  piled  in  sable  state, 
Bv  a  pale  light  through  a  gloomy  grate ; 
But  war  had  enter'd  their  dark  caves, 
And  stored  along  the  vaulted  graves 
Her  sulphurous  treasures,  thickly  spr<^ad 
In  masses  by  the  fleshless  dead  ; 
21 


Here,  throughout  the  siege,  had  been 
The  Ciiristian's  chiefest  magazine; 
To  these  a  lale-form'd  train  now  led, 
Minotti's  last  and  stern  resoirce, 
Against  the  fije's  o'erwhehning  force. 

XXXII. 

The  foe  came  on,  and  few  remain 

To  strive,  and  those  must  strive  in  vain : 

For  lack  of  further  lives,  to  slake 

The  thirst  of  vengeance  now  awake, 

With  barbarous  blows  they  gash  the  dead, 

And  lop  the  already  lifeless  head. 

And  fell  the  statues  from  their  niche. 

And  spoil  the  shrines  of  offerings  rich. 

And  from  each  other's  rude  hands  wrest 

The  silver  vessels  saints  had  blest. 

To  the  high  altar  on  they  go ; 

Oh,  but  it  made  a  glorious  sliovvl 

On  its  table  still  behold 

The  cup  of  consecrated  gold  ; 

Massy  and  deep,  a  glittering  prize, 

Brightly  it  si):irkies  to  plunderers'  eyes: 

That  morn  it  held  the  holv  wine. 

Converted  by  Christ  to  his  blood  so  divine. 

Wliicli  his  worshippers  drank  at  the  break  ot  day 

To  shrive  their  souls  ere  they  join'd  in  the  fray. 

Still  a  few  draps  within  it  lay  ; 

And  round  the  sacred  table  glow 

Twelve  loftv  lamps,  m  splendid  row, 

From  the  purest  metal  cast: 

A  spoil — the  richest,  and  the  last. 

XXXIIL 

So  near  they  came,  the  nearest  stretch'd 
To  grasp  the  spoil  he  almost  reach'd. 

When  old  INIinotti's  hand 
Touch'd  with  the  torch  the  train — 

'T  is  fired  : 
Spire,  vaults,  the  shrine,  the  spoil,  the  slain, 

The  turbanM  victors,  the  Christian  band, 
All  that  of  living  or  dead  remain, 
Hurl'd  on  high  with  the  shiver'd  fane. 

In  one  wild  roar  expired  ! 
The  shatter'J  town — the  walls  thrown  do%vn 
The  waves  a  moment  backward  bent — 
The  hills  that  shake,  although  unrent. 

As  if  an  earthquake  [)ass'd — 
The  thousand  shapeless  things  all  driven 
In  cloud  and  flame  athwart  the  heaven, 

By  that  tremendous  blast — 
Prociaim'd  tlie  desperate  conflict  o'er 
On  that  too-long  afflicted  shore  : 
Up  to  the  sky  like  rockets  go 
All  that  mingled  there  below  : 
iMany  a  tall  and  goodly  man, 
Scorch'd  and  shrivell'd  to  a  span. 
When  he  fell  to  earth  again, 
Like  a  cinder  strew'd  the  plain  : 
Down  the  ashes  shower  like  rain  ; 
Some  fell  in  the  gulf,  which  receivedthe  sprinkle? 
With  a  thousand  circling  wrinkles  ; 
Some  tell  on  the  shore,  but,  far  away, 
ScatterM  o'er  the  isthmus  lay  ; 
Christian  or  iMoslem   which  be  they? 
Let  their  moth<jrs  sc  and  say! 
When  in  cradled   rest  they  lay. 
And  each  ntirsmg-mother  smiled 
On  the  sweet  slee|)  of  her  child, 
Little  deem'd  she  such  a  dav 
Would  rend  tliose  tender  limbs  away. 


822 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Nol  the  matrons  that  them  bore 
Cotild  discern  their  ofrs[>rmg  more  ; 
Taar  one  moment  left  no  trace 
More  of  hiiirian  form  or  face, 
Save  a  scatter'd  scalp  or  bone  : 
And  down  came  blaznig  rafters,  strown 
Around,  and  many  a  falling  stone, 
Deeply  dinted  in  the  clay. 
All  blacken'o  there  and  reeking  lay. 
All  tne  living  things  that  heard 
That  deadly  eaun-snocK  disappear'd: 
The  wild  birds  flew,  the  wild  dogs  fled, 
And  howling  left  the  unbiiried  dead ; 
The  camels  from  their  keepers  broke  , 
The  distant  steer  forsook  the  yoke — 
The  nearer  steed  plunged  o'er  the  plain, 
And  burst  his  girth,  and  tore  his  rein ; 
The  bull-frog's  note,  from  out  the  marsh, 
Deep-mouth'<l  arose,  and  doubly  harsh  ; 
The  wolves  yell'd  on  the  cavern'd  hill, 
Where  edio  roU'd  in  thunder  still ; 
The  jackal's  tnwp,  in  gather'd  cry,i° 
Bay'd  li-om  afar  complainingly, 
With  a  mix'd  and  mournful  sound. 
Like  crying  babe  and  beaten  hound: 
With   sudden  wing  and  ruffled  breast, 
The  eagle  left  his  rocky  nest. 
And  mounted  nearer  to  the  sun. 
The  clouds  beneath  him  seem'd  so  dun 
Theii-  smoke  assail'd  his  startled  beak. 
And  made  him  higher  soar  and  shriek — 
Thus  was  Corinth  lost  and  won! 


NOTES. 


'1  tiE 

archai : 


Note  1. 
The  Turcoman  hath  left  his  herd, 
life  of  the  Turcomans  is  wandering  and  patn- 
they  dwell  in  tents. 

Note  2. 
Cnuinourgi — he  whose  closing  scene. 
Ah  0)umnurgi,  the  favourite  of  three  sultans,  and 
Grand  Vizier  to  Achmet  III.,  after  recovering  Pelopon- 
nesus from  the  Venetians,  in  one  campaign,  was  mor- 
tally wounded  in  the  next,  against  the  Germans,  at  the 
battle  of  Peterwaradin  (in  the  plain  of  Carlowitz),  in 
Hungary,  endeavouring  to  rally  his  guards.  He  died 
of  his  wounds,  next  day.  His  last  order  was  the  de- 
capitation of  General  Breuner,  and  some  other  Ger- 
man prisoners ;  and  his  last  words,  "  Oh  that  I  could 
thus  serve  all  the  Christian  dogs!"  a  speech  and  act 
not  iiiilike  one  of  Caligula.  He  was  a  young  man  of 
great  ambition  and  unbounded  presumption  :  on  being 
told  that  Prince  Eugene,  then  opposed  to  him,  "  was 
d  great  general,"  he  said  *'I  shall  become  a  greater, 
and  at  his  expense  " 


Note  3. 
Tiiere  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tidelstM  sea 
The  reader  need  hardly  be  reminded  that   there  are 
no  perceptible  tides  m  the  Mediterranean. 

Note  4. 
And  their  white  tusks  crunth'd  o'er  the  whiter  ekull 
This  spectacle  I  have  seen,  such  as  described^  Us 
neath  the  wall  of  the  Seraglio  at  Constantinople,  ni  the 
httle  cavities  worn  by  the  Bospi  )rus  in  the  rock,  a 
narrow  terrace  of  which  projects  oetween  the  wall  and 
the  water.  I  think  the  fact  is  also  mentioned  m  Hob* 
house's  Travels.  The  bodies  were  probably  those  of 
some  refractory  Janizaries. 

Note  5. 
And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hair. 

This  tuft,  or  long  lock,  is  left  from  a  superstition  that 
Mahomet  will  draw  them  into  paradise  by  it. 
Note  6. 

I  must  here  acknowledge  a  close,  though  uninten- 
tional, resemblance  in  these  twelve  lines  to  a  passage  in 
an  unpublished  poem  of  Mr.  Coleridge,  called  "  Chiis- 
tabel."  It  was  not  till  after  these  lines  were  v-ritteii, 
that  I  heard  that  wild  and  singularly  original  and  beau- 
tiful [)oem  recited  ;  and  the  MS.  of  that  production  1 
never  saw  till  very  recently,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr. 
Coleridge  himself,  who,  I  hope,  is  convinced  that  I  have 
not  been  a  wilful  plagiarist.  The  original  idea  undojbt- 
edly  pertains  to  Mr.  Coleridge,  whose  poem  has  oetr 
composed  above  fourteen  years.  Let  me  conclude  by  a 
hope,  that  he  will  not  longer  dehiy  the  publication  of  a 
production,  of  which  I  can  only  add  )ny  mite  of  api'rO" 
bation  to  the  applause  of  far  more  competent  judges. 

Note  7. 
There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon. 
I  have  been  told  that  the  idea  expressed  from  ines 
598  to  603,  have  been  admired  by  those  whose  appro- 
bation is  valuable.  I  am  glad  of  it :  but  it  is  not  ori- 
ginal— at  least  not  mine  ;  it  may  be  found  much  better 
expressed  in  pages  182-3-4,  ot  the  English  version  of 
"Vathek"  (I  forget  the  precise  page  of  the  French),  a 
work  to  which  I  have  before  referred ;  and  never  recur 
to,  or  read,  without  a  renewal  of  gratification. 

Note  8. 
The  horFic-taiis  are  piuck'd  from  the  ground,  and  the  sword. 
The  horse-tail,  fixed  upon  a  lance,  a  pacha's  standard. 

Note  9. 
And  since  the  day,  when  in  the  strait. 
In  the  naval  battle  at  ttie  mouth  of  the  Dardanelles, 
between  the  Venetians  and  the  Turks. 

Note  10. 
The  jackal's  troop  in  gather'd  cry. 
I  beheve  I  have  taken  a  poetical  license  to  transplani 
the  jackal  from  Asia.  In  Greece  I  never  saw  nor  heard 
these  animals  ;  but  among  the  ruins  of  Epiiesus  I  have 
heard  them  by  hundreds.  They  haunt  rums,  and  fol 
low  armicb. 


PARISINA. 


323 


TO    SOROPE    BERD3VIORE    DA  VIES,    ESQ. 

THE  FOLLOWING  POEM  IS  INSCriBED, 

OV    ONE    WHO    HAS    LONG    ADMIRED    HIS    TALENTS, 
AND    VALUED    HIS    FRIENDSHIP. 

Jtnvarx,  22,  1816. 


ADVERTISE3IENT. 


The  following  poem  is   grounded  on  a  circumstance 
meritioned  in  Gibbon's  "  Autinuities  of  the  House  of 
Brunswick," — I  am  aware  that  in  modern  times  the 
delicacy  or  fastidiousness  of  the  reader  may  deem 
such  subjects  unfit  for  the  purposes  of  })oetry.     The 
Greek  dramatists,  and  some  of  the  best  of  our  old 
English  writers,  were  of  a  different  opinion  :   as  Al- 
fieri  and  Schiller  have  also  been,  more  recently,  upon 
the  continent.    The  following  extract  will  explain  the 
facts  on  which  the  story  is  founded.     The  name  of 
Azo  is  substituted  for  Nicholas,  as  more  metrical. 
"Under  the  reign  of  Nicholas  III,  Ferrara  was  pol- 
luted with  a  domestic  tragedy.    By  the  testimony  of  an 
attendant,   and  his  own  observation,  the  Marquis  of 
Este  discovered  the  incestuous  loves  of  his  wife  Pari- 
sina,  and  Hugo  his  bastard  son,  a  beautiful  and  valiant 
youth.     They  were  beheaded  in  the  castle  by  the  sen- 
tence of  a  father  and  husband,  who  published  his  shame, 
and  survived  their  execution.     He  was  unfortunate,  if 
they  were  guilty ;  if  they  were  innocent,  he  was  still 
more  unfortunate  ;   nor  is  there  any  possible  situation  in 
which  I  can  sincerely  approve  the  last  act  of  the  justice 
of  a  parent," — Gibbon's  Miscellaneous  J^Vorks,  vol.  3, 
p.  470,  new  edition. 


PARISINA. 


I. 

It  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boucrhs 

The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard 
It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows 

Seem  sweet  in  every  whisjjer'd  word 
And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near, 
Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 
Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet, 
And  m  llie  sky  the  stars  are  met, 
'ind  on  tlie  wave  is  deeper  blue. 
And  on  the  leaf  a  browner  hue, 
And  in  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure, 
So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure. 
Which  follows  the  decline  of  day, 
As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away. 

II. 

But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterfall 

That  Parisina  leaves  her  hall, 

Aiui  It  is  not  to  gaze  on  the  heaveniy  liaht 

That  the  lady  walks  in  the  shadow  of  night; 

And  if  she  sits  in  Este'h'  bower, 

H'  IS  not  for  the  sa\e  of  its  full-blown  flower 


She  listens — but  not  for  the  night  Vgale — 

Tliough  her  ear  expects  as  soft  a  tale. 

There  glides  a  step  through  the  foJi.ige  thick, 

And  her  cheek  grows  pale — and  her  heart  b(!at8  qinck 

There  whispers  a  voice  through  the  rustling  ksaveH, 

And  her  blush  returns,  and  tier  lR)som  heaves: 

A  moment  more — and  they  shall  meet — 

'T  is  past — her  lover  's  at  her  feet. 

III. 

And  what  unto  Ihem  is  the  world  besi.lc. 
With  all  its  change  of  time  and  tiile '' 
Its  living  tilings — its  earth  and  sky- 
Are  nothing  to  their  mind  and  eye. 
And  hced4ess  as  the  dead  are  thev 

Of  aught  around,  above,  beneath ; 
As  if  all  else  had  pass'd  away. 

They  onlv  for  each  other  breathe  ; 
Their  very  sighs  are  full  of  joy 

So  deep,  that,  did  it  not  decay, 
That  happy  madness  would  destroy 

The  hearts  which  leel  its  fiery  sway: 
Of  guilt,  of  peril,  do  they  deem 
In  that  tumultuous  tender  dream  7 
Who  that  have  felt  that  passion's  power, 
Or  paused,  or  fear'd  in  such  an  hour, 
Or  thoright  how  brief  such  moments  last? 
But  vet — they  are  already  past ! 
Alas  !   we  must  awake  before 
We  know  such  visions  come  no  more. 

IV. 

With  many  a  lingering  look  they  leave 

The  spot  of  guilty  gladness  past ; 
And  though  they  hope,  and  vow,  they  grieve, 

As  if  that  parting  were  the  last. 
The  t>equent  sigh — the  long  embrace — 

The  lip  that  there  would  cling  for  ever. 
While  gleams  on  Parisina's  face 

The  Heaven  she  fears  will  not  forgive  hfr, 
As  if  each  calmly  conscious  star 
Beheld  her  frailty  from  afar — 
The  frequent  sigh,  the  long  embrace, 
Yet  binds  them  to  their  trysting-place. 
But  it  must  come,  and  they  must  part 
In  fearful  heaviness  of  heart, 
With  all  the  deep  and  shuddering  chill 
Which  follows  fast  the  deeds  of  ill. 


And  Hugo  is  gone  to  his  lonely  bed. 

To  covet  there  another's  bride  ; 
But  she  must  lay  her  conscious  head 

A  husband's  trusting  heart  beside. 
But  fever'd  in  her  sleep  she  seems, 
And  red  her  cheek  vvitii  troubled  dreams, 

And  mutters  she  in  her  vmrest 
A  name  she  dare  mA  breathe  by  day. 

And  clasps  her  lord  unto  the  breast 
Which  pants  for  one  away : 
And  he  to  that  embrace  awekes, 
And,  happy  in  the  thought,  mistakes 
That  dreaming  sigh,  and  warm  caress, 
For  such  as  he  was  wont  to  bless  ; 
And  could  in  very  fondness  weep 
O'er  her  \^o  loves  him  even  m  sleep. 

VI. 

He  clasp'd  her  sleeping  to  his  heart, 
And  listen'd  to  each  broken  word  : 

He  hears — why  doth  Prince  Azo  start, 
As  if  thr  Archangel's  voice  he  heaid » 


524 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  well  he  may — a  deeper  doom 
Could  scarcely  thunder  o'er  his  tomb. 
When  he  shall  wake  to  sleep  no  more, 
And  stand  the  eternal  throne  before. 
And  well  he  may — his  earthly  peace 
Upon  that  sound  is  doom'd  to  cease. 
That  sleeping  whisper  of  a  name 
Bespeaks  her  guilt  and  Azo's  shame. 
And  uhose  that  name  ?  that  o'er  his  pillow 
Sounds  fearful  as  the  breaking  billow. 
Which  roils  the  [)lank  upon  the  shore, 

And  dashes  on  the  pointed  rock 
The  wretch  who  sinks  to  rise  no  more ; — 

So,  came  upon  his  soul  the  shock. 
And  whose  that  name  ?  't  is  Hugo's, — his — 
In  sooth  he  had  not  deem'd  of  this ! — 
'T  is  Hugo's — he.  the  child  of  one 
He  loved — his  own  all-evil  son — 
The  offspring  of  his  wayward  youth, 
When  he  betray'd  Bianca's  truth, 
The  maid  whose  folly  could  confide 
In  him  who  made  her  not  his  bride. 

VII. 

He  pluck'd  his  poniard  in  its  sheath, 

But  sheathed  it  ere  the  point  was  bare — 
Howe'er  unworthy  now  to  breathe, 
He  could  not  slay  a  thing  so  fair — 
At  least,  not  smiling — sleeping  there — 
Nay,  more  : — he  did  not  wake  her  then, 
But  gazed  upon  her  with  a  glance 
Which,  had  she  roused  her  from  her  trance. 
Had  frozen  her  sense  to  sleep  again — 
And  o'er  his  brow  the  burning  lamp 
Gleam  a  on  the  dew-drops  big  and  aamp. 
She  spake  no  more — but  still  she  slumber'd 
Whil.:    in  las  thought,  her  days  are  number'd. 

vin. 

And  With  ihe  morn  he  sought,  and  found. 

In  many  a  tale  from  those  around, 

The  prooi  oJ    - 11  he  fear'd  to  kr.ow, 

Their  ])resen\,  j;,uilt,  his  future  woe  ; 

The  long-conniving  damsels  seek 

To  save  themselves,  and  would  transfer 
The  guilt — the  shame — the  doom  to  her: 

Concealment  is  no  more — they  speak 

All  circumstance  which  may  compel 

Full  credence  to  the  tale  they  tell  : 

And  Azo's  tortured  heart  and  ear 

Have  nothing  more  to  feel  or  hear. 

IX. 

He  was  not  one  who  brook'd  delay  : 

Within  the  chamber  of  his  stale, 
The  chi(;f  of"  Este's  ancient  sway 

U[)on  his  throne  of  judgment  sate  ; 
His  nobles  and  his  guards  are  there, — 
Before  him  is  the  sinful  pair ; 
Both  young — and  nne  how  passing  fair. 
With  swordless  belt,  and  f(;lter'd  hand, 
Oh,  Christ !   that  thus  a  son  should  stan\. 

Before  a  falh(?r's  face! 
Yet  thus  must  Hugo  mcc't  his  sire. 
And  hear  the  scntenc*;  of  his  ire, 

The  tale  of  his  diss.'race  ! 
And  yet  he  s(;ems  not  overcome, 
Although,  as  y(;t,  his  voice  t)e  dumb. 

X. 

And  still,  and  pale,  and  silently 
Did  Parisina  wait  Iter  docm ; 


How  changed  since  lasihei  speakng  eye 

G  anced  gladness  round  the  glittering  rootiij 
Where  high-born  men  were  proud  to  wait — 
W^here  Beauty  watch'd  to  imitate 

Her  gentle  voice — her  lovely  mien — 
And  gather  from  her  air  and  gait 

The  graces  of  its  queen  : 
Then, — had  her  eye  no  sorrow  wept, 
A  thousand  warriors  i"orth  had  leapt, 
A  thousand  swords  had  sheathless  shone, 
And  made  her  quarrel  all  their  own. 
Now, — what  is  she  ?  and  what  are  they  ? 
Can  she  command,  or  these  obey? 
All  silent  and  unheeding  now, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  knitting  brow. 
And  folded  arms,  and  freezing  air, 
And  lips  that  scarce  their  scorn  tbrbear. 
Her  knights  and  dames,  her  court — is  there* 
And  he,  the  chosen  one,  whose  lance 
Had  yet  been  couch'd  before  her  glance, 
Who — were  his  arm  a"  moment  free — 
Had  died  or  gain'd  her  liberty ; 
The  minion  of  his  father's  bride, — 
He,  too,  is  fetter'd  by  her  side  ; 
Nor  sees  her  swoln  and  full  eye  swim 
Less  for  her  own  despair  than  him : 
Those  lids — o'er  which  the  violet  vain 
Wandering,  leaves  a  tender  stain, 
Shining  through  the  smoothest  white 
That  o'er  did  softest  kiss  invite — 
Now  seem'd  with  hot  and  livid  glow 
To  press,  not  shade,  the  orbs  below ; 
Which  glance  so  heavily,  and  fill. 
As  tear  on  tear  grows  gathering  stiD. 

XI. 

And  he  for  her  had  also  wept, 

But  for  the  eyes  that  on  him  gazed  : 
His  sorrow,  if  he  felt  it^  slept ; 

Stern  and  erect  his  brow  was  raised. 
Whate'er  the  grief  his  soul  avow'd. 
He  would  not  shrink  before  the  crowd ; 
But  yet  he  dared  not  look  on  her : 
Remembrance  of  the  hours  that  were — 
His  guilt — his  love — his  |)resent  state — 
His  father's  wrath — all  good  men's  hate— 
His  earthly,  his  eternal  fate — 
And  hers, — oh,  hers  ! — he  dared  not  throw 
One  look  upon  that  deathlike  brow  ! 
Else  had  his  rising  heart  betray'd 
Remorse  for  all  the  wreck  it  made. 

XII. 
And  Azo  spake  : — "  But  yesterday 

I  gloried  in  a  wife  and  son  ; 
That  dream  this  morriinu  pass'd  away ; 

Ere  day  declines   I  shall  have  none. 
My  life  must  linger  on  alone  ; 
Well, — let  that  pass, — there  breat.  es  not  one 
Who  would  not  do  as  I  have  done  : 
Those  ties  are  broken — not  by  me  ; 

Let  that  too  pass  ; — the  doom's  prejtaredl 
Hugo,  the  priest  awaits  on  thee. 

And  then — thy  crime's  reward  ! 
Away!   address  thy  prayers  to  Heaven, 

Before  its  evening  stars  are  met — 
Learn  if  thou  there  canst  be  forgiven  ; 

Its  mercy  may  absolve  thee  yet. 
But  here,  upon  the  earth  beneath, 

There  is  no  spot  where  thou  and  I 
Together,  for  an  hour,  could  breathe - 

Farewell !   I  will  not  see  thee  die. — 


P  A  R  I  S  I  N  A. 


325 


Hut  thou,  frail  thmg  !  shall  view  his  head — 
Away!   I  cannot  speak  the  rest: 
Go  !   woman  of  the  wanton  hreast ; 

Not  I,  but  thou  his  blood  dost  shed : 

Go  '   if  that  sight  thou  canst  outlive, 

And  joy  thee  in  th')  hfe  I  give." 

XIII. 

And  here  stern  Azo  hid  his  face — 
For  on  his  brow  the  swelling  vein 
Throbb'd  as  if  back  upon  his  brain 
The  liot  blood  cbb'd  and  tiow'd  again ; 

And  therefore  bow'd  he  for  a  space, 

And  passM  his  shaking  hand  along 

His  eve,  to  veil  it  from  the  throng  ; 

While  Hugo  raised  his  chained  hands, 

And  for  a  brief  delay  demands 

His  flither's  ear  :   the  silent  sire 

Forbids  not  what  his  words  require. 

"  It  is  not  that  I  dread  the  death — 

For  thou  hast  seen  me  by  thy  side 

Alrcadv  through  the  battle  ride, 

And  that  not  once  a  useless  brand 

Thy  slaves  have  wrested  from  my  hand, 

Hath  shed  more  blood  in  cause  of  thine, 

Than  e'er  can  stain  the  axe  of  mine  : 

Thou  gavest,  and  may'st  resume  my  breath, 

A  gift  for  wiiich  I  thank  thee  not  ; 

Nor  are  my  mother's  wrongs  forgot, 

Her  sliahted  love  and  ruin'd  name. 

Her  otf>pring's  heritage  of  siiame  ; 

But  she  is  in  the  grave,  where  he, 

Her  son,  thy  rival,  soon  shall  be. 

Her  broken  heart — my  sever'd  head — 

Shall  witness  for  thee  from  the  dead 

How  trusty  and  how  tender  were 

Thy  youthful  love — paternal  care. 

♦T  is  true,  that  I  have  done  thee  wrong- 
But  wrong  f  )r  wrong— this  deem'd  thy  bride, 

The  other  victim  of  thy  pride, 

Thou  know'st  for  me  was  destined  long. 

Thou  saw'st,  and  coveted'st  her  charms — 
And  with  thy  very  crime — my  birth, 

Thou  taunted'st  me— as  litde  worth  ; 

A  match  ignoble  for  her  arms, 

Because,  forsooth,  I  could  not  claim 

The^lu  •••ful  heirship  of  thy  nume, 

Nor  SI.  ou  Este's  lineal  throne  : 

Yet,  were  a  few  short  summers  mine, 
My  name  should  more  than  Este's  shine 

With  honours  all  my  own. 

I  had  a  sword — and  have  a  breast 

That  should  have  won  as  haught^  a  crest 
As  ever  waved  along  the  line 
Of  all  these  sovereign  sires  of  thine. 
Not  alw  ays  knightly  spurs  are  worn 
The  brightest  by  the  better  born  ;      ^ 
And  mine  have  lanced  my  courser's  flaidi 
Before  proud  chiefs  of  princely  rank. 
When  charging  to  the  cheering  cry 
Of  '  Este  and  of  Victory  !' 
I  will  not  plead  the  cause  of  crime, 
Noi  sue  thee,  to  redeem  from  time 
A  few  brief  hours  or  days,  that  must 
At  lengtli  roll  o'er  my  reckless  dust  ;— 
Such  maddening  moments  as  my  past, 
Thev  could  not,  and  they  did  not,  last — 
Albftil  my  birth  and  n^mo  be  base, 
And  thy  nobility  of  race 


Disdain'd  to  deck  a   bing  like  me — 
Yel  in  my  lineaments  the)  trace 
Some  features  of  my  father's  face, 
And  in  my  spirit — all  of  thee. 
From  thee — this  tamelessness  of  heat:  — 
From  thee — nav,  wherefore  dost  thou  statt? 
From  thee  in  all  their  vigour  came 
Mv  arm  of  strength,  my  soul  of  flame — 
Thou  didst  not  give  me  life  aionc, 
But  all  that  made  me  more  thine  own. 
See  w  hat  thy  guilty  love  hath  done ! 
Repaid  thee  with  too  like  a  son ! 
I  am  no  bastard  in  my  soul. 
For  that,  like  thine,  abborr'd  control: 
And  for  my  breath,  that  hasty  boon 
Thou  savest  and  wilt  resume  so  soon, 
I  valued  it  no  more  than  thou. 
When  rose  thy  casque  above  thy  brow, 
And  we,  all  side  by  side,  have  striven. 
And  o'er  the  dead  our  coursers  driven : 
The  past  is  nothing— and  at  last 
The  future  can  but  be  the  past ; 
Yet  would  I  that  I  then  had  died  : 

For  though  thou  work'dst  my  mother's  ill, 
And  made  thy  own  my  destined  bride, 

I  feel  thou  art  my  father  still ; 
And,  harsh  as  sounds  thy  hard  decree, 
'T  is  not  unjust,  although  from  thee. 
Begot  in  sin,  to  die  in  shame. 
My  life  bewun  and  ends  the  same : 
As  err'd  the  sire,  so  err'd  the  son. 
And  thou  must  jjunish  both  in  one. 
■NIv  crime  seems  worst  to  human  view 
But  God  must  judge  between  us  two!" 

xiv. 

He  ceased— and  stood  with  folded  arms, 
On  which  the  circling  fetters  sounded; 
And  not  an  ear  but  felt  as  wounded, 
Of  all  the  ciiiefs  that  there  were  rank'd 
When  tho!.e  dull  chains  in  meeting  clank  ii 
Till  Pa-isina's  fatal  charms 
Agaui  attracted  every  eye — 
Would  she  thus  hear  him  doom'd  to  die  ? 
She  stood,  I  said,  all  pale  and  still, 
The  hving  cause  of  Hugo's  ill : 
Her  eyes  unmoved,  but  full  and  wide, 
Not  once  had  turn'd  to  either  side — 
Nor  once  did  those  sweet  eyelids  close, 
Or  shade  the  glance  o'er  which  they  rose. 
But  round  their  orbs  of  deepest  blue 
The  circling  white  dilated  grew— 
And  there  with  glassy  gaze  she  stood 
As  .oe  were  in  her  curdled  blood , 
But  every  now  and  then  a  tear, 
So  large  and  slowly  gather'd,  slid 
From  the  long  dark  tViuize  of  that  fair  lid, 
It  was  a  thing  to  see,  not  hear ! 
And  those  who  saw,  it  did  surprise, 
Such  droi)S  could  fall  frcm  human  eyes. 
To  speak  she  thought — the  imperfect  not« 
Was  chok'd   within  her  sweUing  throat. 
Yet  seem'd  in  that  low  hollow  groan 
Her  whole  heart  gushing  in  the  tone. 
It  ceased — again  she  thought  to  speak. 
Then  burst  her  voice  in  one  long  shriek. 
And  to  the  earth  she  fell  like  stone, 
Or  statue  from  its  base  o'erthrown, 
iNIore  like  a  thing  that  ne'er  had  We,- 
A  monument  of  Azo's  wiie  — 


526 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Than  her,  that  living  guilty  thing, 

Whose  every  passion  was  a  sting, 

Which  urged  to  guilt,  but  could  not  bear 

That  guilt's  detection  and  des()air. 

Kut  yet  she  lived — and  all  too  soon 

Recover'd  froin  that  deathlike  swoon — 

But  scarce  to  reason — every  sense 

Had  been  o'erstrung  by  pangs  intense ; 

And  each  frail  tibre  of  her  brain 

(As  bow-strings,  when  relax'd  by  rain, 

The  erring  arrow  launch  aside) 

Sent  forth  her  thoughts  all  wild  and  wide — 

The  past  a  blank,  the  future  black, 

With  glimpses  of  a  dreary  track. 

Like  lightning  on  the  desert  path, 

When  midnight  storms  are  mustering  wratK 

She  fear'd — she  felt  that  something  ill 

Lay  on  her  soul,  so  deep  and  chill — 

That  there  was  sin  and  shame  she  knew; 

That  some  one  was  to  die — but  who? 

She  had  forgotten: — did  she  breathe? 

Could  this  be  still  the  earth  beneath? 

The  sky  above,  and  men  around  ; 

Or  were  they  fiends  who  now  so  frown'd 

On  one,  before  whose  eyes  each  eye 

Till  then  had  smiled  in  sympathy? 

All  was  confused  and  undefined. 

To  her  all-jarr'd  and  wandering  mindj 

A  chaos  of  wild  hopes  and  fears : 

And  now  in  laughter,  now  in  tears, 

But  madly  still  in  each  extreme. 

She  strove  with  that  convulsive  dream: 

For  so  it  seem'd  on  her  to  break: 

Oh !  vainly  must  she  strive  to  wake  I 

XV. 

The  convent-bells  are  ringing, 

But  mournfully  and  slow  ; 
In  the  gray  square  turret  swinging. 

With  a  deep  sound,  to  and  fro. 

Heavily  to  the  heart  they  go ! 
Hark  !  the  hymn  is  singing — 
V  The  song  for  the  dead  below, 

Or  the  hving,  who  shortly  shall  be  so! 
For  a  departing  being's  soul 

The  death-hymn  peals,  and  the  hollow  bells  knoll 
He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 
Kneeling  at  the  friar's  knee; 
Sad  to  hear — and;  piteous  to  see — 
KneeUng  on  the  bare  cold  ground. 
With  the  block  before  and  the  guards  around — 
And  the  heads-man  with  his  bare  arm  ready, 
That  tlie  blow  may  be  both  swift  and  steady, 
Feels  if  tho  axe  1x3  sharp  and  true — 
Since  he  set  its  edge  anew  : 
While  the  crowd  in  a  speechless  circle  gather 
To  see  the  son  fall  by  the  doom  cf  the  father. 

XVL 

II  is  a  lovely  hour  as  yet 

B<'fore  the  summer  sun  shall  set. 

Which  rose  upon  that  heavy  day. 

And  mock'd  it  with  his  steadiest  ray  ; 

And  his  everwiig  beams  are  shed 

Full  OD  Hugo's  fated  head, 

As,  his  .as*  cf)nfi;ssion  pouring 

To  the  monk  his  doom  deploiing, 

In  penitential   holiness. 

He  bends  to  hear  his  a<!cents  bless 

With  absolution  such  as  may 

Wipe  our  mortal  stains  away. 


That  high  sun  on  his  head  d.d  glistun 
As  he  there  did  bow  and  listen — 
And  the  rings  of  chesnul  hair 
Curl'd  half  down  his  neck  so  bare  ; 
But  brighter  still  the  beam  was  thrown 
Upon  the  axe,  which  near  him  shone 

With  a  clear  and  ghastly  glitter 

Oh  !  that  parting  hour  was  bitter  ! 
Even  the  stern  stood  chill'd  with  awe 
Dark  the  crime,  and  just  the  law — 
Yet  they  shudder'd  as  th(;y  saw. 

xvn. 

The  parting  prayers  are  said  and  over 

Of  that  false  son — and  daring  lover! 

His  beads  and  sins  are  all  recounted, 

His  hours  to  their  last  minute  mounted — 

His  mantling  cloak  before  was  stripp'd, 

His  bright  brown  locks  must  now  be  clipp*d, 

'T  is  done — all  closely  are  they  shorn — 

The  vest  which  till  this  moment  worn — 

The  scarf  which  Parisina  gave — 

Must  not  adorn  him  to  the  grave. 

Even  thai  must  now  be  thrown  aside, 

And  o'er  his  eyes  the  kerchief  tied ; 

But  no — that  last  indignity 

Shall  ne'er  approach  his  haughty  eye. 

All  feelings  seemingly  subdued. 

In  deep  disdain  were  ha,lf  rencw'd. 

When  heads-man's  hands  prepared  to  bind 

Those  eyes  which  would  not  brook  such  blindj 

As  if  they  dared  not  look  on  death. 

"No — yours  my  forfeit  blood  and  breath— 

'I  hese  hands  are  chain'd — but  let  me  difc 

At  'east  with  an  unshackled  eye — 

Strike  :" — and  as  the  word  he  said. 

Upon  the  block  he  bow'd  his  head ; 

These  the  last  accents  Hugo  spoke : 

"  Strike" — and  Hashing  fell  the  stroke— 

RoU'd  the  head — and,  gushing,  sunk 

Back  the  stain'd  and  heaving  trunk, 

In  the  dust,  which  each  deep  vein 

Slaked  with  its  ensanguined  rain  ; 

His  eyes  and  lips  a  moment  quiver. 

Convulsed  and  quick — iben  fix  for  ever 

He  died,  as  erring  man  should  die. 
Without  display,  without  parade  ; 
Meekly  had  he  bow'd  and  pray'd, 
As  not  disdaining  priestly  aid, 
Nor  desperate  of  all  hope  on  high. 
And  while  before  the  prior  kneeling. 
His  heart  was  wean'd  from  earthly  feeling, 
His  wrathful  sire — his  paramour — 
What  were  they  in  such  an  hour? 
No  more  reproach — no  more  despair; 
No  thought  but  heaven — no  word  but  prayer— 
Save  the  few  which  from  him  broke, 
W^hen,  bared  to  meet  the  heads-man's  atrdte, 
He  claim'd  to  die  with  eyes  unbound, 
His  sole  adieu  to  those  around. 

XVIII. 

Still  as  the  lips  that  closed  in  death, 
Each  gazer's  bosom  held  his  breath: 
But  yet,  afar,  from  man  to  man, 
A  cold  electric  shiver  ran. 
As  down  the  deadly  blow  descended 
On  him  whose  life  and  love  thus  ended ; 
And  with  a  hushing  sound  compresL 
A  sigh  shrunk  back  on  every  breast; 


PARISINA. 


32^ 


But  no  more  thrilling  noise  rose  there, 
Beyond  the  blow  that  to  the  block 
Pierced  through  with  forcetl  and  sullen  shock. 

Save  one  : — what  cleaves  the  silent  air 

So  madly  slirill — so  passing  wild? 

That,  as  a  inotiier's  o'er  her  child, 

Done  to  death  by  sudden  blow, 

To  the  sky  these  accents  go, 

Like  a  soul's  m  endless  woe. 

Throiijih  A/.o's  palace-laitice  driven, 

That  liorrid  voice  ascends  to  heaven, 

.\nd  every  ey*;  is  turn'd  thereon ; 

But  sound  and  sight  alike  are  gone ! 

It  was  a  woman's  shriek — and  ne'er 

In  rnadlier  accents  rose  despair ; 

.\nd  those  who  heard  it,  as  it  past, 

In  mercy  wish'd  it  were  the  last. 
XIX. 

Hugo  is  fallen  ;   and,  from  that  hour, 

No  more  in  palace,  hall,  or  bower. 

Was  Parisina  heard  or  seen : 

Her  name — as  if  she  ne'er  had  been— 

Was  banish'd  from  each  lip  and  ear. 

Like  words  of  wantonness  or  fear  ; 

And  fi-om  Prince  Azo's  voice,  by  none 

Was  mention  heard  of  wife  or  son ; 

No  tomb — no  memory  had  they  ; 

Theirs  was  unconsecrated  clay  ; 

At  least  tlie  knight's,  who  died  that  day. 

But  Parisina's  fate  lies  hid 

Like  dust  beneath  the  coffin  lid  : 

Whether  in  convent  she  abode, 

And  won  to  heaven  her  dueary  road, 

By  blighted  and  remorseful  years 

Of  scourjje,  and  fast,  and  sleepless  tears  j 

Or  if  she  fell  by  bowl  or  steel, 

For  that  dark  love  she  dared  to  feel; 

Or  if,  u[»on  the  moment  smote, 

She  died  by  tortures  less  remote ; 

Like  him  she  saw  upon  the  block- 

With  heart  that  shared  the  heads-man's  si  ock. 

In  quicken'd  brokenness  that  came. 

In  pity,  o'er  her  shatter'd  frame, 

None  knew — and  none  can  ever  know  :     , 

But  whatsoe'er  its  end  below,' 

Her  life  began  and  closed  in  woe!* 

XX. 

And  Azo  found  another  bride 

And  goodly  sons  grew  by  his  side ; 

But  none  so  lovely  and  so  brave 

As  him  who  wither'd  in  the  grave ; 

Or,  if  they  were — on  his  cold  eye 

Their  growth  but  glanced  unheeded  by. 

Or  noticed  with  a  smother'd  sigh. 

But  never  tear  his  cheek  descended, 

And  never  smile  his  brow  unbended  ; 

And  o'er  that  fair  broad  brow  were  wrought 

The  intersected  lines  of  thought ; 

Those  furrows  which  the  burning  share 

Of  sorrow  ploughs  untimely  there  ; 

Scars  of  the  lacerating  mind 

Which  the  soul's  war  doth  leave  behind. 

He  was  |)iist  all  mirth  or  woe: 

Nothing  more  remain'd  below 

But  sleepless  nights  and  heavy  days, 

A  mind  all  dead  to  scorn  or  praise, 

A  heart  which  shunn'd  itself— and  yet 

That  would  not  yield — nor  could  forget. 

Which  when  it  least  appear'd  to  melt. 

Intently  thought — intenselv  felt : 


The  deepest  ice  vvnich  ever  froze 
Can  only  o'er  the  surface  close — 
The  living  stream  lies  quick  below, 
And  Hows — and  cannot  cease  to  flow. 
Still  was  his  seal'd-up  bosom  haunted 
By  thoughts  which  nature  hath  implanted, 
Too  deeply  rooted  thence  to  vanish : 
Howe'er  our  stifled  tears  we  banish, 
When,  struggling  as  they  rise  to  start, 
We  check  those  waters  of  the  heart. 
They  are  not  dried — those  tears  unshed 
But  flow  back  to  the  fountain-head. 
And,  resting  in  their  spring  more  pure. 
For  ever  in  its  depth  endure, 
Unseen,  unwept,  but  uncongcal'd. 
And  cherish'd  most  where  least  reveal'd. 
With  inward  starts  of  feeling  left. 
To  throb  o'er  those  of  life  bereft ; 
Without  the  power  to  fill  again 
The  desert  gap  which  made  his  pain ; 
Witliout  the  hojje  to  meet  them  where 
United  souls  shall  gladness  share, 
With  all  the  consciousness  that  he 
Had  only  pass'd  a  just  decree  5 
That  they  had  wrought  tlieir  doom  of  ill ; 
Yet  Azo's  age  was  wretched  still. 
The  tainted  branches  of  the  tree. 

If  lopp'd  with  care,  a  strength  may  give, 
By  which  the  rest  shall  bloom  and  live 
All  greenly  fresh  and  wildly  free : 
But  if  the  lightning,  in  its  wrath, 
The  waving  boughs  with  fury  scathe, 
The  massy  trunk  the  ruin  feels. 
And  never  more  a  leaf  reveals. 


NOTES. 


Note  I. 

As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away 

The  li.ies  contained  in  section  I.   were  prin<  .a  as  set 

to  rhusic  some  time  since :  but  belonged  to  the  pc-jm  where 

they  now  appear,  the  greater  part  of  which  was  •  '^iiiposed 

prior  to  "  Lara,"  ami  other  compositions  since  published 

Note  2. 
That  should  have  won  as  haught  a  crewt. 
rfaught — haughty  : — 

"Away  liau^ht  man,  thou  art  insulting  .tie." 
Shakspeare :  Richard  II. 

Note  3. 
Her  life  began  and  closed  in  woe. 

"  This  turned  out  a  calamitous  year  for  the  peojjle  of 
Ferrara,  for  there  occurred  a  very  tragical  event  in  the 
couri  of  their  sovereign.  Our  annals,  both  printed  and 
in  manuscript,  with  the  exception  of  the  unpolished  and 
nclicent  work  of  Sardi,  and  one  other,  have  given  th« 
following  relation  of  it,  from  which,  however,  are  re- 
jected many  details,  and  especially  the  narrative  ol 
Bandelli,  wlio  wrote  a  century  afterwards,  and  whc 
does  not  accord  with  the  cotemporary  fiistorians. 

"  Bv  the  above-mentioned  Stella  dell'  Assassino,  the 
Marquis,  in  the  year  1405,  had  a  son  called  Ugo,  a  beau- 
tiful and  ingenuous  youth.  Pansina  Malatesta,  second 
wife  of  Niccolo.  like  the  generality  of  step-mothers, 
treated  him  with  little  kindness,  to  the  infinite  regret  Oi 
the  Marquis,  who  regarded  him  with  fond  partiality. 
One  day  she  asked  leave  of  her  husband  to  undertake  a 
certain  journey,  to  which  he  consented,  but  upon  con 
dition  that  Ugo  should  bear  her  company  ;  for  he  i-ope*, 


328 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


by  th';sc  means  to  iiiduco  her,  in  the  end,  to  lav  aside  the 
obs;tinate  aversion  which  she  had  conceived  against  him. 
And  indeed  his  intent  was  accomj)lislied  l>'jt  too  well, 
since,  during  the  journey,  she  not  only  divested  herself 
of  all  her  hatred,  b'lt  fell  into  the  opposite  extreme. 
After  their  return,  the  Martjuis  had  no  lon<ier  any  occa.- 
sion  to  Venew  his  f  )riiier  reproofs.  It  happened  one  day 
that  d  servant  of  the  INIarquis,  named  Zoese,  or,  as  some 
call  him,  Giorgio,  jjassing  before  the  apartments  of 
Parisma,  sav,'  going  out  from  them  one  of  her  chamber- 
maids, all  terrified  and  in  tears.  Asking  the  reason,  she 
told  him  that  her  mistress,  for  some  slight  cTence,  had 
been  beaiinjj  her ;  and,  giving  vent  to  her  rage,  she 
added,  that  she  could  easily  be  revenged,  if  she  chose  to 
make  known  the  criminal  familiarity  which  subsisted 
between  Parisinu  and  her  step-son.  The  servant  took 
note  of  the  words,  and  related  them  to  his  master.  He 
was  astounded  thereat,  but,  scarcely  believing  his  ears, 
he  assured  himself  of  the  flict,  alas !  too  clearly,  on  the 
18th  of  May,  by  looking  through  a  hole  made  in  the 
ceiling  of  his  wife's  chamber.  Instantly  he  broke  into 
a  furious  rage,  and  arrested  both  of  them,  together  whh 
Aldobrandiiio  Rangoiii,  of  Modena,  her  gentleman,  and 
also,  as  some  say,  two  of  the  women  of  her  chamber, 
as  abettors  of  this  sinful  act.  He  ordered  them  to  be 
brought  to  a  hasty  trial,  desiring  the  judges  to  pconounce 
sentence,  in  the  accustomed  forms,  u[)on  the  culprits. 
This  sentence  was  death.  Some  there  were  that  bestirred 
themselves  in  favour  of  the  delinquents,  and,  amongst 
others,  Ugoccion  Contrario,  who  was  all-powerful  with 
Nircolo,  and  also  tiis  aged  and  much-deserving  minister 
Alberto  dal  .Sale.  Hoth  of  these,  their  tears  flowing 
down  their  cheeks,  and  upon  their  knees,  implored  him 
C>r  morcv:  adducuig  whatever  reason  they  could  sug- 
gest lor  sparing  the  offenders,  besides  those  motives  of 
honovir  and  decency  which  might  persuade  him  to  con- 
ceal from  the  public  so  scandalous  a  deed.  But  his  rage 
made  him  iiifle\il>le,  and,  on  the  instant,  he  commanded 
that  the  sentence  should  be  put  in  execution. 

"  It  was,  then,  in  the  prisons  of  the  castle,  and 
exaetly  in  those  frightful  dungeons  which  are  seen  ai 
this  dav  beneath  the  chamber  called  the  Aurora,  at  the 
foot  of  the  Lion's  lower,  at  the  top  of  the  street  Giovecca, 
that  on  the  night  of  the  twenty-first  of  IMay,  were  be- 
headed, first,  Ugo,  and  afterwards  Parisina.  Zoese,  he 
that  accused  her,  conducted  the  latter  under  his  arm  to  the 
[)lacc  of  punishtnent.  She,  all  along,  fancied  that  she 
was  to  be  thrown  inio  a  pit,  and  asked,  at  every  step, 
whether  she  was  yet  come  to  the  spot?  she  was  told 
that  her  jiunishment  was  the  axe.  She  inquired  what 
was  become  of  Ugo,  and  received  for  answer,  that  he 
was  alreadvdead:  at  tne  which,  sighing  grievously,  she 
exclaimed,  "  Now,  then,  I  wish  not  myself  to  live  ;"  and 
being  come  to  the  block,  she  stripped  herself  with  her 
own  hands  of  all  her  ornaments,  and,  wrapping  a  cloth 
round  her  head,  submitted  to  the  fatal  stroke  which 
terminated  the  cruel  scene.  The  same  was  done  with 
Kangoni,  who,  togt^her  with  the  others,  according  to 
two  calendars  innhe  library  of  St.  Francesco,  was  buried 
in  the  cemetery  of  that  convent.  Nothing  else  is  known 
tespecting  the  women. 

"  The  Marquis  kept  watch  the  whole  of  that  dreadful 
night,  and,  as  he  was  walking  backwards  and  forwards, 
inquired  of  the  captain  of  the  castle  if  Ugo  was  dead 
yet?  who  answered  him,  Yes.  He  then  gave  himselt 
up  to  the  njost  desperate  laincnitations,  exclaiming, 
•'  Oh .  that  I  too  wen  <lead,  since  I  have  been  hurried  on 
lo  resoive.thus  against  my  own  Ugo  !"  And  then  gnaw- 
ing with  his  teeth  a  cane  which  he  had  in  his  hand,  he 
j>a3s»y|  the  rest  of  the  night  ir  «ighs  and  m  teais,  calling 


frequently  upon  his  own  dear  Ugo.  On  the  tbn<»wms 
day,  calling  to  mind  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  make 
public  his  justification,  seeing  that  the  transaction  couid 
not  be  kept  secret,  he  ordered  the  narrative  to  be  drawr 
out  upon  paper,  and  sent  it  to  all  the  couns  of  Italy. 

"  On  receiving  this  advice,  the  Doge  of  Venice,  Fran- 
cesco Foscari,  gave  orders,  but  without  publishing  hia 
reasons,  that  stoji  should  he  put  to  the  preparations  for  a 
tournament,  which  under  the  auspices  of  the  Marquis, 
and  at  the  expqttBe  j^  the  city  of  Padua,  was  about  to 
take  place  in  He  $  Are  of  St.  Mark,  in  order  to  cele- 
brate his  advai^etdRt  to  the  ducal  chair. 

"  The  Marquis/,*  addition  to  what  he  had  already 
done,  frdhi  some  //maccountable  burst  of  vengeance, 
commanded  thata^^ni|J5gv  of  the  married  women  as  wc-e 
well  known  to  him  td-^ftii^ess,  like  his  Parisina, 
should,  like  her,  b0beheaded./Amongst  others,  Barba- 
rina,  or,  assomo^-all  her,  I/agicldmia  Romei,  wife  of  the 
court  judge,  underwent  this  sentence,  at  the  usual  })lace 
of  execution,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  quarter  of  St.  Giacomo, 
opposite  the  present  fortress,  beyond  St.  Paul's.  It  can- 
not be  told  hpw  strange  appeared  this  proceeding  in  a 
prince,  why;  considering  his  own  disposition,  should,  as 
It  seemed(  have  been  in  such  cases  most  indulgent. 
Some,  hcAvever,  there  were,  who  did  not  fail  to  commend 
him.'" 


THE 


SONNET  ON  CHILLON. 


Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind!        '  , 
Brightest  in  dungeons.  Liberty  !  thou  art,    '  ' 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 

The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can   bind ; 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  aie  consign'd — 
Tp  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 

And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 

Chillon  !   thy  prison  is  a  holy  place. 

And  thy  sad  tloor  an  altar — for  'twas  trod,    '^" 

Until  his  verv  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thv  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 

Bv  Bonnivard!' — May  none  those  marks  Vfface* 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


PRISONER  OF  GHILLON 


L 

My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 

Nor  grew  it  white 

In  a  single  night. 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudoen  frars; 


1  Fiizzi — History  of  Ferrara 


THE    PRISONEROF    CHILLON. 


S29 


My  limbs  are  ftow'd,  though  not  with  toil, 

Put  rusted  with  a  vile  repose, 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  tlie  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann'd,  and  barr'd — forbidden  fare ; 
Hut  this  was  for  mv  father's  faith 
I  suffer'd  chains  and  courted  death ; 
That  father  perisli'd  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  \c  would  not  forsake ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place  ; 
We  were  sejieii — who  now-rrre^ne, 

Six  in^vouthj  and  one^  in  age, 
Fimsh'd  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  persecution's  rage  ; 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  seal'd ; 
Dying  as  their  father  d^ed, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied  ; 
Three  were  in  a  dimgeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 

II. 
There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  C  billon's  dungeons  deep  and  old  ; 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray, 
Dun  with  a  dull  iinprison'd  ray, 
A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cl<  ft 
Of  the  thick  wall  IS  fallen  and  left; 
Creejiing  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp  : 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring. 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thins, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 
Til   1  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  paiiit'ui  to  these  eyes^^ 
Whicii  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years — i  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
I  lost  their  long  and  lieavy  score, 
When  my  last  brotiier  droop'd  and  died. 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

Ml. 

They  chain'd  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 
And  we  were  three — yet,  each  alone  ; 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight: 
And  thus  together — yet  apart, 
Fctter'd  m  hand,  but  pined  in  heart; 
'T  was  still  some  solace  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each. 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 
Or  song  heroically  bole' : 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Oui  voices  took  a  dreary  lone, 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone,  ,  , 

nd — not  full  and  free  .         ^ 
h"  ^  pre  wont  to  be  :  '      " 
ncy-  •  but  to  me 
nded  like  our  own. 

\  ^^'- 

st^of  the  three, 

1  and  cheer  the  rest 
—and  did  my  best"— 
t'U  ir^his  degree. 


The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven, 

For  him  my  soul  was  scjre'v  moved ;     " 
And  truly  might  it  be  distrest 
To  see  such  bii  d  in  such  a  nest , 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day — 

(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 

As  to  young  eagles,  being  free)— 

A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer's  gone. 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun : 

And  thus  he  was  as  |»ure  and  bright. 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gav. 
With  tears  for  nought  but  others'  ills. 
And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 

V. 
The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  form'd  to  combat  with  his  kind  : 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perish'd  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  jov: — but  not  in  chains  to  pine; 
His  spirit  wither'd  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mmej 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills. 

Had  follow'd  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fetter'd  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 
VI. 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Clmion's  walls. 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  tluw ; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement,' 

Which  round  about  the  wave  enthrals: 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  (lark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day. 

Sounding  o'er  our  head?  it  knock'd  ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  wht;n  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock'd. 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake  unshock'd, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  sefe 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 

VII. 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  his  w  ghty  heart  ueclined. 
He  loathed  ami  put  away  his  food; 
It  was  not  that  't  was  coarse  and  rude. 
For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare. 
And  for  the  like  had  little  care : 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  eoal 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moal , 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 
Have  moisten'd  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den . 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 
These  wasted  not  his  hearr  or  limb ; 


^^ 


tj 


330 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side : 
But  why  delay  the  truth? — he  died. 
I  saw  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead, 
Though  hard  I  s-^rove,  but  strove  in  vam, 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died — and  they  unlock'd  his  chain, 
And  scoopVl  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begg'd  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
INIight  shine — it  was  a  foolish  thought, 
But  when  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  free-born  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  si)ared  my  idle  prayer — 
They  coldly  laugh'd — arjd  laid  him  there : 
The  flat  and  turflcss  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love  ; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument ! 

VIII. 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherish'd  smce  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face. 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  inartyr'd  flither's  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free  j 

He,  loo,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  away. 

Oh  God !   it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood : — 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I  've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 

Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 

I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  sin  delirious  with  its  dread  : 

But  these  were  horrors — this  was  woe 

Unmix'd  with  such — but  sure  and  slow: 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak. 

So  tearless,  yet' so  tender — kind. 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind  j 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  deparlmg  rainbow's  ray — 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light. 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur — not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot, — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  ho[>e  my  own  to  raise. 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most ; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feel)lr>ness 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less : 

I  listen'd,  but  I  could  not  hear — 

I  cali'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear ; 

I  knew  't  was  ho^»eless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  b»  thus  admonished  ; 


I  cali'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  souna— 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rush'd  to  him : — I  found  hiin  not, 

/  only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spcif 

/  only  lived — I  only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon  dew ; 

The  last — the  sole — the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink. 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  oiie  beneath, — 

My  brothers — both  had  ceased  to  breathe. 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 

Alas  !   my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive. 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive — 

A  frantic  feeling  when  we  know 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die, 
I  had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith. 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 

IX. 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 

I  know  not  well — I  never  knew — 

First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air. 

And  then  of  darkness  too  ; 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none — 
Anions  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone. 
And  was,- scarce  cor:Krit!ti's "wliat  1  wist, 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 
For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray — 
It  was  not  night — it  was  not  day. 
It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 
But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 
And  fixedness — without  a  place  ; 
There  were  no  stars — no  earth — no  time — 
No  check — no  change — no  good — no  crime- 
But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death ; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness. 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless ! 

X. 

A  Hght  broke  in  upon  my  brain, — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird  ; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again. 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard. 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery ; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track, 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done. 
But  througTi  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  {)erch'd,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  u[)on  the  tree  ; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wiiigs,^^^         ^  , 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand 

And  seem'd  t«  say  them  all 
I  never  saw  its  like  btjtore, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  mol 
It  seem'd  like  me  to  want  a  mat^ 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate. 
And  it  was  come  (o  love  me 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  ajia 


te,  ^^ 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


831 


And  cho-ring  from  my  d-.ingcon's  brink, 
HaJ  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
1  know  not  if  it  late  wert;  free, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine, 
But  knowing  well  captivity. 

Sweet  bini !   I  could  not  wish  for  tliine ! 
Or  if  it  were,  m  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise  ; 
For — Heaven  forgive  that  thought !   the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile ; 
I  sometimes  deem'd  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me  ; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew. 
And  then  't  was  mortal — well  I  knew, 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone, — 
Lone— as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone — as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  ui)on  the  atmosphere. 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 
XL 
A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate. 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate  ; 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 
Thev  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe, 
But  so  it  was  : — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten'd  did  remain. 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part  ; 
And  roimd  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod. 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod  ; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profiined  their  lowly  bed. 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  Ihiok, 
And  my  crush'd  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

XIL 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall. 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all, 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape ; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me  : 
No  child — no  sire — no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  m  my  misery  ; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad. 
For  thought  of  them  had  made  mc  mad , 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr'd  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more  upon  the  mountains  high, 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

XIIL 

I  saw  them — and  they  were  the  same. 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  framij ; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  hi"h — their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  tn^bluq|Rhone  in  fullfsl  flow; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  a  id  gush 
O'er  channell'd  rock  and  broken  bush ; 
[  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town. 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down  ; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle,* 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile. 


The  only  one  in  view ; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seem'o  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  iungeon  flcc", 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees. 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  moiuitain  breeze. 
And  by  'l  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  iTthere  were  young  flowers  growmg, 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  cnstle-wall. 
And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  all; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methoiight  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly. 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye. 
And  I  felt  troubled — and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain ; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again. 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load  ; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave. 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save, 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

XIV. 
It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count — I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote ; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  n.e  free, 

I  ask'd  not  why,  and  reck'd  not  where, 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fetter'd  or  fetterless  to  be — 

I  learn'd  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  api)ear'd  at  last, 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast. 
These  heavy  wails  to  me  had  grown     ■ 
A  hermitage — and  all  my  own  ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home  : 
With  spiders  I  had  trieudship  made. 
And  watch'd  them  in  their  su'len  trade, 
Kad  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  [)lay, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race. 
Had  power  to  kill — yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learn'd  to  dwell — 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are : — even  I 
Regain'd  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 

NOTES. 

Note  1. 
By  Bonnivard  ! — may  none  those  markj  efface! 

Francois  de  Bonnivard,  fils  de  Louis  de  Bonnivard, 
originaire  de  Seyssel  et  Seigneur  de  Lunes,  naquit  er 
1496  ;  il  fit  ses  etudes  a  Turin.  En  1510  Jean-Aim^ 
de  Bonnivard,  son  oncle,  lui  resigna  le  Prieure  de  Saint 
Victor,  qui  aboutissait  aux  murs  de  Geneve,  et  qw 
formait  un  benefice  considerable. 

Ce  grand  homme  (Bonruvard  merite  ce  litre  par  Is. 
force  de  son  ame,  la  droiture  ie  son  cceur  la  noblesse 
de  ses  intentions,  la  sagesse  de  ses  conFcils,  le  courage 
de  ses  demarches,  I'etendue  de  ses  connaissances,  et  la 
vivacite  de  son  esprit),  ce  grand  homme,  qui  excitera 
I'admiration  de  tons  ceux  qu'une  vertu  heroique  peul 
encore  emouvoir  inspirera  encore  la  plus  vive  recon- 


332 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKM 


naissiiiice  dans  les  occurs  des  Genevois  qui  aiment  Ge- 
neve. Boniiivard  en  fut  toujours  un  des  plus  fermes 
appuis  :  pour  assuror  la  liberte  de  notre  Republique,  il 
ne  craignit.  pas  de  perdre  souvcnt  la  sienne  ;  il  oublia 
son  repos  ;  il  mep-isa  ses  richcsses  ;  il  ne  negligea  rien 
pour  affermir  le  bonheur  d'une  patrie  qu'il  honora  de  son 
ch<>ix  :  des  ce  moment  il  '.a  clierit  comme  le  plus  zele 
de  ses  citoyens  ;  il  la  servit  avec  I'intrepidite  d'un  heros, 
et  il  ecrivait  son  histoire  avec  la  naivete  d'un  [)hilosophe 
et  la  chaieur  d'un  [)atriote. 

II  ilit  dans  le  commencement  de  son  histoire  de  Ge- 
neve, qu(?,  (lis  qu/il  eid  commence  de  lire  Chistoire  des 
nations,  il  se  scntit  eutraine  par  son  gont  pour  les  ri,- 
publiqu.es,  dont  il  Cpousa  toujours  les  intercts  :  c'est  ce 
gout  pour  la  liberte  qui  lui  fit  sans  doute  adopter  Ge- 
neve pour  sa  patrie. 

Bonnivard,enc<)rejeune,s'annoncahautement  comme 
le  defenseur  de  Geneve  contre  le  Due  de   Savoye  et 


I'eve 


pie. 


En  1519  Bonnivard  devint  le  martyr  de  sa  patrie:  le 
Due  (le  Savoye  etant  eiitre  dans  Geneve  avec  cinq  cents 
hommes,  Boimivard  craignit  le  ressentiment  du  due;  il 
voulut  se  retirer  a  Frihourg  pour  en  eviter  les  suites ; 
mais  il  fut  trahi  f)ar  deux  honunesqui  I'accompagnaient, 
et  conduit  par  ordre  du  prince  a  Grolee,  ou  il  resta  pri- 
sonnier  pendant  deux  ans.  Hotmivard  etait  rnalheureux 
dans  ses  voyages  ;  couitne  ses  malheurs  ri'avaient  point 
ralenti  son  zele  pour  Geneve,  il  etait  toujou'-s  un  ennemi 
redoutable  pour  ceux  qui  la  tnenacaient,  et  par  conse 
quent  il  devait  etre  expose  a  leurs  coups.  II  fut  ren- 
contre en  1530  sur  le  Jura,  par  des  voleurs,  qui  le  de- 
pouillerent,  et  (]ui  le  mirent  encore  entre  les  mains  du 
Due  de  Savoye :  ce  prince  le  fit  enfermer  dans  le  cha- 
eau  de  ChiUon,  ou  il  resta  sans  etre  interr  jge  jusqu'en 
1536  ;  il  fiit  alorsdelivre  par  les  Bernois,  qui  s'emparfe- 
rent  du  pays  de  Vaud. 

Bonnivard,  en  sortant  de  sa  captivite,  eut  le  plaisir  de 
trouver  Geneve  lil)re  <;f  refonnee:  la  republique  s'em- 
pressa  de  lui  temoigner  sa  reconnaissance  et  de  le  de- 
dommagcr  des  maux  qu'il  avail  soufi'erts  ;  elle  le  reout 
bourgeois  de  la  ville  au  mois  de  Juin  1536,  elle  lui 
donna  la  maison  habitee  autrefois  par  le  Vicaire-Gen- 
eral,  et  elle  lui  assigna  unc  pension  de  200  ecus  d'or 
tant  qu'il  sejournerait  a  Geneve.  II  fut  admis  dans  le 
I'onseil  des  Deux-Cents  en  1537. 

Bonnivard  n'a  [)as  fini  d'etre  ulile  :  apres  avoir  tra- 
vaille  a  rendre  Geneve  libre,  il  reur.sit  a  la  rendre  tole- 
rante.  Bonnivard  engagea  le  Conseil  a  accorder  aux 
ecclesiastiques  et  aux  paysans  un  temps  suffisant  poiir 
examiner  les  propositions  (ju'on  leur  faisait ;  il  reuss^t 
par  sa  douceur:  on  prech*  toujours  le  christianisme 
avec  succes  (piand  ou  le  preche  avec  charite. 

Bonnivard  fut  savant ;  ses  manuscrits,  (jui  sont  dans 
la  bibliotheque  pul)lique,  prouvent  qu'il  avait  bien  lu  les 
auteurs  classiques  latins,  et  (ju'il  avait  approiondi  la 
theologie  et  I' histoire.  Ce  grand  homme  aimait  les 
scii-nces,  el  il  croyait  (ju'c^lhis  poiivaieiit  faire  la  gloire 
de  Gem'^ve  ;  aussi  il  ne  negligea  nen  \your  les  fixer  dans 
cctte  ville  naissanie;  en  1551  il  donna  sa  bibliothe(]ue 
qu  i)ub)ic ,  elie  fut  le  cotiunencement  de  notre  biblior 
tii;k|<ie  publiqu'^i:   et  cl-s  livres  sont  en  partie  les  rares 


et  belles  editions  du  quinzieme  siec  e  ju'on  vou  darn 
notre  collection.  Enfin,  pendant  la  meme  armee,  ct 
bon  patriote  instiiua  Iti  republique  son  heritierc.  a  con- 
dition (ju'elle  einploierait  -ses  biens  a  entretenir  le  col- 
lege dont  on  projetait  la  fondation. 

II  ))arait  qui;  Bonnivard  mourut  en  1570;  maison  no 
pent  I'assurer  ])arcequ'il  y  a  une  lacune  dans  le  N6- 
crologe  depuis  le  mois  de  .Juillet  1570  jusqu'en  1571. 

Note  2. 

In  a  single  night 
Ludovico  Sfor?a,  and  others. — The  same  is  asserted 
of  Mai.e  Antoinette's,  the  wife  of  Louis  X\'l.,  thoug 
not  in  quite  so  shori  a   period.     Grief  is  said  to  have 
the  same  etfect :   to  such,  and  not  to  fear,  this  change 
in  leers  was  to  be  attributed. 

Note  3. 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement. 

The  Chateau  de  Chillon  is  situated  between  Clarens 
and  Villeneuve,  which  last  is  at  one  extremity  of  the 
Lake  of  Geneva.  On  its  left  are  the  entrances  of  the 
Rhone,  and  opposite  are  the  heights  of  MeiUerie  and 
the  range  of  Alps  above  Boveret  and  St.  Gingo. 

Near  it,  on  a  hill  behind,  is  a  torrent ;  below  it, 
washing  its  walls,  the  lake  has  been  fathomed  to  the 
depth  of  800  feet  (French  measure)  ;  wiihin  it  are  ? 
range  of  dungeons,  in  which  the  early  reformers,  and 
subsequently  jirisoners  of  state,  were  confined.  Across 
one  of  the  vaults  is  a  beam  black  with  age,  on  whicli 
we  were  infonned  that  the  condemned  were  formerly 
executed.  In  the  cells  are  seven  pillars,  or,  rather, 
eight,  one  being  half  merged  in  the  wall ;  in  some  of 
these  are  rings  for  the  fetters  and  the  fettered ;  in  the 
pcvvement  the  s.eps  of  Bonnivard  have  left  their  traces 
— he  was  confined  here  several  years. 

It  is  by  this  castle  that  Rousseau  has  fixed  the  catas- 
trophe of  his  Heloise,  in  the  rescue  of  one  of  her  i:hil- 
dren  by  Julie  from  the  vAater:  the  shocK  of  which,  and 
the  illness  [iroduced  by  the  immersion,  is  the  cause  of 
her  death. 

The  chateau  is  large,  and  seen  along  the  lake  for  a 
great  distance.     The  walls  are  white. 

Note  4. 
And  ttien  there  was  a  little  isle. 

Between  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone  and  Villeneuve, 
not  far  from  Chillon,  is  a  very  small  island;  the  only 
one  I  could  |)erceive,  in  my  voyage  round  and  over  the 
lake,  within  its  circumference.  It  contains  a  few  trees 
(1  think  not  above  three),  and  from  its  singleness  and 
diminutive  size,  has  a  peculiar  effect  upon  the  view. 

When  the  foregoing  poem  was  composed,  I  was  not 
sufficiently  aware  of  the  history  o^  Bonnivard,  or  I 
should  have  eudeavoured  to  dignify  the  subject  by  an 
attempt  to  celebrate  his  courage  ana  his  virtues.  Some 
account  of  his  life  will  be  found  in  a  note  appended  tc 
the  "  Sonnet  on  Chillon,"  with  which  I  have  been  fiir- 
nished  by  the  kindness  of  a  citizen  of  that  republic 
which  IS  still  prmid  of  the  memory  rf  a  man  worthy  af 
the  best  age  of  ancient  freedom. 


BEPPA. 


333 


A  VENETIAN  STORY. 


Bosalira.  Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveller  look  you,  lisp, 
and  woar  stiange  suife;  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your  own 
country  •  be  out  of  love  with  your  nativity,  and  almost  chide 
(Jod  tor  niakinsj  you  that  countenance  you  are ;  or  1  will 
scarce  think  that  you  have  swam  in  a  Gondola. 

.is  You  Like  It,  .-let  IV.  Scene  I. 
Annotation  of  the  Commentators. 

That  is,  been  at  Fenice,  which  was  much  visited  by  the 
youns  Enslish  gentlemen  of  those  times,  and  was  thea  what 
Paris  is  7i<;u7— the  seat  of  all  dissoluteness.— S.  A. 


'T  IS  known,  at  least  it  should  be,  that  throughout 
All  countries  of  the  Catholic  persuasion. 

Some  weeks  before  Shrove-Tuesday  comes  about, 
The  people  take  their  till  of  recreation,. 

And  buy  repentance,  ere  they  grow  devout, 
However  high  their  rank,  or  low  their  station, 

With  fiddling,  feasting,  dancing,  drinking,  masking, 

And  other  things  that  may  be  had  for  asking. 

II. 

The  moment  night  with  dusky  mantle  covers 
The  skies  (and  the  more  duskily  the  better), 

The  time  less  liked  by  husbands  than  by  lovers 
Begins,  and  prudery  flings  aside  her  fetter , 

And  gaiety  on  restless  tiptoe  hovers, 
Gigghng  With  all  the  gallants  who  beset  her  ; 

And  there  are  songs  and  quavers,  roaring,  humming. 

Guitars,  and  every  other  sort  of  strumming. 

III. 

And  there  are  dresses  sjilendid,  but  fantastical, 
Masks  of  all  times  and  nations,  Turks  and  Jews, 

And  harlequins  and  clowns,  with  feats  gymnastical, 
Greeks,  Romans,  Yankee-doodles,  and  Hindoos  ; 

All  kinds  of  dress,  except  the  ecclesiastical, 
All  people,  as  their  fancies  hit,  may  choose ; 

But  no  one  in  these  parts  may  quiz  the  clergy — 

Therefore  take  heed,  ye  freethinkers  !   I  charge  ye. 

IV. 

You'd  better  walk  about  begirt  with  briars, 
Instead  of  coat  and  small-clothes,  than  put  on 

A  siniile  stitch  reflecting  upon  friars. 
Although  you  swore  it  only  was  in  fun ; 

They  'd  haul  vou  o'er  the  coals,  and  stir  the  fires 
Of  Phlegethor.  with  every  mother's  son. 

Nor  sav  one  mass  to  cool  the  cauldron's  bubble 

Th.it  boil'd  your  bones,  unless  you  paid  them  double. 


But,  saving  tnis,  you  may  put  on  whate'er 
You  like,  bv  wav  of  doublet,  cape,  or  cloak, 

Su-,h  as  in  Monmouth-street,  or  in  Rag  Fair, 
Would  rio.  vou  out  in  seriousness  or  joke  ; 

And  even  in  Italy  such  places  are. 

With  prettier  names  in  softer  accents  spoke. 

For,  bating  Covent-Garden,  I  can  hit  on 

No  place  that 's  called  *'  Piazza  "  in  Great  Britain. 


VI. 
This  feast  is  named  the  Carnival,  which,  being 

Interpreted,  implies  "farewell  to  flesh:" 
So  call'd,  because  the  name  and  thing  agreeing. 

Through  Lent  they  live  on  fish  both  salt  and  ficish. 
But  whv  they  usher  Lent  with  so  much  glee  in, 

Is  more  than  I  can  tell,  although  I  guess 
'T  is  as  we  take  a  glass  with  frii^nds  at  parting, 
In  the  stage-coach  or  packet,  just  at  starting, 

VII. 

And  thus  they  bid  farewell  to  carnal  dishes, 
And  solid  meats,  and  highly-spiced  ragouts, 

To  live  for  forty  days  on  ill-dressed  fishes. 
Because  they  have  no  sauces  to  their  stews, 

A  thing  which  causes  many  "poohs"  and  "pishes," 
And  several  oaths  (which  would  not  suit  the  Muse) 

From  travellers  accustom'd  from  a  boy 

To  eat  their  salmon,  at  the  least,  with  soy  ; 

VIII. 

And  therefore  humbly  1  would  recommend 

"The  curious  in  fish-sauce,"  before  they  cross 

The  sea,  to  bid  their  cook,  or  wife,  or  friend, 
Walk  or  ride  to  the  Strand,  and  buy  in  gross 

(Or  if  set  out  beforehand,  'hese  may  send 
Bv  anv  means  least  liable  to  loss). 

Ketchup,  Soy,  Chili-vinegar,  and  Harvey, 

Or,  by  tne  Lord  !   a  Lent  will  well  nigh  starve  ye , 

IX. 

That  is  to  say,  if  your  religion 's  Roman, 
And  vou  at  Rome  would  do  as  Romans  do, 

According  to  the  proverb, — although  no  man, 
If  foreign,  is  obliged  to  fast ;   and  you. 

If  Protestant,  or  sickly,  or  a  woman. 
Would  rather  dine  in  sin  on  a  ragout — 

Dine,  and  be  d d  !  I  don't  mean  to  be  coarse, 

But  that 's  the  penalty,  to  say  no  worse 


Of  all  the  places  where  the  Carnival 
Was  most  facetious  in  the  days  of  yore. 

For  dance  and  song-,  and  serenade,  and  ball, 
And  masque,  and  mime  and  mystery,  and  more 

Than  I  have  time  to  tell  now,  or  at  all, 
Venice  the  bell  from  every  city  bore. 

And  at  the  moment  when  I  fix  my  sticy, 

That  sea-born  city  was  in  all  her  glory. 

XI. 

They've  pretty  faces  yet,  those  same  Venetians, 

Black  eyes,  arch'd  brows,  and  sweet  expression?  still. 

Such  as  of  old  were  copied  frot7i  the  Grecians, 
In  ancient  arts  by  moderns  mimick'd  ill ; 

And  like  so  many  Veniises  of  Titian's 

(The  best 's  at  Florence — see  it,  if  ye  will), 

Thev  look  when  leaning  over  the  balcony, 

Or  stepp'd  from  out  a  picture  by  Giorgione, 

XII. 

Whose  tints  are  truth  ana  beauty  at  their  best, 
And  when  yo'i  to  Manfrini's  palace  go. 

That  picttire  (hov;soever  fine  the  rest) 
Is  loveliest  to  my  mind  of  all  the  show  : 

It  may  perhaps  be  also  to  ynur  zest, 

And  that's  the  cau?e  I  rhyme  upon  it  so, 

'T  is  but  a  portrait  of  his  son,  and  wife. 

And  self;  but  such  a  woman !  love  in  life' 


834 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


xni. 

Love  in  full  life  and  length,  not  love  ideal, 

No,  nor  ideal  beauty,  tnat  fine  name, 
iJut  something  better  still,  so  very  real. 

That  the  sweet  model  must  have  been  the  same : 
A  thing  that  you  would  purchase,  beg,  or  sieal, 

Wer't  not  impossible,  besides  a  shame: 
The  face  recalls  some  face,  as  't  were  with  pain, 
Vou  once  have  seen,  but  ne'er  will  see  again : 

XIV. 

One  of  those  forms  which  flit  by  us,  when  we 
Are  young,  and  fix  our  eyes  on  every  face ; 

And,  oil !   tlie  loveliness  at  times  we  see 
In  momentary  gliding,  the  soft  grace. 

The  vouth,  the  bloom,  the  beauty  which  agree 
In  many  a  nameless  being  we  retrace, 

V\'"hose  course  and  home  we  knew  not,  nor  shall  know, 

Like  the  lost  Pleiad  •  seen  no  rsore  below. 

XY. 

1  said  that  like  a  picture  by  Giorgione 
V^enctian  women  were,  and  so  they  are, 

Particularly  seen  from  a  balcony 

(For  beauty's  sometimes  best  set  off  ajfar); 

And  there,  just  like  a  heroine  of  Goldoni, 

They  pee[)  from  out  the  blind,  or  o'er  the  bar. 

And,  truth  to  sav,  they're  mostly  very  pretty, 

And  rather  like  to  show  it,  more's  the  pity ! 

XYI. 

For  glances  beget  ogles,  ogles  siijhs, 

Sighs  \vishes,  wishes  words,  and  words  a  letter, 

Which  flies  on  wings  of  light-heel'd  Mercuries, 
Who  do  such  things  because  they  know  no  better; 

And  then,  God  knows  what  mischief  may  arise, 
When  love  links  two  young  people  in  one  fetter, 

Vile  assignations,  and  adulterous  beds. 

Elopements,  broken  vows,  and  hearts,  and  heads. 

XVII. 

Shakspeare  described  the  sex  in  Desdemona 

As  very  fair,  but  yet  suspect  in  fame. 
And  to  this  day,  from  Venice  to  Verona, 

Such  Platters  may  be  probably  the  same, 
Except  that  since  those  times  was  never  known  a 

Husband  whom  mere  suspicion  could  inflame 
To  suflTocate  a  wife  no  more  than  twenty. 
Because  she  had  a  "cavalier  servente." 

XYIII. 

Their  jealousy  (if  they  are  ever  jealous) 

lb  of  a  fair  complexion  altogether, 
Not  like  that  sooty  devil  of  Othello's, 

Which  smothers  women  in  a  bed  of  feather. 
Hut  worthier  of  these  much  more  jolly  fellows, 

When  weary  of  the  matrimonial  tether 
His  head  for  such  a  wife  no  mortal  bothers, 
But  takes  at  once  another,  or  another's. 

XIX. 

Didst  ever  see  a  gondola  ?  For  fear 

You  should  not,  I  '11  describe  it  you  exactly ; 

'T  is  a  long  cover'd  boat  that 's  common  here, 
Carved  at  the  prow,  built  lightly,  but  compactly, 

Row'd  by  two  rowers,  each  called  "Gondolier," 
It  glides  along  the  water  looking  blackly. 

Just  like  a  coffin  clapt  in  a  canoe, 

Where  n  me  can  make  out  what  you  sav  or  do. 


XX. 

And  up  and  down  the  long  canals  tliey  go, 

And  under  the  Rialto  shoot  along. 
By  night  and  day,  all  paces,  swift  or  slow, 

And  round  the  theatres,  a  sable  throng. 
They  wait  in  their  dusk  livery  of  woe. 

But  not  to  them  do  woful  things  belong. 
For  sometimes  they  contain  a  deal  of  fun. 
Like  mourning  coaches  when  the  funeral 's  done* 

XXI. 

But  to  my  story. — 'Twas  some  years  ago, 
It  may  be  thirtj',  forty,  more  or  less. 

The  Carnival  was  at  its  height,  and  so 
Were  all  kinds  of  buffoonery  and  dress  : 

A  certain  lady  went  to  see  the  show. 

Her  real  name  I  know  not,  nor  can  guess, 
i   And  so  we  '11  call  her  Laura,  if  you  please. 

Because  it  slips  into  my  verse  with  ease. 

XXII. 

She  was  not  old,  nor  young,  nor  at  the  years 
Which  certain  people  call  a  "  certain  og-e," 
Which  yet  the  most  uncertain  age  appears, 
I       Because  I  never  heard,  nor  could  engage 
'   A  person  yet  by  prayers,  or  bribes,  or  tears, 
To  name,  define  by  speech,  or  write  on  page 
The  period  meant  precisely  by  that  word, — 
Which  surely  is  exceedingly  absurd. 

XXIII. 

Laura  was  blooming  still,  had  made  the  best 
Of  time,  and  time  return'd  the  comjilimenf. 

And  treated  her  genteelly,  so  that,  drest. 

She  look'd  extremely  well  where'er  she  went: 

A  pretty  wcman  is  a  welcome  guest. 

And  Laura's  brow  a  trown  had  rarely  bent ; 

Indeed  she  shone  all  smiles,  and  seem'd  to  flatto" 

Mankind  with  her  blick  eyes  for  looking  at  her. 

XXIV. 

She  was  a  married  wonxm  ;   't  is  convenient, 
Because  in  Christian  countries  'tis  a  rule 

To  view  their  little  slipa  wiHi  eyes  more  lenient; 
Whereas  if  single  ladies  i)lay  the  fool, 

(Unless  within  the  period  iiitervcnient, 

A  well-timed,  wedding  makes  the  scanda.  cool 

I  don't  know  how  they  ever  can  get  over  it, 

Excejit  they  manage  never  to  discover  it. 

XXV. 

Her  husband  sail'd  upon  the  Adriatic, 

And  made  some  voyages,  too,  in  other  seas. 

And  when  he  lay  in  (|iiarantine  for  pratique 
(A  forty  days'  jirecaution  'gainst  disease). 

His  wife  would  mount,  at  times,  her  highest  attic, 
For  thence  she  could  discern  the  ship  with  ease 

He  was  a  mercha.it  trading  to  Aleppo, 

His  name  Giuseppe,  call'd  more  briefly,  Beppo.* 

XXVI. 

He  was  a  man  as  dusky  as  a  Spaniard, 
Sunburnt  with  travel,  yet  a  portly  figure; 

Though  colour'd,  as  it  were,  within  a  tan-yard, 
He  was  a  person  both  of  sense  and  vigour— 

A  better  seaman  never  yet  did  man  yard  : 

And  .y/(p,  although  her  manners  show'd  no  rigour, 

^Vas  deem'd  a  woman  of  the  strictest  principle, 

So  much  as  to  be  thought  almost  invincible. 


BEPPO. 


836 


XXVII.  ^ 

But  several  yiars  elapsed  since  they  had  met 
Some  people  thou^lit  the  ship  was  lost,  and  some 

That  he  had  somehow  blimderM  into  debt, 

And  did  not  like  the  tliotiizhts  of  steering  home  ; 

And  there  were  several  oti'cr'd  anv  l)et, 

i)r  tnat  he  would,  or  that  he  would  not  come, 

For  most  men  (till  by  losing  rentlerVi  sager) 

VVill  back  their  own  opinions  with  a  wager. 

XXVIII. 
'Tis  said  that  their  last  parting  was  pathetic, 

As  partings  often  are,  or  ounht  to  be. 
And  their  [)resentiment  was  (jiiite  prophetic 

That  they  should  never  more  each  other  see, 
(A  sort  of  morbid  feeling,  half  poetic. 

Which  I  have  known  occur  in  two  or  three). 
When  kneeling  on  the  shore  upon  her  sad  knee. 
He  let't  this  Adriatic  Ariadne. 

XXIX. 

And  Laura  waited  long,  and  we[)t  a  little, 

And  thought  of  wearing  weeds,  as  well  she  might ; 

She  almost  lost  all  appetite  for  victual. 

And  could  not  sleep  with  ease  alone  at  niqhf ; 

She  deem'd  the  window-frames  and  shutters  brittle 
Against  a  daring  housebreaker  or  sprite, 

And  so  she  tliought  it  prudent  to  connect  her 

With  a  vice-husband,  chiefii^  to  protect  her. 

XXX. 

She  chose,  (and  what  is  there  they  will  not  choose. 
If  only  you  will  but  oppose  their  choice?) 

Till  Beppo  should  return  from  his  long  cruise, 
And  bid  once  more  her  faithful  heart  rejoice, 

A  man  some  women  like,  and  yet  abuse — 
A  coxccHih  was  he  by  the  public  voice : 

A  count  of  wealth,  they  said,  as  well  as  quality, 

And  in  his  pleasures  of  great  lib<;rality. 

XXXI. 

And  ther.  he  was  a  count,  and  then  he  knew 

Music  and  dancing,  hddling,  French,  and  Tuscan ; 

The  last  not  easy,  be  it  known  to  vou. 

For  few  Italians  speak  the  right  Etruscan. 

He  was  a  critic  upon  operas  too, 

And  knew  all  niceties  of  the  sock  and  buskin; 

And  no  V'enetian  audience  could  endure  a 

Song,  scene,  or  air,  when  he  cried  "seccatura." 

XXXII. 

His  "  bravo"  was  decisive,  for  that  sound 
Hush'd  "  academic"  sigh'd  in  silent  awe; 

The  fiildlers  trembled  as  he  look'd  around. 
For  ff'ar  of  some  false  note's  detected  flaw. 

The  "prima  donna's"  tuneful  heart  would  bound, 
Dreadmn  the  deep  damnation  of  his  "  bah!" 

Soprano,  basso,  even  the  contra-alto, 

Wish'd  him  five  fathoms  under  the  Rialto. 

XXXIII. 

He  patronized  the  improvvisatori, 

Nay,  could  himself  extemporize  some  stanzas, 
U  rote  rhymes,  sang  songs,  could  also  tell  a  story. 

Sold  pictures,  and  was  skilful  in  the  dance  as 
Italians  can  be,  though  in  this  their  glory 

Must  surely  yield  the  palm  to  that  which  France  has ; 
In  short,  he  was  a  perfect  cavaliero, 
And  to  his  very  valet  seem'd  a  hero. 


XXXIV. 

Then  he  was  faithful  too,  as  well  as  amorous ; 

So  tliat  no  sort  c!  female  could  complain. 
Although  they  're  now  and  then  a  little  clamorous, 

He  never  put  the  pretty  souls  in  pain  : 
His  heart  was  one  of  those  which  most  enamour  us, 

Wax  to  receive,  and  marble  to  retain. 
He  was  a  lover  of  the  good  old  school, 
Who  still  become  more  constant  as  they  cool. 

XXXV. 

No  wonder  such  accomplishments  should  turn 
A  female  head,  however  sage  and  steady — 

With  scL^rce  a  hope  that  Beppo  could  return, 
In  lasv  he  was  almost  as  good  as  dead,  he 

Nor  sent,  nor  wrote,  nor  show'd  the  least  concern, 
And  she  had  waited  several  years  already ; 

And  really  if  a  man  won't  let  us  know 

That  he 's  alive,  he  's  dead,  or  should  be  so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides,  within  the  Alps,  to  every  woman 
(Althouglr,  God  knows,  it  is  a  grievous  sin), 

'T  is,  i  may  say,  permitted  to  have  two  men ; 
I  can't  tell  who  first  brought  the  custom  in, 

■i^ut  "Cavalier  Serventes"  are  (juite  commcn, 
And  no  one  notices,  nor  cares  a  pin; 

And  we  mav  call  this  (not  to  say  the  worst) 

A  second  maniaae  which  corrupts  the  Jirst. 

XXXVII. 

The  word  was  formerly  a  "Cicisbeo," 

But  that  is  now  grown  vulgar  and  indecent; 

The  Spaniards  call  the  person  a  "  Corteju,''''^ 

For  the  same  mode  subsists  in  Spain,  thougn  recent 

In  short  it  reaches  from  the  Po  to  Teio, 

And  may  perhaps  at  last  be  o'er  the  sea  sent. 

But  Heaven  preserve  Old  England  from  such  coursca 

Or  what  becomes  of  damage  and  divorces? 

XXXVIII. 

However,  I  still  think,  witii  all  due  deference 

To  the  fair  single  part  of  the  creation, 
That  married  ladies  should  preserve  the  preference 

In  t'cte-n-i  te  or  general  conversation — 
And  this  I  say  without  peculiar  reference 

To  England,  France,  or  any  other  nation — 
Because  thcv  know  the  world,  and  are  at  ease, 
And  beini'  natural,  naturally  please. 

XXXIX. 

'T  is  true,  your  budding  Miss  is  very  charming. 
But  shv  and  awkward  at  first  coming  out, 

So  much  alarm'd,  that  she  is  quite  alarming, 

All  giirgle,  blush; — half  pertness,  and  half  pout, 

And  glancing  at  3Iamvia,  for  fear  there's  harm  in 
What  you,  she,  it,  or  they,  may  be  about, 

The  nursery  still  lisps  out  in  all  they  utter — 

Besides,  they  always  smell  of  bread  and  butter. 

XL. 

But  "  Cavalier  Servente"  is  the  phrase 

Used  in  politest  circles  to  exi>res3 
This  supernumerarv  slave,  who  s  ays 

Close  to  the  lady  as  a  part  of  dress. 
Her  word  the  only  law  which  he  obeys. 

His  is  no  sinecure,  as  you  may  guess ; 
Coach,  servants,  gondola,  he  goes  to  call. 
And  carries  fan,  and  tippet,  gloves,  and  shawl. 


836 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XLI. 

With  all  its  sinful  doings,  I  must  say, 

That  Italy's  a  pleasant  place  to  me, 
Who  love  to  see  the  sun  shine  every  day. 

And  vines  (not  nail'd  to  walls)  from  tree  lo  tree 
Festoon'd,  much  hke  the  back  scene  of  a  play, 

Or  melodrame,  which  people  flock  to  sec, 
When  the  first  ac'  is  ended  oy  a  dance 
In  vineyards  copi'jd  from  the  south  of  France. 

XLII. 

1  IiKO  on  Autumn  evenings  to  ride  out, 

Without  being  forced  to  bid  my  groom  be  sure 

My  cloak  is  round  his  middle  strapp'd  about, 
Because  the  skies  are  not  the  most  secure ; 

I  know  too  that,  if  stopi)'d  upon  mv  route, 
Where  the  green  alleys  windmglv  allure, 

Reeling  with  grapes  red  wagons  choke  the  way — 

In  England  'twould  be  dung,  dust,  or  a  dray. 

XLIII. 

I  also  like  to  dine  on  becaficas. 

To  see  the  sun  set,  sure  he'll  rise  to-morrow, 
Not  through  a  misty  morning  twinkling  weak  as 

A  drunken  man's  dead  eye  in  maudlin  sorrow, 
But  with  all  heaven  t'  himself;   that  day  will  break  as 

Beauteous  as  cloudless,  nor  be  forced  to  borrow 
That  sort  of  farthing-cantile  light  which  glimmers 
Where  reekmg  London's  smoky  cauldron  simmers. 

XLIV. 
I  love  the  language,  that  soft  bastard  Latin, 

Which  melts  like  kisses  from  a  female  mouth. 
And  sounds  as  if  it  should  be  writ  on  satin. 

With  syllables  which  breathe  of  the  sweet  south, 
And  gentle  liquids  ghding  all  so  pat  in, 

That  not  a  single  accent  seems  uncouth, 
Like  our  harsh  northern  whistling,  grunting  guttural. 
Which  we  're  obliged  to  hiss,  and  spit   and  sputter  all. 

XLV. 

I  like  the  women  too  (forgive  my  folly). 

From  the  rich  peasant-cheek  of  ruddy  bronze, 

And  large  black  eyes  that  flash  on  vou  a  volley 
Of  rays  that  say  a  thousand  things  at  once, 

To  the  high  dama's  brow,  more  melancholy, 
But  clear,  and  with  a  wild  and  liquid  glance, 

Heart  on  her  hps,  and  soul  within  her  eyes, 

Soft  as  her  clime,  and  sunny  as  her  skies. 

XLVI. 

Eve  of  the  land  which  still  is  Paradise ! 

Italian  beauty  !   didst  thou  not  inspire 
Raphael,*  who  died  in  thy  embrace,  and  vies 

With  all  we  know  of  heaven,  or  can  desire. 
In  what  he  hath  bequeath'd  us? — in  what  guise, 

Though  Hashing  from  the  fervour  of  the  lyre, 
Would  words  describe  thy  past  and  f)resent  glow, 
While  yet  Canova  can  create  below.* 


*  J^ote. 

In  talking  thus,  tho  writer,  moro  especially 

Of  women,  would  be  understood  to  say, 
Jle  speaks  as  a  spectator,  not  otficiaily, 

And  always,  reader,  in  a  modest  way  ; 
Perhaps,  loo,  in  no  very  great  degree  shall  he 

Appear  to  have  oflended  in  this  lay. 
Since,  as  all  know,  without  the  sex,  our  soniietn 

Would  aeeni  unfinish'd  like  their  uiitiiinm'd  honnete. 
(Signed)    Pr inter'' s  Devil. 


XLVll. 

"  England !   with  all  thy  faults  I  love  thee  still, 
J  said  at  Calais,  and  have  not  forgot  it; 

i  like  to  speak  anil  lucubrate  my  fill ; 

I  like  the  government  (but  that  is  not  it); 

I  like  the  ii-eedom  of  the  press  and  quill ; 

I  like  the  Haoeas  Corpus  (when  we've  got  ii)\ 

I  like  a  parhamentary  debate, 

Particularly  when  't  is  not  too  late ; 

XLVIII. 

I  like  the  taxes,  when  they  're  not  too  many ; 

1  like  a  sea-coal  fire,  when  not  too  dear; 
I  like  a  beef-steak,  too,  as  well  as  any ; 

Have  no  objection  to  a  pot  of  beer, 
I  like  the  weather,  when  it  is  not  rainy, 

That  IS,  I  like  two  months  of  every  year. 
And  so  God  save  the  regent,  church,  and  king ! 
Which  means  that  I  like  all  and  every  thing. 

XLIX. 

Our  standing  army,  and  disbanded  seamen, 

Poor's  rate,  reform,  my  own,  the  nation's  debt, 

Our  little  riots  just  to  show  we  're  freemen, 
Our  trifling  bankru|)tc!es  in  the  gazette. 

Our  cloudy  climate,  and  our  chilly  women, 
All  these  I  can  forgive,  and  those  forget, 

And  greatly  venerate  our  recent  glories, 

And  wish  they  were  not  owing  to  the  tories. 


But  to  my  tale  of  Laura, — for  I  find 

Digression  is  a  sin,  that  by  degrees 
Becomes  exceeding  tedious  to  my  mind, 

And,  therefore,  may  the  reader  too  displease— 
The  gentle  reader,  who  may  wax  imkind. 

And,  caring  little  for  the  author's  ease, 
Insist  on  knowing  what  he  means,  a  hard 
And  hapless  situation  for  a  bard. 

LI. 

Oh !   that  I  had  the  art  of  easy  writing 

What  shoidd  be  easy  reading !   could  I  scale 

Parnassus,  vvhere  the  Muses  sit  inditing 
Those  pretty  poems  never  known  to  fail. 

How  quickly  would  I  print  (tlie  world  delighting) 
A  Grecian,  Syrian,  or  Assyrian  tale  ; 

And  sell  you,  mix'd  with  western  sentimentahsm, 

Some  samples  of  the  finest  orientalism. 

LII. 

But  I  am  but  a  nameless  sort  of  person 
(A  broken  dandy  lately  on  mv  travels), 

And  take  for  rhyme,  to  hook  mv  raml)iing  verse  on, 
The  first  that  Walker's  Lexicon  unravels, 

And  when  I  can't  find  that,  I  put  a  worse  on. 
Not  caring  as  I  oui.dit  for  critics'  cavils; 

I  've  half  a  nund  to  fumble  down  to  prose, 

But  verse  is  more  in  fashion — so  here  goes. 

LIII. 

The  Count  and  Laura  made  their  new  an-angemp.iit, 
Which  lasted,  as  arrangements  souK^tinies  do. 

For  half  a  dozen  yf-ars  without  estrangement; 
They  had  th(Mr  little  differences  too  ; 

Those  jealous  whifis,  wliich  never  anv  change  meant 
In  such  affairs  tliere  probably  are  few 

Who  have  not  had  this  pouting  sort  of  s(]uabble, 

From  sinners  of  high  station  to  the  rabble. 


BEPPO. 


S87 


UV. 

But  on  the  whole  they  were  a  happy  pair, 
As  happy  as  unlawful  love  could  make  them ; 

The  irentleman  was  fond,  the  lady  fiiir. 
Their  chains  so  sliglit,  't  was  not  worth  while  to  break 
them: 

Txc  work!  hehcid  them  with  indulgent  air ; 
The  pious  only  wish'd  "the  devil  take  them!" 

H*.'  took  them  not ;   he  very  often  waits. 

And  leaves  old  sinners  to  be  young  ones'  baits. 

LV. 

But  they  were  young:   Oh!   what  without  our  youth 
Would  love  be  ?   What  would  youth  be  without  love  ? 

Vouth  lends  its  joy,  and  sweetness,  vigour,  truth, 
Heart,  soul,  and  all  that  seems  as  from  above ; 

But,  languishing  with  years,  it  grows  uncouth—     . 
One  of  few  things  experience  don't  improve, 

Wnich  is,  perhaps,  the  reason  why  old  fellows 

Are  a.ways  so  preposterously  jealous. 

LVI. 

It  was  the  Carnival,  as  I  have  said 

Some  six-and-thirty  stanzas  back,  and  so 

Laura  the  usual  preparations  made. 

Which  you  do  when  your  mind 's  made  up  to  go 

To-night  to  Mrs.  Boehm's  masquerade, 

Spectator,  or  partaker  in  the  show  ; 
The  only  dilference  known  between  the  cases 

[s — here,  we  have  six  weeks  of  "  varnish'd  faces." 

LVII. 

ua  ira,  when  drest,  was  (as  I  sang  before) 

A.  pretty  woman  as  was  ever  seen, 
Fresh  as  the  angel  o'er  a  new  inn-door, 

Jr  frontispiece  of  a  new  magazine 
SN  ith  all  the  fashions  which  the  ast  month  wore, 

Colour'd,  and  silver  paper  leaved  between 
That  and  the  thle-page,  for  fear  the  press 
Should  soil  with  parts  of  speech  the  parts  of  dress. 

LVIII. 

They  went  to  the  Ridotto  ;— 't  is  a  hall 

Where  people  dance,  and  sup,  and  dance  again; 

Its  proper  name,  perhaps,  were  a  mask'd  ball, 
But  that's  of  no  imi)ortance  to  my  strain ; 

'T  is  (on  a  smaller  scale)  like  our  Vauxhall, 
Excepting  that  it  can't  be  spoilt  by  rain- 

1  lie  company  is  "  mixt"  (the  phrase  I  quote  is, 

As  much  as  saying,  they're  below  your  notice); 

LIX. 

For  a  "mixt  company"  implies,  that,  save 

Yourself  and  friends,  and  half  a  hundred  more, 

Whom  you  may  bow  to  without  looking  grave, 
The  rest  are  but  a  vulgar  set,  the  bore 

Of  public  place?   whore  they  basely  brave 
The  lasnior.aole  stare  of  twenty  score 

Of  well-bred  persons,  called  ''the  world;""  but  I, 

•Vthough  I  know  fhi  m,  rtvally  don't  know  why. 

].X. 

Tl'i?  is  the  case  in  England  ;   at  least  was 

During  the  dynasty  of  dandies,  now 
Perchance  succeeded  by  some  other  class 

Of  imitated  imitators  : — how 
Irreparably  soon  decline,  alas ! 

The  demagogues  of  fashion  :   all  below 
Is  frail ;   how'easily  the  world  is  lost 
By  love,  or  war   and  n    v  and  then  by  frost! 
22 


LXI. 

Crush'd  was  Napoleon  by  the  northern  Thor, 
Who  knock'd  his  army  down  with  icy  liammci-, 

StO[)p'd  by  tlie  elements,  like  a  whaler,  or 

A  blundering  novice  in  his  new  French  gramtnar, 

Good  cause  had  he  to  doubt  the  chance  of  war, 
And  as  for  fortune — but  I  dare  not  d-    n  her, 

Because  were  I  to  |)()nder  to  infinitv. 

The  more  I  should  believe  in  her  divinity. 

LXII. 

She  rules  the  present,  past,  and  all  to  be  yet, 

She  gives  us  luck  in  lotteries,  love,  and  marriage  ^ 

I  cannot  say  that  she  's  done  much  for  me  yet ; 
Not  that  I  mean  her  bounties  to  disparage, 

We've  not  yet  closed  accounts,  and  we  shall  see  yet 
How  much  she  '11  make  ;imends  for  past  miscarriage 

Meantime  the  goddess  I  '11  no  more  importune, 

Unless  to  thank  her  when  she 's  made  my  fortune. 

Lxni. 

To  turn, — and  to  return  ; — the  devil  take  it. 
This  story  slips  for  ever  through  my  fingers, 

Because,  just  as  the  stanza  likes  to  make  it. 
It  needs  must  be — and  so  it  rather  lingers ; 

This  form  of  verse  began,  I  can 't  well  break  it, 
But  must  keep  time  and  tune  like  public  singers 

But  if  I  once  get  through  my  present  measure, 

I  '11  take  another  when  1  'm  next  at  leisure. 

1  LXIV. 

j  They  went  to  the  Ridotto — 't  is  a  place 

I  To  which  I  mean  to  go  myself  to-morrow, 

I  Just  to  divert  mv  thoughts  a  little  space, 

I  Because  I'm  rather  hippish,  and  may  borrow 

I  Some  spirits,  guessing  at  what  kind  of  face 

I  May  lurk  beneath  each  mask,  and  as  my  .-iorTOW 

Slackens  its  pace  sometimes,  I  '11  make,  or  fina 

:  Something  shall  leave  it  half  an  hour  behind. 

I  LXV. 

Now  Laura  moves  along  the  joyous  crowd. 

Smiles  in  her  eyes,  and  simpers  on  her  lips ; 
To  some  she  whispers,  others  speaks  aloud  : 

To  some  she  curtsies,  and  to  some  she  dips, 
Complains  of  warmth,  and  this  complaint  avow'd, 

Her  lover  brings  the  lemonade, — she  sips; 
She  then  surveys,  condemns,  but  pities  still 
Her  dearest  friends  for  being  drest  so  ill. 

LXVL 

One  has  false  curls,  another  '>oo  much  paint, 

A  third— where  did  she  buy  that  frightful  turban 

A  fourth's  so  pale  she  fears  she  's  going  to  faint, 
A  fifth's  look 's  vulgar,  dowdyish,  and  suburban, 

A  sixth's  white  silk  has  got  a  yellow  taint, 

A  seventh's  thin  muslin  surely  will  be  her  banc, 

And  lo  !   an  eighth  appears, — "  I  '11  see  no  more  !" 

For  fear,  like  Bancpio's  kings,  they  reach  a  score. 

!  LXVIl. 

Meantime,  while  she  was  thus  at  others  garing. 

Others  were  levelling  their  looks  at  her; 
She  heard  the  men's  half-whisper'd  mo(re  of  pratsmg, 

And,  till  't  was  done,  determined  not  to  stir ; 
The  women  onlv  thought  it  quite  amazing 

That  at  her  time  of  life  so  many  were 
Admirers  still, — but  men  are  so  di^based, 
Those  brazen  creatures  always  suit  their  taolc 


sz» 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LXVIII. 

For  »r>*  nart,  now,  I  ne'er  could  urKlcrstand 
W.I}  naug'nty  women but  I  won't  discuss 

A  thi.i;^  which  is  a  scnndal  to  the  land, 
I  only  don't  see  why  it  should  he  thus  ; 

And  if  I  were  but  in  a  iTO\vn  and  band, 
Just  to  entitle  me  to  make  a  fuss, 

I'd  yjreach  on  this  till  VVilherforce  and  Romilly 

Should  (juote  m  their  next  sjjeeches  from  my  hwnily. 

LXIX. 

While  Laura  thus  was  seen  and  seeintj,  sniilincr^ 
Tall<in<i,  she  knew  not  why  and  car<;d  not  whai, 

So  that  h(!r  female  ti-iends,  with  envy  broiling, 
Beheld  her  airs  and  triumph,  and  all  that ; 

And  well-drest  males  still  kept  before  her  filing, 
And  passing  bow'd  and  mingled  with 'her  chat ; 

More  than  the  rest  one  person  seem'd  to  stare 

With  pertinacity  that 's  rather  rare. 

LXX. 

He  was  a  Turk,  the  colour  of  mahogany ; 

And  Laura  saw  him,  and  at  first  was  glad, 
Because  the  Turks  so  much  admire  philogyny, 

Although  their  usage  of  their  wives  is  sad  ; 
'T  is  said  they  us'j  no  better  than  a  dog  any 

Poor  woman,  whom  they  purchase  like  a  pad : 
Thev  have  a  number,  though  they  ne'er  exhibit  'em, 
Four  wives  by  law,  and  concubines  "ad  libitum." 

LXXL 

They  lock  them  up,  and  veil,  and  guard  them  daily, 
They  scarcely  can  behoid  their  male  relations. 

So  that  their  moments  do  not  pass  so  gaily 

As  is  supposed  the  case  with  northern  nations; 

Confinement,  too,  must  make  them  look  quite  palely  ; 
And  as  the  Turks  abhor  long  conversations. 

Their  days  are  either  pass'd  m  doing  nothing. 

Or  bathing,  nursing,  making  love,  and  clothing. 

LXXIL 

rhey  cannot  read,  and  so  don't  lisp  in  criticism ; 

Nor  write,  and  so  they  don't  affect  the  muse  ; 
Were  never  caught  in  epigram  or  witti'-ism, 

[lave  no  romances,  sermons,  plays,  reviews, — 
In  harams  learning  soon  would  make  a  pretty  schism  ' 

But  luckily  these  beauties  are  no  "blues," 
No  bustling  Botherbys  have  they  to  show  'em 
"  That  charming  passage  in  the  last  new  poem." 

LXXIIL 

No  solemn,  antique  gentleman  of  rhyme, 
Who  having  angled  all  his  life  for  fame, 

And  i^cttuig  but  a  nibble  at  a  time, 
Still  fussilv  keeps  fishing  on,  the  same 

Soiall  "  Triton  of  the  minnows,"  the  sublime 
Of  mediocrity,  the  furious  tame, 

The  echo's  echo,  usher  of  the  school 

Ol  fetnale  wits,  boy-bards — in  short,  a  fool ! 

LXXIV. 

A  flla/kiuL'  oracle  of  awfiil  phrase, 

'I'iit;  approving:  "  (rnofl .'"  (by  no  means  go  id  in  law) 
ll>imriiing'lik(»flies  around  the  newest  blaze, 

'I'hc  l)lu<'sl  of  bluebottl(;s  you  e'<!r  saw, 
'r<',asin<,'  with  hlamt!,  <;xcru('iating  with  praise, 

(jfirginiT  the  little  fame  he  g(!ts  all  raw, 
I'ranslating  tongues  he  know  s  n  >l  eviMi  by  lett(;r. 
■\tul  swraMng  nlays  so  middling    \v\d  were  better. 


LXXV. 

One  hates  an  author,  that's  all  author^  feUowa 
In  foolscap  uniforms  turn'd  up  with  mk. 

So  very  anxious,  clever    fine,  and  jealous, 
One  don't  know  what  to  say  to  them,  or  think 

Unless  to  putf  them  with  a  pair  of  bellows; 
Of  coxcombry's  w'orst  coxcombs  e'en  the  pmk 

Are  preferable  to  these  shreds  of  paper, 

These  unquench'd  snutliugs  of  the  midnight  'apcr. 

LXXVL 

Of  these  same  we  see  several,  and  of  others. 
Men  of  the  woi-ld,  who  know  the  world  like  men, 

S — tt,  R .-.,  M — re,  and  all  the  better  brothers, 

Who  think  of  something  else  besides  the  pen; 

But  for  the  children  of  the  "mighty  mother's," 
The  would-be  wits  and  can't-be  gentlemen, 

I  leave  them  to  their  daily  "tea  is  ready," 

Snug  coterie,  and  literary  lady. 

LXXVTL 

The  poor  deai  Mussulwomen  whom  I  mention 
Have  none  of  these  instructive  pleasant  people 

And  one  would  seem  to  them  a  new  ir>',  tntion. 
Unknown  as  bells  within  a  Turkish  steeple; 

I  think  'twould  almost  be  worth  while  lO  pension 
(Though  best-so'vn  in-ojects  very  often  reap  il!) 

A  missionary  author,  just  to  pn>,nch 

Our  Christian  usage  of  the  jiarts  of  speech, 

LXXVIH. 

No  chemistry  for  them  unfoMs  her  gasses, 
No  metaphysics  are  let  loose  in  lec'Jireg, 

No  circulating  library  amasses 

Religious  novels,  moral  tales,  and  stricl'.ires 

Upon  the  living  manners  as  they  pass  us; 
No  exhibition  glares  with  annual  pictures  ; 

They  stare  not  on  the  stars  from  out  their  attics, 

Nftr  deal  (thank  God  for  that ! )  in  mathematics. 

LXXIX. 

Why  I  tb.ank  God  for  thai  is  no  great  matter, 
I  have  my  reasons,  you  no  doubt  suppose, 

And  as,  perha|)s,  they  would  not  highly  flatter, 
I'll  keep  them  for  my  life  (to  come)  in  prose  ; 

I  fear  I  have  a  little  turn  for  satire, 

And  yet  melhinks  the  older  that  one  grows 

Inclines  us  more  to  laugh  than  scold,  though  laughter 

Leaves  us  so  doubly  serious  shortly  after. 

LXXX. 

Oh,  mirth  and  innocence  !   Oh,  milk  and  water! 

Ye  hai>py  mixtures  of  more  happy  days! 
In  these  sad  centuries  <■{'  sin  and  slaughter. 

Abominable  man  no  more  allays 
His  thirst  with  such  pure  beverage.      No  matter, 

I  love  you  both,  and  both  shall  have  my  praise: 
Oh,  f^>r  old  Saturn's  reicrn  of  stigar-candy !  — 
Meantime  I  drink  to  your  return  in  brandy. 

LXXXI. 

Our  T^aura's  Turk  still  kept  his  eyes  iqiop  ner, 
Less  in  the  Mussulman  than  Chrisiiar  way, 

Whicli  seems  to  say,   "Madam,  I  do  you  honojr, 
And  while  I  please  to  stare,  you  'II   |)lease  to  stay  ; 

Could  staring  win  a  woman  this  had  won  her. 
But  Laura  could  not  thus  be  ien  astray, 

Sn(!  hail  stood  fire  too  long  and  well  to  boggle 

Lven  at  this  stranger's  most  outlandish  ogle. 


BE  pro. 


!39 


J,XXXII. 

The  ii.oniii)^  now  was  on  tlie  point  of  breaking, 
A  tnrn  of  tnne  at  wnicli  I  would  a(ivise 

Ladies  who  have  beer  daiicin*^,  or  partaking 
111  at_\  oilier  kind  of  exercise, 

'IV:  nial<e    heir  j)re'iarafioii.s  liir  forsaking 
Tli<3  ball-r^om  ere  the  sun  hci^ins  to  rise, 

Because  wlien  onee  the  lamps  and  candles  fail, 

His  blushes  make  tliein  look  a  lillle   pale. 

LXXXIII. 
I've  seen  some  balls  and  revels  in  my  time, 

And  staid  them  over  for  some  sillv  reason 
And  then  I  look'd  (T  hope  it  was  no  crime), 

1  o  see  what  lady  best  stood  out  the  season ; 
And  tiioiiah  I  've  seen  some  thousands  in  their  prime, 

Lovely  ;.nd  pleasin^j,  ant]  who  still  may  please  on, 
I  rever  saw  but  one  (the  stars  withdrawn), 
VVho;=e  bloom  could  after  dancing  dare  the  dawn. 

LXXXIV. 

rhv>  name  of  this  Aurora  I  '11  not  mention, 
Although  I  might,  for  she  was  nought  to  me 

More  than  that  patent  work  of  God's  invention, 
A  charming  woman,  w  iioin  we  like  to  see ; 

But  writing  names  would  merit  rejirehension, 
Yet,  if  you  like  to  find  out  this  fair  she, 

At  the  next  London  or  Parisian  ball 

k'ou  still  may  mark  her  cheek,  out-blooming  all. 

LXXXV. 

Laura,  who  knew  it  would  not  do  at  all 
To  mept  the  day-light  after  seven  hours'  sitting 

Anions  three  thousand  people  at  a  ball. 

To  make  her  curtsy  thouL'ht  it  ri^ht  and  fitting ; 

The  count  was  at  her  elbow  with  her  shawl, 

And  they  the  room  were  on  the  point  of  quitting, 

When  lo !   those  cursed  gondoliers  had  got 

Just  in  the  ver_\  place  where  they  should  not, 


LXXXIX. 

That  lady  is  //;//  wife  /"    Mucti  wonder  paints 
The  lady's  ciiaiiginii  cheek,  as  well  it  might, 

!    But  where  an  Enjilishwoman  sometimes  faints, 

j        Italian  females  don  't  do  so  outright ; 

j    Th(;y  only  call  a  little  on  their  saints, 

[        And  then  come  to  tlunnselves,  almost  or  f,nitc ; 
Which  saves  much  hartshorn,  salts,  and  sprinkling  faces 
And  cutting  stays,  as  usual  in  such  cases. 

XC. 

She  said — what  could  she  say  ?  Wnv,  not  a  wora: 

Hut  the  count  courfeouslv  invited  in 
The  stranger,  much  ap|)eased  by  what  he  heard: 

"  Such  things  [lerhaps  we  'd  best  discuss  withia 
Said  ho  ;    "  don't  let  us  make  ourselves  absurd 

In  punic,  by  a  scene,  nor  raise  a  din, 
For  then  the  chief  and  onlv  satisfaction 
Will  be  much  quizzing  on  the  whole  transaction." 

XCI. 

They  enter'd,  and  for  coffee  call'd, — it  came, 
A  beverage  for  Turks  and  Cliristians  both, 

Althounh  the  way  they  make  it 's  not  the  same. 
Now  Laura,  much  recover'd,  or  less  loth 

To  speak,  cries,   "  Befipo  !   what 's  your  pagan  name? 
Bless  me  !   your  b(>ard  is  of  amazing  growth ! 

And  how  came  you  to  keep,  away  so  long  ? 

Are  you  not  sensible  'twas  very  wrong'/ 

XCII. 

"  And  are  you  really,  trid;/,  riow  a  Turk  .' 

With  any  other  women  did  you  wive? 
Is't  true  they  use  their  finirers  for  a  fork  ? 

Well,  that's  the  pretti(ist  shawl-^-as  I'm  alive. 
You  '11  give  it  me  ?  They  say  you  eat  no  pork. 

And  how  so  many  years  did  vou  contrive 

To Hless  ine  !   diu  I  ever  ?  No,  1  never 

Saw  a  man  grown  so  yellow  !   How  's  voar  liver? 


LXXXVI. 

In  this  they  're  like  our  coachmen,  and  the  cause 
Is  much  the  same — the  crowd,  and  pulling,  hauling, 

With  blasphemies  enough  to  break  their  jaws, 
They  make  a  never-intermitted  bawling. 

At  home,  our  Bow-street  gemmen  keep  the  laws. 
And  here  a  sentry  stands  within  your  calling ; 

But,  for  all  that,  there  is  a  deal  of  swearing, 

And  nauseous  words  past  mentioning  or  bearing. 


I  XCIII. 

"  Beppo  !  that  beard  of  yours  becomes  you  not , 

It  shall  be  shaved  before  you're  a  day  older: 
Why  do  you  wear  it  ?   Oh  !   I  had  f(trgot — 

Pray,  don't  you  think  the  weather  here  is  cdder? 
How  do  I  look?   you  sha'n't  stir  from  this  sjiot 
I       In  that  queer  dress,  for  fear  that  some  beholder 
Should  find  you  out,  and  make  the  story  known. 
How  short  your  hair  is  !   Lord  !   how  gray  it 's  grown ! 


LXXXVII. 

The  count  and  Laura  found  their  boat  at  last, 
And  homeward  floated  o'er  the  silent  tide. 

Discussing  aP.  the  dances  gone  and  past  ; 
The  dancers  and  their  dresses,  loo,  beside; 

Some  little  scandal  eke :   but  all  aghast 

(As  to  their  [lalace-.-^tairs  the  rowers  glide), 

Sate  Laura  by  the  side  of  her  adorer. 

When  k  !   the  Mussulman  was  there  nefore  her. 

LXXXVIII. 

■*  Sir,"  said  the  count,  with  brow  exceeding  grave, 
"  Your  unexpected  [iresence  here  will  make 

(t  necessary  for  myself  to  crave 
Its  import !    But  perhaps  't  is  a  mistake  ; 

I  hone  it  is  so ;   ana  at  once  to  waive 

All  compliment,      lope  so  for  your  sake  ; 

Vou  understana  my  meaning,  or  you  .s/im//." 

■'Sir,  ■  (uviotl,  the  Turk)    "'tis  no  mistake  at  all. 


XCIV. 

What  answer  Beppo  made  to  these  demands. 
Is  more  than  I  know.     He  was  cast  away 

About  where  Tioy  stood  once,  and  nothing  stands. 
Became  a  slave,  of  course,  and  for  his  pay 

Had  bread  and  bastinado(!s,  till  some  bands 
Of  pirates  landing  in  a  neighbouring  bay. 

He  join'd  the  rogues  and  prosper'd,  and  becarn« 

A  renegado  of  inditlerent  fame. 

XCV. 

But  he  grew  rich,  and  with  his  riches  grew  so 
Keen  the  oesire  to  see  his  home  again, 

He  thought  himself  in  duty  bound  to  do  so. 
And  not  be  always  thieving  on  the  main ; 

Lonely  he  felt,  at  times,  as  Robin  Crusoe  • 
And  so  he  hired  a  vessel  come  from  Spain, 

Bound  for  Corfu  ;   she  was  a  fine  polacca, 

Mami'd  with  twelve  hands,  and   laden  witlj  toliacco, 


S4e 


r>YKON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XCVI. 

Himself  arm  much  (Heaven  knows  how  gotten)  cash, 
He  then  embark'd  with  risk  of  life  and  limb, 

And  got  clear  oflf,  although  the  attemi)t  was  rash ; 
He  said  that  Providence  protected  him — 

For  my  part,  I  say  nothing,  lest  we  clash 
In  our  opinions : — well,  the  ship  was  trim, 

Set  sail,  and  kept  her  reckorang  fairly  on, 

Excepl  three  days  of  calm  when  off  Cape  Bonn. 

XCVII. 

ney  reach'd  the  island,  he  transferr'd  his  lading, 

And  self  and  live-stock,  to  another  bottom. 
And  pass'd  for  a  true  Turkey-merchant,  trading 

With  goods  of  various  names,  but  I  've  forgot  'em. 
However,  he  got  off  by  this  evading. 

Or  else  the  people  would  perhaps  have  shot  him  ; 
And  thus  at  Venice  landed  to  reclaim 
His  wife,  religion,  house,  and  Christian  name. 

XCVI  II. 
His  wife  received,  the  patriarch  re-baptized  him, 

(He  made  the  church  a  present  by  the  way); 
He  tlu;n  threw  off  the  garments  which  disguised  him. 

And  borrow'd  the  count's  stiiall-clothes  for  a  day  ; 
His  friends  tlie  more  for  his  long  absence  prized  him, 

Finding  he  'd  wherewithal  to  make  them  gay, 
With  dinners,  where  he  oft  became  the  laugh  of  them, 
For  stories, — but  /  don't  believe  the  half  of  them. 

XCIX. 

Whalc'er  his  youth  had  suffer'd,  his  old  age 

With  weahh  and  talking  made  him  some  amends  ; 

I'liough  Laura  sometimes  put  him  in  a  rage, 
I  've  heard  the  count  and  he  wi;re  always  friends. 

iVIy  pen  is  at  th3  bottom  of  a  page. 

Which  beins  tinish'd,  here  the  story  ends  ; 

^  is  to  be  wish'd  it  had  been  sooner  done. 

But  stories  somehow  lengthen  when  be^un. 


NOTES 


Note  1.   Stanza  xiv,  line  8. 
Like  the  lost  Pleiad  seen  no  more  below 
"  (iusB  septern  dici  sex  taincn  esse  s 


i)!ont.' 


Ovid. 


Note  2.   Stanza  xxv,  line  8. 
His  name  Giuseppe,  call'd  more  briefly,  Beppo. 
Beppo  is  the  Joe  of  the  Italian  Joseph, 

Note  3.  Stanza  xxxvii,  line  3. 
The  Spaniards  call  the  person  a  "("ortejo." 
"Cortejo"  is  pronounced  "  Corte/io,"  with  an  as- 
pirate, according  to  the  Arabesque  guttural.  It  means 
what  there  is  as  yet  no  precise  name  for  in  England, 
though  the  [iractice  is  as  coiiunon  as  in  any  tramontane 
countr)  whatever. 

Note  4,   Stanza  xlvi,  line  3. 
Kaphael,  who  died  in     "y  eir.brac.o,  >»ni1  vies. 
For  the  received  accounts    f  the  cause  of  Raphael's 
oath,  see  his  Lives- 


J«a?ci)»a. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


"  Celui  qui  remplissait  alors  cette  place  elo't  un 
gentilhomme  Polonais,  nomine  Mazeppa,  ne  dans  e 
palatinat  de  Pauolie  ;  il  avait  ete  eleve  page  de  Jean 
Casimir,  et  avait  pris  a  sa  cour  queique  temture  des 
belles-lettres.  Une  intrigue  qu'il  eut  dans  sa  jeunesse 
avec  la  femme  d'un  geivilhomme  Polonais,  aya.it  ete 
decouverte,  le  mari  le  fit  lier  tout  nu  sur  un  chev?' 
farouche,  et  le  laissa  aller  en  cet  etat.  Le  cheval,  qu' 
etait  du  pays  de  TUkraine,  y  retourna,  et  y  porta  Ma 
zeppa,  demi-niort  de  fatigue  et  de  faiin.  Quelque% 
paysans  le  secoururent :  il  resta  long-temps  parmi  eux, 
et  se  signala  dans  plusieurs  courses  contre  les  Tartares. 
La  superiorite  de  ses  lumieres  lui  donna  une  grande 
consideration  parmi  les  Cosaques  :  sa  reputation  s'aug- 
mentant  de  jour  en  jour,  obligea  le  Czar  a  le  faire 
Prince  de  I'Ukraine." 

Voltaire,  Ilisioire  de  Charle/i  XII .  p.  19fi. 

*'  I^e  roi  fuyant  et  poursuivi  eut  son  cheval  tue  sous 
lui ;  le  Colonel  Gieta,  blesse,  et  perdant  tout  son  sang, 
lui  donna  le  sien.  Ainsi  on  remit  deux  fois  a  cheval,  dans 
la  f  lite,  ce  conqilerant  qui  n'avait  pu  y  -^^onter  pen- 
dant la  batal!/e." 

Voltaire,  Histoire  de  Charles  XII.  p.  216. 

"  Le  roi  alia  par  un  autre  chemin  avec  quelques  cav- 
aliers. Le  caiTosse  ou  il  etait  rom])it  dans  la  niarche; 
on  le  remit  a  cheval.  Pour  comble  de  disgrace,  il 
s'egara  pendant  la  nuit  dans  un  bois;  la,  son  courage 
ne  pouvant  plus  suppleer  a  ses  forces  epuisces,  les  dou- 
leurs  de  sa  blessure  devenues  plus  iiisu[>[)ortables  pi  r 
la  fatigue,  son  cheval  etant  tonibe  de  lassitude,  il  se 
concha  (pielcjues  heures,  au  pied  d'un  arhre,  en  danger 
d'etre  surpris  a  tout  moment  par  les  vainqueurs  qui  le 
cherchaient  de  tons  cotes." 

Voltaire,  Histoire  de  Charles  XII.  p.  218 


MAZEPPA. 


I. 

'T  WAS  after  dread  Pultowa's  day. 

When  fortune  left  the  royal  Swede, 
Around  a  slaughter'd  ariiu'  lay. 

No  more  to  combat  and  to  bleed. 
The  power  and  glory  of  the  war, 

Faithless  as  their  vain  votaries,  men. 
Had  pass'd  to  the  triumphant  Czar 

And  Moscow's  walls  were  safe  :.gain. 
Until  a  day  more  dark  and  drear. 
And  a  more  memorable  year. 
Should  give  to  slaughter  and  to  shame 
A  mightier  host  and  haughtier  name ; 
A   greater  wreck,  a  deeper  fall, 
A  shock  to  one — a  thunderbolt  to  all. 

11. 

Such  was  the  hazard  of  the  die  ; 
The  wounded  Charles  was  taught  to  fly 
By  day  and  i;ight,  through  ti<'ld  and  flood 
Stain'd  with  his  own  and  suh'"cts'  blood  , 


M  A  Z  E  P  P  A. 


.•'>4I 


Foi"  thousimJ?  fi  11  that  Higlu  to  aid : 

And  not  a  voice  was  heard  to  upbraid 

Ambition  in  his  humbled  hour, 

When  truth  had  nought  to  dread  from  power. 

Hif  horse  was  slam,  and  Gieta  gave 

His  own — and  died  the  Russians'  slave. 

This  loo  sinks  after  many  a  league 

Ol   well-sustainM,  but  vain  fatigue  ; 

Aitd  ui  the  depth  of  forests,  darkling 

The  watch-fires  in  the  distance  sparkling  — 

The  beacons  of  surrounding  foes — 
A  king  must  lay  his  limbs  at  length. 

Are  :Kese  the  laurels  and  repose 
For  which   he  nations  strain  their  strengtii? 
Thev  laid  hmi  by  a   savage  tree, 
In  out-worn  nature's  agony  ; 
His  wounds  were  stiff — his  limbs  were  starkr- 
The  lieavy  nour  was  chill  and  dark  ; 
The  fever  in  his  blood  forbade 
A  transient  slumber's  fitful  aid  : 
And  thus  it  was  ;   but  yet  through  all, 
King-like  the  monarch  bore  his  fall, 
And  made,  in  this  extreme  of  ill, 
His  pangs  the  vassals  of  his  will ; 
All  silent  and  subdued  were  they, 
As  once  the  nations  round  him  lay. 

IH. 
A  band  of  chiefs  ! — alas  !   how  few, 

Since  but  the  fleeting  of  a  day 
Had  thinu'd   it ;   but  this  wreck  was  true 

And  chivalrous  ;   upon  the  clay 
Each  sate  him  down,  all  sad  and  mute, 

Beside  his  monarch  and  his  stee^. 
For  danger  levels  man  and  brute. 

And  all  are  fellows  in  their  need. 
Among  the  rest,  Mazeppa  made 
His  pillow  in  an  old  oak's  shade — 
Himself  as  rough,  and  scarce  less  old. 
The  Ukraine's  helman,  calm  and  bold  ; 
But  first,  outspent  with  this  long  course. 
The  Cossack  prince  rubb'd  down  his  horse. 
And  made  for  him  a  leafy  bed, 

And  smoolh'd  his  fetlocks  and  his  mane. 

And  slack'd  his  girth,  and  stripp'd  his  rein. 
And  joy'd  to  see  how  well  he  fed  ; 
For  until  now  he  had  the  dread 
His  wearied  courser  might  refuse 
To  browse  beueath  the  midnight  dews : 
But  he  was  hardy  as  his  lord, 
And  little  cared  for  bed  and  board ; 
But  s|)irilcd  and  docile  too, 
Whate'er  was  to  be  done,  would  do; 
Shaggy  and  swift,  and  strong  of  limb, 
All  Tartar-like  he  carried  him  ; 
Obey'd  his  voicfc,  and  came  to  call, 
And  knew  him  in  the  midst  of  all: 
Though  thousands  were  around, — and  night. 
Without  a  star,  pursued  her  flight, — 
That  steed  from  sunset  until  dawn 
His  chief  would  folkvv  like  a  fawn. 

IV. 
This  done,  Mazepjia  spread  his  cloak, 
And  laid  his  lance  beneath  his  oak, 
Fell  if  his  arms  in  order  good 
The  long  day's  march  had  well  withstood — 
If  still  the  powder  fiU'd  the  pan. 

And  flints  unloosen'd  kept  their  lock — 
His  salire's  hilt  and  sc  sbbard  felt, 
And  whether  they  had  chafed  his  belt — 
And  next  the  venerable  man, 
Ftum  out  his  haversack  anc^  can. 


Prejiared  and  spread  his  slender  itock ; 
And  to  the  monarch  and  his  men 
The  whole  or  portion  ofTer'd  then, 
VVith  far  less  of  inquietude 
Than  courtiers  at  a  bancjuet  would. 
And  Charles  of  this  his  slender  share 
With  smiles  partook  a  moment  there, 
To  force  of  cheer  a  greater  show, 
And  seem  above  both  wounds  and  woe  ;— 
And  then  he  said — "  Of  all  our  band, 
Thougii  firm  of  heart  and  strong  of  hand, 
In  skirmish,  march,  or  forage,  none 
Can  less  have  said,  or  more  have  done. 
Than  thee,  JVIazeppa!   On  the  earth 
So  fit  a  pair  had  never  birth, 
Since  Alexander's  days  till  now. 
As  thy  Bucephalus  and  thou  : 
All  Scythia's  fame  to  thine  should  yield 
For  pricking  on  o'er  flood  and  field." 
Mazeppa  answer' d — "111  betide 
The  school  wherein  I  learn'd  to  ride  !" 
Quoth  Charles — "Old  hetman,  wherefore  so 
Since  thou  hast  learn'd  the  art  so  well?" 
Mazeppa  said — "  'T  were  long  to  tell ; 
And  we  have  many  a  league  to  go 
W^ilh  every  rww  and  then  a  blow. 
And  ten  to  one  at  least  the  foe, 
Before  our  steeds  may  graze  at  ease 
Beyond  the  swift  Borysthenes  : 
And,  sire,  your  limbs  have  need  of  rest, 

And  I  will  be  the  sentinel 
Of  this  your  troo[)." — "  But  I  request," 
Safd  Sweden's  monarch,   "thou  wilt  teU 
This  tale  of  thine,  and  I  may  reap 
Perchance  from  this  the  boon  of  sleep  j 
For  at  this  moment  from  iny  eyes 
The  hope  of  present  slumber  flies." 

"  Well,  sire,  with  such  a  hope,  I  '11  track 
My  seventy  years  of  memory  back  : 
I  think  't  was  in  my  twentieth  spring, — 
Av,  'twas, — when  Casimir  was  king — 
John  Casimir, — I  was  his  page 
Six  summers  m  my  earlier  age  ; 
A  learned  monarch,  faith  !   was  he. 
And  most  unlike  your  majesty : 
He  made  no  wars,  and  did  not  gain 
New  realms  to  lose  them  back  again ; 
And  (save  debates  in  Warsaw's  diet) 
He  reisn'd  in  most  unseemly  quiet ; 
Not  that  he  had  no  cares  to  vex, 
He  loved  the  muses  and  the  sex ; 
And  sometimes  these  so  froward  are. 
They  made  him  wisli  himself  at  war ; 
But  soon  his  wrath  being  o'er,  he  took 
Another  mistress,  or  new  book  : 
And  then  he  gave  prodigious  fetes — 
All  Warsaw  gather'd  round  his  gates 
To  gaze  upon  his  splendid  court, 
And  dames,  and  chiefs,  of  princely  port . 
He  was  the  Polish  Solomon, 
So  sung  his  poets,  all  but  one, 
Who,  being  unpension'd,  made  a  satire. 
And  boasted  that  he  could  not  flatter. 
It  was  a  court  of  jousts  and  mimes, 
Where  every  courtier  tried  at  rhymes , 
Even  I  for  once  produced  some  verses. 
And  sign'd  my  odes,  Despairing  Thirsisu 
There  was  a  certain  Palatine, 
A  count  of  far  and  high  descent, 


342 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WOTIKS. 


Rich  as  a  salt  or  silver  mine  ; ' 
And  he  was  proua,  ye  may  divine, 

As  if  from  heaven  he  had  been  sent : 
He  had  such  wealth  in  blood  and  ore, 

As  few  could  match  beneath  the  throne ; 
And  he  would  gaze  upon  his  store, 
And  o'er  his  pedigree  woiild  pore, 
Until  by  some  confusion  led, 
Which  almost  look'd  like  want  of  head,     - 

He  thought  their'  merits  were  his  own. 
His  wife  was  not  of  his  opmion — 

His  junior  she  by  thirty  years — 
(jirew  daily  tired  of  his  dominion  ; 

And,  after  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears, 

To  virtue  a  few  farewell  tears, 
A  restless  dream  or  two,  some  glances 
At  Warsaw's'youth,  some  songs,  and  dances. 
Awaited  but. the  usual  chances. 
Those  happy  accidents  which  render 
The  coldest  dames  so  very  tender. 
To  deck  her  count  with  titles  given, 
'T  is  said,  as  passports  into  heaven  ; 
But,  strange  to  say,  they  rarely  boast 
Of  these  who  have  deserved  them  most. 

V. 

*'  I  was  a  goodly  stripling  then  ;    ' 

At  seventy  years  I  so  may  say. 
That  there  were  lew.  or  boys  or  men, 

Who,  in  my  dawning  time  of  day, 
Of  vassal  or  of  knight's  degree. 
Could  vie  in  vanities  with  me  ; 
For  I  had  strength,  youth,  gaiety, 
A  porf  not  like  to  this  ye  see. 
But  smooth','  as  all  is  rugged  now  ; , 

J\)r  time,  and  care,  and  war,  have  plough'd 
My  very  soul  frorn  out  my  brow; 

Aiid  thus  I  should  be  disavow'd 
By  all, my  kind  and  kin,  could  they 
Com(»are  my  day  ani'  yesterday  ; 
This  change  was  wjught,  too,  long  ere  age 
Had,  ta'eii  my  featv-  es  for  his  page  : 
With  years,  we  k/iow,  have  not  declined 
My  strength,  my  courage,  or  my  mind, 
Or  at  this  hour  I  should  not  be 
Telling  old  tales  beneath  a  tree, 
With  starless  skies  my  canopy. 

But  let  me  on  :   Theresa's  form — 
Methinks  it  glides  before  me  now, 
Between  me'  and  yon  chesnut's  bough, 

The  memory  is  so  quick  and  warm ; 
And  yet  I  find'no  words  to  tell 
The  shape  of  her  I  loved  so  well : 
She  had  the  Asiatic  e^j^. 

Such  as  our  Turkish  neighbourhood 

Hath  mingled  with  oiir  Polish  blood, 
Dark  as  above  'us  is  the  sky  ; 
But  through  it  stole  a  tender  light. 
Like  the  first  moonrise  at  midnight ; 
Large,  dark,  and  swimming  in  the  stream. 
Which  seem'd  to  melt  to  its  own  beam; 
All  love,  half  languor,  and  half  fire. 
Like  saints  that  at  the  stake  expire. 
And  lift  their  rapture<l  looks  on  high, 
As  though  it  were  a  joy  to  die. 
A  brow  like  a  midsummer  lak(!. 

Transparent  with  the  sun  therein, 


\  This  comparison  of  a  "  salt  minn  "  may  perhaps  be  pcr- 
aiilted  to  a  Polo,  as  thu  wealth  of  U»e  country  consibts  groutly 
m  ll)c  8di.'  mlneH 


When  waves  no  murmur  dare  to  niakp^ 
And  heaven  beholds  her  face  wiihm. 

A  cheek  and  lip — but  why  proceed  ? 
I  loved  her  then — I  love  her  stiD  ; 

And  such  as  i  am,  love  indeed 

.   In  fierce, extremes — in  good  and  il«  ,  <,  ■.,    ^- 

But  still  we  love  eyen  in  our  rage,   ^ 

And  haunted  to  our  very  a^e, 

With  the  vain  shadow  of  ihe  past. 

As  IS  Mazeppa  to  the  last.       ' 

,    .Vl\   ,  ';.    ,      * 

♦'  We  met — -we  gar.ed — 1  saw,  and  sigh'c, 
She  did  nT)t  spea^k,  and  yet  replied  ; 
There  are  ten  thousand  tones  and  signs 
We  hear  and  see,  but  ncme  defines —       . 
Involuntary'  sparks  of  thought,  ■   ' 

Which  strike;  from  out  the  heart  o'erwroughi, 
And  form  a  strange  intelligence. 
Alike  mysteriolisaiid  intense. 
Which  jink  the  biirning.  chain  that  binds, 
Without  tjieir  will,  young  hearts  and  minds; 
Conveying,  as'the  electric  wire,  '  -     •     :■ 

We  know  not  how,  the  absorbing  fire.—    • 
I  saw,  and  sigh'd— in  silence  wept. 
And  still  reluctant  distance  kept. 
Until  I  was  made  J<nown  to  her. 
And  we  might  then  and  there  confer.    .     ..    ; 
Without  suspicion — then,  even  then, 

I  loiig'd,  and  was  resolved  to  speak         ^ 
But  on  my  lips  they  died  again. 

The  accents  tremulous  and  weak,-         '•     ' 
Until  one  hour. — There  is  a  game, 
A  frivolous  and  foolisn  jilay. 
Wherewith  we  while  away  the  day ;  . 
It  is — I  have  forgot  the  name— 
And  we  to  this,  it  seems,  were -set, 
By  some  strange  chance,  which  I  forgei' 
I  reck'd  not  if  I  won  or  lost,    > 
It  was  enough  for  me  to  be 
So  near  to  hear,  and  oli^l  to  see 
The  being  whom  I  loved  the  most. — 
I  watch'd  her  as  a  sentinel, 
(May  ours  this  dark  night  watch  as  well!) 

Until  I  saw,  and  thus  it  was. 
That  she  was  pensive,  nor  perceived 
Her  occu[)ation,  nor  was  grieved- 
Nor  glad  to  lose  or  gain  ;   but  still' 
Play'd  on  for  hours,  as  if  her  will 
Vet  bound  her  to  the  place,  though  not 
That  hers  might  be  the  winning  lot. 

Then  through  my  brain  the  thought  did  pas 
Even  as  a  flash  of  lightning  there. 
That  there  was  something  in  her  air 
Which  would  not  doom  me  to  despair ; 
And  on  the  tnought  my  words  broke  forth, 

All  incoherent  aa  rhey  were — 
Their  eloquence  was  little  worth. 
But  yet  she  listen'd — 't  is  enough — 
Who  list(!ns  once  will  listen  twice: 
Her  heart,  be  sure,  is  not  of  ice. 
And  one  refusal  no  rebuff. 

VII. 

"  I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again — 
Th(!V  tell  mo.  Sire,  you  never  knew 
Those  gentle  f'-ailties:   if  'tis  true, 

I  shorten  all  my  joy  or  pain. 

To  you  't  would  seen>  absurd  as  vain 

But  all  men  are  not  bcrn  to  reign. 


M  A  Z  E  P  P  A. 


MH 


Or  o'er  their  passions,  or,  as  you, 
Thus  o'er  themselves  arul  nations  too. 
I  am — or  rather  wns — a  prince, 

A  chief  of  thousands,  and  could  lead 
Them  on  where  each  would  foremost  bleed ; 
But  could  not  o'er  myself  evince 
The  like  control — But  to  resiune: 
I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again  ; 
In  sooth,  it  is  a  hai)py  doom. 

But  yet  wliere  hap|)mess  ends  in  pain.— 
We  met  if  secret,  and  the  hour 
Which  ".cci  me  to  that  lady's  bower 
Was  tierv  expectation's  dower. 
Mv  days  and  nijjhts  were  nothing — all 
Except  that  hour,  which  doth  recall 
In  the  long  lapse  from  youth  to  age 
No  other  like  itself— I  'd  give 
The  Ukraine  back  again  to  live 
I<  o'er  once  more — and  be  a  page, 
The  happy  page,  who  was  the  lord 
Of  one  soft  heart,  and  his  own  sword, 
And  had  no  other  gem  nor  wealth 
Save  nature's  gift  of  youth  and  health — 
We  met  in  secret — doubly  sweet, 
Some  say,  they  find  it  so  to  meet  ; 
I  know  not  that — I  would  have  given 
My  life  but  to  have  call'd  her  mine 
in  the  full  view  of  earth  and  heaven ; 

For  I  did  oft  and  long  repine 
That  we  could  only  meet  by  stealth. 

VII!. 

"  For  lovers  there  are  many  eyes. 

And  such  there  were  on  us: — the  devil 
On  such  occasions  should  be  civil — ■ 
The  devil ! — I  'm  loth  to  do  him  wrong, 

It  might  be  some  untoward  saint, 
Who  would  not  be  at  rest  too  long, 
But  to  his  pious  bile  gave  vent — 
But  one  fair  night,  some  lurking  spies 
Surprised  and  seized  us  both. 
I'he  ( ount  was  something  more  than  wrolh — 
I  was  iinarm'd  ;   but  if  in  steel, 
All  cap-a-pic,  from  head  to  heel, 
What  'gainst  their  numbers  could  I  do? 
'T  was  near  his  castle,  far  away 

From  city  or  from  succour  near, 
And  almost  on  the  break  of  day  ; 
I  did  not  think  to  see  another. 

My  moments  seem'd  reduced  to  few ; 
And  with  one  (irayer  ♦o  Mary  Mother, 

And,  it  may  be,  a  saint  or  two, 
As  I  resign'd  me  to  my  fate. 
They  led  me  to  the  castle  gate : 
Theresa's  doom  I  never  kne-v, 
Our  lot  was  henceforth  separate. — 
An  angry  man,  ye  may  opine, 
Was  he,  the  proud  Count  Palatuie ; 
And  he  had  reason  good  to  be, 

But  he  was  most  enraged  lest  such 
An  accident  should  chance  to  touch 
Llpon  his  future   >edigree  ; 
Nor  less  amazed,  that  such  a  blot 
His  noble  'scutcheon  should  have  got, 
\\  hile  he  was  highest  of  his  line : 
Because  unto  himself  he  seem'd 
The  first  of  men,  nor  less  he  deem'd 
In  others'  eyes,  and  most  in  mine. 
Sdeat  I !   with  a  pnf^e — perchance  a  king 
Had  reconciled  him  to  the  thing ; 


But  with  a  strii)ling  of  a  page — 
I  felt — but  cannot  paint  his  rage. 

IX. 
"  '  Bring  forth  the  horse  !' — thrf  horse  was  broMt.'hi 
In  truth,  he  was  a  noble  steed, 
A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed. 
Who  look'd  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Were  in  Ins  limbs :   but  he  was  wild, 

Wild  as  the  v  ild  deer,  and  untaught, 
With  spur  and  bridle  undeHled — 

'T  was  but  a  day  he  had  been  caugtit ; 
And  snorting,  with  erected  tnune, 
And  struggling  fiercely,  hut  m  vain. 
In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread. 
To  me  the  desert-born  was  led : 
Thev  bound  ine  on,  that  menial  throng, 
Ujion  his  back  with  many  a  thong  ; 
Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash — 
\way  ! — away  ! — and  on  we  dash  ! 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 

X. 
"  Away  ! — away  ! — My  breatli  was  "one — 
I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on  : 
'T  was  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day. 
And  on  he  foam'd — away  ! — away  ! — 
The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 
As  I  was  darted  from  my  foes. 
Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter, 
Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 
A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout : 
With  sudden  wrath  I  wrench'd  my  head. 
And  sna|)p'd  the  cord,  which  to  the  mane 
Had  bound  mv  neck  in  lieu  of  rein, 
And  writhing  half  my  form  about, 
Howl'd  back  my  curse ;    but  'midst  the  tread, 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed. 
Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed; 
It  vexes  m.e — for  I  would  iam 
Have  paid  their  insult  back  again. 
I  paid  it  well  in  after  days : 
There  is  not  of  that  castle  gate, 
Its  drawbridge  and  portcullis'  weight, 
Stone,  bar,  moat,  bridge,  or  barrier  left; 
Kor  of  its  fields  a  blade  of  grass. 

Save  what  grows  on  a  ridge  of  wall, 
Where  stood  the  hearth-stone  of  the  hall  | 
And  many  a  time  ye  there  niight  pass. 
Nor  dream  that  e'er  that  fortress  was : 
I  saw  its  turrets  in  a  blaze. 
Their  crackling  battlements  all  cleft. 

And  the  hot  lead  pour  down  like  rain 
From  off  the  scorch'd  and  blackening  roof. 
Whose  thickness  was  not  vengeance-proof. 

They  little  thought  that  dav  of  pain. 
When  lanch'd,  as  on  the  lightning's  flash, 
They  bade  me  to  destruction  dash. 

That  one  day  I  should  come  again, 
With  twice  five  thousand  horse,  to  thank 

The  count  tor  his  uncourteous  ride. 
They  play'd  me  then  a  bitter  prank. 

When,  with  the  wild  horse  for  my  guide 
They  bound  me  to  his  foaming  flank : 
At  length  I  f)lay'd  them  one  as  frank — 
For  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even — 
And  if  we  do  but  watch  the  hour, 
There  never  yet  was  human  [lower 
Which  could  evade,  if  unforgiven. 
The  patient  seaich  and  vigil  long 
Of  him  who  treasures  up  a  wrong. 


814 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XI. 

'♦Away,  away,  my  steed  and  I, 

U|)Oii  the  pinions  of  llie  wincj, 

All  iminaii  dweliings  left  behind  ; 
We  sped  hke  meteors  through  tlie  sky. 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  cheq  ler'd  with  the  northern  hght : 
Town  —village — none  were  on  our  track, 

But  a  wild  plain  of  far  extent, 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black  : 

And,  save  the  scarce-seen  batllemen 
On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  hold, 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old, 
No  trace  of  man.     The  year  before 
A  Turkish  army  had  march'd  o'er ; 
And  where  the  S|)ahi's  hoof  hath  trod, 
The  verdure  flies  the  bloody  sod  ; — 
The  sky  was  dull,  and  dim,  and  gray, 

And  a  low  breeze  crept  moaning  by — 

I  could  have  answer'd  with  a  sigh — 
But  fast  we  fled,  awav,  away — 
And  I  could  neither  sigh  nor  pray  ; 
And  my  cold  sweat-drops  fell  like  rair. 
Upon  the  courser's  bristling  mane  : 
But,  snorting  still  with  rage  and  fear, 
He  flew  upon  his  far  career: 
At  times  I  almost  thought,  indeed, 
He  must  have  slacken'd  in  his  speed ; 
But  no — my  bound  and  slender  frame 

Was  nothing  to  his  angry  might, 
And  merely  like  a  spur  became : 
Each  motion  which  I  made  to  free 
My  swoln  limbs  from  their  agony 

Increased  his  fury  and  affright : 
I  tried  my  vo-  ,;e, — 't  was  faint  and  low. 
But  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a  blow ; 
And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sprang 
As  from  a  sudden  trumpet's  clang  : 
Meantime  my  cords  w^ere  wet  with  gore. 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limbs,  ran  o'er; 
And  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A  something  fierier  far  than  flame. 

XII. 

"  We  near'd  the  wild  wood — 't  was  so  wide, 

I  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side  ; 

'T  was  studded  with  old  sturdy  trees. 

That  bent  not  to  the  roughest  breeze 

Which  howls  down  from  Siberia's  waste. 

And  strips  the  forest  in  its  haste, 

But  these  were  few,  and  far  between, 

Set  thick  with  shrubs  more  young  and  green. 

Luxuriant  with  their  annual  leaves, 

Ere  strown  by  those  autumnal  eves 

That  nip  the  forest's  foliage  dead, 

Discolour'd  with  a  lifeless  red, 

Which  stands  thereon  like  stiffen'd  gore 

Upon  the  slain  when  battle's  o'er, 

And  some  long  winter's  night  hath  shed 

Its  frost  o'er  every  tombless  head. 

So  cold  and  stark  the  raven's  beak 

May  peck  uiipierced  each  frozen  cheek  • 

'T  was  a  wild  waste  of  underwood, 

And  here  and  there  a  chesnut  stood, 

Thfc  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine ; 

But  far  a[)art — and  well  it  were, 
Or  else  a  ditf";ri-nt  lot  were  rnuie — 

The  l)oughs  gave  vvay,  and  did  not  tear 
My  limbs ;   and  I  found  strength  to  bear 
My  wounds,  already  scarr'd  witli  cold — 
My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 
We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  wind, 
Left  shrubs,  and  trees,  an('  wolves  behind; 


By  night  I  heard  them  on  the  track, 
Their  troop  came  hard  upon  our  back. 
With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  hound's  deep  hate,  and  hunter's  fire 
Where'er  we  flew  they  foUow'd  on. 
Nor  left  us  with  the  morning  sun ; 
Behind  I  saw  them,  scarce  a  rood, 
At  daybreak  winding  through  the  wood. 
And  through  the  night  had  heard  their  fe«i 
Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 
Oh !   how  I  wish'd  for  spear  or  sword, 
At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde. 
And  perish — if  it  must  be  so — 
At  baj',  destroying  many  a  foe. 
Wlien  first  mj'  courser's  race  begun, 
I  wish'd  the  goal  already  won  ; 
But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed. 
Vain  doubt !   his  swift  and  savage  breed 
Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain-roe; 
Nor  faster  falls  the  blinding  snow 
Which  whelms  the  peasant  near  the  door 
Whose  threshold  he  shall  cross  no  more, 
Bewilder'd  with  the  dazzling  blast. 
Than  through  the  forest-paths  he  past— 
Untired,  untamed,  find  worse  than  wild  ; 
All  furious  as  a  favour'd  child 
Balk'd  of  its  wish  ;   or  fiercer  still — 
A  woman  piqued — who  has  her  will. 

Xill. 

"  The  wood  was  past ;   't  was  more  than  noon 

But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June  ; 

Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold — 

Prolong'd  endurance  tames  the  bold: 

And  I  was  then  not  what  I  seein, 

But  headlong  as  a  win*ry  stream, 

And  wore  my  feelings  out  before 

I  well  could  count  their  causes  o'er : 

And  what  with  fury,  fear,  and  wrath. 

The  tortures  which  beset  ».iy  t>ath. 

Cold,  hunger,  sorrow,  shame,   listress. 

Thus  bound  in  nature's  nakedness  ; 

Sprung  from  a  race  whose  rising  blood 

When  stirr'd  beyond  its  calmer  mood, 

And  trodden  hard  u\)nn,  is  like 

The  rattlesnake's,  in  act  to  strike. 

What  marvel  if  this  worn-out  trunk 

Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  sunk  7 

The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  roll'd  rouml, 

I  seem'd  to  sink  ujjou  the  ground  ; 

But  err'd,  for  I  was  fastFy  bound. 

My  heart  turn'd  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore. 

And  throbb'd  awhile,  then  beat  no  more: 

The  skies  spun  like  a  mighty  w  heel ; 

I  saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel. 

And  a  slight  flash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes. 

Which  saw  no  farther:   he  who  dies 

Can  die  no   nore  than  then  I  died. 

O'ertortiircd  by  that  ghastly  ride, 

I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go, 

And  strove  to  wake  ;  but  could  not  make 
My  senses  climb  up  from  below  : 
I  felt  as  on  a  plank  at  sea. 
When  all  the  waves  that  dash  o'er  ihec^ 
At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm, 
And  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm. 
My  undulating  life  was  as 
The  fancied  lights  that  flittmg  pass 
Our  shut  eyes  in  deep  midnight,  when 
Fever  begins  upon  the  brain  ; 
But  soon  it  pass'd,  with  little  pain 


M  A  Z  E  P  P  A. 


84/1 


But  a  confusion  worse  than  such 
I  ov/n  that  I  should  deem  it  much, 
Dying,  to  feel  the  same  again  ; 
And  yet  I  do  suppose  we  must 
Feel  far  more  ere  we  turn  to  dust : 
No  mutter  ;   I  have  bared  my  brow 
Full  ill  Death's  face — before — and  now. 

XIV. 
"  My  thoughts  came  back  ;  where  was  I  ?  Cold, 

And  numb,  and  giddy :    pulse  by  pulse 
Life  reassumed  its  lingering  hold, 
And  throb  by  throb;   till  grown  a  pang 
Which  for  a  moment  would  convulse, 
My  blood  reflow'd,  though  thick  and  chill  j 
My  ear  with  uncouth  noises  rang. 

My  heart  began  once  more  to  tnrih ; 
My  sight  return'd,  though  dim,  alas ! 
And  thicken'd,  as  it  were,  with  glass. 
Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh  ; 
There  was  a  gleam  too  of  the  sky, 
Studded  with  stars  ; — it  is  no  dream  ; 
The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream ! 
The  bright  broad  river's  gushing  tide 
Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide, 
And  we  are  half-way  struggling  o'er 
To  yon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 
The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance. 
And  with  a  temtiorarv  strength 

My  stirfen'd  limbs  were  rebaptized, 
My  courser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 
And  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves, 
And  onward  we  advance  ! 
We  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length, 

A  haven  I  but  little  prized. 
For  all  behind  was  dark  and  drear, 
4nd  all  before  was  night  and  fear. 
How  uMiiy  hours  of  night  or  day 
In  those  suspended  jiangs  i  lay, 
I  could  not  tell  ;   I  scarcely  knew 
If  this  were  human  breath  I  drew. 

XV. 

"  With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane, 

And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  flank, 
The  wild  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 

Up  the  repelling  bank. 
We  gain  the  top  :    a  boundless  plain 
Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night. 

And  onward,  onward,  onward,  seems 

Like  precipices  in  our  dreams, 
To  stretch  beyond  the  sight; 
And  here  and  there  a  speck  of  white, 

yJr  scatler'd  spot  of  dusky  green, 
In  masses  broke  into  'he  light, 
As  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right. 

But  nought  distinctly  seen 
In  the  dim  waste,  would  indicate 
The  omen  of  a  cottage  gate  ; 
No  twinkling  taper  from  afar 
Stood  like  a  hospitable  star  ; 
Not  even  an  ignis-fatuus  rose 
To  make  him  merry  with  mv  woes: 

That  very  cheat  had  cheer'd  me  then! 
Althovigh  detected,  welcome  still, 
Rennmlinu;  me,  through  every  ill, 

Of  the  abodes  of  men. 

XVI. 

**  Onward  we  went — but  slack  and  slow  ; 

His  savage  force  at  Jeiiwth  o  erspent, 
The  drooping  courser,  faint  and   low 

All  feebly  foaming  w<  nt. 


A  sickly  infant  had  had  power 
To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour, 

But  useless  all  to  me. 
His  new-born  lameness  nought  avail'd, 
My  limbs  were  bound  •   my  force  had  fail'd. 

Perchance,  had  Ihev  necn  free. 
With  feeble  ehbrl  still"  I  tntnl 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied — 

But  still  it  was  in  vain  ; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more. 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er. 
Which  but  prolong'd  their  [tain: 
The  dizzy  race  seem'd  almost  done, 
Although  no  goal  was  nearly  won: 
Some  streaks  announced  the  coming  sun- 
How  slow,  alas  !   he  came  ! 
Methought  that  mist  of  dawning  gray 
Would  never  dapple  iiito  day  ; 
How  heavily  it  roll'd  av\  ay — 

Before  the  eastern  flame 
Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars, 
And  call'd  the  radiance  from  their  cars. 
And  fill'd  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne, 
With  lonely  lustre,  all  his  own. 

XVII. 

"  Up  rose  the  sun  ;   the  mists  were  curl'd 
*Back  from  the  solitary  world 
Which  lay  around — behind — before  : 
What  booted  it  to  traverse  o'er 
Plain,  forest,  river?   Man  nor  brute. 
Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot, 
Lay  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil ; 
No  sign  of  travel — none  of  toil  ; 
The  very  air  was  mute  ; 
And  not  an  insect's  shrill  small  horn, 
Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice  was  borne 
From  herb  nor  thiekft.     Many  a  worst, 
Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst, 
The  weary  brute  still  stagger'd  on  ; 
And  still  we  were — or  seem'd — alone: 
At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  hrs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs? 
No,  no  !   from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  trooj) ;   I  see  them  come  ' 
In  one  vast  scjuadron  they  advance! 

I  strove  to  cry — my  lips  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride ; 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide  ? 
A  thousand  horse — and  none  to  ride ! 
With  flowing  tail,  and  Hying  mane. 
Wide  nosjrils — never  stretch'd  by  pam. 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein, 
And  feet  that  iron  never  shod. 
And  flanks  unscarr'd  by  s|)ur  or  rod, 
A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free, 
Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea, 

Came  thickly  thundering  on, 
As  if  our  faint  ajjproach  to  meet ; 
The  sight  renerved  mv  courser's  feeL 
A  moment  staggering,  f(>ebly  fleet, 
A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh, 

He  answcr'd,  and  thor  fell  , 
With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay. 

And  reeking  limbs  immoveable, 
His  first  and  last  career  is  done 
On  came  the  troop — they  saw  him  stooj>, 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 

His  back  with  many  a  bloodv  thon;i : 
They  stop — they  start — tlu^y  snutf  the  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there, 


846 


BYRON' b    POETICAL    WORKS. 


A[)proach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round, 
I'hen  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound, 
Headed  bv  one  black  mighty  steed, 
Who  seeni'd  the  patriarch  of  his  breed, 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 
or  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide; 
They  snort— they  foam— neigh— swerve  aside, 
And  backward  to  the  forest  Hy, 
By  instinct  from  a  human  eye — 

They  left  me  there,  to  my  despair, 
l.nik'd  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch, 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  nie  stretch, 
Relieved  from  tiiat  unwonted  weight. 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
Nor  him  nor  mc — and  there  wc  lay. 

The  dying  on  the  dead! 
I  hltle  deem'd  another  day 

Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 
And  there  from  morn  till  twilight  bound, 
I  feh  the  heavy  hours  toil  round, 
With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 
My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me, 
In  liopeless  certainty  of  mind. 
That  makes  us  feel  at  length  resign'd 
To  that  which  our  foreboding  years 
Presents  t!ie  worst  and  last  of  fears 
Inevitable— even  a  boon, 
Nor  more  unkind  for  coming  soon  ; 
Yet  shunn'd  and  dreaded  with  such  care. 
As  if  it  onlv  were  a  snare 

That  prudence  might  escape: 
At  times  botli  wish'd  for  and  implored. 
At  times  sou2lit  with  self-pointed  sword. 
Yet  still  a  dark  and  hideous  close 
To  even  intolerable  woes. 

And  welcome  in  no  shape. 
And,  strtuige  to  say,  the  sons  of  pleasure, 
They  who  have  revell'd  beyond  measure 
In  beauty,  wassail,  wine,  and  treasure. 
Die  calm,  or  calmer  oft  than  he 
Whose  heritage  was  misery  : 
For  he  wlio  hath  in  turn  run  through 
All  that  was  beautiful  and  new. 

Hath  nought  to  hope,  and  nought  to  leave ; 
And,  save  the  future  (which  is  view'd 
Not  quite  as  men  are  base  or  good, 
But  as  their  nerves  may  be  endued). 

With  nought  perhaps  to  grieve: 
The  wretch  still  hopes  his  woes  must  end. 
And  Death,  whom  he  shouki  deem  his  friend, 
Appears  to  his  distemper'd  eyes 
Arrived  to  rob  him  of  his  prize, 
The  tree  of  his  new  Paradise. 
To-morrow  would  have  given  him  .all, 
Re[)aid  his  pangs,  repair'd  his  fall ; 
To-morrow  woukl  have  been  the  first 
Of  days  no  more  deplored  or  curst, 
But  bright,  and  long,  and  beckoning  years. 
Seen  dazzling  through  the  mist  of  tears, 
Guerdon  of  many  a  painful  hour  ; 
To-morrow  would  have  given  him  power 
To  rule,  to  shine,  to  smite,  to  save — 
And  must  it  dawn  upon  his  grave? 

XVIII. 
'I'^e  sun  was  sinking — still  I  lay 

Chain'd  to  the  chill  and  stitiening  steed 
1  thought  to  miuiile  tin  re,  our  clay  ; 

And  my  dim  eyes  of  death  had  need, 

No  hope  arose  of  being  freed : 
I  cast  my  last  looks  up  the  sky, 

And  there  between  me  and  the  sun 


I  sav  the  expecting  raven  fly. 

Who  scarce  would  wait  till  both  should  die, 

Ere  his  repast  begun  ; 
He  flew,  and  perch'd,  then  flew  once  more, 
And  each  time  nearer  than  before ; 
I  saw  his  wing  through  twilight  flit. 
And  once  so  near  me  he  alit 

I  could  have  smote,  but  iack'd  t!ie  strength : 
But  the  fclight  motion  of  my  haiid, 
And  feeble  scratching  of  the  sand, 
The  exerted  throat's  faint  struggling  noise, 
Which  scarcely  could  be  call'd  a  voice. 

Together  scared  him  off  at  length. — 
I  know  no  more — my  latest  dream 

Is  something  of  a  lovely  star 

Which  fix'd  my  dull  eyes  from  afar. 
And  went  and  came  with  wandering  beam. 
And  of  the  cold,  dull,  swimming,  dense 
Sensation  of  recurring  sense, 
And  then  subsiding  back  to  death,    . 
And  then  again  a  httle  breath, 
A  little  thrill,  a  short  suspense. 

An  icy  sickness  curdling  o'er 
My  heart,  and  sparks  that  cross'd  my  brain— 
A  gasp,  a  throb,  a  start  of  pain, 
"   A  sigh,  and  nothing  more. 

XIX. 
"I  woke— Where  \^as  I? — Do  I  see 
A  human  face  look  down  on  me  7 
And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close  ? 
Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose  / 
Is  this  a  chamber  where  1  lie  ? 
And  is  it  mortal  yon  bright  eye, 
That  watches  me  with  gentle  glance? 

I  closed  my  own  again  once  more, 
As  doubtful  that  the  former  trance 

Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 
A  slender  girl,  long-hair'd,  and  tall, 
Sate  watching  by  the  cottage  wall ; 
The  sparkle  of  her  eye  I  caught, 
Fven  with  my  first  return  of  thought; 
For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 

A  prying,  pitymg  glance  on  me 

With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free! 
I  gazed,  and  gazed,  until  Lknew 

No  vision  it  could  be, — 
But  that  I  lived,  and  was  releagud 
From  adding  to  the  vulture's  feast: 
And  when  the  Cf)ssack  maid  beheld 
My  heavy  eyes  at  length  unseai'd, 
She  smiled— and  I  essay'd  to  speak. 

But  fail'd — and  she  apfiroach'd,  and  irade 
With  lip  and  linger  signs  tnat  said, 
I  must  not  strive  as  yet  to  break 
The  silence,  till  my  strength  should  be 
Enougn  to  leave  my  accents  free ; 
And  then  her  hand  on  mine  she  laid, 
And  smooth'd  the  pillow  for  my  head. 
And  stole  along  on  tiptoe  tread. 
And  gently  ofied  the  door,  and  spake 
In  whispers — ne'er  was  voice  so  sweet! 
Even  music  ibllow'd  her  light  feet! 

But  those  siie  call'd  were  not  awake. 
And  she  went  forth  ;   bui  ere  she  pasa'd. 
Another  look  on  me  she  c  .st, 

Another  sign  she  made,  to  say. 
That  I  had  nought  to  fear,  that  all 
Were  near,  at  my  command  or  call. 

And  she  would  not  delay 
Her  due  return  ; — while  sne  was  gone, 
Methou^ht  I  felt  too  much  alone. 


THE    ISLAND. 


•M7 


XX. 

"  She  came  wiL'n  mother  and  with  sire— 
What  need  of  more  ? — I  will  not  tire 
With  long  recital  of  the  rest, 
Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest : 
Thej'  found  me  senseless  on  the  plain — 

They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut — 
They  brouijlit  me  into  life  again — 
IVIe — one  day  o'er  their  realm  to  reign ! 

Thus  the  vain  fool  who  strove  to  glut 
His  ra<:e,  retining  on  my  pain, 

Sent  me  fdrtli  to  the  wilderness, 
Bound,  naked,  bleeding,  and  alone, 
To  [>ass  the  desert  to  a  throne. — 

What  mortal  his  own  doom  may  guess? 

Let  none  despond,  let  none  despair ' 
To-morrow  the  Borysthenes 
JVIay  see  our  coursers  graze  at  ease 
Upon  his  Turkish  bank, — and  never 
Had  I  such  welcome  for  a  river 

As  1  shall  yield  when  safely  there. 
Comrades,  good  night!" — The  hetman  threw 

His  length  beneatn  the  oak-tree  shade, 

W'lth  leafy  couch  already  made, 
A  bed  nor  comfortless  nor  new 
To  him,  who  took  his  rest  whene'er 
The  hour  arrived,  no  matter  where  : — 

His  eyes  the  hastening  slumbers  steep. 
And  if  ye  marvel  Charles  forgot 
To  thank  his  tale,  he  wonder'd  not, — 

The  king  had  been  an  hour  asleep. 


srtie  tKslanir; 


CHRISTIAN   AND    HI>    COJYERADES. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  foundation  of  the  following  story  will  be  found 
partly  in  the  account  of  the  Mutiny  of  the  Bounty,  in 
the  South  Sea,  in  1789,  and  partly  in  3Iariner's  "Ac- 
count of  the  Tonga  Islands." 


THE  ISLAND. 


L 

Th  J  morning  watch  was  come  :   the  vessel  laj 
Her  course,  and  gently  made  her  liquid  way ; 
The  cloven  billow  iiasii'd  from  off  her  prow 
In  furrows  form'd  by  that  majestic  plough ; 
The  waters  with  their  world  were  all  before  ; 
Behind,  the  South  Sea's  many  an  islet  shore. 
The  quiet  ni<:(it,  now  dappling,  'gan  to  wane, 
Dividing  darkness  from  the  dawning  main; 
The  dolphins,  not  uncDuscious  of  the  day, 
Sw?m  high,  as  eager  of  the  coming  ray  ; 
The  stars  from  broader  beams  began  to  creep, 
And  aft  their  shining  eyehds  from  the  deej) ; 


The  sai   resumed  its  lat/ily-shadow'd  white, 
And  tlie  wind  llutterd  witli  a  freshenmg  tiight; 
The  purpling  ocean  owns  the  coming  sun — 
But,  ere  he  break,  a  deed  is  lo  be  done. 

II. 

I 

The  gallant  chief  within  his  cabin  slept. 
Secure  in  those  by  whom  the  watch  was  kept : 
His  dreams  were  of  Old  England's  welcome  shore 
Of  toils  rewarded,  and  of  daujiers  o'er  ; 
His  name  was  added  to  the  glorious  rofl 
Of  those  who  search  the  storm-surrounded  pole. 
The  worst  was  o'er,  and  the  rest  seeni'd  sure, 
And  why  should  not  his  slumber  he  secure  ? 
Alas  !   his  deck  was  trod  by  unwilhni;  feet, 
'    And  wilder  hands  would  hold  the  vessel's  sheet ; 
,    Voung  hearts,  which  languish'd  for  some  sunnv  isle, 
;    Where  summer  years  and  summer  women  smile ; 
i    Men  without  country,  who,  too  long  estranijed, 
:    Had  found  no  native  home,  or  found  it  changed. 
And,  half-uncivilized,  prefcrr'd   the  cave 
Of  some  soft  savage  to  the  uncertain  wave  ; 
The  gushing  fruits  that  nature  gave  untiU'd  ; 
The  wood  without  a  path  but  where  thev  will'd ; 
The  field  o'er  which  promiscuous  plentv  pour'd 
,    Her  horn  ;   the  equal  land  without  a  lord  ; 
i    Tile  wish — which  ages  have  not  yei  sr.bdued 
I    In  man — lo  have  no  master  save  his  mood  ; 
I    The  earth,  whose  mine  was  on  its  face,  unsold, 
The  glowing  sun  and  produce  all  its  gold  ; 
The  freedom  which  can  call  each  grot  a  home ; 
The  general  garden,  where  all  steps  mav  rram. 
Where  Nature  owns  a  nation  as  her  chilJ, 
Exulting  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  wild  ; 
Their  shells,  their  fruits,  the  only  wealth  they  know 
Their  unexnloring  navy,  tlie  canoe  ; 
Their  sport,  the  dashing  breakers  and  the  chase ; 
Their  strangest  sight,  an  European  face:  — 
Such  was  tiie  country  which  these  strangers  yearii'<1 
To  see  again — a  sight  they  dearly  earn'd. 

III. 

Awake,  bold  Bligh  !   the  foe  is  at  the  gate  ! 

Awake  !   awake  I Alas  !  it  is  too  late  ! 

Fiercely  beside  thy  cot  the  mutineer 
Stands,  and  proclaims  the  reign  of  rage  and  fear. 
Thy  limbs  are  bound,  the  bayonet  at  thy  breast, 
The  hands,  which  trembled  at  thy  voice,  arrest  : 
Draog'd  o'er  the  deck,  no  more  at  thy  command 
The  obedient  helm  shall  veer,  the  sai!  expand  ; 
That  savage  spirit,  which  would   lull  by  wrath 
Its  desperate  escape  from  duty's  path. 
Glares  round  thee,  in  the  scarce-believing  eyes 
Of  those  who  fear  the  chief  they  sacrifice  ; 
For  ne'er  can  man  his  conscience  all  assuage, 
Unless  he  drain  the  wine  of  passion — rage. 

IV. 

In  vain,  not  silenced  by  the  eye  of  deatn. 

Thou  call'st  the  loyal  with  thy  menaced  breath 

Thev  come  not ;   they  arc  few,  and,  overawed, 

Must  acquiesce  while  sterner  hearts  applaud. 

In  vain  thou  dost  demand  the  cause  ;   a  curse 

Is  all  the  answer,  with  the  threat  of  worse. 

Full  in  thine  eyes  is  waved  the  glittering  blade 

Close  to  thy  throat  the  pointed  bayone.  laid. 

The  levell'd  muskets  circle  round  thy  breast 

In  hands  as  steel'd  to  do  the  deadly  rest. 

Thou  darest  them  to  their  worst,  exclaiming,  "  Fire  I 

But  they  who  pitied  not  could  yet  admire ; 

Some  lurking  remnant  of  their  former  awe 

Restrain'd  them  longer  than  their  broken  law; 


848 


BYRON'S  Poetical  works. 


rhey  wou  d  not  dip  tneir  souls  at  once  in  blood, 
But  lef;  thee  to  the  mercies  of  the  flood. 

V. 

'Hoist  out  the  boat!"  was  now  the  leader's  cry  : 
And  who  dare  answer  "No"  to  mutiny, 
In  the  first  dawninj^  of  the  drunken  hour, 
The  Saturnalia  of  unhoped-for  power  ? 
The  boat  is  lower'd  with  all  the  haste  of  hate, 
With  its  slight  plank  betweer  thee  and  thy  fate  ; 
Her  only  cargo  such  a  scant  supi)ly 
As  promises  the  death  their  hands  deny  ; 
And  just  enough  of  water  and  of  bread 
To  keep,  some  days,  the  dying  frcm  the  dead: 
Some  cordage,  canvas,  sails,  and  lines,  and  twine, 
But  treasures  all  to  hermits  of  the  brine. 
Were  added  after,  to  the  earnest  prayer 
Of  those  who  saw  no  hope  save  sea  and  air ; 
And  last,  that  trembling  vassal  of  the  pole, 
The  feeling  compass,  navigation's  soul. 

\T. 

And  now  the  self-elected  chief  finds  time 

Tc  s'un  the  first  sensation  of  his  crime. 

And  raise  it  in  his  followers—"  Ho  !   the  bowl !" 

Lest  passion  should  return  to  reason's  shoal. 

•'  Brandy  for  heroes  !"  Burke  could  once  exclaim, — 

No  doubt  a  liquid  ()ath  to  epic  fame  ; 

A-nd  such  the  new-born  heroes  found  it  here, 

\nd  drain'd  the  draught  with  an  applauding  cheer. 

'  Huzza !  for  Otaheite  !"  was  the  cry  ; 

How  strange  such  shouts  from  sons  of  mutiny ! 

The  gentle  island,  and  the  gxinial  soil. 

The  friendly  hearts,  the  feast  without  a  toil. 

The  courteous  manners  but  from  nature  caught. 

The  wealth  uiihoarded,  and  the  love  unbought ; 

Could  these  h..ve  charms  for  rudest  sea-boys,  driven 

Before  the  mast  by  every  wmd  of  heaven  ? 

And  now,  even  now,  prepared  with  others'  woes 

To  earn  mild  virtue's  vam  desire — repose  ? 

Alas  !   such  is  our  nature  I   all  but  aim 

At  the  same  end,  by  pathways  not  the  same  ; 

Our  means,  our  birth,  our  nation,  and  our  name, 

Our  fortune,  tem|)cr,  even  our  omvvard  frame, 

Are  far  more  potent  over  yielding  clay 

Than  aught  we  know  beyond  our  little  day. 

Yet  still  there  whispers  the  small  voice  within. 

Heard  through  gain's  silence,  and  o'er  glory's  din  : 

Whatever  creed  be  taught  or  land  be  trod, 

Man's  conscience  is  the  oracle  of  God  ! 

VII. 

The  launch  is  crowded  with  the  faithful  few 
Who  wait  their  chief,  a  melancholy  crew  : 
But  some  remain'd  reluctant  on  the  deck 
Of  that  proud  vessel — now  a  moral  wreck — 
And  view'd  their  captain's  fate  with  piteous  eyes , 
While  others  scotf'd  his  aiigur'd  miseries, 
Sneer'd  at  the  prospect  of  his  pigmy  sail. 
And  th(;  sli<iht  bark,  so  laden  and  so  frail. 
The  tender  nauliliis  who  steers  iiis  prow, 
The  sea-born  sailor  of  his  shell  canoe. 
The  ocean  Mah,  ihe  fairy  of  the  sea, 
Seems  far  less  fragile,  and,  alas !   more  free! 
He,  when  the  iightning-wing'd  tornadoes  sweep 
The  surize,  is  safe — his  port  is  in  the  deep — 
And  triumphs  o'er  the  armadas  of  mankind, 
Wliic,li  shake  the  world,  yet  crumble  m  tlie  wind 

VIII. 
w^hcn  all  was  now  prepared,  the  v(;ssel  clear 
Wliicn  hail'd  her  master  in  tlie  mutineer — 


A  seaman,  less  obdurate  than  his  mates, 
Show'd  the  vain  pity  which  but  irritates ; 
Watch  d  his  late  chieftain  with  exploring  eye, 
And  told  in  signs  repentant  sympathy  ; 
Held  the  moist  shaddock  to  his  pnrched  mouth. 
Which  felt  exhaustion's  deep  and  bitter  drouth. 
But,  soon  observed,  this  guardian  was  withdrawn, 
Nor  further  mercy  clouds  rebellion's  dawn. 
Then  forward  stepp'd  the  bold  and  froward  boy 
His  chief  had  cherish'd  only  to  destroy. 
And,  pointmg  to  the  hopeless  prow  beneath, 
Exclaim'd,  "  Depart  at  once  I   delay  is  death !" 
Yet  then,  even  then,  his  feelings  ceased  not  all: 
In  that  last  moment  could  a  word  recall 
Remorse  for  the  black  deed,  as  yet  half-done, 
Atid,  what  he  hid  from  many,  show'd  to  one  : 
AVlien  Bligh,  in  stern  reproach,  demanded  where 
Was  now  his  grateful  sense  of  former  care? — 
W^hcre  all  his  hopes  to  see  his  name  aspire, 
And  blazon  Britain's  thousand  glories  higher? 
His  feverish  lips  thus  broke  their  gloomy  spell, 
"  'T  is  that !   't  is  that !   I  am  in  hell  !   m  hell !" 
No  more  he  said  ;   but,  urging  to  the  bark 
His  chief,  commits  him  to  his  fragile  ark  : 
These  the  sole  accents  from  his  tongue  that  fell, 
But  volumes  lurk'd  below  his  fierce  farewell. 

IX. 

The  arctic  sun  rose  broad  above  the  wave  ; 

The  breeze  now  sunk,  now  whisper'd  from  his  cave 

As  on  the  iEolian  harp,  his  fitful  wings 

Now  swell'd,  now  flutter'd  o'er  his  ocean  strings. 

With  slow  despairing  oar,  the  abandon'J  skiff 

Ploughs  its  drear  progress  to  the  scarce-seen  cliflT, 

Which  lifts  its  peak  a  cloud  above  the  main  • 

TJiut  boat  and  ship  shall  never  meet  again  ! 

But  't  is  not  mine  to  tell  then-  tale  of  grief. 

Their  constant  peril,  and  their  scant  relief ; 

Their  days  of  danger,  and  their  nights  of  pain  ; 

Their  manly  cou/age,  even  when  deem'd  in  vain  . 

The  sapping  famine,  rendering  scarce  a  son 

Known  to  his  mother  in  the  skeleton  ; 

The  ills  that  lessen'd  still  their  little  store, 

And  starved  even  hunger  till  he  wrung  no  more  ; 

The  varying  frowns  and  favours  of  the  deep, 

That  now  almost  engulfs,  then  leaves  to  creep 

With  crazy  oar  and  shatter'd  strength  along 

The  tide,  that  yields  reluctant  to  the  strong ; 

The  incessant  fever  of  that  arid  thirst 

W^hich  welcomes,  as  a  well,  the  clouds  that  burst 

Above  their  naked  bones,  and  feels  delight 

In  the  cold  drenching  of  the  stormy  night. 

And  from  the  outspread  canvas  gladly  wrings 

A  drop  to  moisten  life's  all-gasping  springs  ; 

The  savage  foe  escaped,  to  seek  again 

More  hospitable  shelter  from  the  main  ; 

The  ghastly  spectres  which  were  doom'd  at  last 

To  tell  as  true  a  tale  of  dangers  past, 

As  ever  the  dark  annals  of  the  deep 

Disclosed  for  man  to  dread  or  woman  weep. 


We  leave  them  to  their  fate,  but  not  unknown 
Nor  unredress'd  !   Revenge  may  have  her  ownr 
Roused  discipline  aloud  [)roclaims  their  cause, 
And  injured  navies  urge  their  broken  laws. 
Pursue  we  on  his  track  the  mutineer. 
Whom  distant  vengeance  had  not  taught  to  fear 
Wide  o'er  the  wave — away  !   away  !   away  ! 
Once  more  his  eyes  shall  hail  the  welcome  bay 
Once  more  the  happy  shores  without  a  law 
Receive  the  outlaws  whom  they  lately  saw 


TITE    ISLAND. 


S49 


Nature,  r.nd  nature's  goddess — Woman — woes 

To  lands  where,  save  their  conscience,  none  accuse ; 

Where  all  partake  the  earth  without  dispute. 

And  hread  itself  is  gather'd  as  a  fruit ;' 

Wliere  none  contest  tlie  fields,  the  woods,  the  stweams: — 

The  gindl'iss  age,  wnere  gold  disturbs  no  dreams, 

Inhal)its  or  inhabited  the  sliore, 

Tili  Europe  taught  them  better  than  before, 

Bestow'd  her  customs,  and  an\ended  theirs, 

liut  lefi  lier  vices  also  to  their  heirs. 

Away  with  this  !   behold  them  as  they  were, 

Do  good  with  nature,  or  with  nature  err. 

•'  Huzza  I   for  Otaheite  I"  was  the  cry. 

As  stately  swej)!  the  gallant  vesse'  by. 

The  breeze  springs  up ;   the  lately-Happing  sail 

Extends  its  arch  before  the  growing  gale  ; 

In  swit'ter  ripples  streatn  aside  tlie  seas. 

Which  her  bold  bow  Hings  otf  with  dashing  ease. 

Thus  Argo  plough'd  the  Euxine's  virgin  foam  ; 

Bi:t  those  she  wafted  still  look'd  back  to  home — 

These  spurn  their  country  with  their  rebel  bark, 

And  fly  her  as  the  raven  fled  the  ark; 

And  yet  they  seek  to  nestle  with  the  dove. 

And  tame  their  fiery  spirits  down  to  love. 

CANTO  II. 


I. 

How  pleasant  were  the  songs  of  Toobonai,^ 

When  summer's  sun  went  down  the  coral  bay ! 

Come,  let  us  to  the  islet's  softest  shade. 

And  hear  the  warbling  birds !   the  damsels  said  : 

The  wood-dove  from  the  forest  de])tli  shall  coo. 

Like  voices  of  the  goils  from  Bolotoo ; 

We  '11  cull  the  flowers  that  grow  above  the  dead. 

For  these  most  bloom  where  rests  the  warrior's  head  ; 

And  we  will  sit  in  twilight's  face,  and  see 

The  sweet  moon  dancing  through  the  tooa  tree, 

The  lofty  accents  of  whose  sighing  bough 

Shall  sadly  please  us  as  we  lean  below  ; 

Or  climb  the  steep,  and  view  the  surf  in  vain 

Wrestle  with  rocky  giants  o'er  the  main, 

Which  spurn  in  columns  back  the  baffled  spray. 

How  beautiful  are  these,  how  happy  they. 

Who,  from  the  toil  and  tumult  of  their  lives. 

Steal  to  look  down  where  nought  but  ocean  strives ! 

Even  he  too  loves  at  times  the  blue  lagoon, 

And  smooths  his  ruffled  mane  beneath  the  moon. 

II. 

Yes — from  the  sepulchre  we  '11  gather  flowers, 

Tlien  feast  like  spirits  in  their  promised  bowers. 

Then  plunge  and  revel  in  the  rolling  surf. 

Then  lay  our  hmbs  along  the  tender  turf. 

And,  wet  and  shining  from  the  sportive  toil. 

Anoint  our  bodies  with  the  fragrant  oil, 

And  plait  our  garlands  gather'd  from  the  grave. 

Ami  wear  the  wreaths  that  sprung  from  out  the  brave. 

But  lo !   night  comes,  the  Mooa  woos  us  back. 

The  sound  of  mats  is  heard  along  our  track ; 

Ancn  the  torchlight-dance  shall  fling  its  sheen 

In  flashing  mazes  o'er  the  Marly's  green  ; 


1  T^ie  now  celoljrated  broad-fruit,  to  transplant  vvhicli  Cap 
mill  Hlit'h's  expedition  was  undtTtakcii. 

2  '!'lic  first  three  sections  an;  taken  from  an  actual  -soni,'  of 
Uie  'roiii;a  IsUinders,  of  wlii^'h  a  prosi'  tran.s!ation  is  s'lvvu  in 
Mariner's  ^ccrtMwt  of  the  Toriini  I'slnndti.  'J'ool.-otKii  is  iid) 
however  one  of  them  ;  but  was  ont^  ot"  those  where  (Jhristiim 
and  the  mutineers  took  rel'utre.  1  hnxa  altered  and  added,  t)ui 
have  retained  as  much  as  possible  of  the  oriRinal. 


And  we  too  will  be  there  ;   we  too  recall 

The  memory  bright  with  many  a  festival. 

Ere  Fiji  blew  the  snell  of  war,  when  foes 

For  the  first  time  were  wafted  in  canoes. 

Alas  !   for  them  the  flower  of  mankind  bleeds  ; 

Alas  I   for  diem  our  fields  are  rank  with  weeds  : 

Forgotten  is  the  rapture,  or  unknown. 

Of  wandering  with  the  moon  and  love  alone. 

But  be  it  so  : — they  taught  us  how  to  wield 

The  club,  and  rain  our  arrows  o'er  the  field  ; 

Now  let  them  reap  the  harvest  of  their  art ! 

But  feast  to-night !   to-morrow  we  depart. 

Strike  up  the  dance,  the  cava  bowl  fill  high, 

Drain  every  drojr! — to-morrow  we  may  die. 

In  summer  garments  he  our  limbs  array'd  ; 

Around  our  waist  the  Tappa's  white  display'd  ; 

Thick  wreaths  shall  form  our  coronal,  like  spring's, 

And  round  our  necks  shall  glance  the  Hooni  strings ; 

So  shall  their  brighter  hues  contrast  the  glow 

Of  the  dusk  bosoms  that  beat  high  below. 

III. 

But  now  the  dance  is  o'er — yet  stay  awhile  ; 
Ah,  pause!   nor  yet  put  out  the  social  smile. 
To-morrow  for  the  JNIooa  we  depart, 
But  not  to-night — to-night  is  for  the  heart. 
Again  bestow  the  wreaths  we  gently  woo, 
Ye  young  enchantresses  of  gay  Licoo ! 
Flow  lovely  are  your  forms !   how  every  sense 
Bows  to  your  beauties,  soften'd,  but  intense, 
Like  to  the  flowers  on  Mataloco's  steep, 
Which  fling  their  fragrance  far  athwart  the  deep: 
We  too  will  see  Licoo  ;   but  oh !   my  heart — 
What  do  I  say '!  to-morrow  we  depart. 

IV. 

Thus  rose  a  song — the  harmony  of  times 
Before  the  winds  blew  Europe  o'er  these  climes. 
True,  they  had  vices — such  are  nature's  growth— 
But  only  the  barbarian's — we  have  both  ; 
The  sordor  of  civilization,  mix'd 
With  all  the  savage  which  man's  fall  hath  fix'd. 
Who  hath  not  seen  dissimulation's  reign, 
The  prayers  of  Abel  link VI  to  deeds  of  Cain? 
Who  such  would  see,  may  from  Ins  lattice  view 
The  old  world  more  degraded  thiui  the  new, — 
NowTieio  no  more,  save  where  Columbia  rears 
Twin  giants,  born  by  freedom  to  her  spheres. 
Where  Chimborazo,  over  air,  earth,  wave. 
Glares  with  his  Titan  eve,  and  sees  no  slave. 

V. 

Such  was  this  diftv  of  tradition's  days. 
Which  to  the  dead  a  lingering  faun;  conveys 
In  song,  where  fame  as  yet  hath  left  no  sign 
Beyond  the  sound,  whose  chartn  is  half  divme ; 
Which  leaves  no  record  to  the  sceptic  eye. 
But  yields  young  history  all  to  harmony  ; 
A  hoy  Achilles,  with  the  Centaur's  lyre 
In  hand,  to  teach  him  to  surpass  his  sire : 
For  one  long-cherish'd  ballad's  simple  stave, 
Run"  from  the  rock,  or  mingled  with  the  wave. 
Or  from  the  bubbling  streamlet's  grassy  side, 
Or  gathering  mountain  echoes  as  they  glide. 
Hath  greater  power  o'er  each  true  heart  and  ear, 
Than  all  the  columns  conquest's  minions  rear: 
Invites,  when  hieroglyphics  are  a  theme 
For  sages'  labours  or  the  student's  dream ; 
Attracts,  when  history's  volumes  are  a  toil, — 
The  first,  the  freshest  bud  of  feeling's  soil. 


850 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Such  was  this  rmle  rhyme — rhyme  is  of  the  rude — 

But  such  inspired  the  Norseman's  sohtude, 

Who  came  and  conquer'd  ;   such,  wherever  rise 

Lands  which  no  foes  destroy  or  civihze, 

Exist :   and  what  can  our  accornplish'd  art 

Of  verse  do  more  than  reach  the  awakcn'd  heart  ? 

VL 

And  sweetly  now  those  untaught  melodies 

Broke  the  luxurious  silence  of  the  skies, 

The  sweet  siesta  of  a  summer  day. 

The  tropic  afternoon  of  Toobonai, 

When  every  flower  was  bloom,  and  air  was  balm, 

And  the  first  breath  began  to  stir  the  palm, 

The  first  yet  voiceless  wind  to  urge  the  wave 

All  gently  to  refresh  the  thirsty  cave. 

Where  sate  the  songstress  with  the  stranger  boy, 

Who  taught  her  passion's  desolating  joy, 

Too  powerful  over  every  heart,  but  most 

O'er  those  who  know  not  how  it  may  be  lost ; 

O'er  those  who,  burning  in  the  new-born  fire, 

Like  martyrs  revel  in  their  funeral  pyre. 

With  such  devotion  to  their  ecstasy. 

That  lifs.'  knows  no  siich  rapture  as  to  die : 

An;!  die  tliev  do  ;   for  earthly  life  has  nought 

IMatch'd  with  that  burst  of  nature,  even  in  thought; 

And  all  our  dreams  of  better  lite  above 

But  close  in  one  eternal  gush  of  love. 

VIL 

There  sate  the  gentle  savage  of  the  wild. 

In  growth  a  woman,  though  in  years  a  child, 

As  childhood  dates  within  our  colder  clime, 

Where  nought  is  ripen'd  rapidly  save  crime ; 

The  infant  of  an  infant  world,  as  pure 

From  nature — lovely,  warm,  and  [)reniature  ; 

Dusky  like  night,  but  night  with  all  her  stars, 

Or  cavern  sparkhng  witli  its  native  spars ; 

With  eyes  tliat  were  a  language  and  a  spell, 

A.  form  like  Aphrodite's  in  her  shell  ; 

With  all  her  loves  around  her  on  the  deep, 

V^olujituous  as  the  first  approach  of  sleep  ; 

^et  full  of  life— for  through  her  tropic  cheek 

The  blush  would  make  its  way,  and  all  but  speak : 

The  sun-born  blood  difi^used  her  neck,  and  threw 

O'er  her  clear  nut-brown  skin  a  lucid  hue. 

Like  coral  reddening  through  the  darken'd  wave. 

Which  draws  the  diver  to  the  crimson  cave. 

Such  was  this  daughter  of  the  Southern  Seas, 

He.-self  a  billow  in  her  energies. 

To  'oe.iu  the  bark  of  others'  ha];|)iness, 

Nor  feel  a  sorrow  till  their  joy  grew  less  : 

U(v  wild  and  warm,  yet  faithful  bosom  knew 

lSo  joy  hke  what  it  gave  ;    her  hopes  ne'er  drew 

Aught  from  experience,  that  chill  touchstone,  whose 

Ba'l  proof  reduces  all  things  from  their  hues: 

She  ii:ar'd  no  ill,  because  she  knew  it  not, 

Or  what  she  knew  was  soon — too  soon — forgot: 

Her  smiles  r.nd  tears  had  pass'd,  as  light  winds  pass 

O'er  lakes-,  d  rutlle,  not  destroy,  their  glass, 

Whose  de,>'t  s  unsearch'd,  and  fountains  from  the  hill, 

],  store  thj'r  surface,  in  itself  so  still, 

I  ..tilllho  eii^hfjuake  tear  the  Naiad's  cave, 

floot  lip  I'l'J  spring,  and  tram{)le  on  the  wave. 

And  cu  M  'AiC  hvuig  waters  to  a  mass, 

riio  ai-.if,hlbious  desert  of  the  dank  morass! 

And  must  tiieir  fate  be  Iiers  ?  Tlie  eternal  change 

But  grasps  humanity  with  (luicker  range  ; 

KM  they  nho  fall,  but  fall  as  worlds  will  fall, 

To  rise,  if  just,  a  spirit  o'er  them  all. 


vm. 

And  who  is  he  ?  the  blue-eyed  northern  child 

Of  isles  more  known  to  man,  but  scarce  less  wild  j 

The  fair-hair'd  offspring  of  the  II<'brides, 

Where  roars  the  Peutland  with  its  whirling  seart  j 

Rock'd  in  his  cradle  by  the  roaring  wind. 

The  tempest-born  in  body  and  in  mind, 

Ilis  young  eyes  opening  on  the  ocean  foarn, 

Had  from  that  moment  deem'd  the  deep  his  home. 

The  giant  comrade  of  his  pensive  moods, 

The  sharer  of  his  craggy  solitudes. 

The  only  Mentor  of  his  youth,  where'er 

His  bark  w^as  borne,  the  spot  of  wave  and  air ; 

A  careless  thing,  who  placed  his  choice  in  chance, 

Nursed  by  the  legends  of  his  land's  romance ; 

Eager  to  hope,  but  not  less  firm  to  bear, 

Acquainted  with  all  feelings  save  despair. 

Placed  in  the  Arab's  clime,  he  would  have  been 

As  bold  a  rover  as  the  sands  have  seen. 

And  braved  their  thirst  with  as  enduring  Up 

As  Ishmael  wafted  on  his  desert-ship  ; ' 

Fix'd  upon  Chili's  shore,  a  proud  Cacique; 

On  Hellas'  mountains,  a  rebellious  Greek ; 

Born  in  a  tent,  perhaps  a  Tamerlane ; 

Bred  to  a  throne,  perhaps  unfit  to  reign. 

For  the  same  soul  that  rends  its  path  to  sway, 

If  rear'd  to  such  can  find  no  further  prey 

Beyond  itself,  and  must  retrace  its  way,- 

Plunging  for  pleasure  into  pain  ;   the  same 

Spirit  which  made  a  Nero,  Rome's  worst  shame, 

An  humbler  state  and  discipline  of  heart 

Had  formed  his  glorious  namesake's  "onnterpart :  * 

But  grant  his  vices,  grant  them  all  his  own. 

How  small  their  theatre  without  a  throne  ! 

IX. 
Thou  smilest, — these  comparisons  seem  high 
To  those  who  scan  all  things  with  dazzled  eye; 
Link'd  with  the  unknown  name  of  one  whose  doom 
Has  nought  to  do  with  glory  or  with  Rome, 
With  Chili,  Hellas,  or  with  Araby. 
Thou  smilest! — smile;  'tis  better  thus  than  sigh: 
Yet  such  he  might  have  been  ;   he  was  a  man, 
A  soaring  sj)irit  ever  in  the  van, 
A  patriot  hero  or  despotic  chief, 
T(;  form  a  nation's  glory  or  its  grief, 
Born  under  auspices  which  make  us  more 
Or  less  than  we  delight  to  ponder  o'er. 
But  these  are  visions  ;   say,  what  was  he  here? 
A  blooming  boy,  a  truant  mutineer, 
The  fair-hair'd  Tor(}uil,  free  as  ocean's  spray, 
The  husband  of  the  bride  of  Toobonai. 


By  Neuha's  side  he  sate,  and  watch'd  the  waters, — 
Neiiha,  the  sun-tlower  of  the  Island  daughters, 
High-born  (a  birth  at  which  the  herald  smiles. 
Without  a  'scutcheon  for  these  secret  isles) 


1  The  "ship   of  tlie   dosert"  is  thn  oriental  fiiiiire  foi  the 
camel  or  droinerlaiy  ;  and  they  (lo^5orve  the  metaphor  wcl!    thu 
foriuer  for  his  eiuluiance,  the  latter  lor  his  swit'ineea. 
2  "  Lucullus,  when  frugality  could  charm, 

Elad  wasted  turnips  in  his  Sahinc  farm." — rope.. 

3Tho  (Jonsul  Nero,  who  uuuie  the  unefitinllt  d  inarch -wliicb 
deceived  lliiiinihal,  and  defeated  Asdruhal;  thereby  aocom- 
plishins  an  iicliiovemeiit  almost  umivulled  in  military  annals. 
The  first  iniellitience  of  his  return,  to  Hiuinihal,  was  the  si-ht 
of  Asdruhiil's  h(!!id  thrown  into  his  Ciimp.  When  Flani.ihal 
saw  this,  he  exclaimed,  with  a  siu-h,  that  "  Rome  would  now 
he  the  mi.-,tress  of  the  world."  And  yet  to  this  victory  of  Nero'a 
it  miu'ht  he  owins  that  liis  imperial  namesiike  reijined  at  all 
Rut  the  inlainy  of  tlie  one  has  eclipsed  the  trlury  of  the  other. 
When  the  name  of  "  Nero"  is  he 
buH    IJui  sui;h  are  human  things 


•ho  thinks  of  the  Con 


THE    ISLAND. 


S51 


Of  a  long  race,  the  valian   and  tlie  free, 

The  naked  kr  ights  of  savage  chivalry, 

Whose  jrassv  cairns  ascend  aloni;  tlie  sliore, 

And  thine, — I  'vc  seen, — Achilles  !    do  no  more. 

She,  when  tne  thunder-hearinir  strangers  came 

In  vast  canoes,  hegirt  with  bolts  of  flame, 

To[)p\l  with  tall  trees,  which,  loftier  than  the  palm, 

SeemM  rooted  in  the  deep  amidst  its  calm  ; 

But,  when  the  winds  aw;iken\i  siiot  forth  win^s 

Hroad  as  the  cloud  along  the  hori/.oii  I'tings, 

And  swavM  the  waves,  like  cities  of  the  sea, 

Making  the  very  billows  look  less  free  ;  — 

Slie,  with  her  [laikilin^  oar  and  dancing  prow, 

Shot  throuiih  the  surf,  like  reindeer  throuuh  the  snow, 

Swift  glidiiii;  o'er  the  breaker's  whitening  edge, 

Liuht  as  a  Nereid  in  her  ocean-sled^'e, 

And  if;r/.ed  and  wonder'd  at  the  giant  hulk 

Which  heaved  from  wave  to  wave  its  trampling  hulk  : 

The  anchor  (iroi)p'd,  it  lav  aloni;  tlio  deep, 

I^ike  a  hiise  lion  in  the  sun  asleep, 

While  round  it  swarm'd  the  proas'  flitlinw  chain, 

Like  summer-bees  that  hum  around  his  mane. 

XL 

The  atiiie  man  landed  ; — need  the  rest  be  told  ? 

The  New  World  stretch'd  its  dusk  hand  to  the  old  ; 

Each  was  to  each  a  marvel,  and  the  tie 

Of  wonder  warnfd  to  better  syinpatliv. 

Kind  was  the  welcome  ot'  tlie  sun-born  sires, 

And  kinder  still  their  daughters'  gentler  fires. 

Their  union  grew:   the  children  of  the  storm 

Fuund  beauty  liiik'd  with  many  a  dusky  form  ; 

While  these  in  turn  admired  the  paler  elow, 

Which  scem'd  so  white  in  climes  that  knew  no  snow. 

Tiie  chase,  the  race,  the  liberty  to  roam, 

The  soil  where  every  cottaoje  show'd  a  home  ; 

The  sf  a~s|)read  net,  the  lightlv-launch'd  canoe, 

Which  siemm'd  the  studded  Archipelago, 

O'er  whose  blue  bosom  rose  the  starry  isles  ; 

Tiie  healthy  slumber,  earn'd  by  sportive  toils  ; 

The  palm,  the  loftiest  Dryad  of  the  woods, 

Within  whose  bosom  infant  Bacchus  broods, 

While  eagles  scarce  build  higher  than  the  crest 

^^  hich  shadows  o"ei  the  vineyard  in  her  breast ; 

The  cava  feast,  the  yam,  the  cocoa's  root, 

Whic'.i  bears  at  once  the  cun,  and  milk,  ami  fruit  ; 

The  liread-tree,  which,  without  the  plouijhshare,  yields 

Tiie  unreapVI  harvest  of  unfurrow'd  tields, 

And  bakes  its  unadulteratecl  loaves 

Without  a  furnace  in  unpurchased  groves, 

And  tiiiii;S  olf  famine  from  its  tlrtile  breast, 

A  priceless  market  for  the  gathering  guest  ; — 

Tliese,  with  the  luxuries  of  seas  and  woods. 

The  airy  joys  of  social  solitudes. 

Tamed  (.-a'di  rude  v,;ind(>rer  to  the  sympathies 

Of  those  who  \\ ere  more  happy  if  less  wise. 

Did  more  than  F2urope's  discipline  had  done, 

And  civilized  civilization's  son  I 

XIL 

Of  these,  and  there  ^vas  many  a  willing  pair, 
Ncnha  and  Torquil  were  not  the  least  fair  : 
Both  ciiildren  of  tlie  isles,  thousli  distant  far; 
Both  born  beneath  a  sea-presiding  star; 
Both  nourish'd  amidst  nature's  native  scenes. 
Loved  to  the  last,  wh:«'ev(>r  intiTvenes 
Between  us  and  our  child'iooirs  sympathy, 
Which  still  reverts  to  what  fust  cauijhi  tin'  eve. 
He  who  first  met  the  Hiirhlands'  swelling  blue, 
Will  Irve  each  peak  that  shows  a  kindred  hue, 
Hail  m  each  crag  a  friend's  familiar  face, 
And  clasp  the  mountain  in  his  mind's  embrace. 


1    Long  have  I  roani'd  throuirh  lands  which  are  not  mine 
Ador-d  the  Al[i  and  loved  the  Apennine, 
Revered  Parnassus,  and  beheld  the  steep 
Jove's  Ida  and  Olympus  crown  the  deep  : 
But 't  was  not  all  long  ages'  lore,  nor  all 
77«!r  nature  held  me  in  their  thrilling  thrall; 
The  infant  rapture  still  survived  the  boy, 
And  Lorh-na-gar  with  Ida  lo<>k'd  o'er  Troy,' 
Mix'd  Cc^ltic  memories  with  the  Phrygian  mount, 
And  Iliirhland  linns  %vith  Castalie's  clear  fount. 
Forgive  me,  Homer's  universal  shade  ! 
Foririve  me,  Plucbus  !   that  my  fancy  stray'd  ; 
The  North  and  Nature  tauirht  me  to  adore 
Your  scenes  sublime  from  those  belovetl  before. 

XIII. 

The  love,  which  niaketh  all  things  fond  and  fair 
The  youth,  which  makes  one  raiiibov,-  of  the  an 
The  dangers  past,  that  make  even  man  enjoy 
The  pause  in  Nxhich  he  ceases  to  destroy. 
The  mutual  beauty,  which  the  sternest  feel 
Strike  to  their  hearts  like  lightning  to  the  steel, 
United  the  half  savage  and  the  whole, 
The  maid  and  boy,  in  one  absory;ing  soul.  , 
No  more  the  thundering  memory  of  the  fight 
Wrapp'd  his  wean'd  bosom  in  its  dark  delight; 
No  more  the  irksome  restlessness  of  rest 
Disturb'd  him  like  the  eagle  in  her  nest, 
Whose  \\hetted  beak  and  far-pervading  eye 
Darts  for  a  victim  over  all  the  sky  ; 
His  heart  was  tamed  to  that  voluptuous  state. 
At  once  elysian  and  effeminate. 
Which  leaves  no  laurels  o'er  the  hero's  urn  ; — 
These  v.ither  when  for  aught  save  blood  they  bum; 
Vet,  when  their  ashes  m  their  nook  are  laid, 
Doth  not  the  myrtle  leave  as  sweet  a  shade  ? 
Had  Ctcsar  known  but  Cleopatra's  kiss, 
Rome  had  been  free,  the  world  had  not  been  his. 
And  what  have  Ciesar's  deeds  and  Ciesar's  fame 
Doi-ui  fir  the  earth  ?   We  feel  them  in  our  shame : 
The  gory  sanction  of  his  glorv  stains 


The  rust  which  tyrants  cherish  on  our  chains. 
Though  glory,  nature,  reason,  freedom,  bid 
Roused  millions  do  what  single  Brutus  did, — 
Sweep  these  mere  mock-birds  of  the  despot's  song 
Froni  the  tall  bough  where  they  have  perch'd  so  lono.- 
StiU  are  v-e  hawk'd  at  by  such  mousing  owls, 
And  take  for  falcons  those  ignoble  fowls. 
When  but  a  word  of  freedom  would  dispel 
These  bugbears,  as  their  terrors  show  loo  well. 

XIV. 

Rapt  in  the  fmd  forgetfulness  of  life, 

Neiiha,  the  South  Sea  girl,  was  all  a  wife, 

With  no  distracting  world  to  call  her  off 

From  love  ;   with  no  society  to  scofi" 

At  the  new  transient  flame  ;   no  babbling  crowd 

Of  coxcombry  in  admiration  loud, 

Or  with  a'hilterous  whisper  to  alloy 

Her  duiv,  and  her  glory,  and  her  joy  ; 

Witii  faith  and  feelings  naked  as  her  form, 

She  stood  Its  stands  a  rainbow  in  a  storm, 

1  When  very  youns,  about  eight  years  ofasp,  after  a-^  attaCA 
of  tlic  sf.-irifi  i'.-v.  r  ;it  Aberdeen,  1  vviis  removed  by  medical 
aHvic-o  i!i:.>  di.'  Iliai-.laiids.  Here  I  :.,is>c('  <i<-c.isi,)!inlly  some 
snt.i!r.LT!<.  jiiH  iV.im  iliis  period  I  date  ;mv  inre  of  nii.-iirdnmous 
cu;;'.irios.  1  cnn  never  t"!)ii,'et  the  efT.Tt  a  few  yeir?  aftorwarde 
in  (',ns:iai.il,  of  the  only  thiiiL'  t  had  lonir  seen,  even  ir,  min 
iatun^,  of  a  mountain,  in  tiift  Malvi-rn  IFills.  After  I  returnei- 
to  rhf>ltiMiham.  T  tiscd  to  watch  titoin  every  altcineon  at  sun 
set.  with  a  sensation  which  1  cannot  ilescrihc.  This  was  boyisli 
opdi.^'a:  but  [  was  then  only  thirteen  year-  oi'ajie,  and  .t  wa» 
in  thy  holidays. 


352 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Chanj^ing  its  hues  with  bright  variety, 
But  still  expanding  lovelier  o'er  the  sky, 
Howe'er  its  arch  may  swell,  its  colours  move, 
The  cloud-comj)elling  harbinger  of  .ove. 

XV. 
Here,  in  this  grotto  of  the  wa'-e-worn  shore, 
They  pass'tl  the  tropic's  red  meridian  o'er  ; 
Nor  long  the  hours — they  never  paused  o'er  time, 
Unbroken  by  the  clock's  funereal  chime, 
Which  deals  the  daily  pittance  of  our  span. 
And  points  and  mocks  with  iron  laugh  at  man. 
What  deem'd  they  of  the  future  or  the  past  ? 
The  present,  like  a  tyrant,  held  them  fast  ; 
Their  hour-glass  was  the  sea-sand,  and  the  tide. 
Like  her  smooth  billow,  saw  their  moments  glide  ; 
Their  clock  the  sun  in  his  unbounded  tower  ; 
Thev  reckon'd  not,  whose  day  was  but  an  hour; 
The  nightingale,  their  only  ves])er-bell, 
Sung  sweetly  to  the  rose  the  day's  farewell  ;' 
The  broad  sun  set,  but  not  with  lingering  sweep, 
As  in  the  north  he  mellows  o'er  the  deep. 
But  fiery,  full,  and  tierce,  as  if  he  left 
The  world  for  ever,  earth  of  light  berefl, 
Phinged  with  red  forehead  down  along  the  wave, 
As  dives  a  hero  headlong  to  his  grave. 
Tiien  rose  they,  looking  first  along  the  skies. 
And  then,  for  light,  into  each  other's  eyes, 
Wonderin'T  that  sununer  show'd  so  brief  a  sun. 
And  asking  if  indeed  the  day  were  done? 

XVI. 
And  let  not  this  seem  strange  ;   the  devotee 
Lives  not  in  earth,  but  in  his  ecstasy ; 
Around  him  days  and  worlds  are  heedless  driven, — 
His  soul  is  gone  before  his  dust  to  heaven. 
I=i  Icve  less  potent?  No — his  path  is  trod. 
Alike  uplifted  gloriously  to  God  ; 
Or  link'd  to  all  we  know  of  heaven  below, 
The  other  better  self,  wliose  joy  or  woe 
fs  more  than  ours  ;   the  all-absorbing  flame 
Which,  kindled  by  another,  grows  the  same. 
Wrapt  in  one  blaze  ;   the  pure,  yet  funeral  pile. 
Where  gentle  hearts,  like  Hramins,  sit  and  smile. 
How  often  we  forget  all  time,  when  lone. 
Admiring  nature's  universal  throne, 
Her  woods,  her  wilds,  her  waters,  the  intense 
Reply  of  hers  to  our  intelligence  ! 
Live  not  the  stars  and  mountains  ?  Are  the  waves 
Without  a  '^nirit  ?  Are  the  dropping  caves 
Without  a  feeling  in  their  silent  tears  ? 
No,  no : — they  woo  and  clasp  us  to  their  sj)heres. 
Dissolve  this  clog  and  clod  of  clay  before 
Its  hour,  and  merge  our  soul  in  the  great  shore. 
Strip  off  this  fond  and  false  identity !  — 
Who  thinks  of  self,  when  gaznig  on  the  sky? 
And  who,  though  gazing  lower,  ever  thought. 
In  the  young  moments  ere  the  heart  is  taught 
Time's  lesson,  of  man's  baseness  or  his  own  ? 
All  nature  is  his  realm,  and  love  his  throne. 

xvn. 

cuha  arose,  and  Torquil :  twiliirht's  hour 
Came  sad  and  softly  to  their  rocky  bower, 
Which,  kindling  by  degrees  its  dewy  spars, 
Echo'd  their  dim  light  to  the  musterins  stars. 
Slowly  the  pair,  partaking  nature's  calm. 
Sought  out  their  cottage,  built  beneath  the  palm  ; 
Now  smiling  and  now  silent,  as  the  scene ; 
Lcvely  as  love — the  spirit !   when  serene. 

1  The  now  well-known  story  of  the  lov(!s  of  the  tiiirhtiri<i'.lf 
and  rose,  need  not  he  more  than  alhiiled  to,  hciiii?  sullicieiuly 
"amiliur  to  the  Wiislcrn  as  to  the  Eaatern  reaoer. 


The  Ocean  scarce  spoke  louder  with  his  sweJi 

Than  breathes  his  mimic  murmurer  in  the  shell, 
As,  far  divided  from  his  parent  deep. 
The  sea-born  infant  cries,  and  will  not  sleep, 
Raising  his  little  plaint  in  vain,  to  rave 
For  the  broad  bosom  of  his  nursing  wave : 
The  woods  droop'd  darkly,  as  inclined  to  rest, 
The  tropic-bird  wheel'd  rock-ward  to  his  nest. 
And  the  blue  sky  spread  round  them  like  a  lake 
Of  peace,  where  piety  her  thirst  might  slake. 

XVIII. 
But  through  the  palm  and  plantain,  hark,  a  voice 
Not  such  as  would  have  been  a  lover's  choice 
In  such  an  hour  to  break  the  air  so  still ! 
No  dying  night-breeze,  harping  o'er  the  hill. 
Striking  the  strings  of  nature,  rock  and  tree. 
Those  best  and  earhest  lyres  of  harmony. 
With  echo  for  their  chorus  ;   nor  the  alarm 
Of  the  loud  war-whoop  to  dispel  the  charm ; 
Nor  the  soliloquy  of  the  hermit  owl. 
Exhaling  all  his  solitary  soul. 
The  dim  though  large-eyed  winged  anchorite, 
Who  peals  his  dreary  piean  o'er  the  night ; — 
But  a  loud,  long,  and  naval  whistle,  shrill 
As  ever  startled  through  a  sea-bird's  bill  ; 
And  then  a  pause,  and  then  a  hoarse  "  Hi'lo 
Torquil!   my  boy!   v.hat  cheer?   Ho,  brother,  ho  !'' 
"Who  hails?"  cried  Torciuil,  following  with  his  eye 
The  sound.     "  Here  's  one  !"  was  all  the  brief  reply 

XIX. 

But  here  the  herald  of  the  self-same  mouth 

Came  breathing  o'er  the  aromatic  south. 

Not  like  a  "  bed  of  violets  "  on  the  gale. 

But  such  as  wafts  its  cloud  o'er  grog  or  ale. 

Borne  from  a  short  frail  pipe,  which  yet  had  blown 

Its  gentle  odours  over  either  zone. 

And,  puff'd  where'er  winds  rise  or  waters  roll. 

Had  wafted  smoke  from  Portsmouth  to  the  Pole, 

Opposed  its  vapour  as  the  lightning  flash'd. 

And  reek'd,  'midst  mountain  billows  unabash'd. 

To  ^Eolus  a  constant  sacrifice. 

Through  every  change  of  all  tlie  varying  skies. 

And  what  was  he  who  liore  it  ?— I  may  err. 

But  deem  him  sailor  or  j.hiloso-.jh'-ir.-' 

Sublime  tobacco !   which  from  east  to  west 

Cheers  the  tar's  labour  or  the  Turkman's  rest ; 

Which  on  the  JNIoslenrs  ottoman  divides 

His  hours,  and  rivals  opium  and  his  brides  ; 

Magnificent  in  Stamhoul,  but  less  giand. 

Though  not  less  loved,  in  Wap()ing  or  the  Strand  ; 

Divine  in  hookas,  glorio'.is  in  a  pipe, 

i   When  tipp'd  with  amber,  yellow,  rich,  and  ripe; 

I    Like  other  charmers,  woomg  the  caress 

j    More  dazzlingly  whei^ daring  in  fiiil  dress  ; 

'    Yet  thy  true  lovers  more  admire  by  far 

j    Thy  naked  beauties— Give  me  a  cigar! 

1  If  the  nsacler  will   apply  to  his  ear  the  sea-shell  or  hit 
chimney-pifce,  he  wiil  bo  aware  of  what  is  alluiU-d  to.  If  the 

!    text  should  appear  ohsciiro  he  will  fimi  in  "  Gtibir"  the  same 

I    idea  bet  er  expressed  in  two  lines.— 'J'he  poem  I  never  n-ml, 

'    but  huv.!  heard  the  lines  quoted  by  ii  mr.re  r.Toiiditc  reader^ 

i    whj  s.eins  to  be  of  a  ditrerent  opinion  iVum  the  Kdiior  of  the 

i    Quarterly    Kevi.'W,  who  (luiilitii'd    it,  in   his   answer   to   tlic 

I    Critical  Reviewer  of  iiis  Journal,  as  tr;ish  of  the  worst  and 

most    insane  description.      It  is  to  Mr.   Lnndor,   the  author 

of  <Iel>ir,  so  qualiiicd.  iind  of  some    Latin  poems,  which  via 

!    with  Martial  or  Catullus  in  obscenity,  that   the  umnaculate 

Mr.  Soulhey  addossses  his  declamation  asauisi  impurity  I 

2  lloi.bes,  the  fiitherof  Locke's  and  oilier  plul'.sophy,   van 
an  inveterate  smoker, — even  to  pipes  beyond  computation 


THE    ISLAND. 


3  oh 


XX. 

Through  the  approaching  dr  rkness  of  the  wood 
A  human  f.gure  bruke  the  solitude, 
Fantastically,  it  may  be,  array'd, 
A  staman  in  a  savage  masquerade  ; 
Such  as  a;)pears  to  rise  from  out  the  deep, 
When  o'er  the  Line  the  merrv  vessels  sweep, 
And  tiie  rough  Saturnalia  of  the  tar 
Flock  o'er  the  deck,  in  Neptune's  borrow'd  car  ;' 
And,  pleaseil,  tlie  god  of  ocean  sees  his  name 
Revive  once  more,  though  but  in  mimic  game 
Of  his  true  sons,  who  riot  in  a  breeze 
Undreamt  of  in  liis  native  Cvclades. 
Still  the  old  god  deliirhts,  from  out  the  main. 
To  snatch  some  glimpses  of  his  ancient  reign. 
Our  sailor's  jacket,  though  in  rag^jed  trim. 
His  constant  pipe,  which  never  yet  burn'd  dim, 
His  f  iremast  air,  and  somewhat  rolling  gait, 
Like  his  dear  vessel,  spoke  his  former  state  ; 
But  then  a  sort  of  kerchief  round  his  head, 
Not  over  tiohtly  boimd,  or  nicelv  spread  ; 
And,  stead  of  trowsers  (ah  !   too  early  torn  ! 
For  even  the  mildest  woods  will  have  their  thorn) 
A  curious  sort  of  somewhat  scanty  mat 
Now  served  for  inexpressibles  and  hat  ; 
His  naked  feet  and  neck,  and  sunburnt  face, 
}'i  rchance  misht  suit  alike  with  either  race. 
His  arms  were  all  his  own,  our  Europe's  growth, 
Whi;-h  two  worlds  bless  for  civilizing  both  ; 
T'i>'  jivi-^k't  swuns  behind  his  shoulders,  broad 
V  '  '  -  i-n.'wiiat  sro,i,)'d  by  his  marine  abode. 
But  brawny  as  the  boar's  ;   and,  hung  beneath. 
His  cutlass  droop'tl,  unconscious  of  a  sheath, 
Or  Inst  or  worn  away  ;   his  pistols  were 
]  <ink'd  to  his  belt,  a  matrimonial  pair — 
■[  Lot  not  this  metaphor  appear  a  scotf, 
Though  one  miss'd  fire,  the  other  would  go  off); 
These,  with  a  bayonet,  not  so  free  from  rust 
As  wiien  the  arm-chest  held  its  brighter  trust, 
Completed  his  accoutrements,  as  night 
Survey'd  mm  in  his  garb  heteroclite. 

XXI. 

"What  cheer,  Ben  Bunting  ?"  cried  (»vhen  in  full  view 
Our  new  acquaintance)  Torquil  ;    "  Aught  of  new?" 
"  Ey,  ey,"  quoth  Ben,  "  not  new,  but  news  enow  ; 
A  strange  sail  in  the  offing." — "  Sail !   and  how  ? 
What!   could  you  make  her  out  ?   It  cannot  be  ; 
I  've  seen  no  ratj  of  canvas  on  the  sea." 
"  Belike,''  said  Ben,  "you  might  not  from  the  bay 
But  from  the  bluff-head,  where  I  watch'd  to-dav, 
I  saw  her  in  the  doldrums  ;   for  tlpe  wind 
Was  light  and  batHing." — "  When  the  sun  declined 
Where  lay  she  ?   had  she  anchor'd  ?" — "  No,  but  still 
She  bore  down  on  us,  till  the  wind  irrew  still." 
**  Her  tl^ir  .'" — "  I  had  no  glass  ;    but,  fore  and  aft, 
Egad,  she  seem'd  a  wicked-looking  craft." 
"  Ariii'd  T' — "  I  expect  so — sent  on  the  look-out ; — 
'T  is  time,  belike,  t:  put  »)ur  helm  about." 
'*  About  ? — Whate't."  may  have  us  now  in  chase, 
Wc  'U  make  no  running  fight,  for  that  were  base ; 
W;  will  die  at  our  quarters,  like  true  men." 
'*  E  -,  ey  ;  for  that,  't  is  all  the  same  to  Ben." 
'  Does  Christian  know  this  ?" — "  Ay  ;   he  's  piped  all 

hands 
To  quarters.     They  are  furbishing  the  stands 


Of  arms  ;   and  we  have  got  some  guns  to  bear, 

And  scaled  them.  You  are  wanted." — "  That 's  bat  fail 

And  if  it  were  not,  mine  is  not  the  soui 

To  leave  my  comrades  helpless  on  the  shoal. 

iVIv  Neuha !   ah!    and  must  my  fate  pursue 

Aot  me  alone,  but  one  so  sweet  and  true  ? 

But  whatsoe'er  betide,  ah !   Neuha,  now 

Unman  me  not ;   the  hour  will  not  allow 

A  tear  ;   I'm  thine,  whatever  intervenes!" 

"Right,"  quoth  Ben,  "that  will  do  for  the  marines.  " 


CANTO  III. 


I. 

The  fight  was  o'er:   the  flashing  through  the  gloonri. 

Which  robes  the  cannon  as  he  wings  a  tomb. 

Had  ceased  ;   and  sulphury  vapours  ui)wards  driven 

Had  l(>ft  the  earth,  and  but  polluted  heaven: 

The  rattling  roar  which  rung  in  every  volley 

Had  left  the  valleys  to  their  melancholy  ; 

No  more  t!iev  shriek'd  their  horror,  bf>orn  for  boom ; 

The  strife  was  done,  the  vanquisli'd  had  their  doom ;, 

The  mutineers  were  crush'd,  dispersed,  or  ta'en, 

Or  lived  to  deem  the  happiest  were  the  slain. 

Few,  few,  escaped,  and  these  were  hunted  o'er 

The  isle  thev  loved  beyond  their  native  shore. 

No  further  home  was  theirs,  it  seem'd,  on  earth,. 

Once  renegades  to  that  which  gave  them  bi;tn  ; 

Track'd  like  wild  beasts,  like  them  thev  sought  the  wiW 

As  to  a  mother's  bosom  tlies  the  child  ; 

But  vainly  wolves  and  lions  seek  their  den 

And  still  more  vainly  men  escape  from  mer. . 

II. 

Beneath  a  rock  whose  jutting  base  protrudes 
Far  over  ocean  in  his  fiercest  moods, 
When  scaling  his  enormous  crag,  the  wave 
Is  hurl'd  down  headlong  like  the  foremost  brave. 
And  falls  back  on  the  foaming  crowd  behind. 
Which  fight  beneath  the  banners  of  the  wind, 
j    But  now  at  rest,  a  little  remnant  drew 
!    Together,  bleeding,  thirsty,  faint,  and  few  ; 
But  still  their  weapons  in  their  hands,  and  still 
With  something  of  the  pride  of  f^jrmer  will, 
As  men  not  all  unused  to  meditate, 
And  strive  much  more  than  wonder  at  their  tate. 
Their  present  lot  was  what  they  had  f  )reseen. 
And  dared  as  what  was  likely  to  have  been  ; 
Yet  still  the  fingering  hope,  which  deem'd  their  loi 
Not  pardon'd,  but  unsought-for  or  forgot, 
Or  trusted  that,  if  sought,  their  distant  caves 
Might  still  be  miss'd  amidst  that  world  of  waves, 
Flad  wean'd  their  thoughts  in  part  from  what  thev  saw 
And  felt^the  vengeance  of  their  country's  law. 
Their  sea-green  isle,  their  guilt-won  paradise, 
'    No  more  could  shield  their  virtue  or  their  vice  : 
I    Their  better  feelings,  if  .<uoh  were,  were  thrown 
I    Ba^k  on  themselves, — their  sins  remain'd  alone. 
I    Proscribed  even  in  their  second  country,  thev 
I    Were  lost  ;   in  vain  the  world  before  them  lay  , 
I    All  outlets  seem'd  secured.     Their  new  allies 
I    Had  fought  and  bled  in  mutual  sacrifice  ; 
^    But  what  avail'd  the  club  and  spear  and  arm 

Of  Hercules,  against  the  sulphury  charm, 
:    The  magic  of  the  thunder,  which  destrov'd 
i    The  warrior  ere  his  strength  could  be  employ'd? 


I  This  rouah  but  jovial  cert-mony,  u>pd  in  crossing  the 
Ijine,  has  been  so  often  and  so  well  described,  that  it  need  not 
be  morn  tli.m  alluded  to. 


1  ••T:.M>  w^ll  ,l<,  !nr  liie  n>:u\uo<,  Lot  the  :^^n!ors  won't  be 
lieve  ii,"  is  an  old  s-iy:!i?.  iird  on.'  ot"  tlin  !e\v  fruifincrts  of 
former  jealonsies  wiiii-h  still  survive  (in  jest  on'y)  between 
these  gallant  services. 


864 


BYROX'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Dii^^liko  a  sp'-cndhvg  j)esti^ence,  tlie  grave 
No  loss  of  hu-nan  oravery  than  the  brave ! ' 
Thtar  o'.vn  scant  numbers  acted  all  the  few 
Against  the  many  oft  will  dare  and  do; 
Kilt  though  the  choice  seems  native  to  die  free, 
P^vcn  Greece  can  boast  but  one  ThennopylGe, 
Til!  iwii;  when  she  has  forged  her  broken  chain 
Back  to  a  sword,  and  dies  and  lives  again ! 

III. 

Beside  the  jutting  rock  the  few  appear'd, 

Likt;  the  Ipst  remnant  of  the  red-deer's  herd  ; 

Their  eye-?  were  feverish,  and  their  aspect  worn. 

But  still  the  hunker's  blood  was  on  their  horn. 

A  little  stream  came  tumbling  from  the  height, 

And  stri'ugling  into  ocean  as  it  might, 

hs  boui'ding  crystal  frolick'd  in  the  ray. 

And  g'.'sh'd  from  cleft  to  cj^g  with  saltless  spray  ; 

Close  on  the  wild  wide  ocean,  yet  as  pure 

And  f';(;sh  as  innocence,  and  more  secure, 

Its  .-ilv'.;r  torrent  glitfer'd  o'er  the  deep, 

A-  f!ie  shy  chamois'  eye  o'erlooks  the  steep, 

Whil'  fir  below  the  vast  and  sullen  swell 

'if  ocean's  Al[)ine  azure  rose  and  fell. 

T;)  tliis  voun«  spring  thev  rush'd, — all  feelings  first 

Ab-icrii' 1  in  passion's  and  in  nature's  thirst, — 

Orarik  as  ihev  do  who  drink  their  last,  and  threw 

Their  anus  aside  to  revel  in  its  dew  ; 

('oi)!"d  liii'ir  scorch'd  throats,  and  wash'd  the  gory  stains 

FiDiii  vvouii  Is  wliose  only  bandage  nnght  be  chams  ; 

'J'heii,  when  then-  drougnt  was  quench'd,  look'd  sadly 

round, 
As  w'-",idcr!iig  how  so  many  still  were  found 
Alive  and  fetterless: — but  silent  all, 
Each  si.Mght  his  fellow's  eyes,  as  if  to  call 
On  him  for  language  which  his  lips  denied, 
As  i'uongh  their  voices  with  their  eause  had  died 

IV. 

Stern,  and  aloof  a  little  from  the  lost, 
Simo  I  Christian,  with  his  arms  across  his  chest. 
'i'hf  ru  Mv,  reckless,  dauntless  hue,  once  spread 
Along  his  cheek,  was  livid  now  as  lead  ; 
(lis  lig-it-hrown  locks,  so  graceful  in  their  flow, 
\ow  rosi;  like  startled  vipers  o'er  liis  brow. 
Siili  as  a  statue,  with  his  lips  com])ress'd 
To  stitlf  even  the  breath  wuhin  his  breast, 
Fast  by  the  rock,  all  menacing  but  mute, 
(If  si(.)(jd  ;   and,  save  a  slight  beat  of  his  footi, 
V\  hich  'lerpcn'd  now  and  then  the  sandy  dint 
Hi  lie;. ill  his  heel,  his  form  seem'd  turn'd  to  flint. 
S  ),ii!'  piu-es  further,  Torquil  lean'd  his  head 
Ag  iMi-t  a  iiink,  and  sjjoke  not,  but  he  bled, — 
Not  ijiortally — his  worst  wound  was  within  : 
His  lir  )\v  was  |)ale,  his  blue  eyes  sunken  in, 
And  blood-drops,  s[)rinkled  o'er  his  yellow  hair, 
S.'ioaM  that  his  faintness  came  not  from  despair, 
I'ui  iiiture's  ebb.      Heside  hiin  was  another. 


i  b(;ar,  but  willing  as  a  brother, — 
Hi;,  who  essay'd  to  wash,  and  wipe, 
lis  wound — then  calmlv  lit  his  pipe — 
vhich  survived  a  hundred  fights, 
which  had  checr'd  ten  thousand  niglits. 
Ttic  fourth  and  last  of  tliis  deserted  group 
Waik'd  UD  au<l  down — at  times  would  stand,  then  stoop 


Hrn 
Ah 
A  In 

A  b- 


I  An  irKlamiis,  Kirifj  of  Spuria,  iuul  son  of  Accsilaus,  when 
».<•  saw  !)  machine  iiiviT.l'-n  f.-.  rh,- vastiii;,'  of  stones  and  darts, 
c.x"laiincd  that  it  was  "  tin;  craviiof  valour."  Tlie  sainn  story 
liii«  hi'i'ii  told  ofsonie  kniyhts,  on  the  lirst  apphi-ation  orguii 
Dowdcr  ;  but  llic  oriyiiiu   a   ecdott  is  in  IMutarch. 


To  pick  a  pebble  up — then  let  it  drop — 
Then  hurry  as  in  haste — then  quickly  stop- 
Then  cast  his  eyes  on  his  comi)anions — then 
Half  whistle  half  a  tune,  and  pause  again  — 
And  then  his  former  movements  would  redouble, 
With  something  betv.een  carelessness  and  trouhln. 
This  is  a  long  description,  but  applies 
To  scarce  five  minutes  past  before  the  eyes  ^ 
But  yet  what  minutes  !     Moments  like  to  these 
Rend  men's  lives  into  immortalities. 

V. 

At  length  Jack  Skyscrape,  a  mercurial  man, 

Who  flulter'd  over  all  things  like  a  fan, 

INlore  brave  than  firm,  and  more  disposed  to  dare 

And  die  at  once  than  wrestle  with  despair, 

Exclaim'd  "  God  damn  !"  Those  syllables  intense,- 

Nucleus  of  England's  native  eloquence. 

As  the  Turk's  "Allah  !"  or  the  Roman's  more 

Pagan  "  Proh  Jupiter !"  was  wont  of  yore 

To  give  their  first  impressions  such  a  vent. 

By  way  of  echo  to  embarrassment. 

Jack  was  einbarrass'd, — never  hero  more. 

And  as  he  knew  not  what  to  say,  he  swore  ; 

Nor  swore  in  vain :  the  long  congenial  sound 

Revived  Ben  Bunting  from  his  pipe  profound  ; 

He  drew  it  from  his  mouth,  and  look'd  full  wise. 

But  merely  added  to  the  oath  his  f>j/f.«  ; 

Thus  rendering  the  imperfect  piirase  complete— 

A  peroration  I  need  not  repeat. 

i 

;    But  Christian,  of  a  hiirher  order,  stood 
Like  an  extinct  volcano  in  his  mood  ; 
Silent,  and  sad,  an  -Kre, — with  the  trace 

Of  passion  ree'king  00..1  ids  clouded  face; 
Till  lifting  up  again  his  sombre  eye. 
It  glanced  on  Torquil  who  lean'd  faintly   JV. 
"  And  is  it  thus  ?"  he  cried,  "  unhappy  boy  ! 
And  thee,  too,  thee  my  madness  must  destroy." 
He  said,  and  strode  to  where  young  Torquil  stood 
I    Yet  dabbled  with  his  lately-flowing  blood  ; 
I    Seized  his  hand  wistfully,  liut  ditl  not  press, 
j    And  shrunk  as  fearful  of  his  own  caress  ; 
I    In(|uired  into  his  state,  and,  when  he  heard 
:    The  wound  was  slighter  than  he  deem'd  or  fear'd, 
!    A  moment's  brightness  pass'd  along  his  brow, 
j    As  much  as  such  a  moment  would  allow. 
\   "  Yes,"  he  exclaim'd,  "  we  are  taken  in  the  toil, 

But  not  a  coward  or  a  common  spoil ; 
;   D<;arlv  they  have  bought  us — dearly  still  may  buy,— 
^   And  I  must  fall  ;   but  have  you  strength  to  fly  ? 
'T  would  be  some  coaiforl  still,  could  .you  survive ; 
Our  dwindled  band  is  now  too  -few  to  strive. 
Oh  !   for  a  sole  canoe  !   though  but  a  shell. 
To  hear  you  hence  to  where  a  hojje  may  dwell ! 
For  me,  my  lot  is  what  I  sought ;   to  be, 
In  life  or  death,  the  fearless  and  the  free." 

I  VII. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  around  the  promontory, 
Which  nodded  o'er  the  billosvs  high  and  :ioary, 
A  dark  speck  dotted  ocean  :   on  it  flew, 
Like  to  the  shadow  of  a  roused  sea-mew : 
Onward  it  came — ami,  lo!   a  second  follow'd — 
Now  seen — now  hid — where  ocean's  vale  was  noHow  d, 
An<l  niiar,  and  nearer,  till  tlieir  dusky  crev.' 
Pro--<-nti'd  well-known  aspects  to  the  view, 
Till  on  the  surf  their  skimming  i)addles  play, 
IJiiovani  as  winijs,  and  flilling  through  the  spray; 
Now  pcrrhii'g  on  the  wave's  high  curl,  and  now 

I    Dash'd  downward  m  the  thundering  foaui  below. 


THE    ISLAND. 


355 


VVhicI)  flings  A  broad  and  boiling,  sheet  on  sheet, 
\iid  slin2:>  its  high  Hakes,  shiverM  into  sleet: 
Hut  Heating  still  through  surt'  and  swell,  drew  nigh 
The  barks,  like  small  birds  through  a  louring  sky. 
Their  art  seeni'd  nature— such  the  skill  to  sweep 
The  wave,  of  these  born  playmates  of  the  deep. 

VIII. 

And  who  the  first  that,  springing  on  the  strand, 
Leap'd  like  a  Nereid  from  her  shell  to  land. 
With  dark  but  brilliant  skin,  and  dewy  eye 
Shinini:  with  love,  and  hope,  and  constancy? 
]N,\.uha^— the  fond,  the  fiiithful,  the  adored, 
Her  heart  on  Torquil's  like  a  torrent  pour'd  ; 
And  smiled,  and  wept,  and  near  and  nearer  clasp'd. 
As  if  to  be  assured  't  was  him  she  grasp'd  ; 
Shudder'd  to  see  his  yet  warm  wound,  and  then. 
To  find  it  trivial,  smiled  and  wept  again. 
She  was  a  warrior's  daughter,  and  could  bear 
Such  sights,  and  feel,  and  mourn,  but  not  despair. 
Her  lover  lived,— nor  foes  nor  fears  could  blight 
That  full-blown  moment  in  its  all  delight  • 
Jov  trickled  in  her  tears,  joy  fill'd  the  sob 
TtKit  rock'd  her  heart  til)  almost  heard  to  throb  ; 
And  paradise  was  breathmg  in  the  si?h 
Of  nature's  child  and  nature's  ecstacy. 

IX. 

The  sterner  spirits  who  beheld  that  meeting 

Were  not  unmoved  ;  who  are  when  hearts  are  greeting? 

Even  Christian  gazed  upon  the  maid  and  boy 

W  ith  tearless  eve,  but  yet  a  gloomy  joy 

Mix'il  with  those  bitter  thoughts  the  soul  arrays 

In  hopeless  visions  of  our  better  days. 

When  a'l  's  gone — to  the  rainbow's  latest  ray. 

»*  And  but  for  me  !"  he  said,  and  turn'd  away ; 

Then  gazed  upon  the  pair,  as  in  his  den 

A  lion  looks  upon  his  cubs  again  ; 

And  then  relapsed  into  his  sullen  guise. 

As  heedless  of  his  further  destinies. 

X. 

But  brief  their  time  for  good  or  evil  thought ; 
The  billows  round  the  promontory  brought 
The  plash  of  hostile  oars — Alas  '   who  made 
That  sound  a  dread  ?   All  round  them  seem'd  array'd 
Against  them  save  the  bride  of  Toobonai : 
She,  as  she  caught  the  first  glimpse  o'er  the  bay, 
Of  the  arnvd  boats  which  hurried  to  complete 
The  remnant's  ruin  with  their  flying  feet, 
•  Bcckon'd  the  natives  round  her  to  their  prows, 
Embark'd  their  guests,  and  launch'd  their  Ught  canoes; 
In  one  placed  Christian  and  his  comrades  twain  ; 
But  she  and  Torquil  must  not  part  again. 
She  fix'd  him  in  her  own — Away  !   away  ! 
Thty  clear  the  breakers,  dart  along  the  bay, 
An  i  towards  a  grouf)  of  islets,  such  as  bear 
The  sea-bird's  nest  and  seal's  surf-hollo.v'd  lair, 
Thoy  skim  the  blue  tops  of  the  billows  ;  fast 
The .-  flew,  and  fast  their  fierce  pursuers  chased, 
rh-.y  gain  upon  them — now  they  lose  again, — 
Ag  '.ill  make  wav  and  menace  o'er  the  main  ; 
An  '   rinw  the  two  canoes  ui  chase  divide, 
And  follow  (liilLTriit  c'.irv.'.  o  cr  tho  tide, 
To  IratTlj  ti.c  pur-nit  —Away!  away! 
As  life  is  on  cacli  pa<ldi'/s-tlii;ht  tu-duy, 
And  mure  than  lile  or  lives  to  Neuha:  love 
Freights  the  frail  bark  and  urjxes  to  the  cove— 
And  now  the  refuge  and  the  foe  are  nigh— 
tet,  yet  a  mon. Jnt :— ily,  thou  light  ark,  fly! 


CANTO  IV. 


Whitk  as  a  white  sail  on  a  dusky  sea, 
When  half  the  horizon  's  clouded  and  half  free. 
Fluttering  between  the  dun  wave  and  the  sky, 
Is  hope's  last  gleam  in  man's  txiremity. 
Her  anchor  parts  ;   but  still  her  snowy  sail 
Attracts  our  eye  amidst  the  rudest  gale : 
Though  every  wave  she  climbs  divides  us  more, 
The  heart  stiil  follows  from  the  loneliest  shore. 

II. 
Not  distant  from  the  isle  of  Toobonai, 
A  black  rock  rears  its  bosom  o'er  the  spray, 
The  haunt  of  birds,  a  desert  to  mankind, 
Where  the  rough  seal  reposes  from  the  wind, 
And  sleeps  unwieMy  in  his  cavern  dun, 
Or  gambols  with  huge  frolic  in  the  sun  ; 
There  shrilly  to  the  passing  oar  is  heard 
The  startled  echo  of  the  ocean  bird. 
Who  rears  on  its  bare  breast  her  callow  brood, 
The  feather'd  fishes  of  the  solitude. 
A  narrow  segment  of  the  yellow  sand 
On  one  side  forms  the  outline  of  a  strand  ; 
Here  the  young  turtle,  crawling  from  his  shell. 
Steals  to  the  deep  wherein  his  parents  dwell ; 
Chipp'd  by  the  beam,  a  nursling  of  the  day, 
But  iiatcli'd  for  ocean  by  the  fostering  ray  ; 
The  rest  was  one  bleak  precipice,  as  e'er 
Gave  mariners  a  shelter  and  despair, 
A  snot  to  make  the  saved   regret  the  deck 
Which  late  went  down,  and  envy  the  lost  wreck 
Such  was  the  stern  asylum  Neuha  chose 
To  shield  her  lover  from  his  following  foes , 
But  all  Its  secret  was  not  told  ;   she  knew 
In  this  a  treasure  hidden  from  the  view. 

III. 

Ere  the  canoes  divided,  near  the  spot, 

The  men  that  mann'd  \\  hat  held  her  Torquil's  lot, 

Bv  her  command  removed,  to  strengthen  more 

The  skitf  which  wafted  Christian  from  the  shore. 

This  he  would  have  opposed :   but  with  a  smile 

She  pointed  calmly  to  the  craggy  isle. 

And  bade  him  "  speed  and  prosper."     She  woulc  fake 

The  rest  upon  herself  for  Toiquil's  sake. 

They  parted  with  this  added  aid  ;   afar 

The' proa  darted  like  a  shooting  star. 

And  gain'd  on  the  pursuers,  who  now  steer'd 

RiglU  on  the  rock  which  she  and  Torquil  near'd. 

Thev  pull'd  ;   her  arm,  though  dehcate,  was  free 

And  firm  as  ever  grappled  with  the  sea. 

And  yielded  scarce  to  Tor.^uil's  manlier  strength. 

The  "pro.v  now  almost  lay  within  its  length 

Of  the  crag's  steep,  inexorable  face. 

With  nought  but  soundless  waters  for  its  base ; 

Within  a  hundred  boats'  'ength  was  the  foe, 

And  now  what  refuge  but  their  frail  canoe  ? 

'['his  Torquil  ask'd  with  half-upbraiding  eye. 

Which  said—"  Has  Neuha  brought  me  here  to  die? 

Is  this  a  jdace  of  safety,  or  a  grave. 

And  yon  huge  rock  the  tombstone  of  the  wave"?'' 

IV. 

Thev  rested  on  vhelr  paddles,  and  uprose 
Neuha,  and,  pointing  to  the   approaching  foes, 
Cried,  "Torfjuii,  follow  me,  and  Earless  follow!' 
Then  jjlunged  at  once  into  the  ocean's  hollow. 
There  was  no  time  to  paus3— the  foes  were  neai-- 
Chains  in  his  eye  and  menace  iti  his  ear 


356 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


With  vigojr  thev  puU'd  on,  and  as  they  came, 
Hail'd  him  to  yield,  and  by  his  forfeit  name. 
Headlong  he  leap'd — to  him  the  swimmer's  skill 
Was  native,  and  now  all  his^  hope  from  ill  ; 
But  liow  or  where  ?  He  dived,  and  rose  no  more ; 
The  boat's  crew  look'd  amazed  o'er  sea  and  shore. 
There  was  no  landing  on  that  precipice, 

teep,  harsh,  and  slippery  as  a  berg  of  ice. 

hey  watch'd  awhile  to  see  him  float  again, 
But  not  a  trace  rebubbled  from  the  main  : 
The  w  ave  roll'd  on,  no  ripple  on  its  face, 
Sinre  their  first  plunge,  recall'd  a  single  trace; 
The  httle  whirl  which  eddied,  and  slight  foam. 
That  whiten'd  o'er  what  seem'd  their  latest  home, 
White  as  a  sepulchre  above  the  pair. 
Who  left  no  marble  (mournful  as  an  heir), 
The  quiet  proa,  wavering  o'er  the  tide, 
Was  all  that  told  of  Torquil  and  his  bride  ; 
And  but  f>r  this  alone,  the  whole  might  seem 
The  vanish'd  phantom  of  a  seaman's  dream. 
They  paused  and  search'd  in  vain,  then  puU'd  away, 
Even  superstition  now  forbade  their  stay. 
8ome  said  he  had  not  plunged  into  the  wave. 
But  vanish'd  like  a  corpse-light  from  a  grave  ; 
Others,  that  something  supernatural 
Glared  in  his  figure,  more  than  mortal  tall ; 
While  all  agreed,  that  in  his  cheek  and  eye 
There  was  the  dead  hue  of  eternity. 
Still  as  their  oars  receded  from  the  crag, 
Round  every  weed  a  moment  would  they  lag, 
Expectant  of  some  token  of  their  prey  ; 
But  no — he  'd  melted  from  them  like  the  spray. 

V. 

And  where  veas  he,  the  pilgrim  of  the  deep, 
Fuljowing  the  Nereid  ?     Had  they  ceased  to  weep 
For  ever  ?  or,  received  in  coral  caves. 
Wrung  life  and  pity  from  the  softening  waves  ? 
Did  they  with  ocean's  hidden  sovereigns  dwell, 
And  sound  with  mermen  the  fantastic  shell  ? 
Did  Neuha  with  the  mermaids  comb  her  hair, 
flowing  o'er  ocean  as  it  stream'd  in  air? 
Or  had  they  pcrish'd,  and  in  silence  slept 
Beneatn  the  gulf  wherein  ihey  boldly  leap'd  ? 

VI. 
Voung  Neuha  plunged  into  the  deep,  and  he 
FoUow'd  :   her  track  beneath  her  nativt,  sea 
VVas  as  a  native's  of  the  element, 
So  smoothly,  bravely,  brilliantly  she  went, 
Leaving  a  streak  of  light  behind  her  heel. 
Which  struck  and  Hash'd  like  an  amphibious  steel. 
Closely,  and  scarcely  less  expert  to  trace 
The  de]jths  where  divc-s  hold  the  pearl  in  chase, 
Torquil,  the  nursling  of  the  northern  seas. 
Pursued  her  licjuid  steps  with  art  and  ease. 
Deep — deeper  for  an  instant  Neuha  led 
The  way — then  upward  soar'd — and,  as  she  spread 
Her  arms,  and  flung  the  foam  from  otF  hf-r  locks, 
Laugh'd,  and  the  sound  was  ans-.ver'd  by  the  rocks. 
They  had  gain'd  a  central  reahn  of  earth   again. 
But  look'd  for  tree,  and  field,  and   sky,  in  vain. 
Around  she  pointed  to  a  s|)a<-ious  cave, 
Whose  only  [tortal  was  the  keyless  wave,' 
A  hcll'nv  archway  by  tin;  sun  uiisreii, 
Sav(;  through  the  billows'  glassy  veil  of  green, 
111  some  transparent  <}cean  linli  hiy. 
Wli-Mi  all  tin;  linny  jicople  are  at  play), 

1  ()^l^!i^icav(!  (wliicli  is  no  ficIioiO  the  oriKiriid  will  bo  found 
'.nihi-  'Mh  i-lijipier  «•!'  Miirincr's  .  Irmmit  of  t/ie  'i'l/vfra  fsliiiids. 
I  Ir.ivT  i:ik<'iiih(!  poetical  lilji^rty  to  ir.iiisplaiit  it  to 'I'ootjonai, 
•jii-  hi-i  i<l:i(i(i  win;:-,  any  distinct  iiccount  is  lofl  of  Ciiiistiaii 
•wl  liib  ci  rnradoe. 


Wiped  with  her  hair  the  brine  from  Torquil's  eyos 

And  clapp'd  her  hands  with  joy  at  his  surprise , 

Led  him  to  where  the  rock  aj)pear'd  to  jut 

And  form  a  something  like  a  Triton's  hut, 

For  all  was   darkness  lor  a  space,  till  day 

Through  clefts  above  let  in  a  sober'd  ray  ; 

As  in  some  old  cathedral's  glimmering  aisle 

The  dusty  monuments  from  light  recoil. 

Thus  sadly  in  their  refuge  submarine 

The  vault  drew  half  her  shadow  from  the  scene. 

vn. 

Forth  from  her  bosom  the  young  savage  drew 

A  pine  torch,  strongly  girded  with  gnatoo  ; 

A  plantain  leaf  o'er  all,  the  more  to  keep 

Its  latent  sparkle  from  the  sapping  deep. 

This  mantle  kept  it  dry  ;   then  from  a  nook 

Of  the  same  plantain  leaf,  a  flint  she  took, 

A  few  shrunk  wither'd  twigs,  and  from  the  blade 

Of  Torquil's  knife  struck  fire,  and  thus  array'd 

The  grot  with  torchlight.     Wide  it  was  and  high. 

And  show'd  a  self-born  Gothic  canopy  ; 

The  arch  uprear'd  by  nature's  architect. 

The  architrave  some  earthquake  might  erect; 

The  buttress  from  some  mountain's  bosom  hurl'd, 

When  the  poles  crash'd  and  water  was  the  world  ; 

Or  harden'd  from  some  earth-absorbing  fire. 

While  yet  the  globe  reek'd  from  its  funeral  pyre ; 

The  fretted  pinnacle,  the  aisle,  the  nave,' 

Were  there,  all  scoop'd  by  darkness  from  her  cave. 

There,  with  a  little  tinge  of  phantasy. 

Fantastic  faces  moped  and  mow'd  on  high. 

And  then  a  mitre  or  a  shrine  would  fix 

The  eye  upon  its  seeming  crucifix. 

Thus  Nature  play'd  with  the  stalactites. 

And  built  herself  a  chapel  of  the  seas. 

VIII. 

And  Neuha  took  her  Torquil  by  the  hand, 
And  waved  along  the  vault  her  kindled  brand, 
And  led  him  into  each  recess,  and  show'd 
The  secret  places  of  their  new  abode. 
Nor  these  alone,  for  all  had  been  prepared 
Before,  to  soothe  the  lover's  lot  she  shared  ; 
The  mat  for  rest ;   for  dress  the  fresh  gnatoo, 
And  sandal-oil  to  fence  against  the  dew  ; 
For  food  the  cocoa-nut,  the  yam,  the  bread 
Born  of  the  fruit ;   for  board  the  plantain  spread 
With  its  broad  leaf,  or  turtle-shell  which  bore 
A  banquet  in  the  flesh  if  cover'd  o'er; 
The  gourd  with  water  recent  from  the  rill, 
The  ripe  banana  from  the  mellow  hill ; 
A  pine-torch  pile  to  keep  undying  hght, 
And  she  herself,  as  beautifiil  as  night, 
To  fling  her  shadowy  spirit  o'er  the  scene, 
And  make  their  subterranean  world  serene. 
Sije  had  foreseen,  since  first  the  stranger's  sail 
Drew  to  their  isle,  that  force  or  fliglit  might  fail, 
And  form'd  a  refuge  of  the  rocky  den 
For  Torquil's  safety  from  his  countrymen. 
Each  dawn  had  wafted  there  her  light  canoe. 
Laden  with  all  the  golden  fruits  that  grew,- 
Each  eve  had  seen  her  gliding  through  the  i.our 
With  all  could  cheer  or  deck  their  sparry  bow»ir  r 
And  now  she  spread  her  little  siore  with  smiles. 
The  luippiest  daughter  of  the  loving  isles. 

1  This  may  seem  too  minute  for  li.e  t-'eiicral  online  '\a 
Mariner's. //ccoMwf)  from  vviiich  it  is  tak.n.  I!ni  li'w  mm  have 
travelled  without  seeini:  somolliinj:  o("  the  knui— on  I'lml.  that 
is.  Without  advertin;:  to  Kloia,  in  Mnu;:o  Park's  last  jooina: 
(ifmy  memory  do  not  err,  for  there  are  eishi  years  since  I  leail 
the  hook)  he  mentions  having  met  ^^  ilh  a  rock  or  mountaii' 
Bo  exactly  resemhliiis  a  Gothic  cathedral,  that  only  inniutt 
inspection  cou.d  convince  liim  that  it  was  a  work  of  naturu 


THE    ISLAND. 


357 


IX. 

She   a?  ho  gfu;ed  with  grateful  wonder,  prcss'd 

Her  <helter'd  love  to  her  iin|)assioii'd  breast; 

And,  suited  to  her  soft  caresses,  told 

An  elden  tale  of  love, — for  love  is  old. 

Old  as  eternity,  but  not  outworn 

\V'i:li  each  new  hc'ins  born  or  to  be  born :' 

How  a  voung  Chief,  a  thousand  moons  ago, 

Diving  for  turtle  in  the  depths  below, 

Had  risen,  in  tracking  fast  his  ocean  [)rey. 

Into  tlie  cave  which  round  and  o'er  them  lay  ; 

How,  in  some  desjierate  feud  of  after  time, 

He  shelterM  there  a  daugiiter  of  the  clime, 

A  foe  beloved,  and  offspring  of  a  ioe, 

Saved  bv  his  tribe  but  for  a  captive's  woe  ; 

How,  wiien  the  storm  of  war  was  still,  he  led 

His  island  clan  to  where  the  waters  spread 

Their  deep  creen  shadow  o'er  the  rocky  door, 

Then  dived— it  seem'd  as  if  to  rise  no  more  : 

His  wonneri;i2  mates,  amazed  within  their  bark, 

Or  deem'd  him  mad,  or  prey  to  the  blue  shark  ; 

Row'd  round  in  sorrow  the  sea-girded  rock, 

Then  paused  upon  tiieir  paddles  from  the  shock. 

When,  fresh  and  springing  from  the  deep,  they  saw 

A  wxldess  rise — so  deem'd  they  in  their  awe  ; 

And  their  companion,  L'lorious  by  her  side. 

Proud  and  exuUing  in  his  mermaid  bride  : 

And  how,  when  undeceived,  the  pair  they  bore, 

With  soundins  conchs  and  joyous  shouts  to  shore; 

How  they  liad  gladly  lived  and  calmly  died, 

And  why  not  also  Torquil  and  his  bride? 

Not  mine  to  tell  the  rapturous  caress 

Which  tollow'd  wildly  in  that  wild  recess 

This  tale  ;   enough  that  all  within  that  cave 

Was  love,  though  buried  strong  as  in  the  grave 

Where  Abelard,  through  twenty  years  of  death, 

\^  hen  Eloisa's  form  was  lower'd  beneath 

Their  nufjtial  vault,  his  arms  o*utstretch'd,  and  press'd 

The  kindling  ashes  to  his  kindled  breast.' 

The  waves  without  sang  round  their  couch,  their  roar 

As  much  unheeded  as  if  life  were  o'er ; 

Within,  their  hearts  made  all  their  harmony. 

Love's  broken  murmur  and  more  broken  sigh. 


And  thev,  the  cause  and  sharers  of  the  shock 

Which  let't  them  exiles  of  the  hollow  rock. 

Where  were  they  ?   O'er  the  sea  for  life  they  plied, 

To  seek  t'rom  heaven  the  shelter  men  denied. 

Another  course  had  been  their  choice — but  where  ? 

The  wave  which  bore  them  still,  their  foes  would  bear 

Who,  .iisa  pointed  of  their  former  chase. 

In  search  of  Christian  now  renew'd  their  race. 

Eairer  with  an^jer,  their  strong  arms  made  way, 

Like  vultures  batlled  of  tlieir  previous  prey. 

Thev  irain'd  upon  them,  all  whose  safety  lay 

In  some  bleak  crag  or  deeply-hidden  bay  : 

No  further  chance  or  choice  remain'd  ;   and  right 

For  the  first  further  rock  which  met  their  sight 

They  steer' d,  to  take  their  latest  view  of  land, 

Ajid  yield  as  victims,  or  die  sword  in  hand  : 

Disnuss'd  the  natives  and  their  shallo{),  who 

Would  still  have  battled  for  that  scanty  crew  ; 


1  The  reiKier  will  r.-rolle^r  <Uc  cp'\'ir.im  ot  thf  Greek  Anthol- 

o(ry.  or  its  traiKl'Uion  into  most  of  the  iiioderii  languages: — 

"  WliDo'er  thou  art.  tliy  master  see. 

Ho  was,  or  is,  or  is  to  be." 

1  The  tradition  is  attache!  to  the  story  of  Eloisa.  that  when 

Iierbody  was  lowered  into  the  uravp  of  Abelard  (who  had 

been  bulled  twenty  years)  he  open«»^  t^s  arms  to  receive  her. 


But  Christian  bade  thera  seek  their  snore  igam, 
Nor  add  a  sacrifice  which  were  in  vain  ; 
For  svhat  were  simple  bow  and  savage  spear 
Acrainst  the  arms  which  must  be  wielded  here? 

\l. 
Tiiey  landed  on  a  wild  but  narrow  scene. 
Where  few  but  Nature's  footsteps  yet   had  been  , 
Prepared  their  arms,  and  with  that  gloomy  eye, 
Stern  and  sustain'd,  of  man's  extremity. 
When  hope  is  gone,  nor  glory's  self  remains 
To  cheer  resistance  against  death  or  chains, — 
Thev  stood,  the  three,  as  the  three  hundred  stood 
Who  dved  Thermopylre  with  holy  blood. 
But,  ah  !   how  dififerent!   'tis  the  cause  makes  ah, 
Degrades  or  hallows  courage  in  hs  fall. 
O'er  them  no  fame,  eternal  and  intense. 
Blazed  through  the  clouds  of  death  and  beckon'd  henO© 
No  grateful  country,  smiling  through   her  tears, 
Begun  the  praises  of  a  thousand  years  ; 
No  nation's  eves  would  on  their  tomb  be  ben' 
No  heroes  envy  them  their  monument ; 
However  boldly  their  warm  blood  was  spilt, 
Their  life  was  shame,  their  epitaph  was  guilt. 
And  this  they  knew  and  feh,  at  least  the  one. 
The  leader  of  tlv3  band  he  had  undone  ; 
Who,  born  perchance  for  better  things,  had  set 
His  life  upon  a  cast  which  Unger'd  yet : 
But  now  the  die  was  to  be  thrown,  and  all 
The  chances  were  in  favour  of  his  fall : 
And  such  a  fall !    But  still  he  faced  the  shock, 
Obdurate  as  a  portion  of  the  rock 
Whereon  he  stood,  and  fix'd  his  levell'd  gun. 
Dark  as  a  sullen  cloud  before  the  sun. 

xn. 

The  boat  drow  nigh,  well  arm'd,  and  firnn  the  crCfJ 

To  act  whatever  duty  bade  them  do  ; 

Careless  of  danger,  as  the  onward  wind 

Is  of  the  leaves  it  strews,  nor  looks  behind  : 

And  vet  perhaps  they  rather  wish'd  to  go 

Asainst  a  nation's  than  a  native  foe. 

And  felt  that  this  poor  victim  of  selt-will, 

Briton  no  more,  had  once  been  Britain's  still, 

Thev  hail'd  him  to  surrender — no  reply  ; 

Their  arms  were  poised,  and  glitter'd  in  the  sky. 

Thev  hail'd  again— no  answer  ;   yet  once  more 

Thev  otfer'd  quarter  louder  than  before. 

The  echoes  only,  from  the  rocks  rebound, 

Took  their  last  farewell  of  the  dying  sound. 

Then  fiash'd  the  flint,  and  blazed  the  volleying  flame, 

And  the  smoke  rose  between  them  and  their  aim. 

While  the  rocks  rattled  with  the  bullets'  knell, 

Which  peal'd  in  vain,  and  fiatten'd  as  they  fell ; 

Then  flew  the  only  answer  to  be  given 

By  those  who  had  lost  all  hope  in  earth  or  heaven. 

After  the  first  fierce  peal,  as  they  pull'd  nigher, 

They  heard  the  voice  of  Christian  shout,  "Now  fire!" 

And,  ere  the  word  upon  the  echo  died, 

Two  tell ;   the  rest  assail'd  the  rock's  rough  side, 

And,  fiirious  at  the  madness  of  their  foes, 

Disdain'd  all  further  efforts,  save  to  close. 

But  steep  the  crag,  and  all  without  a  i)ath. 

Each  step  opposed  a  bastion  to  their  wrath  ; 

While  placed  'midst  clefts  the  least  accessible. 

Which  Christian's  eye  was  train'd  to  mark  full  welt. 

The  three  maintain'd  a  strife  which  mus'^ot  yield, 

In  spots  where  eagles  might  have  chosen  to  build. 

Their  every  shot  told ;   while  the  assailant  fell, 

Dash'd  on  the  shingles  like  the  limpid  shell ; 

But  still  enough  survived,  and  mounted  still. 

Scattering  their  numbers  here  and  there,  until 

Surrounded  and  commanded,  tnougl   not  nigh 

Enough  for  seizure,  near  enough  to  die. 


358 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WOEKS. 


The  desperate  trio  held  aloof  their  fate 

But  by  a  thread,  like  sharks  who  have  gorged  the  bail 

Yet  to  the  very  last  they  battled  well, 

And  not  a  groan  informed  their  foes  who  fell. 

Christian  died  last — twice  wounded  ;   and  once  more 

Mercy  was  otfer'd  when  they  saw  his  gore  ; 

Too  late  for  life,  but  not  too  late  to  die, 

With  though  a  hostile  hand  to  close  his  eye. 

A  limb  was  broken,  and  he  droop'd  along 

The  crag,  as  doth  a  falcon  reft  of  young. 

The  sound  revived  him,  or  appear'd  to  wake 

Some  passion  which  a  weakly  gesture  spake ; 

He  beckon'd  to  the  foremost  who  drew  nigh. 

But,  as  they  near'd,  he  rear'd  his  weapon  high — 

His  last  ball  had  been  aim'd,  but  from  his  breast 

He  tore  the  topmost  button  of  his  vest,' 

Down  the  tube  dash'd  it,  levell'd,  fired,  and  smiled 

As  his  foe  fell  ;   then,  like  a  serpent,  coil'd 

His  wounded,  weary  form,  to  where  the  steep 

Look'd  desperate  as  himself  along  the  deep  ; 

Cast  one  glance  back,  and  clench'd  his  hand,  and  shook 

His  last  rage  'gainst  the  earth  which  he  forsook ; 

Then  plunged :   the  rock  below  received  like  glass 

His  body  crush'd  into  one  gory  mass, 

With  scarce  a  shred  to  tell  of  human  form, 

Or  fragment  for  the  sea-bird  or  the  worm  ; 

A  fair-liair'd  scalp,  besmear'd  with  blood  and  weeds, 

Yet  reek'd,  the  remnant  of  himself  and  deeds  ; 

Some  splinters  of  his  weapons  (to  the  last, 

As  long  as  hand  could  hold,  he  hekl  them  fast) 

Yet  glitter'd,  but  at  distance — hurl'd  away 

To  rust  beneath  the  dew  and  dashing  spray. 

The  rest  was  nothing — save  a  life  mispent, 

And  soul — but  who  shall  answer  where  it  went  ? 

'T  is  ours  to  bear,  not  judge  the  dead  ;   and  they 

Who  doom  to  hell,  themselves  are  on  the  way, 

Unless  these  bullies  of  eternal  pains 

Are  pardoi.'d  their  bad  hearts  for  their  worse  brains. 

XIIl. 

The  deed  Nvas  over !   All  were  gone  or  ta'en, 

The  fugitive,  the  captive,  or  the  slam. 

Chain'd  on  the  deck,  where  once,  a  gallant  crew. 

They  stood  with  honour,  were  the  wretched  few 

Survivors  of  the  skirmish  on  the  isle  ; 

But  the  last  rock  left  no  surviving  si)oil. 

Cold  lay  they  where  they  fell,  and  weltering, 

While  o'er  them  flapp'd  the  sea-birds'  dowy  wmg, 

Now  wheeling  nearer  from  the  neighbouring  surge, 

And  screaming  high  their  harsh  and  hungry  dirge; 

But  calm  and  careless  heaved  the  wa /e  below, 

Eternal  with  unsympathetic  flow  ; 

Far  o'er  its  face  the  dolphins  sported  on. 

And  sprung  the  flying-fish  against  the  sun. 

Till  its  dried  wing  relapsed  from  its  brief  height, 

To  gather  moisture  for  another  flight. 

XIV. 

"T  was  morn  ;   and  Neuha,  who  by  dawn  of  da) 
Swam  smoothly  forth  to  catch  the  rising  ray. 


1  In  TluhaalCs  .'icoiuU  if  Frederick  II.  of  Prussia,  there 
a  siumiliir  reliition  of  ii  ydiiii:,'  Froiicliin;m,  who,  with  his 
niiBtic.-!*,  ;ipiu;iir»;rt  lo  l)t;  til  Boiim  riiiik.  He  enlisted,  :md  de- 
aerted  at  Sowtidiiitz  ;  ,iiid,  .-ilter  ii  dcsixTaii^  resistance,  was 
retaken,  havint.'  kihed  iiii  olli<-er,  who  aitcmpled  to  seize  him 
after  111'  was  wounded,  hy  tiie  (hschiirtte  of  liisnnisket  loaded 
with  a  hutiitii  of  his  unilorin.  rionie  circumstances  on  his 
court  martial,  raised  ii  gr«;at  iiitire.st  amoniist  iiis  judges,  who 
wiwhed  to  discover  iiis  real  situation  in  life,  whi(-h  he  ott'iTed 
lu  ili«rlo-'e,  but  to  th(!  Kiim  only,  to  whom  he  reiitiested  per- 
mii'siDM  to  writ(!.  This  was  refused,  and  Frederi'-k  was  tilled 
•vitli  tlie  t,'ri'at<st  inilimiation,  from  hafUed  curiosiiy,  or  some 
other  miiitve,  wl  i.-r  he  understood  that  liis  reiinest  had  heen  de- 
nied.—See  T/iibdilt's  work,  vol.  li. — (1  (juote  from  memory) 


And  watch  if  aught  approacl  d  the  auphibious  lai 

Where  lay  her  lover,  saw  a  sail  in  air: 

It  flapp'd,  it  fiU'd,  and  to  the  growing  gale 

l-Jent  its  broad  arch :   her  breath  began  to  fail 

With  fluttering  fear,  her  heart  beat  thick  and  higJi, 

While  yet  a  dotibt  sprung  where  its  course  might  lie  - 

But  no  I   it  came  not ;   fast  and  far  away 

The  shadow  lessen'd  as  it  clear'd  the  bay. 

She  gazed,  and  flung  the  sea-foam  from  her  eyes. 

To  watch  as  for  a  .ainbow  in  the  skies. 

On  the  horizon  verged  the  distant  deck, 

Diininish'd,  dwindled  to  a  very  speck — 

Then  vanish'd.     All  was  ocean,  all  was  jov  ! 

Down  plunged  she  through  the  cave  to  rouse  her  boy 

Told  all  she  had  seen,  and  all  she  hoped,  and  all 

That  happy  love  could  augur  or  recall  ; 

Sprung  forth  again,  with  Torcjuil  following  free 

His  bounding  Nereid  over  the  broad  sea  ; 

Swam  round  the  rock,  to  where  a  shallow  cleft 

Hid  the  canoe  that  Neuha  there  had  left 

Drifting  along  the  tide,  without  an  oar. 

That  eve  the  strangers  chased  them  from  the  shore  , 

But  when  these  vanish'd,  she  pursued  her  prow, 

Regain'd,  and  urged  to  where  they  found  it  now 

Nor  ever  did  more  love  and  joy  embark. 

Than  now  was  wafted  in  that  slender  ark. 

XV. 

Acain  theif  own  sliore  rises  on  the  view, 

No  more  polluted  with  a  hostile  hue  ; 

No  sullen  ship  lay  bristling  o'e--  the  foam, 

A  floating  dungeon  : — all  was  hope  and  hoine  ! 

A  thousand  proas  darted  o'er  the  bay. 

With  sounding  bells,  and  heralded  their  way  ; 

The  chiefs  came  down,  around  the  people  pour'd, 

And  welcomed  Torquil  as  a  son  restored ; 

Tlie  women  thronij'd,  embracmg  and  embraced 

By  Neuha,  asking  where  they  hau  been  chased. 

And  how  escaped  ?  The  tale  was  told  ;   and  then 

One  acclamation  rent  the  sky  again ; 

And  from  that  hovir  a  new  tradition  gave 

Their  sanctuary  the  name  of  "  Neuha's  cave.*' 

A  hundred  fires,  far  flickering  from  the  height. 

Blazed  o'er  the  general  revel  of  the  night, 

The  feast  in  honour  of  the  guest,  return'd 

To  peace  and  pleasure,  ])erilously  earn'd  ; 

A  night  succeeded  by  such  happy  days 

As  only  the  yet  infant  world  displays. 


APPENDIX. 


EXTRACT    FROM    THE    VOYAGE 
BY  CAPTAIN   BLIGH. 

On  the  27th  of  December,  it  blew  a  severe  storn-.  ol 
wind  from  the  eastward,  in  the  course  of  which  we  suf- 
fered greatly.  One  sea  broke  away  the  spare  yards 
and  spars  out  of  the  starboard  main-chains  ;  another 
broke  into  the  ship,  and  stove  all  the  boats.  Several 
casks  of  beer  that  had  be(m  lashed  on  deck,  broke  loose, 
aiKl  were  washed  overboard;  and  it  was  not  withoit 
"rcat  risk  and  difliculty  that  we  were  able  to  secure  tlio 
boats  frotn  being  washed  away  entirely.  A  great  .|nai> 
tity  of  our  bread  was  also  damaged,  and  rendered  use- 
less, for  the  sea  had  stove  in  our  stern,  and  filled  the 
cabin  with  water. 

On  the  5th  of  January,  I7SS,  we  saw  the  island  of 
Teneriffe  about  twelve  leagues  distant,  and  next  day, 
b<Mng  Sunday,  came  to  an  anchor  in  tlie  road  of  Santa 
Cruz.  There  we  took  in  the  necessary  su|»phes,  and, 
having  finished  our  business,  sailed  on  the  10th. 


THE    ISLAND. 


1  now  divided  the  people  into  three  watches,  and  gave 
me  charge  of  the  third  watcdi  to  Mr.  Fletcher  Christian, 
one  of  the  mates.  1  have  always  "considered  tiiis  a  de- 
sirable regu'ation  when  circnmstances  will  admit  of 
It,  and  r  am  persuarled  that  unbroken  rest  not  only  con- 
tribntes  much  towards  the  health  of  the  ship's  com])ai)V, 
but  enal)les  them  more  reailily  to  exert  themselves  in 
ases  of  sudden  enierg(>ncv. 

As  I  wislied  to  proceed  to  Otahei»c  without  stopping, 

reduced  the  allowance  of  b'-ead  to  two-thirds,  antl 
caused  the  water  for  drinking  to  be  filtered  through 
drip-stones,  bought  at  TeneritTe  for  that  purpose.  I 
now  acquainted  the  ship's  company  of  the  object  of  the 
voyage,  and  gave  assurances  of  certain  |iromotion  to 
every  one  whose  endeavours  should  merit  it. 

On  Tuesdnv  the  iZGth  of  Fe!)ruary,  being  in  south 
latitude  '29^  38',  and  4P  44  west  longitude,  we  bent 
new  sail-^,  and  made  other  necessary  preparations  for 
encountering  the  weather  that  was  to  be  expected  in  a 
high  latitude.  Our  distance  from  tlie  coast  of  Brazil 
was  about  100  leagues. 

On  the  forenoon  of  Sunday,  the  2d  of  March,  after 
seeing  that  every  person  was  clean,  divine  service  was 
performed,  a'-cording  to  my  usual  custom  on  this  day  : 
I  gave  to  Mr.  Fletcher  Christian,  whom  I  had  before 
directed  to  take  charge  of  the  third  watch,  a  written 
order  to  act  as  lieutenant. 

The  change  of  temperature  soon  began  to  be  sensi- 
bly felt  ;  and,  that  the  peoi)le  might  not  suffer  from  their 
own  negligence,  I  supplied  them  with  thicker  clothing, 
as  better  suited  to  the  climate.  A  great  number  of 
Tvhales  of  an  innnense  size,  with  two  spout-holes  on 
die  back  of  the  head,  were  seen  on  the  11th. 

On  a  complaint  made  to  me  bv  the  master,  I  found  it 
necessary  to  punish  Matthew  Quintal,  one  of  the  sea- 
jnen,  with  two  dozen  of  lasJies,  for  insolence  and  muti- 
nous behaviour,  which  was  the  hrsi  time  that  there  was 
any  occasion  tor  punishment  on  board. 

We  were  off  Cape  St.  Diego,  the  eastern  part  of  the 
Terre  de  Fuego,  and  the  wind  being  unfavourable,  I 
thought  it  more  ailvisable  to  go  round  to  the  eastward 
of  Staten-laud  than  to  attempt  pasSnig  through  Straits 
leMaire.  We  passed  New  Year's  Harbour  and  Cape  St. 
John,  and  on  Monday  the  3)st  were  in  latitude  60""  I'  I 
south.  But  the  wind  became  variable,  and  we  had  bad  ] 
weather.  i 

Storms,  attended  with  a  great  sea,  prevailed  until  the  '. 
12th  of  April.  The  ship  began  to  leak,  and  required 
pum[)iiig  every  hour,  which  was  no  more  than  we  had 
reason  to  expect  from  such  a  continuance  of  gales  of 
wind  and  high  seas.  The  decks  also  became  so  leaky 
that  it  was  necessary  to  allot  the  great  cabin,  of  which 
I  made  little  use  except  in  (ine  weather,  to  those  people 
who  had  not  births  to  hang  their  hammocks  in,  and  by 
'lis  means  the  space  between  decks  was  less  crowded. 

Witli  all  this  bad  weather,  we  had  the  additional  mor- 
fication  to  lind,  at  the  end  of  every  day,  that  we  were 
osing  ground  ;  for,  notwithstanding  our  utmost  exer- 
tions, and  keeping  on  the  most  advantageous  tacks,  we 
did  httle  better  ilian  drift  before  the  wind.  On  Tuesday 
the  2'2d  of  April,  we  had  eight  down  on  the  sick  list, 
raid  the  rest  of  the  people,  though  in  good  health,  were 
greutly  fatigued  ,  but  I  saw,  with  much  concern,  that  it 
;vas  impossible  to  makeapassage  this  way  tothe  Society 
Islands,  for  we  had  now  been  thirty  davs  in  a  tempes- 
tuous ocean.  Thus  the  season  was  too  fa  advanced  for 
us  lo  expect  better  weather  to  enable  us  to  double  Ca[)e 
Honi ;  and,  from  these  and  other  consi  lerations,  I  or- 
dered the  heim  to  be  put  a- weather,  anj  bore  away  for 


the  Cai)e  of  Good  Hope,  to  llie  great  joy  of  every  one 
on  boaid. 

We  came  i-O  an  ancho'-  on  Friday  the  '23a  of  Mt  y,  ir 
Simon's  Hay,  at  tl:o  Cape,  after  a  tolerable  run.  'Hit 
ship  required  compl'j'e  caulking,  for  she  had  becon  e  sc 
leaky,  that  we  were  obliged  to  pump  hourly  in  our  pas- 
sage li-oni  Cape  Horn.  The  sails  and  rigging  also  re- 
•juired  repair,  and,  on  examining  the  [)rovision5,  a  con- 
siderable (piantity  was  found  damaged.- 

Having  remained  thirty-eight  days  at  this  place.  an<) 
mv  people  having  received  all  the  advantage  that  could 
be  derived  from  refreshments  of  every  kind  that  could 
be  met  with,  we  sailed  on  the  1st  of  July. 

A  gale  of  wind  blew  on  the  20th,  with  a  high  f"^a; 
it  increased  after  noon  with  such  violence,  that  the  ship 
was  driven  almost  forecastle  under  before  we  could  ijet 
the  sails  clewed  up.  The  lower  yards  were  lowei  ed, 
and  the  to|)-gallant-mast  got  down  upon  deck,  which  .-e- 
lieved  her  much.  We  lay-to  all  night,  and  in  the  mam- 
ing  bore  away  under  a  reefed  foresail.  The  sea  still 
runninir  hlgii,  in  thi;  afternoon  it  became  very  unsafe 
to  stand  on  ;  we  therefore  lay-to  all  night,  without  any 
accident,  excepting  that  a  man  at  the  steerage  was  thrown 
over  the  wheel  and  much  bruised.  Towards  noon  the 
violence  of  the  storm  abated,  and  we  again  bore  away 
under  the  reefed  foresail. 

In  a  few  davs  we  passed  the  island  of  St.  Paul,  where 
there  is  good  fresh  water,  as  I  was  informed  by  a  Dutch 
captain,  and  also  a  hot  spring,  which  boils  fish  as  coin- 
pletelv  as  if  done  by  a  fire.  Approaching  to  Van  Die- 
men's  land,  we  had  much  bad  weather,  with  snow  and 
hail,  but  nothing  was  seen  to  indicate  our  vicinity,  on 
the  13th  of  August,  except  a  seal,  which  appeareo  at 
the  distance  of  twenty  leagues  from  it.  We  anchored 
in  Adventure  Hay  on  Wednesday  the  20tli. 

In  our  passage  hither  from  tlie  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
the  winds  vvere  chiefly  from  the  westward,  witn  ver\ 
boisterous  weather.  The  apjjroach  of  strong  southerly 
winds  is  announced  by  many  birds  of  the  albatross  or 
peterel  tribe  ;  and  the  abatement  of  the  gale,  or  a  shift 
of  wind  to  the  northward,  by  their  keeping  away.  Thfe 
thermometer  also  varies  five  or  six  degrees  in  its  height, 
when  a  change  of  these  winds  may  be  expected. 

In  the  land  surrounding  Adventure  Hay  are  manj 
forest  trees  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high ;  we  saw 
one  which  measured  above  tliirty-lhree  feet  in  girth. 
We  observed  several  eagles,  some  beautiful  blue-plu- 
maged  herons,  and  parroqucts  in  great  variety. 

The  natives  not  appearing,  we  went  in  search  of  them 
towards  Cape  Fretleric-Henry.  Soon  after,  coining  to 
a  grapnel,  close  to  the  shore,  for  it  w  as  impossible  to 
land,  we  heard  their  voices,  like  the  cackling  of  geese, 
and  twenty  persons  came  out  of  the  woods.  We  threw 
trinkets  ashore  tied  up  in  parcels,  which  they  would  not 
open  out  until  I  made  an  appearance  of  leaving  them  : 
they  then  did  so,  and,  taking  the  articles  out,  put  them  on 
their  heads.  On  first  coming  in  sight,  they  made  a 
prodigious  clattering  in  their  speech,  and  held  their  urnia 
over  their  heads.  They  sjjoke  so  quick,  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  catch  one  single  word  they  uttered.  'I'lieir 
colour  is  of  a  dull  black  ;  their  skin  scarified  about  the 
breast  and  shoulders.  One  was  distinguished  by  his 
body  being  coloured  with  red  ochre,  but  all  the  others 
were  painted  black,  with  a  kind  of  soot,  so  thickly  laid 
over  their  faces  and  shoulders,  that  it  was  difllcull  lu 
ascertain  what  they  werv.  like. 

On  'I  hnrsday,  the  4th  of  September,  we  sailed  out  oi 
Adventure  Bay,  steering  first  towards  the  east-south- 
east and  then  to  the  northward  of  erst,  when,  on  the 
19th,  we  came  in  sight  of  a  cluster  c^  small  rocky  lal 


360 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WOTxKS. 


ands,  which  I  name  1  Bounty  Isles.  Soon  afterwards 
we  frequently  abserved  the  sea,  in  the  nij;ht  time,  to  be 
covered  by  luminous  spots,  caused  l)y  amazing  quanti- 
ties of  small  blubbers,  or  medusiu,  which  emit  a  light, 
like  the  blaze  of  a  candle,  from  the  strings  or  filaments 
extending  from  them,  while  the  rest  of  the  body  con- 
tinues perfectly  dark. 

We  discovered  the  island  of  Otaheite  on  the  2.5th, 
and,  befo:e  casting  anchor  next  morning  in  Matavai 
Bay,  such  numbers  of  canoes  had  come  off,  that,  after 
the  natives  ascertained  we  were  friends,  they  came  on 
board,  and  crowded  the  deck  so  much,  that  in  ten  min- 
utes 1  could  scarce  find  my  own  ])eople.  The  whole 
distance  which  the  ship  had  run,  in  direct  and  contrary 
courses,  from  the  time  of  leaving  England  until  reach- 
ing Otaheite,  was  twenty-seven  thousand  and  eighty- 
six  miles,  which,  on  an  average,  was  one  hundred  and 
eieht  miles  each  twenty-four  hours. 

Here  we  lost  our  surgeon  on  the  9th  of  December. 
Of  late  he  had  scarcely  ever  stirred  out  of  the  cabin, 
though  not  apprehended  to  be  in  a  dangerous  state. 
Nevertheless,^ appearing  worse  than  usual  in  the  even- 
ing, he  was  removed  where  he  could  obtain  more  air,  but 
without  any  benefit,  for  he  died  in  an  hour  afterwards. 
This  unfortunate  man  drank  very  hard,  and  was  so 
averse  to  exercise,  that  he  would  never  be  prevailed  on 
to  take  half  a  dozen  turns  on  deck  at  a  time,  during  all 
the  course  of  the  voyage.     He  was  buried  on  shore. 

On  Mondav,  the  fifth  of  January,  the  small  cutter  was 
missed,  of  which  I  was  immediately  apprized.     The 
ship's  company  beinj  mustered,  we  found  three  men    i 
absent,  who  had  carried  it  off.     They  had  taken  with 
ihem  eight   stand  of  arms   and   ammunition  ;   but  with    j 
regard  to  their  plan,  every  one  on  hoard  seemed  to  be 
qvnte  ignorant.   I  tnerefore  went  on  shore,  and  enga2<,'d    i 
all  the  chiefs  to  assist  in  recovering  both  the  boat  and    ] 
the  deserters.     Accordintrlv,  the  former  was  brought 
back  in  the  course  of  the  day,  by  five  of  the  natives  ; 
but  the  men  were  not  taken  until  nearly  three  weeks    ; 
afterwards.     Learning  the  place  where  they  were,  in  a 
different  quarter  of  the  island  of  Otaheite,  I  went  thither    \ 
m  the  cutter,  thinking  there  would  be  no  great  difficulty    | 
m  securing  them  with  the  assistance  of  the  natives,     j 
However,  they  heord   of  mv  arrival ;    and   when  I  was    1 
near  a  house  in  which  thev  were,  they  came  out  want- 
ing their  fire-arms,  and  delivered  themselves  up.   Some 
of  the  chiefs  had  formerly  seized  and  bound  these  de- 
serters ;   but  had  been  prevailed  on,  by  fair  promises  of 
returning  peaceably  to  the  ship,  to  release  them.     But 
finding  an  oiiportunity  again  to  get  possession  of  their 
arms,  they  set  the  natives  at  defiance. 

The  ol)ject  of  the  vovage  beinn  now  completed,  all 
ihe  bread-fruit  [ilants,  to  the  number  of  one  thousand 
md  fifieen,  were  got  on  board  on  Tuesday,  the  31st  of 
March.  Besid(;s  these,  we  had  collected  many  other 
]  iants,  some  of  them  bearing  the  finest  fruits  in  the 
iTorid  ;  and  valuai)le,  from  afibrding  brilliant  dyes,  and 
for  various  [)rop(!rties  besides.  At  sunset  of  the  4th  of 
Ai)ril,  we  made  sail  from  Otaheite,  bidding  farewell  to 
an  isiiiiid  uhcre  for  twcnt v-tliree  weeks  we  had  been 
treatf'l  witli  the  utmos'  atrcction  and  regard,  and  which 
Heemed  to  increase  in  proportion  to  our  stay.  That 
fi'e  wer*'  imi  insensible  to  their  kindness,  the  succeeding 
(•ircumstanc(!s  suliic!(;r;tlv  proved  ;  for  to  the  friendly 
ancJ  emleariiiir  beliavi(»ur  of  these  peoii'(,'  niav  be  as- 
cribed the  motives  Mieitini.'  :in  event  :iiat  effected  the 
ruin  of  our  e\j)ediii..ii,  wlncji  ijiere  was  ev(,'rv  r(,>ason  to 
believe  would  have  be<  n  attended  with  the  most  favour- 
at)le  issue. 

Nevt  ni>rninf:  v\e  got  sight  of  the  island  Hu.aheine ; 


and  a  douh-le  canoe  soon  coming  alongside  coutaininf; 
ten  natives,  I  saw  among  them  a  young  man  who  re- 
collected me,  and  called  me  by  my  name.  I  nad  been 
here  in  the  year  1780,  with  Captain  Cook,  in  the  Res 
olution.  A  few  days  after  sailing  from  this  island,  the 
weather  became  squally,  and  a  thick  body  of  black 
clouds  collected  in  the  east.  A  water-spout  was  in  a  short 
time  seen  at  no  great  distance  from  us,  which  appeared 
to  great  advantage  from  the  darkness  of  the  clouds  be- 
hind it.  As  nearly  as  I  could  judge,  the  upper  part  wag 
about  two  feet  in  diameter,  and  the  lower  about  eight 
inches.  Scarcely  had  I  made  these  remarks,  when  I  ob- 
served that  it  was  rapidly  advancing  towards  the  ship. 
We  immediately  altered  our  course,  and  took  in  all  the 
sails  except  the  foresail  ;  soon  after  which  it  passed 
within  ten  yards  of  the  stern,  with  a  rustling  noise,  but 
without  our  feeling  the  least  effect  from  its  being  so 
near.  It  seemed  to  be  travelling  at  the  rate  of  about 
ten  miles  an  hour,  in  the  direction  of  the  wmd,  and  it 
dispersed  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  passing  us.  It 
is  impossible  to  say  what  injury  we  should  have  re- 
ceived had  it  passed  directly  over  us.  Masts,  I  imagine, 
might  have  been  carried  away,  but  I  do  not  apprehend 
that  it  would  have  endangered  the  loss  of  the  ship. 

Passing  several  islands  on  ttie  wav,  we  anchf)red  at 
x\nnamooka,  on  the  23d  of  April  ;  and  an  olfl  lame 
man  called  Tepa,  whom  I  had  known  here  in  1777,  and 
immediately  recollected,  came  on  board,  along  with 
others,  from  different  islands  in  the  vicinitv.  They 
were  desirous  to  see  the  ship,  and,  on  being  taken 
below,  where  tlie  liread-fruit  plants  were  arranged, 
they  testified  great  surprise.  A  t"ew  of  tliese  being 
decayed,  we  went  on  shore  to  procure  some  in  their 
place. 

The  natives  exhibited  numerous  marks  of  the  pecih 
liar  mourning  which  they  exiiress  on  losing  their  rela- 
tives ;  such  as' bloody  temples,  their  heads  being  de- 
prived of  most  of  the  hair,  and,  what  was  worse,  al- 
most the  whole  of  them  had  lost  some  of  their  fingers. 
Several  fine  boys,  not  above  six  years  old,  iiad  lost  both 
their  little  fingers  ;  and  several  of  the  men,  besides 
these,  had  parted  with  the  middle  finger  of  the  right 
hand. 

The  chiefs  went  otf  with  me  to  dinner,  and  we  car- 
ried on  a  brisk  trade  for -yams  ;  we  also  got  plantains 
and  bread-fruit.  But  the  yams  were  in  great  abundance, 
and  very  fine  and  large.  One  of  them  weigJied  above 
forty-five  pounds.  Sailing  canoes  came,  some  of  which 
contained  not  less  than  ninety  passengers.  Such  a  num- 
ber of  them  gradually  arrived  from  different  islands, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  get  anv  thing  done,  the  mul- 
titude became  so  great,  and  there  was  no  chief  of  suf- 
ficient authority  to  command  the  whole.  I  therefore 
ordered  a  watering  party,  then  emploved,  to  come  on 
board,  and  sailed  on  Sunday,  the  26fh  of  A})ril. 

We  kept  near  the  island  of  Kotoo  all  the  afternoon 
of  Monday,  in  hopes  that  some  canoes  would  come  off 
to  the  ship,  but  in  this  we  were  disappointed.  The 
wind  being  northerly,  we  steered  to  the  westward  in  the 
evening,  to  pass  south  of  Tofoa  ;  and  I  gave  directions 
for  this  course  to  be  continued  during  flie  night,  'I"he 
master  had  the  first  watch,  the  gunner  the  middle 
watch,  and  Mr.  Christian  the  morning  watch.  'I'lna 
was  the  turn  of  duty  for  the  night. 

Hitherto  the  voyage  had  advanced  in  a  coui*:e  ol 
uninterrupted  prosperity,  and  had  been  attended  with 
circumstances  e(iually  |)leasing  and  satisfiictorv.  Bui 
a  very  different  scene  was  now  to  be  disclostul  ;  a  con- 
spiracy had  been  formed,  which  was  to  render  all  out 
past  labour  productive  only  of  misery  and  distress. 


THE    ISLAND. 


361 


aiicl  It  had  b(;cn  concerted  with  so  much  secrecy  anJ 
rirciimspection,  that  no  one  circumstance  escaped  to 
betray  tlie  impenj'ing  calamity. 

On  the  night  ul  Monday,  the  watch  was  set  as  I  have 
described.  Just  before  sunrise,  on  Tuesday  mornmg, 
uhile  I  was  vet  asleep,  .Mr.  Christian,  with  the  master- 
at-arms  gunner's  mate,  and  Thomas  Burkitt,  seaman, 
came  into  mv  cabin,  and,  seizing  me,  tied  my  hands 
witii  a  cord  btliind  mv  back  ;  threatening  me  with 
mslant  death  if  I  spoke  or  made  the  least  noise.  I 
pe.'ertheless  called  OLit  as  loud  as  I  could,  in  hopes  of 
assistance  ;  but  the  oOicers  not  of  their  party  were 
already  secured  bv  sentinels  at  their  doors.  At  my 
uwn  cabin-door  were  three  men,  besides  the  four  within: 
all  except  Christian  had  nuiskets  ami  bayonets  ;  he  had 
onlv  a  cutlass.  I  was  dragged  out  of  bed,  and  f:irced 
on  deck  in  iTiy  shirt,  sutTeriui^  great  pain  in  the  mean 
Inne  from  the  tight nc'^s  with  which  my  hands  were 
tied.  On  deman  hug  the  reason  of  such  violence,  the 
onlv  answer  was  abuse  for  not  holding  my  toiigue.  The 
master,  the  gunner,  surgeon,  master's  inate,  and  Nelson 
the  gardener,  were  ke[,'t  confined  below,  and  the  f)re- 
natchwav  was  guarded  by  sentinels.  The  boatswain 
and  carpenter,  and  also  the  clerk,  were  allowed  to 
(!omc  on  deck,  where  tliey  saw  me  standing  abaft  the 
mizen-mast,  with  mv  hands  tied  behind  my  back,  under 
a  cTuard,  with  Christian  at  their  head.  The  boatswain 
was  then  ordered  to  hoist  out  the  launch,  accomtjanied 
bv  a  t!n-eat,  if  he  tiid  not  do  it  instantly,  to  take  cake 

OK    HIMSELF. 

The  boat  being  hoisteii  out,  Mr.  Hayward  and  Mr. 
Hallett,  two  of  the  midshipmen,  and  IMr.  Samuel,  the 
clerk,  were  ordered  into  it.  I  demanded  the  intention 
cf  giviuH  'his  order,  and  euileavoured  to  persuade  the 
people  near  me  not  to  persist  in  such  acts  of  violence ; 
out  it  wiis  to  no  etfect ;  for  the  constant  answer  was, 
"Hold  vour  tongue,  sir,  or  von  are  dead  this  moment." 

The  master  hat!  by  this  tiiiie  sent,  refjuesting  that  he 
n.iHnt  come  on  deck,  whicli  was  i)ermitted  ;  but  he  was 
soon  ordered  back  again  to  h  s  cabin.  My  exertions 
to  trrn  the  tide  of  ati'airs  were  continued  :  when  Chris- 
tian, clianging  the  cutlass  he  held  for  a  bavonet,  and, 
tiolding  me  by  the  cord  about  mv  hands  with  a  strong 
gripe,  threatened  me  with  immediate  death  if  I  would 
not  be  quiet;  and  the  villains  around  me  had  their 
pieces  cocked  and  bayonets  fixed. 

('ertain  individuals  were  call(>d  on  to  get  into  the 
boat,  and  were  hurried  over  the  ship's  side  :  whence  1 
concluded,  that  along  with  them  I  was  to  be  set  adrift. 
Another  etfi^rt  to  bring  about  a  change  produced  noth- 
ing but  menaces  of  having  mv  brains  blo^vn  out. 

Tiie  boatswain  and  those  seamen  who  were  to 
be  put  into  the  boat,  were  allowed  to  collect  twine, 
canvas,  lines,  sails,  cordage,  an  eiglit-and-twentv  gal- 
lon cask  of  water  ;  and  ,Mr.  Samuel  got  150  pounds  of 
Oread,  with  a  small  quantity  of  rum  and  wine  ;  also  a 
quadrant  and  compass ;  but  he  was  [)rohibited,  on  pain 
of  death,  to  touch  any  map  or  astronomical  book,  and 
any  in-^tnmient,  or  anv  of  my  surveys  and  drawings. 

The  mutineers  ha\  ing  thus  forced  tliose  of  the  sea- 
men whom  thev  wished  to  get  rid  of  into  the  boat. 
Christian  directed  a  dram  t(j  be  servf-d  to  each  of  his 
crew.  I  then  unhapj)ily  saw  that  nothing  could  be 
done  to  recover  the  shi|).  The  officers  were  next  called 
on  de'k,  and  fiirced  over  the  shi])'s  side  into  the  boat, 
whih  I  wa^  kept  ajiart  trom  everyone  abaft  the  miz.en- 
mast.  Christian,  armed  with  a  bayonet,  held  the  cord 
fastening  mv  hands,  and  the  guard  around  me  stood 
with  their  jiieces  cocked;  but  on  my  daring  the  un- 
grateful wrcli-lies  to  fire,  they  uncocked  them.  Isaac 
Marim,  one  of  them,  I  saw   had  an  inclination  to  assist 


me;  and  as  he  led  i.ie  with  :^  haddock,  my  ips  being 
fjuite  parched,  wc  explained  each  other's  sentiments  by 
looks.  But  this  was  observed,  and  he  was  removed 
He  then  got  into  the  boat,  attempting  to  leave  the  ship, 
however,  he  was  compelled  to  return.  Some  others 
were  also  kept  contrary  to  tlieir  inclination. 

It  ai)peared  to  me,  that  Christian  was  some  time  in 
doubt  wiiether  he  should  keep  the  carpenter  or  his 
mates.  At  length  he  determineil  for  the  latter,  and  the 
carpenter  was  ordered  into  the  boat.  He  was  permitted, 
though  not  without  opposition,  to  take  his  to(jl-chest. 

Mr.  Samuel  secured  my  journals  and  commissiun,  with 
some  important  shi[)-papers;  this  he  liid  with  great  reso- 
lution, tliough  strictly  watched.  He  attempted  to  save 
the  tnne-keeper,  and  a  box  with  my  surveys,  drawings, 
and  remarks  for  fifteen  years  [jast,  whii  h  were  very 
numerous,  when  he  was  hurried  away  with — "  Damn 
your  eves,  you  are  well  olf  to  get  what  you  have." 

Much  altercation  took  |)lace  among  ihe  mutinous  crew 
durin"  the  transaction  of  this  whole  affair.  Some  swore, 
"  I  '11  be  damned  if  he  does  not  find  his  way  home,  if  he 
oets  anv  thing  with  him,"  meaning  me  ;  and  when  the 
carpenter's  chest  was  carrying  away,  "  Damn  my  eyes, 
he  will  have  a  vessel  built  in  a  month;"  while  others  ridi- 
culed the  helpless  situation  of  the  boat,  whi(di  was  very 
deep  in  the  water,  and  had  so  little  room  for  those  who 
were  in  her.  As  for  Christian,  he  seemed  as  if  medi- 
tating destruction  on  himself  antl  every  one  else. 

I  asked  for  arms,  but  the  mutineers  laughed  at  me, 
ami  said  I  was  well  acquainted  with  the  people  among 
whom  I  was  going;  four  cutlasses,  however,  were  thrown 
uito  the  boat,  al'ter  we  were  veered  astern. 

The  otiicers  and   men   being  in  the  boat,  they  only 
waited  for  me,  of  which  the  master-at-arms   informed 
Christian,  who  then  said,  "Come.,  Captain  Bligh,  yoitr 
ottlcers  and  men  are  now  in  the  boat,  and  you  must  go 
with  them;  if  you  attempt  to  make  the  least  resistance, 
you  will  instantly  be  put  to  death;''  and  without  further 
ceremony,  I  was  forced  over  the  side  by  a  tribe  of  armed 
■    ruthans,  where  they  untied  my  hands.      Being   in  the 
}    boat,  we  were  veered  astern  by  a  rope.     A  few  pieces 
I    of  pork  were  thrown  to  us,  also  the  four  cutlasses.    The 
j    armorer  and  carpenter  then  called  out  to  me  to  remem- 
!    ber  that   thev  had  no  hand  in  the  transaction.      After 
I    having  been  kept   some  time  to  make  sport  for  these 
1    unfeeling  wretches,  and  having  undergone  much  ridi- 
\    cule,  we  were  at  length  cast  adrift  in  the  oi)en  ocean. 
!        Eighteen  persons   were  with   me   in  the  boat, — the 
!    master,  acting  surgeon,   botanist,   gunner,   boatswain, 
carpenter,  master,  and  quarter-master's  mate,  two  quar- 
I    ter-masters,  the  sail-maker,  two  cooks,  my  clerk,  the 
I    butcher,  and  a  bov.   There  remained  on  board,  Fletcher 
!    Christian,  the  master's  mate  ;  Peter  Haywood,  Edward 
Young,  George  Stewart,  midshipmen  ;   the  master-al- 
arms, gunner's  mate,  boatswain's  mate,  gardener,  ar 
inorer,  caqjenter's  mate,  carpenter's  crew,   and  foui  - 
teen  seamen,  being  altogether  the  most  able  men  of  the 
ship's  company. 

Having  little  or  no  wind,  we  rowed  pretty  fast  towarc'S 
the  island  of  Tofoa,  which  bore  north-east  about  un 
leagues  distant.  The  ship  while  m  sight  steered  west- 
north-west,  but  this  I  considered  only  as  a  feint,  for 
when  we  were  sent  awav,  "Huzza  for  Otaheite  !"  WvOs 
f:-e(juentlv  heard  among  the  mutineers. 

Christian,  the  chief  of  them,  was  of  a  respectable 
family  in  the  north  of  England.  This  was  ine  thin, 
voyage  he  had  made  with  me.  Notwithstanding  the 
roughness  with  which  I  was  treated,  the  remembrance  o. 
past  kindness  produced  some  remorsi^  in  him.  V\  hile 
thev  were  forcingme  out  of  theshij),  I  asked  him  whether 
this  was  a  proper  return  for  the  many  inst.'inces  he  had 


862 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


experiencod  of  my  friendsiiip  ?  He  appeared  disturbed 
at  the  question,  and  answered,  with  mucli  emotion, 
"That — Captain  Bli^h — that  is  the  thing — I  am  in 
hell — I  am  in  hell."  His  abilities  to  take  charge  of  the 
third  watch,  as  I  had  so  divided  the  ship's  company, 
were  fully  equal  to  the  task. 

Haywood  was  also  of  a  respectable  family  in  the 
north  of  England,  and  a  young  man  of  abilities,  as  well 
as  Christian.  These  two  had  been  objects  of  my  partic- 
ular regard  and  attention,  and  I  had  taken  great  pains 
to  instruct  them,  having  entertained  hopes  that,  as  pro- 
fessional men,  they  would  have  become  a  credit  to  their 
country.  Young  was  well  recommended;  and  Stewart 
of  creditable  parents  in  the  Orkneys,  at  which  place,  on 
the  return  of  the  Resolution  from  the  South  Seas  in  1780, 
we  received  so  many  civilities,  that  in  consideration  o^ 
these  alone  I  should  gladly  have  taken  him  with  me. 
But  he  had  always  borne  a  good  character. 

When  hhad  time  to  reflect,  an  inward  satisfaction 
prevented  the  depression  of  my  spirits.  Yet,  a  few 
hours  before,  my  situation  had  been  peculiarly  flatter- 
ing ;  I  had  a  ship  in  the  most  perfect  order,  stored  with 
every  necessary,  both  for  health  and  service  ;  the  object 
of  the  voyage  was  attained,  and  two-thirds  of  it  now 
completed.  The  remaining  part  had  every  prospect  of 
success. 

It  will  naturally  be  asked,  what  could  be  the  cause  of 
such  a  revolt  ?  In  answer,  I  can  only  conjecture  that  the 
mutineers  had  flattered  themselves  with  the  hope  of  a 
happier  life  among  the  Otaheitans  than  they  could  pos- 
sibly enjoy  in  England;  which,  joined  to  some  female 
coimexions,  most  probably  occasioned  the  whole  trans- 
action. 

The  women  of  Otaheite  are  handsome,  mild,  and 
cheerful  in  manners  and  conversation ;  possessed  of 
great  sensibility,  and  have  sufficitiut  delicacy  to  make 
them  he  admired  and  beloved.  The  chiefs  were  so  much 
attached  to  our  [jeople,  that  they  rather  encouraged 
tlieir  stay  among  tliem  than  otherwise,  and  even  made 
them  promises  of  large  possessions.  Under  these,  and 
many  other  concomitant  circumstances,  it  ought  hardly 
to  be  the  subject  of  surprise  that  a  set  of  sailors,  most 
of  them  void  of  connexions,  should  be  led  away,  where 
they  had  the  power  of  fixing  themselves  in  the  midst 
of  ])lenty,  in  one  of  the  finest  islands  in  the  world,  where 
there  was  no  necessity  to  labour,  and  where  the  allure- 
ments of  dissijiation  are  beyond  any  conception  that 
can  be  formed  of  it.  The  utmost,  however,  that  a  com- 
mander could  have  expected,  was  desertions,  such  as 
have  already  happened  more  or  less  in  the  South  Seas, 
and  not  an  act  of  open  mutiny. 

But  the  secrecy  of  this  mutiny  surp<asses  belief.  Thir- 
teen of  the  party  who  were  now  with  me  had  always 
lived  forward  among  the  seamen  ;  yet  neither  they,  nor 
the  messmates  of  Christian,  Stewart,  Haywood,  and 
Young,  had  ever  observed  any  circumstance  to  excite  j 
suspicion  of  what  was  plotting;  and  it  is  not  wonslerful 
if  I  fell  a  sacrifice  to  it,  my  mind  being  entirely  free 
from  suspicion.  Perhaps,  had  marines  been  on  board, 
a  sentinel  at  my  cabin-door  might  have  prevented  it ; 
tor  I  constantly  slept  with  the  door  open,  that  theofiicer 
of  the  watch  imght  have  access  to  me  on  all  occasions. 
If  the  mutiny  had  been  occasioned  by  any  grievances, 
either  real  or  imaginary,  I  must  have  discovered  symp- 
toms of  discontent,  which  would  liave  put  me  on  my 
guard;  but  it  was  far  otherwise.  Willi  Chnstiiin,  m 
particular,  I  was  on  the  most  frieridlv  t('rms  ;  ihiu  vv.rv 
day  he  wis  (•ng;ig(!d  to  have  diiKMJ  with  me;  and  the 
preceding  night  he  ex(;used  himself  from  suppini;  with 
me  on  preKmct;  of  indis[)ositioii,  for  which  I  felt  con- 
cerned, Having  no  suspicion^  of  hi.-  lujuour  oi  integrity. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


MEN. 

Francis  Foscari,  Doge  of  Venice. 
Jacopo  Foscari,  Son  of  the  Doge.  ^ 

James  Loredano,  a  Patrician. 
Marco  Memmo,  a  CliieJ  of  the  Forty. 
Barbarigo,  a  Senator. 

Other  Senutora,  the   Council  of  'Ten,  Guards,  Attenet 
ants,  etc.,  etc, 

WOMAN. 

Marina,  IVife  of  young  Foscari. 


Scene — The  Ducal  Palace,  Venice. 


Elir  Etoo  :^mt^xi; 


A  HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY. 


The  father  softens,  but  the  governor'?,  resolved. 

CRITIC. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

% 

A  Hall  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 

Enter  Loredano  and  Barbarigo,  meeting, 

LOREDANO. 

vVhere  is  the  prisoner? 

BARBARIGO. 

Reposing  from 
The  Question. 

LOREDANO. 

The  hour's  past — fix'd  yesterday 
For  the  resumption  of  his  trial. — Let  us 
Rejom  our  colleagues  in  the  council,  and 
Urge  his  recall. 

BARBARIGO. 

Nay,  let  him  profit  by 
A  few  brief  minutes  for  his  tortured  limbs  ; 
H(;  was  o'ervvrought  hy  the  Question  yesterday, 
And  may  die  under  it  if  now  repeated. 

LOREDANO. 

Well! 

BARBARIGO. 

I  vi(!ld  not  to  you  in  love  of  justice, 
Or  hate  of  the  ambitious  Foscari, 


THE    TWO    FOSCARI. 


«ea 


h  alher  and  son,  and  all  their  noxious  race  ; 

But  the  poor  wretch  has  sutfered  beyond  nature's 

Most  stoical  endurarxe. 

LOKFDANO. 

Willioul  owning 
His  crime. 

BARBARIGO. 

Perhaps  without  conunitting  any. 
ut  he  avow'd  the  letter  to  the  Duke 
Of  Milan,  and  his  sufferings  half  atone  for 
Such  weakness. 

LOREDANO. 

We  shail  see. 

BARBARIGO. 

You,  Loredano, 
Pursue  h'^reditary  hate  too  far. 

LOREDANO. 

How  far  ? 

BARBARIGO. 

To  extermination. 

LOREDANO. 

When  they  are 
Extinct,  you  may  say  this. — Let's  into  council. 

BARBARIGO. 

Yet  pause — the  number  of  our  colleagues  is  not 
Complete  yet;   two  are  wanting  ere  we  can 
Proceed. 

LOREDANO. 

And  the  chief  judije,  the  Doge? 


BARBARIGC. 

But  did  the  Doge  make  /ou  so? 

LOUEOANO. 


BARBARIGO. 


No — he, 


With  more  than  Roman  fortitude,  is  ever 
First  at  the  board  in  this  unhappy  process 
Agains'  his  last  and  only  son. 


LOREDANO. 

True — true- 


His  last. 


BARBARIGO. 

Will  nothing  move  you  ? 

LOREDANO. 


Feels  he,  think  you  ? 


BARBARIGO. 


He  shows  it  not. 


LORED\.NO. 

I  have  inark'd  that — the  wretch  ! 

BARBAHGO. 

But  yesterday,  I  hear,  on  his  return 
To  the  ducal  chambers,  as  he  pass'd  the  threshold, 
The  old  man  fainted. 

LOREDANO. 

It  begins  to  work,  then. 

BARBARIGO. 

The  work  is  half  your  own. 

LOREDANO. 

And  should  be  all  mine — 
My  father  and  my  uncle  are  no  more. 

BARBARIGO. 

I  have  read  their  epitaph,  which  says  they  died 
By  poison. 

LOREDANO. 

When  the  Doge  declared  that  he 
Should  never  deem  himself  a  sovereign  till 
The  death  of  Peter  Loredano,  both 
The  brothers  sicken'd  shortly : — he  is  sovereign. 

BARBARIGO. 

A  wretched  one. 

LOREDANO. 

What  should  they  b»  who  make 
Orphans? 


Ye« 


BARBARIGO. 

What  solid  proofs  ? 

LOREDANO. 

When  princes  s<;t  themselves 
To  work  in  secret,  proofs  and  process  are 
Alike  made  ditficult ;   but  I  have  such 
Of  Tiie  first,  as  shall  make  the  second  needlesfu 

BARBARIGO. 

But  you  will  move  by  law  ? 

LOREDANO. 

By  all  the  laws 
Which  he  would  leave  us. 

BARBARIGO. 

They  are  such  in  this 
Our  state  as  render  retribution  easier 
Than  'mongst  remoter  nations.     Is  it  true 
That  vou  ha\e  written  in  your  books  of  commerce 
(The'wealtliy  practice  of  our  hiirhest  nobles), 
"Doge  Foscari,  my  debtor  for  tlie  deaths 
Of  Marco  and  Pietro  Loredano, 
INIy  sire  and  uncle  ?" 

LOREDANO. 

It  IS  written  thus. 

PARBAlilCO. 

And  will  you  leave  it  uiu'ras(>d  / 

LOREDANO. 

Till  balanced. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  how  ? 

{Two  Senators  pa.^x  over  the  Slrii;c,  as  in  their  way  tt 
the  Hull  of  the  Cnunril  of  Ten). 

LOREDANO. 

You  see  the  number  is  complete. 
Follow  me.  [-£■■"'  Loredano. 

BARBARIGO    [sollts). 

Follow  thee  I   I  have  follow'd  long 
Thy  path  of  desolation,  as  the  wave 
Sweeps  after  that  before  it,  alike  whelming 
The  wreck  that  creaks  to  the  wild  winds,  and  wretch 
Who  shrieks  within  its  riven  ribs,  as  gush 
The  waters  through  them  ;   but  this  son  and  sire 
INIight  move  the  elements  to  pause,  and  yet 
Must  I  on  hardily  like  them— Oh  !   would 
I  could  as  blindly  and  remorselessly  !  — 
Lo,  where  he  comes!— Be  still,  my  heart!   they  are 
Thy  foes,  must  be  ;hy  victims:   wilt  thou  beat 
For  those  who  almost  broke  thee  ? 
Enter  Guards,  with  young  Foscari  as  prisoner,  etc 

GUARD. 

Let  him  rest. 
Signor,  take  time. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

I  thank  thee,  friend,  I  'm  feeble  ; 
But  thou  may'st  stand  rejiroved. 

GUARD. 

I  '11  Stand  the  hazard 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

That's  kind  :— I  meet  some  pity,  but  no  mercy  ; 
This  IS  the  first. 

GUARD. 

And  might  be  the  last,  did  they 
Who  rule  behold  us. 

BARBARIGO  {advancing  to  the  guard\. 
There  is  one  who  does : 
Yet  fear  not ;   I  will  neither  be  thy  judge 
Nor  thy  accuser ;  though  the  hour  is  past. 


%A 


BYROX'S    rOETICAL    WOTIKS. 


Wa.1-  their  last  summons — I  am  of  "  the  Ten," 
And  waiting  for  that  summons,  sanction  you 
Even  by  my  presence :   when  tlie  last  call  sounds 
We  '11  in  together. — Look  well  to  the  prisoner  ! 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

Wnat  voice  is  that? — 'tis  Barbarigo's  !  Ah  ! 
Oar  house's  foe,  aiid  one  of  my  few  judges. 

KARBARIGO. 

To  oalance  such  a  foe,  if  such  there  be, 
Thy  father  sits  amongst  thy  judges. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

True, 
He  judges. 

BARBARIGO. 

Then  deem  not  the  laws  too  harsh 
Which  yieM  so  much  indulgence  to  a  sire 
As  to  allow  his  voice  in  such  high  matter 
As  the  stalcj's  safety 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

And  his  son's.     I'm  faint; 
Let  me  apn^^oach,  I  pray  you,  for  a  breath 
Of  air,  yon  ivindow  which  o'erlooks  the  waters. 
'  Lhiter  tn  Officer,  who  whispers  Barbarigo. 
BARBARIGO  [to  the  guard). 
Let  him  ap;  roach.     1  must  not  speak  with  him 
Further  tha  t  thus  ;   I  have  transgress'd  my  duty 
In  this  brie{    parley,  and  must  now  redeem  it 
Within  the'-ouncil  Chamber. 

[Exit  Barbarigo. 

[Guard  coxducling  Jacopo  Foscari  to  the  window. 

GUARD. 

There,  sir,  'tis 
Open— Hov-  feel  you  ? 

JACOPO    foscari. 

Like  a  boy — Oh  Venice ! 

GUARD. 

And  your  lip-bs  ? 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

Limbs  !   how  often  have  they  borne  me 
Bounding  o'er  yon  blue  tide,  as  I  have  skimm'd 
Tlie  gondola  along  in  chiidish  race. 
And,  masquf  d  as  a  young  gondolier,  amidst 
My  gay  competitors,  noble  as  1, 
Raced  for  ou.-  pleasure  in  the  pride  of  strength, 
VVhile  the  fa  r  populace  of  crowding  beauties, 
Plebeian  as  |  atrician,  cheer'd  us  on 
With  dazzlin,^  smiles,  and  wishes  audible, 
And  waving  I  erchiefs,  and  applauding  hands. 
Even  to  the  foal !  —  How  many  a  time  have  I 
Cloven,  with  arm  slil!  lustier,  breast  more  daring, 
The  wave  all  /oughen'd  ;   with  a  swimmer's  stroke 
Flinging  the  billows  back  from  my  drench'd  hair. 
And  luighmg  "roin  my  lip  the  audacious  brine, 
Wbi(di  kiss'd  y*.  like  a  wine-cu|),  rising  o'er 
The  wiives  ar  they  arose,  and  prouder  still 
The  loftier  they  uplifit;d  me  ;    and  oft. 
In  wantonness  of  sjiiiit,  plunging  down 
Into  their  grec'\  and  jjlassy  gulfs,  and  making 
Mv  way  to  sbf '.Is  and  si'a-wccd,  all  unseen 
Bv  lh(jse  above,  til!  they  wax'd  fearful;    then 
Returmng  with  mv  ;:ras|)  fnil  of  such  tokens 
As  shovv'd  liiaf  1  iiad  seiirch'.i  the  deep  ;    exulting. 
With  a  fir-das'  In^  stroke,  nnd  <lrauing  deep 
The  long-.su<p.-nd(;d  breath,  again  I  spurn'd 
The  loam  \\tii(;n  broke  iiround  me,  and  pursued 
Mv  track  like  a  se.i-bird. — I  wi's  ;i  boy  then. 

Gi;  A  HI). 

Be  a  man  now:   *I>«t<;  nev(T  was  more  need 
Oi  manhood's  strength. 

JaUoI'o  K(*s.  a  111  {l,')>iki)ig  frinn  the  lattice). 
My  beautiful,  my  own, 


My  only  Venice — this  is  breath  !     Thy  breeze, 
Thine  Adrian  sea-breeze,  how  it  fans  my  face  ! 
The  very  winds  feel  native  to  my  veins, 
And  cool  them  into  calmness  !    How  unlike 
The  hot  gales  of  the  horrid  Cyclades, 
Which  howl'd  about  my  Candiote  dungeon,  and 
Made  my  heart  sick. 

guard. 
I  see  the  colour  comes 
Back  to  your  cheek:   Heaven  send  you  strength  to  bea; 
What  more  may  be  imposed  ! — I  dread  to  think  on  'l. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

They  will  not  banish  me  again  ? — No — no, 
Let  them  wring  on;  I  am  strong  yet. 

GUARD. 

Confess, 
And  the  rack  will  be  spared  you. 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

I  confess'd 
Once — twice  before  :   both  times  they  exiled  me. 

GUARD. 

And  the  third  time  will  slay  you. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Let  them  do  so. 
So  I  be  buried  in  my  birth-place  :   better 
Be  ashes  here  than  aught  that  lives  elsewhere. 

GUARD. 

And  can  you  so  much  love  the  soil  which  hates  you  ' 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

The  soil ! — Oh  no,  it  is  the  seed  of  the  scil 
Wh  ch  persecutes  me  ;   but  my  native  earth 
Will  take  me  as  a  mother  to  her  arms. 
I  ask  no  more  than  a  V^enetian  grave — 
A  dungeon,  what  thev  will,  so  it  be  here. 
Enter  an  Officer. 

OFFICER. 

Bring  in  the  prisoner  ! 

GUARD. 

Signor,  you  hear  the  order, 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

Ay,  I  am  used  to  such  a  summons;   'tis 

The  third  time  they  have  tortured  me: — then  lend  me 

Thine  arm.  [To  tlie  Guaid. 

OFFICER. 

Take  mine,  sir  ;   't  is  my  duty  to 
Be  nearest  to  your  person. 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

You  ! — you  are  he 
Who  yesterday  presided  o'er  my  pangs — 
Away! — I '11  walk  alone. 

OFFICER. 

As  you  please,  signor  j 
The  sentence  was  not  of  my  signing,  but 
I  dared  not  disobey  the  Council,  when 
They 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

Bade  thee  stretch  me  on  their  horrid  engine, 
I  pray  thee  touch  me  not — that  is,  just:now  ; 
The  time  will  come  tlney  will  renew  that  order, 
But  keep  off  from  me  till  'tis  issued.     As 
I  look  upcm  thy  hands,  my  curdling  limbs 
Qviiver  with  the  anticipated  wrenching. 
And  the  cold  drops  strain  through  my  brow  as  if— 
But  onward — I  have  borne  it — I  can  bear  it. — 
How  looks  my  father  ? 

OFFICER. 

With  his  wonted  aspect. 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

So  doth  the  earth,  and  sky,  the  blue  of  ocean, 


THE    TWO    FOSCARl. 


8G5 


The  briglitness  of  our  city,  and  her  domes, 

The  mirth  of  her  Piazza,  even  now 

Its  merry  hum  of  nations  j)ierces  here, 

Even  here,  into  these  chambers  of  the  unknown 

Who  govern,  and  the  unknown  and  tiie  inniuniber'd 

Judged  and  destroy'd  in  silence — all  things  wear 

The  self-same  aspect,  to  my  very  sire ! 

Nothing  can  sympathize  with  Foscuri, 

Nat  evei   a  Foscari. — Sir,  I  attend  you. 

[Exeunt  Jacopo  P'oscari,  Ojjicer,  etc. 

Enter  INIemjio  and  another  Senator. 

MEMMO. 

He's  gone — we  are  too  late: — think  you  "the  Ten" 
Will  sit  for  any  length  of  time  to-day  ? 

SENATOR. 

They  say  the  prisoner  is  most  obdurate, 
Persisting  in  his  tirst  avowal ;   but 
More  I  know  not. 

MEMMO. 

And  that  is  much  ;  the  secrets 
Of  yon  terrific  chamber  are  as  hidden 
From  us,  the  premier  nobles  of  the  state, 
As  from  the  people. 

SENATOR. 

Save  the  wonted  rumours. 
Which  (like  the  tales  of  spectres  that  are  rife 
Near  ruin'd  buildings)  never  have  been  proved, 
Nor  wholly  disbelieved :   men  know  as  little 
Of  the  state's  real  acts  as  of  the  grave's 
Unfathom'd  mysteries. 

MEMMO. 

But  with  length  of  time 
We  gam  a  step  in  knowledge,  and  I  look 
F'orward  to  he  one  day  of  the  decemvirs. 

SENATOR. 

Oi  Doge  / 

MEMMO. 

Why,  no,  not  if  I  can  avoid  it. 

SENATOR. 

'Tis  the  first  station  of  the  state,  and  may 
Be  lawfully  desired,  and  lawfully 
Attain'd  by  noble  aspirants. 

MEMMO. 

To  such 
I  leave  it ;   though  bgrn  noble,  my  ambition 
Is  hinited  :   I  'd  rather  be  an  unit 
Of  an  united  and  im])erial  "  Ten," 
Than  shine  a  lonely,  though  a  gilded  cipher. — 
Whom  have  we  here  ?  the  wife  of  Foscari  ? 

Enter  Marina,  with  a  female  attendant. 

MARINA. 

Wliat,  no  one  ? — I  am  wrong,  there  still  are  two ; 
But  they  are  senators. 

MEMMO. 

jMost  noble  lady, 
Command  us. 

MARINA. 

/  command  !   Alas  !   my  life 
Has  been  one  long  entreaty,  and  a  vain  one. 

MEMMO. 

I  '.niderstand  thee,  but  I  must  not  answer. 

MARINA  {Jiirceli/). 
True — none  dare  answer  here  save  on  the  rack,  * 

Or  question  save  those 

MEMMO  [mt'Trupting  her). 

High-born  dame  !   bethink  thep 
Where  thou  now  arU 

MARINA. 

Where  I  n  nv  an.  1 — It  was 
My  husband's  father's  palace. 


MEMMO. 

The  Duke'f)  palace. 

MARINA. 

And  his  son's  prison  ; — true,  1  have  not  forgot  it , 
And  if  there  were  no  other  near(!r,  bitterer 
Remembrances,  would  thank  the  illustrious  Memnic 
For  pointing  out  the  pleasures  of  the  [)lace. 

MEMiMO. 

Be  calm. 

MARINA  {looking  up  toward.f  heaven). 
I  am ;   but  oh,  thou  eiernal  God  ! 
Canst  thou  continue  so,  with  such  a  world? 

MEMMO. 

Thy  husband  yet  may  be  absolved. 

MARINA. 

He  is, 

In  heaven.     I  pray  you,  signor  senator, 
Speak  not  of  that ;   you  are  a  man  of  office, 
So  is  the  Doge  ;   he  has  a  son  at  stake. 
Now,  at  this  moiTlent,  and  I  have  a  husband, 
Or  had:   they  are  there  within,  or  were  at  least 
An  hour  since,  fiice  to  face,  as  judge  and  culprit : 
Will  he  condemn  him  ? 

MEMMO. 

1  trust  not. 

MARINA. 

But  if 
He  does  not,  there  are  those  will  sentence  both. 

MEMMO. 

They  can. 

MARINA. 

And  with  them  power  and  will  are  one 
In  wickedness : — my  husband  's  lost ! 

MEMMO. 

Not  so  J 
Justice  is  judge  in  Venice. 

MARINA. 

If  it  were  so 
There  now  would  be  no  Venice.     But  let  it 
Live  on,  so  the  good  die  not,  till  the  hour 
Of  nature's  summons;  but  "the  Ten's  "  is  quicke 
And  we  must  wait  on  't.     Ah  1   a  voice  of  wail ! 

[A  faint  cry  tuithin 

SENATOR. 

Hark! 

MEMMO. 

'T  was  a  cry  of 

MARINA. 

No,  no  ;  not  my  husband's— 
Not  Foscari's. 

MEMMO. 

The  voice  was 

MARINA. 

Not  At,<;  no. 
He  shriek  !  No  ;  that  should  be  his  father's  part. 
Not  his — not  his — he  '11  die  in  silence. 

[A  faint  groan  again  within 
MEMAIO. 

What! 
Again? 

MARINA. 

His  voice  !  it  seem'd  so  :  I  will  not 
Believe  it.     Should  he  shrink,  I  cannot  cease 
To  love  ;   but — no — no— no— it  must  have  been 
A  fearful  pang  which  wrung  a  groan  from  him. 

SENAIOR. 

And  feeling  for  thy  husband's  wrongs,  wouidst  thnii 
Have  him  bear  more  than  mortal  pain  in  suence  ? 

MARINA. 

We  all  must  bear  our  tortures.     I  have  not 
Left  barren  the  great  housp  of  Foscari, 


866 


BYE  ON' S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Though  they  sweep  both  the  Doge  and  son  from  life ; 

I  have  endured  as  much  in  giving  life 

To  those  who  will  succeed  them,  as  they  can 

In  leavmg  it:   but  mine  were  joyful  pangs; 

And  yet  they  wrung  me  till  I  could  have  shriek'd, 

But  did  not,  for  my  ho])e  was  to  bring  forth 

Heroes,  and  wou'd  not  welcome  them  with  tears. 

MKMMO. 

All 's  silent  now. 

MARINA. 

Perhaps  all 's  over  ;  but 
I  will  not  deem  it :  he  hath  nerved  himself, 
And  now  defies  them. 

Enter  an  Officer  hastily. 

MEMMO. 

How  now,  friend,  what  seek  you? 

OFFICER. 

A  leech.    The  prisoner  has  famted. 

[Exit  Officer. 

MEMMO. 

Lady, 
'Twere  better  to  retire. 

SENATOR  {offering  to  assist  her). 
I  pray  thee  do  so. 

MARINA. 

Off!  1  will  tend  him. 

MEMMO. 

You  !  Remember,  lady  ! 
Ingress  is  given  to  none  within  those  chambers, 
Except  "the  Ten,"  and  their  familiars. 

MARINA. 

Well, 
I  know  that  none  who  enter  there  return 
As  they  have  enter'd — many  never  ;   but 
They  shall  not  balk  my  entrance. 

MEMMO. 

Aias  I    this 
[s  but  to  expose  yourself  to  harsh  repulse, 
And  worse  suspense. 

MARINA. 

Who  shall  oppose  me? 

MEMMO, 

They 
IVhose  duty  't  is  to  do  so. 

MARINA. 

'Tis  their  duty 
To  trample  on  all  human  feeUngs,  all 
I'ies  which  bind  man  to  man,  to  emulate 
The  fiends,  who  will  one  day  recjuite  them  in 
Variety  of  torturing !     Yet  I  '11  |)ass. 

MEMMO. 

It  is  impossible. 

MARINA. 

That  shall  be  tried. 
Despair  defies  even  despotism  :   there  is 
That  in  my  heart  would  make  its  way  through  hosts 
With  levell'd  spears ;   and  think  you  a  few  jailors 
Shall  put  me  from  my  path?     Give  me,  then,  way  ; 
This  is  the  Doge's  palace ;  I  am  wife 
Of  the  Duke's  son,  the  innocent  Duke's  son, 
And  they  sliall  hear  this  ! 

MEMMO. 

It  will  only  serve 
Moie  to  exasperate  his  judges. 

MARINA. 

What 
Artj  jii'lgex  who  give  way  to  anger?  they 
Who  do  so  are  assassins.     Givi:  me  way. 

[K.iit  MVRINA, 
8EN\TOR. 

P  K)r  laify ' 


MEMMO. 

'Tis  mere  desperation  ;   she 
Will  not  be  admitted  o'er  the  threshold. 

SENATOR. 

And 

Even  if  she  be  so,  cannot  save  her  husband. 
But,  see,  the  officer  returns. 
[The  officer  passes  over  the  stage  with  another  ■perann 

MEMMO. 

I  hardly 
Thought  that  "  the  Ten"  had  even  this  touch  cf  pit/, 
Or  would  permit  assistance  to  the  sufferer. 

SENATOR. 

Pitv!   Is  't  pity  to  recall  to  t"eeling 

The  wretch  too  ha})[)y  to  escape  to  death 

By  the  compassionate  trance,  poor  nature's  last 

Resource  against  the  tyranny  of  pain  ? 

MEMMO. 

I  marvel  they  condemn  him  not  at  once. 

SENATOR. 

That's  not  their  policy :   they  'd  have  him  live, 
Because  he  fears  not  death ;   and  banish  him, 
Because  all  earth,  except  his  native  land, 
To  him  is  one  wide  prison,  and  each  breath 
Of  foreign  air  he  draws  seems  a  slow  poison. 
Consuming  but  not  killing. 

MEMMO. 

Circumstance 
Confirms  his  crimes,  but  he  avows  them  not. 

SENATOR. 

None,  save  the  letter,  which  he  says  was  written, 
Address'd  to  Milan's  duke,  in  the  fiill  knowledge 
That  it  would  fall  into  the  senate's  hands, 
And  thus  he  shoukl  be  re-convey'd  to  Venice. 

MEMMO. 

But  as  a  culprit. 

SENATOR. 

Yes,  but  to  his  country : 
And  that  was  all  he  sought,  so  he  avouches. 

MEMMO. 

The  accusation  of  the  bribes  was  proved. 

SENATOR, 

Not  clearly,  and  the  charge  of  homicide 
Has  been  annuU'd  by  the  death-bed  confession 
Of  Nicholas  Erizzo,  who  slew  the  late 
Chief  of  "the  Ten." 

MEMMO. 

Then  why  not  clear  him  ? 

SENATOR. 


That 


for  it  is  well  known 


They  ought  to  answer , 

That  Almoro  Donato,  as  I  said, 

Was  slain  by  Erizzo  for  private  vengeance. 

MEMMO. 

There  must  be  more  in  this  strange  process  than 
The  apparent  crimes  of  the  accused  disclose — 
But  here  come  two  of  "the  Ten  ;"  let  us  retire, 

[Exeunt  Memmo  and  Senator: 

Enter  Loredano  and  Barbarigo. 
BARBARiGO  {addressing  loredano). 
That  were  too  much  :   believe  me,  't  was  not  meet 
*rhe  trial  should  go  further  at  this  moment. 

LOUEI1ANO. 

And  SO  the  Council  must  break  up,  and  Justice 
Pause  m  her  fiill  career,  becaus(>  a  woman 
Breaks  in  on  our  deliberations? 

BARBARIGO. 

No, 
That 's  not  the  cause  ;    vou  -aw  ilie  orisoner's  state. 


THE    TWO    FOSCARI. 


867 


iflF.r.DANO. 

And  had  he  not  r'ioovrrM  ? 

BaKBAKIGO. 

'I'o  relapse 
Upon  the  lepst  renewal. 

LOKF.DANO. 

'T  was  not  tried. 

EARBAKIGO. 

Tis  vain  to  murmur;   the  majority 
In  conncil  were  aganist  you, 

LOKEDANO. 

Tnanks  to  you,  sir, 
And  the  old  dncal  dotard,  who  combined 
The  worthy  voices  which  o'errnled  my  own. 

BAKBAKIGO. 

(  am  a  judge ;   but  must  confess  that  part 
Ol^  our,stern  duty,  which  prescribes  the  Question, 
And  bids  us  sit  and  see  its  sharp  nitiiction, 
Makes  me  wish 

l.OKF.DANO. 

What  ? 

BARBARIGO. 

I'liat  you  would  sometimes  fe«l, 
As  I  do  always. 

LOREDANO. 

Go  to,  you  're  a  child, 
Infirm  of  feeling  as  of  purpose,  blown 
About  bv  every  breath,  shook  by  a  sigh, 
And  united  by  a  tear — a  precious  judge 
For  Venice !   and  a  worthy  statesman  to 
Be  partner  in  my  policy  ! 

BARBARIGO. 

He  shed 
Nu  tearH. 

LOREDANO. 

He  cried  out  twice. 

BARBARIGO. 

A  saint,  had  done  so, 
E-  en  with  the  crown  of  glory  in  his  eye, 
At  such  inhuman  artitice  of  pain 
As  was  furced  on  hnn :   but  he  did  not  cry 
Fur  pity  ;   not  a  word  nor  groan  escaped  him, 
And  those  tvv-o  shrieks  were  not  in  supplication, 
Bat  wrung  from  [langs,  and  followed  by  no  prayers. 

LOREDANO. 

He  nmiter'd  many  times  between  his  teeth, 
But  inarticulately. 

BARBARIGO. 

That  I  heard  not; 
Vou  stood  more  near  him. 

LOREDANO. 

I  did   SO. 
BARBARIGO, 

Methought, 
To  mv  surjirise  too,  you  were  touch'd  with  mercy, 
And  were  the  first  to  call  out  for  assistance 
When  he  was  failing. 

LOREDANO. 

I  believed  ihal  swoon 
His  last. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  have  I  not  oft  heard  thee  name 

His  and  his  fuher's  death  your  nearest  wish? 

LOREDANO. 

If  he  dies  innocent,  that  is  to  say, 

With  his  guilt  unavow'd,  he  '11  lie  lamented. 

BARBARIGO. 

U  hat,  wouldst  thou  slay  his  memory? 

LOREDANO. 

VVonldst  thou  have 
His  state  descend  to  his  children,  as  it  must, 
If  he  die  unattainted  ? 


b  VRB  \RIGO. 

War  with  them  too? 

LOREDANO. 

With  all  their  house,  till  tiieirs  or  mine  are  nothing. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  the  deep  agony  of  his  pale  wife. 
And  the  repress'd  convulsion  of  the  high 
And  princely  brow  of  his  old  father,  which 
Hroke  f)rth"in  a  slight  shuddering,  though  rarely, 
Or  in  some  clammy  drops,  soon  wiped  away 
In  stern  serenity  ;   these  moved  you  not  ? 

[Exit  LOREDA-^O. 

He 's  silent  in  his  hate,  as  Foscari 

Was  in  his  suffering ;   and  the  poor  wretch  movea  me 

More  by  his  silence  than  a  thousand  outcries 

Could  have  eff'ected.     'T  was  a  dreadful  sight 

W'hi'.n  his  distracted  wife  broke  through  into 

The  hal!  of  our  tribunal,  and  beheld 

What  we  coulu  scarcely  look  upon,  long  used 

To  such  sights.     I  must  think  no  more  of  this, 

Lest  I  f  )rijct  in  this  compassion  for 

Our  foes  their  former  injuries,  and  lose 

The  hold  of  venaeance  Loredano  plans 

For  him  and  me  ;   but  mine  would  be  content 

With  lesser  retribution  than  he  thirsts  for, 

And  I  would  mitigate  his  deeper  hatred 

To  milder  thoughts  ;   but,  for  the  present,  Foscari 

Has  a  sliort  hourly  respite,  granted  at 

The  instance  of  the  elders  of  the  Council, 

Moved  doubtless  by  his  wife's  appearance  in 

The  hall,  and  his  own  sufTenngs. — Lo  !   they  come: 

How  feeble  and  forlorn  !    I  cannot  bear 

To  look  on  them  again  in  this  extremity: 

I'll  hence,  and  try  to  soften  Loredano. 

[Exit  BARB.'iRICO. 

ACT  n 

SCENE  L 

A  Hall  iyi  the  Doge's  Palace. 
The  Doge  and  a  Senator. 

SENATOR. 

Is  it  your  pleasure  to  sign  the  report 
Now,  or  i)ostpone  it  till  to  morrow? 

doge. 

Novsr ; 

I  overlook'd  it  vesterday :   it  wants 
Merely  the  sianature.     Give  me  the  pen— 

[77(6  Doge  si/s  down  and  si<fns  the  papea 
There,  signor, 

SENATOR  {looking  at  the  paper). 

Yon  have  forgot ;   it  is  not  sign'd. 
doge. 
Not  sign'd?   Ah,  I  perceive  my  eyes  begin 
To  wax  more  weak  with  age.     I  did  not  see 
That  I  had  dipp'd  the  pen  without  effect. 
SENATOR  {(!lppin<;  the  pen  into  the  ink,  and  placing  the 

paper  before  the  Doge. 
Your  hand,  too,  shakes,  my  lord:   allow  me,  thus 

DOGE. 

'T  IS  done,  I  thank  you. 

SENATOR. 

Thus  the  act  confirm'd 
Bv  vou  and  by  "  the  Ten,"  gives  peace  to  Venice 

DOGE. 

'T  IS  long  since  she  enjoy'd  it :  may  it  be 
As  long  ere  she  resume  her  arms ! 

SENATOR. 

'T  is  almost 
Thirty-four  years  if  nearly  ceaseless  warfare 


368 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


With  the  Turk,  or  the  powers  of  Italy ; 
The  state  had  need  of  some  repose. 

DOGE. 

No  doubt : 
I  found  her  queen  of  ocean,  and  I  leave  her 
Lady  of  Lombardy  :   it  is  a  comfort 
That  I  have  added  to  her  diadem 
The  gems  of  Hrescia  and  Uavenna;   Crema 
And  Bergamo  no  less  are  hers  ;   her  realm 
By  land  has  grown  by  thus  much  in  my  reign, 
VVhile  her  sea-sway  has  not  shrunk. 

SENATOR. 

'T  is  most  true, 

And  merits  all  our  country's  gratitude. 

DOGE. 

Pernaps  so. 

SENATOR. 

Which  should  be  made  manifest, 

DOGE. 

[  have  not  complain'd,  sir. 

SENATOR. 

My  good  lord,  forgive  me. 

DOGE. 

For  what  ? 

SENATOR. 

My  heart  bleeds  for  you. 

DOGE. 

For  me,  signer  ? 

SENATOR. 

And  for  your 

DOGE. 

Stop  ! 

SENATOR. 

It  must  have  way,  my  lord : 
I  have  too  many  duties  towards  j'ou 
And  all  your  house,  for  present  kindness, 
Not  to  feel  deeply  for  your  son. 

DOGE. 

Was  this 
In  your  commission  ? 

SENATOR. 

What,  my  lord  ? 

DOGE. 

This  prattle 
Of  things  you  know  not:  but  the  treaty  's  sign'd  ; 
Return  with  it  to  them  who  sent  you. 

SENATOR. 

Obey.     I  had  in  charge,  too,  from  the  Council 
That  you  would  fix  an  hour  for  their  reunion. 

DOGE. 

Say,  when  they  will — now,  even  at  this  moment, 
]f  It  so  please  them:    I  am  the  state's  servant. 

SENATOR. 

They  would  accord  some  time  for  your  repose. 

DOGE. 

I  have  no  repose,  that  is,  none  which  shall  cause 
The  loss  of  an  hour's  time  unto  the  state. 
Let  tbem  meet,  when  they  will,  I  shall  be  found 
^■Vhere  I  should  be,  and  what  I  have  been  ever. 

[Exit  Senator. 
[The  Doge  remains  in  silence. 
Enter  an  attendant. 
attendant. 
Prince  ! 

doge. 
Sev  on. 

attendant. 
The  illustrious  lady  Foscari 
Requests  an  audi(!nce. 

DOGE. 

Hid  her  enter      Poor 
Marina  [E.nt  Attendant. 

'iVie  DooE  remains  tn  silence  us  before. 


Enter  Marina, 
marina. 
I  have  ventured,  father,  on 
Your  privacy. 

DOGE. 

I  have  none  trom  you,  my  child. 
Command  my  time,  when  not  commanded  by 
The  istate 

marina. 
I  wish'd  to  speak  to  you  of  him. 

DOGE. 

Your  husband  ? 

marina. 
And  your  son. 

DOGE. 

Proceed,  my  daughter 
marina. 
I  had  obtain'd  permission  from  "the  Ten" 
To  attend  my  husband  for  a  limited  number 
Of  hours. 

DOGE. 

You  had  so. 

marina, 
'T  is  revoked. 

DOGE. 

By  whom  ? 

MARINA. 

"The  Ten." — When  we  had  reach'd  "the  Bridge  ol 

Sighs," 
Which  I  prepared  to  [)ass  with  Foscari, 
The  gloomy  guardian  of  that  passage  first 
Demurr'd  ;   a  messenger  was  sent  back  to 
"  The  Ten  ;"  but  as  the  court  no  longer  sate. 
And  no  permission  had  been  given  in  writing, 
I  was  thrust  back,  with  the  assurance  that 
Until  that  high  tribunal  re-assemblcd, 
The  dungeon  walls  must  still  divide  U3. 

DOGE., 

True, 

The  form  has  been  omitted  in  the  haste  , 

With  which  the  court  adjourn'd,  and  till  it  meets 

'Tis  dubious. 

MARINA. 

Till  it  meets  !   and  when  it  meets. 
They'll  torture  him  again  ;   and  he  and  I 
Must  purchase  by  renewal  of  the  rack 
The  interview  of  husband  and  of  wife. 
The  holiest  tie  beneath  the  heavens! — Oh  God. 
Dost  tliou  see  this'.' 

DOGE. 

Child— child 

MARINA    {abritptly). 

Call  me  not  "child  " 
You  soon  will  have  no  children — you  des<?rve  none — 
You,  who  can  talk  thus  calmly  of  a  son 
In  circumstances  which  would  call  forth  tears 
Of  blood  from  Spartans !  Though  these  did  not  ween 
Their  bovs  who  died  in  battle,  is  it  written 
That  they  beh(dd  them  perish  piecemeal,  nor 
Stretch'd  forth  a  hand  to  save  them? 

DOGE. 

You  behold  nia  : 
I  cannot  weep — I  would  I  could ;   but  if 
Each  white  hair  on  this  head  were  a  young  life, 
This  ducal  cap  the  diadem  of  earth. 
This  ducal  ring  with  which  I  wed  the  waves 
A  talisman  to  still  them— I  'd  give  all 
For  him. 

MARINA. 

With  less  he  surely  might  be  saved. 


THE    TWO    FOSCARI. 


360 


DOGE. 

That  answer  only  shows  you  know  not  Venice. 
41as !   how  should  you  '/   she  knows  not  horselfj 
In  all  her  mystery.     Hear  nie — they  who  aim 
At  Foscari,  aim  no  less  at  his  father ; 
The  sire's  destruction  would  not  save  the  son; 
They  work  by  different  means  to  the  same  end, 
And  that  is but  they  have  not  conquer'd  yet. 

MARINA. 

bu*  they  have  crush'd 

DOGE. 

Nor  crush'd  as  yet — I  live. 

MARINA. 

.And  your  son, — how  long  will  he  live? 

DOGE. 

I  trust, 
For  all  that  yet  is  past,  as  many  years 
And  happier  than  his  father.     Tlie  rash  boy, 
With  womanish  impatience  to  return, 
Hiith  ruin'd  ail  by  that  detected  letter; 
A  hi<;h  crime,  which  I  neither  can  deny 
Nor  palliate,  as  parent  or  as  duke: 
Had  nc  out  borne  a  little,  little  longer 

His  Candiote  exile,  I  had  hopes he  has  quench'd 

them — 
He  must  return. 

MARIXA. 

To  exile  ? 

DOGE. 

I  have  said  it. 

MARINA. 

And  can  I  not  go  with  him  / 

DOGE. 

You  well  know 
This  prayer  of  yours  was  twice  denied  before 
Hv  the  assembled  "Ten,"  and  hardly  now 
Will  be  accorded  to  a  third  request, 
Since  aggravated  errors  on  the  part 
Of  your  lord  renders  them  still  more  austere. 

MARINA. 

Austere  ?   Atrocious  !     The  old  human  fiends, 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave,  with  dim  eyes,  strange 
To  tears  save  drops  of  dotage,  with  long  v^hite 
And  scanty  hairs,  and  shaking  hands,  and  heads 
As  palsied  as  their  hearts  are  hard,  they  council, 
Cabal,  and  luit  men's  lives  out,  as  if  life 
W(Te  no  more  than  the  feelings  long  extinguish'd 
Ifi  their  accursed  bosoms. 

DOGE. 

You  know  not 

MARINA. 

I  do — I  do — and  so  should  you,  methinks — 

That  th<;se  are  demons  ;   could  it  be  else  that 

Men,  who  have  been  of  women  born  and  suckled — 

Who  have  loved,  or  talk'd  at  least  of  love — have  given 

Their  hands  in  sacred  vows — have  danced  their  babes 

ITjiun  their  knees,  perhaps  have  mourn'd  above  them 

III  pain,  in  peril,  or  in  death — who  are. 

Or  were  at  east  in  seeming  human,  could 

Do  88  thej    lave  done  by  yours,  and  you  yourself, 

Vbu.  wh    abet  them? 

DOGE. 

1  forgive  this,  for 
You  kn«jw  not  what  you  say. 

MARIKA. 

You  know  it  well, 
4rd  feel  it  nothing 

DOGE. 

I  have  borne  so  much, 
TJiat  words  have  ceased  to  shake  ine. 

24 


MARINA. 

Oh,  no  doubt ! 
You  have  seen  your  son's  blood  flow,  and  your  flesh 

shook  not ; 
And,  after  that,  what  are  a  woman's  words? 
No  more  than  woman's  tears,  that  they  should  shake 

you. 

DOGE. 

Woman,  this  clamorous  grief  of  thine,  I  tell  thee, 
Is  no  more  in  the  balance  weigh'd  with  that 
Which but  I  pity  thee,  my  poor  IMarina  ! 

MARINA. 

Pity  my  husband,  or  I  cast  it  from  me  ; 
Pity  thy  son  !  Thou  pity  ! — 't  is  a  word 
Strange  to  thy  heart — how  came  it  on  thy  lips  ? 

DOGE. 

I  must  bear  these  reproaches,  though  they  wrong  nne. 
Couldst  thou  but  read 

MARINA. 

'Tis  not  upon  thy  brew 
Nor  in  thine  eyes,  nor  in  thine  acts, — where  then 
Should  I  behold  this  sympathy  ?  or  shall  ? 

DOGE    {pointing  downwards). 
There ! 

MARINA. 

In  the  earth  ? 

«     DOGE. 

To  which  I  am  tending :  when 
It  lies  upon  this  heart,  far  lightlier,  though 
Loaded  with  marble,  than  the  thoughts  which  press  it, 
Now,  you  will  know  me  better. 

MARINA. 

Are  you,  then. 
Indeed,  thus  to  be  pitied  ? 

DOGE. 

Pitied!     None 
Shall  ever  use  that  base  wnrd.  with  which  men 
Cloke  their  soul's  hoarded  triumph,  as  a  fit  one 
To  mingle  with  my  name  ;   that  name  shall  be, 
As  far  as  /  have  borne  it,  w  hat  it  was. 
When  I  received  it. 

MARINA. 

But  for  the  poor  children 
Of  him  thou  canst  not,  or  thou  wilt  not  save  : 
You  were  the  last  to  bear  it. 

DOGE. 

Would  it  were  sor 
Better  for  him  he  never  had  been  born. 
Better  for  me. — I  have  seen  our  house  dishonour'd. 

MARINA. 

That 's  false  !   A  truer,  nobler,  trustier  heart. 

More  loving,  or  more  loyal,  never  beat 

Within  a  human  breast.     I  would  not  change 

My  exiled,  persecuted,  mangled  husband, 

Oppress'd,  but  not  disgraced,  crush'd,  o'erwhelm'U, 

Alive,  or  dead,  for  prince  or  paiauin 

In  story  or  in  fable,  with  a  world 

To  back  his  suit.     Dishonour'd  ! — he  dishonour'd  ' 

I  tell  thee.  Doge,  't  is  Venice  is  dishonour'd ; 

His  name  shall  be  her  foulest,  worst  reproach, 

For  what  he  suffers,  not  for  what  he  did. 

'T  is  ye  who  are  all  traitors,  tyrant ! — ye  ! 

Did  vou  but  love  your  country  like  this  victim, 

Who  totters  back  in  chains  to  tortures,  and 

Submits  to  all  things  rather  than  to  exile, 

You  'd  llinH  vourselves  before  him,  and  implore 

His  grace  for  your  enormous  guilt. 

DOGE. 

He  was 
Indeed  all  vou  have  said.     I  better  bore 
The  deaths  of  the  two  sons  Heaven  took  from  me 
Than  Jacopo's  disgrace. 


870 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


MARINA. 

That  word  again? 

DOGE. 

Has  ne  not  been  condemii'd  ? 

MARINA. 

Is  none  but  guilt  so  ? 

DOGE. 

rime  Miay  restore  his  memory — I  would  hope  so. 

He  was  my  pride,  my but  'tis  useless  now — 

I  am  not  given  to  tears,  but  wept  for  joy 
When  he  was  born  :   those  drops  were  ominous. 

MARINA. 

I  say  he  's  innocent :  and,  were  he  not  so, 
Is  our  own  blood  and  kin  to  shrink  from  us 
In  fatal  moments  ? 

DOGE. 

1  shrank  not  from  him : 
But  I  have  other  duties  than  a  father's  ; 
The  state  would  not  dispense  me  from  those  duties  ; 
Twice  I  demanded  u,  but  was  refused  : 
They  must  then  be  fulfiU'd. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 


The  Ten. 


ATTENDANT. 

A  message  from 


DOGE. 

Who  bears  it? 


ATTENDANT. 

Noble  Loreaano. 

DOGE. 

Hp  !  -but  admit  him.  [Eodt  Attendant. 

MARINA. 

Must  I  then  retire? 

DOGE. 

Perhaps  it  is  not  re'inisite,  if  this 

Concerns  your  husband,  and  if  not Well,  signer, 

Your  pleasure!  [To  Loredano,  entering. 

LOREDANO. 

I  bear  that  of  "the  Ten." 

DOGE. 

They 
Have  chosen  well  their  envoy. 

J.OREDANO. 

'T  is  their  choice 
Which  leads  me  here. 

DOGE. 

It  does  their  wisdom  honour, 
And  no  less  to  their  courtesy. — Proceed. 

LOREDANO 

We  have  decided. 

DOGE. 

We? 

LOREDANO. 

"The  Ten"  in  council. 

DOGE. 

What '   have  they  met  again,  and  met  without 
Apprr/.ing  me  ? 

LOREDANO. 

They  wish'd  to  spare  your  feelings, 
No  less  than  age. 

DOGE. 

That's  new — when  spared  they  either  ? 
I  thijnk  them,  notwithstanding. 

LOREDANO. 

You  know  well 
Tlial  they  have  power  to  act  at  their  discretion. 
With  or  without  U)e  pr(isence  of  the  Doge. 

DOGK. 

*T  IS  some  vears  since  I  kiarn'd  this,  long  before 
I  became  Of);j<:,  or  dream'd  of  such  advancement. 


You  need  not  school  mo,  signor :  I  sate  in 
That  council  when  you  were  a  young  patrician. 

LOREDANO. 

True,  in  my  father's  time  ;   I  have  heard  him  and 
The  admiral,  !iis  brother,  say  as  much. 
Your  highness  may  remember  them:   they  both 
Died  suddenly. 

DOGE. 

And  if  they  did  so,  better 
So  die,  than  live  on  hngenngly  in  pain. 

LOREDANO. 

No  doubt !  yet  most  men  like  to  live  their  days  om. 

DOGE. 

And  did  not  they  ? 

LOREDANO. 

The  grave  knows  best :  they  diedj 
As  I  said,  suddenly. 

DOGE. 

Is  that  so  strange, 
That  you  repeat  ^he  word  emphatically  ? 

LOREDANO. 

So  far  from  strange,  that  never  was  there  death 
In  my  mind  half  so  natural  as  theirs. 
Think  vnu  not  so  ? 

DOGE. 

What  should  I  think  of  mortals  ? 

LOREDANO. 

That  they  have  mor*a'  foes. 

DOGE. 

I  understand  you ; 
Your  sires  were  mine,  and  you  are  heir  in  all  things. 

LOREDANO 

You  best  know  if  I  should  be  so 

DOGE.  , 

1  do. 

Your  fathers  were  my  foes,  and  I  ha\e  heard 
Foul  rumours  were  abroad ;   I  have  also   read 
Their  epitaph,  attributing  their  deaths 
To  poison.     'T  is  perhaps  as  true  as  most 
Inscriptions  upon  tombs,  and  yet  no  less 
A  fable. 

LOREDANO. 

Who  dares  say  so  l 

DOGE. 

I !— 'T  is  true 
Your  fathers  were  mine  enemies,  as  bitter 
As  their  son  e'er  can  be,  and  I  no  less 
Was  theirs  ;   but  I  was  openly  their  foe : 
I  never  work'd  by  plot   in  council,  nor 
Cabal  in  commonwealth,  nor  secret  means 
Of  practise  against  hfu,  by  steel  or  druc. 
The  proof  is,  your  existence. 

LOREDANO. 

I  fear  not, 

DOGE. 

You  have  no  cause,  being  what  I  am  ;   but  were  I 
That  you  would  have  me  thought,  you  long  ere  now 
Were  past  the  sense  of  fear.     Hate  on  ;   I  care  not, 

LOREDANO. 

I  never  yet  knew  that  a  noble's  life 

In  Venice  had  to  dread  a  Doge's  frown, 

That  is,  by  open  means. 

DOGE. 

But  I,  good  signor, 
Am,  or  at  least  was,  more  than  a  mere  duke. 
In  blood,  m  mind,  in  means  ;   and  that  thev  know 
Who  dreaded  to  elect  me,  and  have  since 
Striven  all  they  dare  to  weigh  me  down :   be  sure, 
Hi:f()re  or  siikm;  that  period,  had   I  held  vou 
At  so  MHich  price  as  to  require  your  absence, 
A  word  oi'  mini;  had  s(;t  such  spirits  to  work 
As  would  havH  made  you  uothiug.      Hut  in  ail  ihinga 


THE    TWO    FOSCARI. 


371 


have  observed  the  strir'est  reverenoe ; 
Nur  for  the  laws  alone,  lor  those  you  have  strain'd 
(I  do  not  s[)eak  of  you  but  as  a  sinj^le 
Voice  of  the  many)  somewhat  beyond  what 
[  could  enforce  for  my  authority, 
Were  I  disposed  to  brawl ;    but,  as  I  said, 
[  have  observed  with  veneration,  like 
A  priest's  for  the  high  altar,  even  unto 
The  sacrifice  of  my  own  blood  and  quiet, 
Safety,  and  all  save  honour,  the  decrees, 
The  health,  the  pride,  and  welfare  of  the  state. 
And  now,  sir,  to  your  business. 

LOREDANO. 

'Tis  decreed. 
That,  without  farther  repetition  of 
The  Question,  or  continuance  of  the  trial, 
Which  only  tends  to  show  how  stubborn  guilt  is, 
("  The  Ten,"  dispensing  with  the  stricter  law 
\Vhich  still  prescribes  the  Question,  till  a  full 
Confession,  and  the  prisoner  partly  having 
Avow'd  his  crime,  in  not  denying  that 
Tiie  letter  to  the  Duke  of  INIilan  's  his), 
James  Foscari  return  to  banishment. 
And  sail  in  the  same  galley  which  convey'd  him. 

MARINA. 

Thank  God !   At  least  they  will  not  drag  him  more 
Before  that  horrilile  tribunal.     Would  he 
Hut  think  so,  to  my  mind  the  happiest  doom. 
Not  he  alone,  but  all  who  dwell  here,  could 
Desire,  were  to  escape  from  such  a  land. 

DOGE. 

That  is  not  a  Venetian  thought,  my  daughter. 

MARIXA. 

No,  't  was  too  human.     May  I  share  his  exile  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Of  this  "  the  Ten  "  ?aid  nothing. 

MARINA. 

So  I  thought ; 
That  were  too  human,  also.     But  it  was  not 
Inhibited  ? 

LOREDANO. 

It  was  not  named. 

MARINA  {to  the  Doge). 

Then,  father. 
Surely  you  can  obtain  or  grant  me  thus  much : 

\To  Loredano. 
And  you,  sir,  not  oppose  my  prayer  to  be 
Permitted  to  accompany  my  husband. 

doge. 
I  Will  endeavour. 

MARINA. 

And  you,  signor? 

LORfiDANO. 

Lady! 
'T  is  not  for  me  to  anticipate  the  pleasure 
Of  the  tribunal. 

MARINA. 

Pleasure  !   what  a  word 
To  use  for  the  decrees  of 

DOGE. 

Daughter,  know  you 
In  what  a  presence  you  pronounce  these  things  I 

MARINA. 

A  prince's,  and  his  subject's. 

LOREDANO. 

Subject? 

MARINA. 

Oh! 

h  galls  you : — well,  you  are  his  equal,  as 
You  think,  but  that  you  are  not,  nor  would  be. 
Were  he  a  peasant : — well,  then,  you  're  a  prince, 
A  princely  noble ;   and  wha'  then  am  I  ? 


LORE  D AM O. 

The  otfspring  of  a  noble  house. 

MARINA. 

And  wedded 
To  one  as  noble.  What  or  whose,  then,  is 
The  presence  that  should  silence  my  free  thoughts  ? 

LOREDANO. 

The  presence  of  your  husband's  judges. 

DOGE. 

And 
The  deference  due  even  to  the  Hghtest  word 
That  falls  from  those  who  rule  in  Venice. 

MARINA. 

Keep 
Those  maxims  for  your  mass  of  scared  mechanics. 
Your  merchants,  your  Dalmatian  and  Greek  slaves, 
Your  tributaries,  your  dumb  citizens, 
And  mask'd  nobihty,  your  sbirri,  and 
Your  spies,  your  galley  and  your  other  slaves, 
To  whom  your  midnight  carryings-otf  and  drownings, 
Your  dungeons  next  the  palace  roofs,  or  under 
The  water's  level ;   your  mysterious  meetings. 
And  unknown  dooms,  and  sudden  executions. 
Your  "  Bridue  of  Sighs,"  your  strangling  chamber,  ani 
Your  torturing  instruments,  have  made  ye  seem 
The  beings  of  another  and  worse  world  ! 
Keep  such  for  them :   I  fear  ye  not,     I  know  ye  ; 
Have  known  and  proved  your  worst,  in  the  infernal 
Process  of  my  poor  husb;ind  I     Treat  me  as 
Ye  treated  him: — you  did  so,  in  so  dealing 
With  him.     Then  what  have  I  to  fear/ro/n  you, 
Even  if  I  were  of  fearful  nature,  which 
I  trust  I  am  not  ? 

DOGE. 

Y''ou  hear,  she  speaks  wildly. 

MARINA. 

Not  wisely,  yet  not  wildly. 

LOREDANO. 

Lady  !   words 
Utter'd  within  these  walls,  I  bear  no  further 
Than  to  the  :hreshold,  saving  such  as  pass 
Between  the  Duke  and  me  on  the  state's  senice. 
Doge  !   have  you  aught  in  answer? 

DOGE. 

Someimng  troati 
The  Doge  ;   it  may  be  also  from  a  parent. 

LOREDANO. 

My  mission  here  is  to  the  Doge. 

DOGE. 

Then  say 
The  Doge  will  choose  his  own  ambassador, 
Or  state  in  person  what  is  meet ;   and  for 
The  father 

LOREDANO. 

I  remember  mine. — J^'arewell ! 

I  kiss  the  hands  of  the  illustrious  lady, 

And  bow  me  to  the  Duke. 

[Exit  L0RKU4NU, 

MARINA. 

Are  you  content  ? 

DOGE. 

I  am  what  you  behold. 

MARINA. 

And  that 's  a  mystery. 

DOGE. 

All  thin<TS  arc  so  u  mortals:   who  can  read  them 
Save  he  wlio  made?   or,  if  they  can,  tlie  few 
And  gifted  spirits,  who  have  sti  died  long 
That  loathsome  volume — man,  and  pored  upon 
Those  black  and  bloody  leaves  his  heart  and  bram. 
But  learn  a  magic  which  recoils  upon 


872 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


The  adopt  who  pursues  it;   all  the  sins 

\Y«  tiiid  in  others,  nature  made  our  own  ; 

All  our  advantages  are  those  of  fortune  ; 

Birth,  wealth,  health,  beauty,  are  her  accidents, 

And  when  we  cry  out  against  fate,  't  were  well 

We  should  remember  fortune  can  take  nought 

Save  what  she  gave — the  rest  was  nakedness, 

And  lusts,  and  appetites,  and  vanities, 

The  universal  heritage,  to  battle 

With  as  we  may,  and  least  in  humblest  stations, 

Where  hunger  swallows  all  in  one  low  want, 

And  the  original  ordinance,  that  man 

Must  sweat  for  his  poor  pittance,  keeps  all  passions 

Aloof,  save  fear  of  famine  !  All  is  low. 

And  false,  and  hollow — clay  from  first  to  last, 

The  prince's  urn  no  less  than  potter's  vessel. 

Our  fame  is  in  men's  breath,  our  lives  upon 

Less  than  their  breath  ;   our  durance  u})on  days. 

Our  daj's  on  seasons  ;   our  whole  being  on 

Something  which  is  not  us  ! — So,  we  are  slaves. 

The  greatest  as  the  meanest — nothing  rests 

Upon  our  will ;   the  will  itself  no  less 

Depends  ujjon  a  straw  than  on  a  storm ; 

And  when  we  think  we  lead,  we  are  most  led. 

And  still  towards  death,  a  thing  which  comes  as  much. 

Without  our^ct  or  choice,  as  birth  ;   so  tliat 

Methinks  we  must  have  sinn'd  in  some  old  world, 

And  this  is  hell :   the  best  is,  that  it  is  not 

Eternal. 

MARINA. 

These  are  things  we  cannot  judge 
On  earth. 

DOGE. 

And  how  then  shall  we  judge  each  other. 
Who  are  all  earth,  and  I,  who  am  call  d  upon 
To  judge  my  son  ?   I  have  adriiinister'd 
My  country  faithfully — victoriously — 
I  dare  them  to  the  proof — the  chart  of  what 
She  was  and  is:   my  reign  has  doubled  realms; 
And,  in  reward,  the  gratitude  of  Venice 
Has  left,  or  is  about  to  leave,  me  single. 

MARIXA. 

And  Foscari  ?     I  do  not  think  of  such  things, 
So  I  be  left  with  him. 

DOGE. 

You  snail  be  so  ; 
Thus  much  they  cannot  well  deny. 

MARINA. 

And  if 
They  should,  I  will  fly  with  him. 

DOGE. 

That  can  ne'er  be. 
And  whither  would  you  fly  ? 

MARINA. 

I  know  not,  reck  not — 
To  Syria,  Egypt,  to  the  Ottoman — 
Any  where,  where  we  might  respire  unfetter'd, 
And  live,  nor  girt  by  spies,  nor  liable 
To  edicts  of  iinjuisitors  of  state. 

DOGE. 

What,  wouldst  tliou  have  a  'enegade  for  husband. 
And  turn  liiiu  mto  traitor  ? 

MARINA. 

If(-'  is  none : 
The  country  is  the  traitress,  wliioh  thrusts  forth 
Her  best  and  bravest  from  li(;r.      Tyranny 
•  s  i'nr  the  worst  of  tr(!asor;s.      Dost  thou  deem 
Noim;  rebels  except  subjects?   The  [nince  who 
Nei;l'fts  or  vif)lates  his  trust  is  more 
A  bri;juiii  than  the  nbber-chief. 


DOGE. 

1  cannot 

Charge  me  with  such  a  breach  of  faith. 

MARINA. 

No;   -ho3 

Observ'st,  obey'st,  such  laws  as  make  old  Draco's 
A  code  of  mercy  by  comparison. 

DOGE. 

I  found  the  law  ;   I  did  not  make  it.      Were  I 

A  subject,  still  I  might  find  parts  ond  portions 

Fit  for  amendment ;  but,  as  prince,  I  never 

Would  change,  for  the  sake  of  my  house,  the  rhartej 

Left  by  our  fathers. 

MARINA. 

Did  they  make  it  for 
The  rum  of  their  children  ? 

DOGE. 

Under  such  laws,  Verict 
Has  risen  to  what  she  is — a  state  to  rival 
In  deeds,  and  days,  and  sway,  and,  let  me  add, 
In  glory  (for  we  have  had  Roman  spirits 
Amongst  us),  all  that  history  has  bequeath'd 
Of  Rome  and  Carthage  in  their  best  times,  whep 
The  people  sway'd  by  senates. 

MARINA. 

Rather  say, 
Groan'd  under  the  stern  oligarchs. 

DOGE. 

Perhaps  so; 
But  yet  subdued  the  world :  in  such  a  state 
An  individual,  be  he  richest  of 
Such  rank  as  is  permitted,  or  the  meanest. 
Without  a  name,  is  alike  nothing,  when 
The  policy,  irrevocably  tending 
To  one  great  end,  must  be  maintain'd  in  vigour. 

MARINA. 

This  means  that  you  are  more  a  Doge  than  fathei 

DOGE. 

It  means  I  am  more  citizen  than  either. 
If  we  had  not  for  many  centuries 
Had  thousands  of  such  citizens,  and  shall, 
I  trust,  have  still  such,  Venice  were  no  city. 

MARINA. 

Accursed  be  the  city  where  the  laws 
Would  stifle  nature's  ! 

DOGE. 

Had  I  as  many  sons 
As  I  have  years,  I  would  iiave  given  them  all, 
Not  without  feeling,  but  I  would  have  given  them 
To  the  state's  service,  to  fulfil  her  wishes 
On  the  flood,  in  the  field,  or,  if  it  must  be, 
As  it,  alas  '   has  been,  to  ostracism. 
Exile,  or  chains,  or  whatsoever  worse 
Slie  might  decree. 

MARINA. 

And  this  is  patriotism  ! 
To  me  it  seems  the  worst  barbarity. 
Let  me  seek  out  my  husband :   the  sage  "  Ten," 
With  all  its  jealousy,  will  hardly  war 
So  far  with  a  weak  woman  as  deny  me 
A  moment's  access  to  his  dungeon. 

DOGE. 

I'll 

So  far  take  on  myself,  as  order  that 
You  may  be  admitted. 

MARINA. 

And  what  shall  I  say 
To  Foscari  from  his  father  ? 

DOGE. 

That  he  obey 
The  laws. 


THE    TWO    rose  ART. 


37S 


MARIVA. 

And  nothing  more  ?   Will  you  not  see  him 
Ere  he  depart?  It  may  bo  the  last  time. 

DOGE. 

The  last! — my  boy  ! — The  last  time  I  shall  see 
My  last  of  children  !   Tell  him  I  will  come. 

[Ejcuni, 


JACOPO  FoscARi  {embracing  herj. 
My  true  wife, 
And  only  friend  !   What  happiness  ! 

MARIXA, 

We  'II  part 


No  more. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 


Tlie  Prison  of  Jacopo  Foscap{, 

jAcoro   FOSCARI  {solus). 
No  light,  save  yon  faint  gleam,  which  shows  me  walls 
Which  never  echo'd  but  to  sorrosv's  sounds. 
The  sigh  of  long  imprisonment,  the  step 
Of  feet  on  which  the  iron  clank'd,  the  groan 
Of  death,  the  imprecation  of  despair ! 
And  yet  for  this  I  have  return'd  to  Venice, 
Witii  some  faint  hope,  't  is  true,  that  time,  which  wears 
The  marble  down,  had  worn  awav  the  hate 
Of  men's  hearts :   but  I  knew  them  not,  and  here 
Must  I  consume  my  own,  which  never  beat 
For  Venice  but  with  such  a  yearning  as 
The  dove  has  for  her  distant  nest,  when  wheeling 
High  in  tlie  air  on  her  return  to  greet 
Her  callow  brood.     What  letters  are  these  which 

[Approaching  tlie  vsalU 
Are  scrawl'd  aloncr  the  inexorable  wall? 
Will  the  sicam  let  me  trace  them?  Ah  !   the  names 
Of  my  sad  predecessors  in  this  place, 
The  dates  of  their  despair,  the  brief  words  of 
A  srief  too  great  for  manv.     This  stone  page 
Holds  like  an  epitaph  their  history, 
And  the  poor  captive's  tale  is  graven  on 
His  dungeon  barrier,  like  the  lover's  record 
Upon  the  bark  of  some  tall  tree,  which  boars 
His  own  and  his  beloved's  name.     Alas ! 
I  recognise  some  names  familiar  to  me. 
And  blighted  like  to  mine,  which  I  will  add, 
Fittest  for  such  a  chronicle  as  this. 
Which  only  can  be  read,  as  writ,  b^'  wretches. 

[He  engraves  his  name. 

Enter  a  Familiar  of  "  tJie  Ten," 

FAMILIAR. 

I  bring  you  food. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

I  pray  you  set  it  down 
\  am  |>ast  hunger:   but  my  lips  are  parch' d — 
The  water ! 

FAMILIAR. 

There. 
JACOPO  FOSCARI  {after  drinking). 
I  thank  you :   I  am  better. 

FAMILIAR. 

I  am  commanded  to  inform  jou  that 
Voui  further  trial  is  postponed. 

JACnpO   FOSCARI. 

Till  when  ? 

FAMILIAR. 

I  know  not. — It  is  also  in  my  orders 
That  your  illustrious  lady  be  admitted. 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

Ah  !  they  relent  then — I  had  ceased  to  hope  if  . 
T  vma  time. 

Enter  Marixa. 

MARINA. 

My  best  beloved ! 


JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

How  !   wouldst  thou  share  a  dungeon  ? 

MARINA. 

Ay 

The  rack,  the  grave,  all — any  thing  with  thee, 

But  the  tomb  last  of  ail,  for  there  we  shall 

Be  ignorant  of  each  other  :   yet  I  will 

Share  that — all  things  except  new  separation  ; 

It  is  too  much  to  have  survived  the  first. 

How  dost  thou?  How  are  those  worn  limbs?  Alas! 

Why  do  I  ask?  Thy  paleness 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

'T  is  the  joy 
Of  seeing  thee  again  so  soon,  and  so 
Without  expectancy,  has  sent  the  blood 
Back  to  my  heart,  and  left  my  cheeks  like  thine, 
j   For  tljou  art  pale  too,  my  Marina ! 

MARIXA. 

'Tis 

The  gloom  of  this  eternal  cell,  which  never* 
Knew  sunbeam,  and  the  sallow  sullen  glare 
Of  the  familiar's  torch,  which  seems  akin 
To  darkness  more  than  light,  by  lending  to 
The  dungeon  vapours  its  bituminous  smoke, 
Which  cloud  whate'er  we  gaze  on,  even  thine  eyes- 
No,  not  thine  eyes — they  sparkle — how  they  sparkle  ' 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

And  thine  ! — but  I  am  blinded  by  the  torch. 

MARIXA. 

As  I  had  been  -Adthout  it.     Couldst  thou  see  here? 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Nothing  at  first ;  but  use  and  time  had  taught  me 
Familiarity  with  what  was  darkness  ; 
And  the  gray  twilight  of  such  glimmerings  as 
Glide  through  the  crevices,  made  by  the  winds, 
Was  kinder  to  mine  eyes  than  the  full  sun, 
When  gorgeously  o'ergilding  any  towers, 
Save  those  of  \'enice  :   but  a  moment  ere 
Thou  earnest  hither,  I  was  busy  writing. 

MARIXA. 

What  ? 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Mv  name  :   look,  't  is  there — recorded  next 
The  name  of  him  who  here  pieceded  me. 
If  dungeon  dates  say  true. 

MARIXA. 

And  what  of  him? 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

These  walls  are  silent  of  men's  ends ;   they  only 
Seem  to  hint  shrewdly  of  them.     Such  stern  walls 
Were  never  piled  on  high  save  o'er  the  dead. 
Or  those  who  soon  must  be  so. — IVhat  of  him  ? 
Thou  askest. — What  of  me?   may  soon  be  ask'd, 
With  the  like  answer — doubt  and  dreadful  surmise- 
Unless  thou  tell'st  my  tale. 

MARIXA. 

/  speak  of  thee  ! 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

And  wherefore  not?  All  then  shall  speak  of  me  • 

The  tyranny  of  silence  is  not  lasting. 

And,  though  events  be  hidden,  just  men's  groans 

Will  burst  all  cerement,  even  a  living  grave's ' 

I  do  not  doubt  my  memory,  but  my  life ; 

And  neither  do  1  fear. 

>iARIXA. 

Thy  life  is  saie. 


374 


BYTION'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


JACOPO    FOSCARI. 


And  liberty  ? 


MARINA. 

The  mind  should  make  its  own. 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

That  has  a  noble  sound ;   but  't  is  a  sound, 
A  music  most  impressive,  but  too  transient: 
The  mind  is  much,  but  is  not  all.     The  mind 
Hath  nerved  me  to  endure  the  risk  of  death, 
And  torture  positive,  far  worse  than  death    . 
(If  death  be  a  deep  sleep),  without  a  groan. 
Or  with  a  cry  which  rather  shamed  my  judges 
Than  me  ;   but  'tis  not  all,  for  there  are  things 
More  woful — such  as  this  small  dungeon,  where 
I  may  breathe  many  years. 

MARINA. 

Alas !   and  this 
Small  dungeon  is  all  that  belongs  to  thee 
Of  this  wide  realm,  of  which  thy  sire  is  prince. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

That  thought  would  scarcely  aid  me  to  endure  it. 
My  doom  is  common,  many  are  in  dungeons. 
But  none  like  mine,  so  near  their  father's  palace; 
Bat  then  my  heart  is  sometimes  high,  and  hope 
Will  stream  along  thpse  moted  rays  of  light 
Peopled  with  dusty  atoms,  which  afford 
Our  only  day  ;   for,  save  the  jailor's  torch. 
And  a  strange  fire-fly,  which  was  quickly  caught 
Last  night  in  yon  enormous  spider's  net, 
I  ne'er  saw  aught  here  like  a  ray.     Alas  ! 

I  kiK>w  if  mind  may  bear  us  up,  or  no. 
For  I  have  such,  and  shown  it  before  men; 

II  sinks  in  solitude:   my  soul  is  social. 

MARINA. 

(  \v;ll  be  with  thee. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Ah  !   if  it  were  so  ! 
But  thfu  (hey  never  granted — nor  will  grant, 
Aiid  I  shall  be  alone  :   no  men — no  books — 
Tliose  lying  likenesses  of  lying  men. 
I  ask'd  for  even  those  outlines  of  their  kind. 
Which  they  term  annals,  history,  what  you  will. 
Winch  men  bequeath  as  portraits,  and  they  were 
Refused  me ;   so  these  walls  have  been  my  study, 
More  faithful  pictures  of  Venetian  story. 
With  all  their  blank,  or  dismal  stains,  than  is 
The  hall  not  far  from  hence,  which  bears  on  high 
Hundreds  of  doges,  and  their  deeds  and  dates. 

MARINA. 

I  come  to  tell  thee  the  result  of  their 
Last  couii'^jl  on  thy  doom. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

I  know  It — look  ! 
[He  pointa  to  his  limbic,  as  referring  to  the 
tortures  which  he  had  undergone. 

MARINA. 

No — no — no  more  of  that :  even  they  relent 
From  that  atrocity. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

What  then? 

MARINA. 

That  you 
"Retu)  n  to  Candia. 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

Then  my  last  hope  's  gone. 
f  could  endure  my  dungefMi,  for  't  was  Venice  ; 
I  could  support  the  torture,  there  was  something 
<n  my  native  air  that  buoy'd  my  spirits  uj). 
Like  a  shi[)  on  the  orean  toss'd  by  storms, 
But  proudly  still  bestriding  the  high  waves, 


And  holding  on  its  course  ;  but  there,  afar. 
In  that  accursed  isle  of  slaves,  .and  captives, 
And  unbelievers,  like  a  stranded  wreck. 
My  very  soul  seem'd  mouldering  in  my  bosom, 
And  piecemeal  I  shall  perish,  if  remanded. 

MARINA. 

And  here  1 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

At  once — by  better  means,  as  briefer. 
What !  would  they  even  deny  me  my  sires'  sepulchro 
As  well  as  home  and  heritage  ? 

MARINA. 

My  husband ! 
I  have  sued  to  accompany  thee  hence. 
And  not  so  hopelessly.     Tliis  love  of  thine 
For  an  ungrateful  and  tyrannic  soil. 
Is  passion,  and  not  patriotism  ;   for  me, 
So  I  could  see  thee  with  a  quiet  aspect, 
And  the  sweet  freedom  of  the  earth  and  air, 
I  would  not  cavil  about  climes  or  regions. 
This  crowd  of  palaces  and  prisons  is  not 
A  paradise  ;  its  first  inhabitants 
Were  wretched  exiles. 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

Well  1  know  how  wretched . 

MARINA. 

And  yet  you  see  how  from  their  banishment 
Before  the  Tartar  into  these  salt  isles. 
Their  antique  energy  of  mind,  all  that 
Remam'd  of  Rome  for  their  inheritance, 
Created  by  degrees  an  ocean-Rome  ; 
And  shall  an  evil,  which  so  often  leads 
To  good,  depress  thee  thus  ? 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Had  I  gone  forth 
From  my  own  land,  like  the  old  patriarchs,  secKing 
Another  region,  with  their  flocks  and  herds  ; 
Had  I  been  cast  out  like  the  Jews  from  Zion, 
Or  like  our  fathers,  driven  by  Attila 
From  fertile  Italy  to  barren  islets, 
I  would  have  given  some  tears  to  my  late  country. 
And  many  thoughts  ;   but  afterwards  aadress'd 
Myself,  with  those  about  me,  to  create 
A  new  home  and  fresh  state:   perhaps  I  could 
Have  borne  this — though  I  know  not. 

MARINA. 

W^herefore  not  I 
It  was  the  lot  of  millions,  and  must  be 
The  fate  of  myriads  more. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Ay — we  but  hear 
Of  the  survivors'  toil  in  their  new  lands, 
Their  numbers  and  success  ;   but  who  can  numbei 
The  hearts  which  broke  in  silence  of  that  parting, 
Or  after  their  departure  ;   of  that  malady  ' 
Which  calls  up  green  and  native  fields  to  view 
From  the  rough  deep,  with  such  identity 
To  the  poor  exile's  fever'd  eye,  that  he 
Can  scarcely  be  restrain'd  from  'reading  them? 
That  melody,'^  which  out  of  ton  s  and  tunes. 
Collects  such  pasture  for  the  lo  ging  sorrow 
Of  the  sad  mountaineer,  when  far  away 
From  his  snow  canopy  of  cliffs  and  clouds. 
That  he  feeds  on  the  sweet,  but  poisonous  thought. 
And  dies.     You  call  this  i/,'mA-«fiis/  It  is  strength, 
I  say, — the  parent  of  all  honest  feeling. 
He  who  loves  not  his  country,  can  love  nothing. 

MARINA. 

Obey  her,  then  ;  't  is  she  that  puts  thee  forth. 


1  The  calenture. 

2  Alluding  to  the  Swiss  air,  and  ita  effects. 


THE    TWO    FCSCARI. 


37b 


JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

A.y,  there  it  is:    'tis  like  a  nioiher's  curse 
Upon  my  soul—  the  mark  is  set  upon  me. 
The  exiles  you  speak  of  went  forth  by  nations, 
rh»ir  hands  ujjhekl  each  other  by  the  way, 
Their  tents  were  i)itched  togeth<;r — I  'm  alone. 

M  AUINA. 

ou  shal.  be  so  no  more — I  will  go  with  ihee. 

JACOPO    KOSCAKl. 

My  best  Marina  ! — and  our  children  ? 

MARINA. 

They, 
I  fear,  by  the  prevention  of  the  state's 
Abhorrent  policy  (which  holds  all  tics 
As  threads,  which  may  be  broken  at  her  pleasure), 
Will  not  be  sufTer'd  to  proceed  with  us. 

JACOPO    FOSCAKI. 

And  canst  thou  leave  them  ? 

MAKINA 

Yes.     With  many  a  pang 
But — I  can  leave  them,  children  as  they  are, 
To  teach  you  to  be  less  a  child.     From  this 
Learn  you  to  sway  your  feelings,  when  exacted 
liy  duties  paramount ;    and  't  is  our  first 
On  earth  to  bear. 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

Have  I  not  borne  ? 

ivIARINA. 

Too  much 
From  tvrannous  inji^tice,  and  enough 
To  teach  you  not  to  shrink  now  from  a  lot 
Which,  as  compared  with  what  you  have  undergone 
Oi  late   is  mercy. 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

Ah  !   you  never  yet 
Were  far  away  from  Venice,  never  saw 
Her  beautiful  towers  in  the  receding  distance. 
While  every  furrow  of  the  vessel's  track 
Seem'd  ploughing  deep  into  your  heart;   you  never 
Saw  day  go  down  upon  your  native  spires 
So  calmly  with  its  gold   and  crimson  glory, 
And  after  dreaming   a  disturbed  vision 
Of  them  and  thiiirs,  awoke  and  found  them  not. 

MARINA. 

I  will  divide  this  with  you.     Let  us  think 
Of  our  de|)arture  from  this  much-loved  city 
(Since  you  must  love  it,  as  it  seems),  and  this 
Chamber  of  state  her  gratitude  allots  you. 
Our  children  will  be  cared  for  by  the  Doge, 
And  by  my  uncles :  we  must  sail  ere  night. 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

That's  sudden.     Shall  I  not  behold  my  father? 

MARINA. 

You  will. 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

WHiereV 

MARINA. 

Here  or  in  the  ducal  chamber — 
He  said  not  vvhich.     I  would  that  you  could  bear 
lour  exile  as  he  bears  it. 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

Blame  him  not. 
I  sometimes  murmur  for  a  moment ;   but 
He  could  not  now  act  otherwise.     A  show 
Of  feeling  or  compassion  on  his  part 
Would  have  but  drawn  u[)on  his  aged  head 
Suspicion  from  "  the  Ten,"  and  upon  mine 
Accumulated  ills. 

MARINA 

Accumulated . 
What  pangs  are  those  they  have  spared  you? 


TACOPO    FOSCARI. 

That  of  leaving 
Venice  without  beholding  him  or  you, 
Which  might  have  been  forbidden  now,  as  't  wasi 
Upon  my  former  exile. 

MARINA. 

That  is  true. 
And  thus  far  I  am  also  the  state's  debtoi, 
And  shall  be  more  so  when  I  see  us  both 
Floating  on  the  free  waves — away — away — 
Be  it  to  the  earth's  end,  from  this  abhorr'd, 
Unjust,  and 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

Curse  it  not.     If  I  am  silent, 
Who  dares  accuse  my  country  ? 

MARINA. 

Men  and  angels! 
The  blood  of  myriads  reeking  up  to  heaven, 
The  groans  of  slaves  in  chains,  and  men  in  dungeons, 
Mothers,  and  wives,  and  sons,  and  sires,  and  subjects, 
Held  in  the  bondage  of  ten  bald-heads ;   and 
Though  last,  not  least,  iht/  silence.      Couldst  thou  say 
Aught  in  Its  favour,  who  would  praise  like  thee  ? 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

Let  us  address  us  then,  since  so  it  must  be, 
To  our  departure.   Who  comes  here  7 

Eiiter  LoREDANO,  attended  hi/  Familiars. 
LOREDAiso    [to  the  FumiUars). 

Retire, 
But  leave  the  torch.  [Exeunt  the  two  Familiars. 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

Most  welcome,  noble  signor. 

I  did  not  deem  this  poor  place  could  have  drawn 

Such  presence  hither. 

LOREDANO. 

'T  is  not  the  first  time 
I  have  visited  these  places. 

MARINA. 

Nor  would  be 
The  last,  were  all  men's  merits  well  rewarded. 
Came  you  here  to  insult  us,  or  remain 
As  spy  upon  us,  or  as  hostage  for  us  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Neither  are  of  my  office,  noble  lady ! 
I  am  sent  hither  to  your  husband,  to 
Announce  "the  Ten's"  decree. 

MARINA. 

That  tenderness 
Has  been  anticipated :  it  is  known. 

LOREDANO. 

As  how  ? 

MARINA. 

I  have  mform'd  him,  not  so  gently. 
Doubtless,  as  your  nice  feelings  would  prescribe, 
The  indulgence  of  your  colleagues  ;   but  he  knew  ii. 
If  you  come  for  our  thanks,  take  them,  and  hence ' 
The  dungeon  gloom  is  deep  enough  without  you, 
And  full  of  reptiles,  not  less  loathsome,  though 
Their  sting  is  honester. 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

I  pray  you,  calm  you  : 
What  can  avail  such  words  ? 

MARINA. 

To  let  hini  know 
That  he  is  known. 

LOREDANO. 

Let  the  fair  dame  preserve 
Her  sex's  privilege. 

MARINA. 

I  have  some  sons,  sir, 
j    Will  one  day  thank  vou  better. 


^7f^ 


BYEON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LOREDANO. 

You  d'^  well 
To  nuise  them  wisely.  Foscari — you  know 
Your  senfence,  then  ? 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

Return  to  Candia! 

LOKEDANO. 

True— 

Foi  life, 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Not  lon.a. 

LOREDANO. 

I  said — for  life. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

And  I 
Repeat — not  long. 

LOREDANO. 

A  year's  imprisonment 
In  Canea — afterwards  the  freedom  of 
The  whole  isle. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Both  the  same  to  me:  the  after 
Freedom  as  is  the  first  imprisonment., 
Is't  true  my  wife  accompanies  me? 

LOREDANO. 

Yes, 

if  she  so  wills  it. 

MARINA. 

Who  obtain'd  that  justice  ? 

LOREDANO. 

One  who  wars  not  with  women. 

MARINA. 

But  oppresses 
Men  :   howsoever,  let  him  have  ?)ii/  thanks 
For  the  onl\'  boon  I  would  have  ask'd  or  taken 
From  him  or  such  as  he  is. 

LOREDANO. 

He  receives  them 
As  they  are  offer'd. 

MARINA. 

IMay  they  thrive  with  him 
So  much  ' — no  more. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Is  this,  sir,  your  whole  mission  ? 
Because  wt  have  brief  time  for  preparation, 
And  vou  perceive  your  presence  doth  disquiet 
This  lady,  of  a  house  noble  as  yours. 

MARINA. 

Nobler ! 

LOREDANO. 

How  nobler  ? 

MARINA. 

As  more  generous* 
We  sav  the  "  generous  steed"  to  express  the  purity 
Of  his  hi^h  blood.    Thus  much  I've  learnt,  although 
Vf'netian    (who  see  few  stOijds  save  of  bronze). 
From  those  Venetians  who  have  skimm'd  the  coasts 
Of  Egypt,  and  her  neighbour  Araby  : 
And  why  not  say  as  boon  "  the  generous  man  ?" 
If  race  be  aught,  it  is  in  (jualities 
More  than  in  years  ;   and  mine,  which  is  as  old 
As  vours,  is  belter  in  its  product;   nay — 
Look  not  so  stern — but  get  you  back,  and  pore 
U[)on  your  genealogic  trees  most  green 
Of  leaves  and  most  mature  of  fruits,  and  there 
Blush  to  find  ancestors,  who  would  have  blush'd 
For  such  a  son — th'  u  cold  inveterate  hater  ! 

JACOPO     FOSCARI, 

Agam,  Marina! 

M  A  t<  I N  A . 
Again!  still,  Marina. 
S«;e  vou  not,  he  comes  here  to  glut  liis  hate 


With  a  last  look  upon  our  misery  ? 
Let  him  partake  it ! 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

That  were  difficult. 

MARINA. 

Nothing  more  easy.     He  partakes  it  now- 

Ay,  he  may  veil  beneath  a  marble  brow 

And  sneering  lip  the  pang,  but  he  partakes  it. 

A  few  brief  words  of  truth  shame  the  devil's  servants 

No  less  than  master ;   I  have  probed  his  soul 

A  moment,  as  the  eternal  fire,  ere  long, 

Will  reach  it  always.     See  how  he  shrinks  from  me' 

With  death,  and  chains,  and  exile  in  his  hand, 

To  scatter  o'er  his  kind  as  he  thinks  fit : 

They  are  his  weapons,  not  his  armour,  for 

I  have  pierced  him  to  the  core  of  his  cold  heart. 

I  care  not  for  his  frowns !    We  can  but  die, 

And  he  but  live,  for  him  the  very  worst 

Of  destinies :   each  day  secures  him  more 

His  tempter's. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

This  is  mere  insanity. 

MARINA. 

It  may  be  so ;   and  who  hath  made  us  mad  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Let  her  go  on ;  it  irks  not  me. 

MARINA. 

That 's  false  I 
You  came  here  to  enjoy  a  heartless  triumph 
Of  cold  looks  upon  manifold  griefs  !   You  came 
To  be  sued  to  in  vain — to  mark  our  fears, 
And  hoard  our  groans — to  gaze  upon  the  wreck 
Which  you  have  made  a  prince's  son — my  husbo.nd  ; 
In  short,  to  trample  on  the  fallen — an  office 
The  hangman  shrinks  from,  as  all  men  from  him! 
How  nave  you  sped?    We  are  wretched,  signor,  as 
Your  plots  could  make,  and  vengeance  could  desirts  us- 
And  how  feel  you  ? 

LOREDANO. 

As  rocks. 

MARINA. 

By  thunder  blasted : 
They  feel  not,  but  no  less  are  shiver'd.     Come, 
Foscari ;   now  let  us  go,  and  leave  this  felon, 
The  sole  fit  habitant  of  such  a  cell. 
Which  he  has  peopled  often,  but  ne'er  fitly 
Till  lie  himself  shall  brood  in  it  alone. 

Enter  the  Doge. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

My  father ! 

DOGE  {embracing  him). 
Jacopo  !  my  son — my  son  I 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

My  father  still !   How  long  it  is  since  I 

Have  heard  thee  name  my  name — our  name  ! 

DOGE. 

My  boy ! 
Couldst  thou  but  know 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

I  rarely,  sir,  have  mumiur'il 

DOGE. 

I  feel  too  much  thou  hast  not. 

MARINA. 

Doge,  look  there ! 
[She  points  to  Loredawo 


I  seo  the  man — what  mean'st  thou? 

SIARINA. 


C  aution ! 


THE    TWO    FOSCARI. 


377 


LOREDANO. 


Being 


f  nf^.  virt'ie  which  this  noble  lady  most 

Ma_,  [iractise,  she  dolh  well  to  recommend  iU 

MARINA. 

Wretch  !  't  is  no  virtue,  but  the  policy 

Of  those  who  tain  must  deal  perforco,  with  vice. 

As  such  I  recommend  it,  as  I  would 

To  one'Nvhose  foot  was  on  an  adder's  path. 

DOGE. 

Daughter,  it  is  superfluous  ;  I  have  long 
Known  Loredano. 

LOREDANO. 

You  may  know  him  better. 

MARINA. 

Ves  ;   worse  he  could  not. 

JACOPO     FOSCARI. 

Father,  let  not  these 
Our  parting  hours  be  lost  in  listennic;  to 
Reproaches,  which  boot  nothing.     Is  it — is  itj 
Indeed,  our  last  of  meetings  ? 

DOGE. 

You  behold 
These  white  hairs! 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

And  I  feel,  besides,  that  mine 
Will  never  be  so  white.      Embrace  me,  father! 
I  loved  vou  ever — never  more  than  now. 
Look  to  my  children — to  your  last  child's  children: 
Let  I  hem  be  all  to  vou  which  he  was  once, 
And  never  be  to  you  what  I  am  now. 
May  I  not  see  them  also  ? 

M  A  R  I  N  A  . 

No — not  here. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

rhey  might  behold  their  parent  an}-  where. 

MARINA. 

1  would  that  they  beheld  their  father  in 

A  place  which  would  not  mingle  fear  with  love, 

To  freeze  their  youno  hiood  in  its  natural  current. 

They  have  fed  well,  slept  soft,  and  knew  not  that 

Their  sire  was  a  mere  nunted  outlaw.     Well 

I  know  his  fate  may  one  day  be  their  heritage, 

But  let  it  only  be  their  htritage^ 

And  not  their  present  fee.     Their  senses,  though 

Alive  to  love,  are  yet  awake  to  terror ; 

And  these  vile  damps,  too,  and  yon  ihirk  green  wave 

Which  floats  above  the  place  where  we  now  stand — 

A  ceil  so  far  below  the  water's  level. 

Sending  its  pestilence  through  every  crevice. 

Might  strike  them :    thi.<  is  not  their  atmosphere, 

However  vou — and  you — and,  most  of  all, 

As  worthiest — i/ou,  sir,  nol)le  Loredano  ! 

May  breathe  it  without  prejudice. 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

I  had  not 

Reflected  upon  this,  but  acquiesce. 

I  shall  depart,  then,  wiihoui  meeting  them? 

DOGE. 

\ot  so :  they  shall  await  you  in  my  chamber. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

And  must  I  leave  them  alt  ? 

LOREDANO. 

You  must. 

JA<"OPO    FOSCARI. 

Not  one  ? 

LOREDANO. 

They  nre  the  state's. 

M  A  R  I  N  A . 

I  thought  they  had  been  mine. 

LOREDANO. 

They  are,  iv  all  maternal  thnigs. 


I  MARINA. 

That  is, 
I    In  all  things  painful.     If  thi:y  're  sick,  I  hey  will 
I    Be  left  to  me  to  tend  them  ;   should  they  die, 
To  me  to  bury  and  to  mourn :    but  if 
They  live,  they  '11  make  you  soldiers,  senators, 
Slaves,  exiles — what  you  will ;    Dr  if  they  are 
Females  with  portions,  brides  and  bribes  for  nobles  . 
Behold  the  state's  care  for  its  sons  and  mothers! 

LOREDANO. 

The  hour  approaches,  and  the  wmd  is  fair. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

How  know  you  that  here,  where  the  genial  wind 
Ne'er  blows  in  all  its  blustering  freedom? 

LOREDANO. 

'T  was  so 
When  I  came  here.    The  galley  floats  within 
.A  bow-shot  of  the  "  Riva  di  Schiavoni." 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Father!   I  prav  you  to  precede  me,  and 
Prepare  my  children  to  behold  their  father. 

DOGE. 

Be  firm,  my  son  ! 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

I  will  do  my  endeavour. 

MARINA. 

Farewell !   at  least  to  this  detested  dungeon, 
And  him  to  whose  good  offices  yuu  owe 
In  part  your  past  imprisonment. 

LOREDANO. 

And  present 
Liberation. 

DOGE, 

He  speaks  truth. 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

No  doubt:   but  'tis 
Exchange  of  chains  for  heavier  chains  I  owe  him. 
He  knows  this,  or  he  had  not  sought  to  change  them. 
But  I  reproach  not. 

LOREDANO, 

The  time  narrows,  signor. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Alas  !   I  little  thought  so  lingermgly 
To  leave  abodes  like  this :   but  when  I  feel 
That  every  step  I  take,  even  from  this  cell, 
Is  one  away  from  Venice,  I  loiik  back 
Even  on  these  dull  damp  walls,  and 

DOGE. 

Boy !  no  tears. 

MARINA. 

Let  them  flow  on:   he  wept  not  on  the  rack 

To  shame  him,  and  they  cannot  shame  him  now. 

They  will  relieve  his  heart — that  too  kind  heart — 

And  I  will  find  an  hour  to  wipe  away 

Ttiose  tears,  or  add  my  own.     I  could  weep  now, 

But  would  not  gratify  yon  wretch  so  far. 

Let  us  proceed.     Doge,  lead  the  way. 

LOREDANO  {to  the  FamiUaT). 

The  torch,  there 

MARINA. 

Yes,  light  us  on,  as  to  a  funeral  pyre, 
With  Loredano  mourning  like  an  heir. 

DOGE. 

My  son,  you  are  feeble :   take  this  hand. 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

Alas' 
Must  youth  support  itself  on  age,  and  I, 
Who  ought  to  ue  the  prop  of  yours  ? 

LOREDANO., 

Take  mine. 


B78 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


MARINA. 

Touch  it  not,  Fosci.n  ;   't  will  sting  you.     Signer, 
Stand  off !   be  sure  that  if  a  grasp  of  yours 
Would  raise  us  from  the  gulf  wherein  we  are  plunged, 
No  hand  of  ours  would  stretch  itself  to  meet  it. 
Come,  Foscari,  take  the  hand  the  altar  gave  you; 
It  could  not  save,  but  will  support  you  ever. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Hall  in  the  Lhxcal  Palace. 
Enter  Loredano  and  Barbarigo. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  have  you  confidence  in  such  a  project? 

LOREDANO. 

I  have. 

BARBARIGO. 

'Tis  hard  upon  his  years. 

LOREDANO. 

Say  rather 
Kind,  to  relieve  him  from  the  cares  of  state. 

BARBARIGO. 

T  will  break  his  heart. 

LOREDANO. 

Age  has  no  heart  to  break. 
He  has  seen  his  son's  half  broken,  and,  except 
A  start  of  feeling  in  his  dungeon,  never 
Swerved. 

BARBARIGO. 

In  his  countenance,  I  grant  you,  never ; 
But  I  ha^ve  seen  him  sometmies  in  a  calm 
So  desolate,  that  the  most  clamorous  grief 
Had  nought  to  envy  him  withm.     Where  is  he? 

LOREDANO. 

In  his  own  portion  of  the  palace,  with 
His  son,  and  the  whole  race  of  Foscaris. 

BARBARIGO. 

Ridding  fa;  e well. 

LOREDANO. 

A  last.    As  soon  he  shall 
Bid  to  his  dukedom. 

BARBARIGO. 

When  embarks  the  son  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Forthwith — when  this  long  leave  is  taken.    'T  is 
Time  to  admonish  them  again. 

BARBARIGO. 

Forbear ; 
Retrench  not  from  their  moments. 

LOREDANO. 

Not  I,  nov/ 
We  have  higher  business  for  our  own.    This  day 
Shall  be  the  last  of  the  old  Doge's  reign, 
As  the  first  of  his  son's  last  banishment — 
And  that  is  vengeance. 

BARBARIGO. 

In  my  mind,  too  deep. 

LOREDANO. 

'Tis  moderate — not  even  life  for  life,  the  rule 
Denounced  of  retribution  from  all  time: 
I'hey  ewe  me  still  my  father's  and  my  uncle's. 

BARBARIGO. 

Did  not  the  Doge  deny  this  strongly  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Doubtless 

BARBARIGO. 

And  did  n)t  this  shake  your  suspicion? 

LOREDANO. 

No. 


BARBARIGO. 

But  if  this  deposition  should  take  place 
By  our  united  influence  in  the  council, 
It  must  be  done  with  all  the  deference 
Due  to  his  years,  his  station,  and  his  deeds. 

LOREDANO. 

As  much  of  ceremony  as  you  will, 
So  that  the  thing  be  done.     You  may,  for  aught 
I  care,  depute  the  council  on  their  knees 
(Like  Barbarossa  to  the  Pope)  to  beg  him 
To  have  the  courtesy  to  abdicate. 

BARBARIGO. 

What,  if  he  will  not? 

LOREDANO. 

We  '11  elect  another, 
And  make  him  null. 

BARBARIGO. 

But  will  the  laws  uphold  us  / 

LOREDANO. 

What  laws? — "The  Ten"  are  laws;  and  if  they  were  noi, 
I  will  be  legislator  in  this  business. 

BARBARIGO. 

At  your  own  peril  ? 

LOREDANO. 

There  is  none,  I  tell  you, 
Our  powers  are  such. 

BARBARIGO. 

But  he  has  twice  already 
Solicited  permission  to  retire. 
And  twice  it  was  refus,ed. 

LOREDANO. 

The  better  reason 
To  grunt  it  the  third  time. 

B.1RBARIGO. 

Unask'd? 

LOREDANO. 

It  shows 
The  impression  of  his  former  instances  : 
If  they  were  from  his  heart,  he  may  be  thankful: 
If  not,  't  will  punish  his  hvpocrisy. 
Come,  they  are  met  by  this  time ;   let  us  join  them, 
And  be  thou  fix'd  in  purpose  for  this  once. 
I  have  prepared  such  arguments  as  will  not 
Fail  to  move  them,  and  remove  him  :   since 
Their  thoughts,  their  objects,  have  been  sounded,  do  aoi 
You,  with  your  wonted  scruples,  teach  us  pause. 
And  all  will  prosper. 

BARBARIGO. 

Could  1  but  be  certain 
This  is  no  prelude  to  such  persecution 
Of  the  sire  as  has  fallen  upon  the  son, 
I  would  support  you. 

LOREDANO. 

He  is  safe,  I  tell  you ; 
His  fourscore  years  and  five  may  linger  on 
As  long  as  he  can  drag  them :   't  is  his  th-one 
Alone  is  aiin'd  at. 

BARBARIGO. 

But  discarded  princea 
Are  seldom  long  of  life. 

LOREDANO. 

And  men  of  eighty 
More  seldom  still. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  why  not  wait  these  few  years? 

LOREDANO. 

Because  we  have  waited  long  enough,  and  he 
Lived  longer  than  enough.     Hence !   In  to  council ! 

[Exeunt  Loredano  and  BarbaKiGO. 


THE    TWO    FOSCAPvI. 


37t) 


F titer  Memmo  and  a  Senator. 
SKNA  roil. 
A  summons  to  "  the  Ten  !"  Whv  so  ? 


"The  Ten" 
A  lone  can  answer ;   uiiey  are  rarely  wont 
To  let  their  thoughts  anticipate  their  purpose 
Jiiy  previous  proclamation.     We  are  suuunon'd — 
J'hat  IS  enough. 

SENATOR. 

For  them,  but  not  for  us ; 
i  would  know  why. 

ME.MMO. 

You  will  know  why  anon, 
If  you  obey ;   and,  if  not,  you  no  less 
Will  know  why  you  shouUl  have  obey'd. 

SENATOR. 

I  mean  not 
To  oppose  them,  but 

MEMMO. 

In  Venice  "  JSuf "  's  a  traitor. 
But  me  no  ^'■buts,"  unless  you  would  pass  o'er 
The  Bridge  which  few  repass. 

SENATOR. 

I  am  silent. 

MEMMO. 

Why 
Thus  hesitate  ? — "  The  Ten  "  have  cali'd  in  aid 
Of  their  deliberation  five-and-twcity 
Patricians  of  the  senate — you  are  one. 
And  I  another  ;   and  it  seems  to  me 
Both  honour'd  by  the  choice  or  chance  which  leads  U3 
To  mingle  with  a  body  so  august. 

SENATOR. 

Most  true.     I  say  no  more. 

MEMMO. 

As  we  hope,  signor, 
And  a!,  may  honestly  (that  is,  all  those 
Of  noble  blood  may),  one  day  hope  to  be 
Decemvir,  it  is  surely  for  the  senate's 
Chosen  delegates  a  school  of  wisdom,  to 
Be  thus  admitted,  though  as  novices. 
To  view  the  mysteries. 

SENATOR. 

Let  us  vi^w  them  ;  they 
No  doubt,  are  worth  it. 

MEMMO. 

Being  worth  our  lives 
If  we  divulge  them,  doubtless  they  are  worth 
Something,  at  least,  to  you  or  me. 

SENATOR. 

I  sought  not 
A  place  within  the  sanctuary  ;   but  being 
Chosen,  however  reluctantly  so  chosen, 
I  shall  fulfil  my  office. 

MEMMO. 

Let  us  not 
Bp  latest  in  obeying  "  the  Ten's  "  summons. 

SENATOR. 

All  are  not  met,  but  I  am  of  your  thought 
S.>  far — let 's  in. 

MEMMO. 

The  earliest  are  most  welcome 
In  earnest  councils — we  will  not  be  least  so. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  the  Doge,  Jacopo  Foscari,  and  Marina. 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

Ah,  faftier !   though  I  must  and  wil.  depart. 
Vet — yet — I  pray  you  to  obtain  for  me 
That  I  once  more  return  unto  my  home. 


Ilowe'er  remote  the  period.     Let  there  be 
A  point  of  time  as  beacon  to  my  heart. 
With  any  |)cnalty  armex'd   they  i)lease. 
But  let  me  still  return. 

noG^:. 

Son  Jacopo, 
Go  and  obey  our  country's  will,  't  is  not 
For  us  to  look  beyond. 

JACOI'O    KOSCAHI. 

Hut  still  I  must 
Look  back.     I  pray  you  think  of  me. 

DOGE. 

Alas! 
You  ever  were  my  dearest  otfsprmg,  when 
They  were  more  numerous,  nor  can  be  less  so 
Nosv  you  are  last ;    but  did  the  state  demand 
The  exile  of  the  disinterred  ashes 
Of  your  three  goodly  brothers,  now  in  earth. 
And  their  desponding  shades  came  llittnig  round 
To  impede  the  act,  I  must  no  less  obey 
A  duty  paramount  to  every  duty. 

M  A  R  I  N  A . 

My  husband  !   let  us  on  :   this  but  prolongs 
Our  sorrow. 

JACOPO   FOSCAKI. 

But  we  are  not  siininion'd  yet: 
The  galley's  sails  are  not  unfiiri'd  : — who  knows'? 
The  wind  may  change. 

MARINA. 

And  if  It  do,  it  will  not 
Change  their  hearts,  or  your  lot  ;   the  galley's  oare 
Will  quickly  clear  the  harliour. 

JACOPO    FOS(  A  HI. 

Oh,  ye  elements  ! 
Where  are  your  storms  ? 

MARINA. 

In  human  breasts.     Alas  ! 
Will  nothing  calm  you. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Never  yet  did  mariner 
Put  up  to  patron  saint  such  prayers  for  [)rosperous 
And  pleasant  breezes,  as  1  call  upon  yon? 
Ye  tutelar  saints  of  my  oun  city  !    which 
Ye  love  not  with  more  holy  love  than  I, 
To  lash  uj)  from  the  deep  the  Adrian  waves. 
And  waken  Auster,  sovereign  of  the  tempest! 
Till  the  sea  dash  me  back  on  my  own  shore 
A  broken  corse  upon  the  barren  Lido, 
Where  I  may  mingle  vvith  the  santis  which  skirt 
The  land  I  love,  and  never  shall  see  more ! 

M  A  R  I  N  A . 

And  wish  you  this  with  rne  beside  you? 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

No— 
No— not  for  thee,  too  good,  too  kind  !     May'st  th^u 
Live  long  to  be  a  mother  to  those  children 
Thy  fond  fidelity  for  a  lime  deprives 
Of  such  support !      But  for  myscilf  alone, 
Mav  all  the  winds  of  hcsaven  howl  down  the  gulf, 
And  tear  the  vessel,  till  the  mariners, 
Appall'd,  turn  their  despairing  eyes  on  me. 
As  the  Phenicians  did  on  Jonah,  then 
Cast  me  out  from  amongst  them,  as  an  offering 
To  appease  the  waves.   The  billow  which  destroys  me 
Will  be  more  merciful  than  man,  and  bear  me. 
Dead,  but  still  hear  me  to  a  native  grave. 
From  fisher's  hands  upon  the  desolate  strand. 
Which,  of  its  thousand  wrecks,  hath  ne'er  received 
One  lacerated  like  the  heart  which  then 
W^iU  be But  wherefore  breaks  it  not?  why  h"e  I' 


880 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


MAKINA. 

To  man  thyself,  I  '.nib.,  .viifi  ume,  to  master 

SiK'ii  useless  passion.     Until  noiv  thou  wert 

A  sufferer,  but  not  a  loud  one :   why. 

What  is  this  to  the  things  thou  hast  borne  in  silence — 

Imprisonment  and  actual  torture  ? 

JAJOPO   FOSCARI. 

Double, 
I  riple,  and  tenfold  torture  !     But  you  are  right. 
It  mu»(  be  borne.     Father,  your  blessing. 

DOGE, 

Would 
[t  could  avail  thee  !   but  no  less  thou  hast  it. 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

Forgive 

DOGE. 

What ! 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

My  poor  mother  for  my  birth, 
And  me  for  having  lived,  and  you  yourself 
(As  I  forgive  you),  for  the  gift  of  life, 
Which  you  bestovv'd  upon  me  as  my  sire. 

MARINA. 

What  hast  thoj  done  ? 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Nothing.     I  cannot  charge 
My  memory  with  much  save  sorrow:   but 
I  have  been  so  beyond  the  common  lot 
Cha?ten\l  and  visited,  I  needs  must  think 
That  I  was  wicked.      If  it  be  so,  may 
Wluit  I  have  undergone  here  keep  me  from 
A  'ike  hereafter. 

MARIXA. 

Fear  not :  t/iat  's  reserved 
Foi  your  oppressors. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Lei  me  ho|)e  not. 

MARINA. 

Hope  not  ? 

JACOFO    FOSCARI. 

I  cannot  wish  tliem  all  they  have  inflicted. 

MARINA. 

All !  the  consummate  liends  !     A  thousand  fold  ! 
Ma}  the  worm  which  ne'er  dieth  feed  upon  them  ! 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

They  may  repent. 

MARINA. 

And  if  they  do,  Heaven  will  not 
Accept  the  tardy  peniteiuie  of  demons. 

Enter  an  Officer  and  Guards, 

OFFICER. 

Signor  !  the  l)oat  is  at  the  shore — the  wind 
Is  rising — we  are  ready  to  attend  you. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

•And  I  to  be  attended.     Once  more,  father, 
Voiir  hand ! 

DOGF.. 

Take  it.     Alas!   how  thine  own  trembles  ! 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

No — vou  mistake  ;   't  is  yours  that  shakes,  my  father. 
Farewell ! 

DOGE. 

Farcw'ill !      Is  tlnire  aught  else? 

JACOPO   FOSCARI, 

No — nothing. 
[To  the  Officer. 
I..cnd  »ne  your  arm,  good  signor. 

OFFICER. 

lou  turn  pale — 
f^et  me  support  you — piler — ho!  some  aid  there! 
6«nie  water ! 


MARINA. 

Ah,  he  is  dying  ! 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

Now,  I  'in  readv- 
My  eyes  swim  strangely — where 's  the  door  ? 

MARINA. 

Away ' 
Let  me  support  him — my  best  love  !     Oh  God  ! 
How  faintly  beats  this  heart — this  pulse  ! 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

The  light' 
Is  it  the  light  ? — I  am  faint.  • 

[  Officer  presents  him,  with  watef 

OFFICER. 

He  will  be  better, 
Perhaps,  in  the  air. 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

I  doubt  not.     Father — wife- 
Four  hands ! 

MARINA. 

There 's  death  in  that  dainp  clammy  grasp 
Oh  God  I — My  Foscari,  how  fare  you  ? 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

W^ell ! 

[He  dies 


He  's  gone. 


OFFICER- 
DOGE. 


He  's  free. 

MARINA. 

No — no,  he  is  not  dead ; 
There  must  be  life  yet  in  that  heart — he  could  nol 
Thus  leave  me. 

DOGE. 

Daughter  ' 

MARINA. 

Hold  thy  peace,  ol-i  man . 
I  am  no  daughter  now — thou  hast  no  son. 
Oh  Foscari ! 

•  OFFICER. 

We  must  remove  the  body. 

MARINA. 

Touch  it  not,  dungeon  miscreants  !  your  base  office 
Ends  with  his  hfe,  and  goes  not  beyond  murder, 
Even  by  your  murderous  laws.      Leave  his  remains 
To  those  who  know  to  honour  them. 

OFFICEii. 

I  must 
Inform  the  signory,  and  learn  their  pleasure. 

DOGE. 

Inform  tRe  signory  from  me,  the  Doge, 
Thev  have  no  furtlier  power  upon  those  ashes  : 
While  he  lived,  he  was  theirs,  as  fits  a  subject — 
Now  he  is  mine — my  broken-hearted  boy  ! 

[Exit  Offica 

MARINA. 

And  I  must  live  ! 

DOGE. 

Your  children  live,  Marina. 

M  A  R I  N  A . 

My  children !  true — they  live,  and  I  must  live 
To  bring  them  up  to  serve  tlie  state,  and  die 
As  died  their  father.     Oh  !  what  best  of  blessings 
Were  barrenness  in  Venice !   Would  my  mother 
Had  been  so ! 

DOGC. 

My  unhapjiy  children  ! 

MARINA. 

What! 
You  feel  it  then  at  last— you.' — Wliere  is  now 
The  stoic  of  the  state  ? 


THE    TWO    FOSCARI. 


381 


nor.E   {throwirig  himself  down  by  the  body). 
Here! 

MARINA. 

Ay,  weep  on ! 

I  thought  you  had  no  tears — you  hoarded  them 
Until  they  are  useless  ;    but  weep  on!    he  never 
Shall  w"ee|)  more — never,  never  more. 

Kntcr  LoiiEDAXo  and  Uarbarigo. 

LOREDANO. 

What 's  here  ? 

MARINA. 

Ah  !   tne  devil  come  to  insidt  the  dead  !     Avaunt ! 

Incarnate  Lucifer!   'tis  holy  ground. 

A  martyr's  ashes  now  lie  there,  which  make  it 

A  shrine.     Get  thee  back  to  thy  place  of  torment ! 

BARBARIGO. 

Lady,  we  knew  not  of  this  sad  event, 

But  pass'd  here  merely  on  our  path  from  council. 

MARINA. 

Pass  on. 

LOREDANO. 

We  sought  the  Doge. 
MA  RiNA  {pointing  to  the  Doge,  v:ho  is  still  on  the  ground 
by  his  so)Cs  body). 

He  's  busy,  look, 
About  the  business  yo^i  provided  for  him. 
Are  ye  content  ? 

BARBARIGO. 

We  will  not  interrupt 
A  parent's  sorrows. 

MARINA. 

No,  ye  only  make  them, 
Ther.  leave  them. 

DOGE   (n'«;?o-). 
Sirs,  I  am  ready. 

BARBARIGO. 

No — not  now. 

LOREDANO. 

Fct  't  was  iniporiant. 

DOGE. 

If  't  was  SO,  I  can 
Only  rejieat — I  am  ready. 

BARBARIGO. 

It  shall  not  be 
Just  now,  though  Venice  totter'd  o'er  the  deep 
Like  a  frail  vessel.     I  respect  your  griefs. 

.DOGE. 

[  thank  you.     If  the  tidings  which  you  bring 
Are  evil,  you  may  say  them  ;   nothing  further 
Can  touch  me  more  than  him  thou  look'st  on  there: 
If  thov  be  good,  say  on  ;   you  need  not  fear 
That  they  can  comfort  me. 

BARBARIGO. 

I  would  they  could  ! 

DOGE. 

I  spoke  not  to  you^  but  to  Loredano. 
Hi  understands  me. 

MARINA. 

Ah !   I  thought  it  would  be  so. 

DOGE. 

What  mean  you? 

MARINA. 

Lo  !   there  is  the  blood  beginning 
To  flow  throntrh  the  dead  lips  of  Foscari — 
Th*^  l)ody  bleeds  in  presence  of  the  assassin. 

[To  Loredano. 
Thou  cowardly  murderer  by  law,  behold 
How  death  itself  bears  witness  to  thy  deeds  ! 

DOGE. 

My  child  !   this  is  a  phantasy  of  grief. 


Bear  hence  the  body.   [To  his  aL'.ndants'].     Signers,  L' 

it  please  you, 
Within  an  hour  I  '11  hear  you. 

[Exeunt  Doge,  Marina,  and  at'endanls^  wiC 
the  body.] 

3Iancnt  Loredano  and  BarbarioO 

BARBARIGO. 

He  must  not 
Be  troubled  now. 

LOREDANO. 

He  said  himself  that  nought 
'Could  give  him  trouble  farther. 

BARBARIGO. 

These  are  worda  ^ 
But  grief  is  lonely,  and  the  breaking  in 
Upon  it  barbarous. 

LOREDANO. 

Sorrow  preys  upon 
Its  solitude,  and  nothing  more  diverts  it 
From  its  sad  visions  of  the  other  world 
■  Than  caUing  it  at  momenis  back  to  this. 
The  busy  have  no  lime  for  tears. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  therefore 
You  would  deprive  this  old  man  of  all  business  ? 

LOREDANO. 

The  thing  's  decreed.    The  Giunta  and  "  the  Ten ' 
Have  made  it  law:  who  shall  oppose  that  law? 

BARBARIGO. 

Humanity  ! 

LOREDANO. 

Because  his  son  is  dead' 

BARBARIGO. 

And  yet  unburied. 

LOREDANO. 

Had  we  known  this  when 
The  act  was  passing,  it  might  have  suspended 
Its  passage,  but  impedes  it  not — once  past. 

BARBARIGO. 

I  '11  not  consent. 

LOREDANO. 

You  have  consented  to 
All  that's  essential — leave  the  rest  to  me. 

BARBARIGO. 

Why  press  his  abdication  now? 

LOREDANO. 

The  feelings 
Of  private  passion  may  not  interrupt 
The  public  beiietit ;   and  what  the  state 
Decides  to-day  must  not  give  way  before 
To-morrov,'  for  a  natural  accident. 


You  have  a  son. 


BARBARIGO. 
LOREDANO. 

I  have — and  had  a  father 

BARBARIGO. 

Still  so  inexorable  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Still. 

BARBARIGO. 

But  let  him 
Inter  his  son  before  we  press  upon  him 
This  edict. 

LOREDANO. 

Let  him  call  up  into  life 
My  sire  and  uncle — I  coniient.     Men  may. 
Even  aged  men,  be,  or  apjiear  to  be. 
Sires  of  a  hundred  sons,  but  cannot  kindle 
An  atom  of  their  ancestors  from  earth. 
The  victims  are  not  e(]ual :   he  has  se-tm 
His  sons  expire  by  natural  deaths,  and  I 
My  sires  by  violent  and  mysterious  mahidies 
I  used  no  poison,  bribed  no  subtle  maslt-r 


BSi 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Of  the  destructive  art  of  healing,  to 
Shorten  the  path  to  the  eternal  cure. 
His  sons,  and  he  had  four,  are  dead,  without 
My  dabbling  in  vile  drugs. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  art  thou  sure 
He  dealt  in  such  ? 

LOREDAXO. 

Most  sure. 

BARBARIGO, 

And  yet  he  seems 
All  openness. 

LOREDANO. 

And  so  he  seem'd  not  long 
Ago  to  Carmagnuola. 

BARBARIGO. 

The  attainted 
And  foreign  traitor? 

LOREDANO. 

Even  so :   when  he. 
After  the  very  night  in  which  "  the  Ten" 
(loin'd  with  the  Doge)  decided  his  destruction, 
Met  the  great  Duke  at  day-break  with  a  jest, 
Demanding  whether  he  should  augur  him 
"  The  good  day  or  good  night?"  his  Doge-ship  answer'd, 
"  I'hat  he  in  truth  had  pass'd  a  night  of  vigil, 
In  which  (he  added  with  a  gracious  smile) 
There  often  has  been  question  about  you.'" 
'Twas  true  :   the  question  was  the  death  resolved 
Of  Carmagnuola,  eight  months  ere  he  died  ; 
And  the  old  Doge,  who  knew  himdoom'd,  smiled  on  him 
With  deadly  cozenage,  eight  long  months  beforehand — 
Eight  months  of  such  hypocrisy  as  is 
Learnt  but  in  eighty  years.      Brave  Carmagnuola 
Is  dead  ;  so  are  young  Foscari  and  his  brethren — 
I  never  smiled  on  them. 

BARBARIGO. 

Was  Ca,rmagnuola 
Vour  friend? 

LORE  DA  NO. 

He  was  the  safeguard  of  the  city. 
In  early  life  its  foe,  but,  in  his  manhood, 
Its  saviour  first,  then  victim. 

BARE.UIIG0. 

Ah !  that  seems 
The  penalty  of  saving  cities.     He 
Whoiu  wi;  now  act  against  not  only  saved 
Our  own,  but  added  others  to  her  swa\ . 

LOREDANO. 

The  Romans  (and  we  ape  them)  gave  a  crown 

To  him  who  took  a  city  ;   and  they  gave 

A  crown  to  him  who  saved  a  citizen 

111  battle  :   the  rewards  are  equal.     Now, 

If  we  should  measure  forth  the  cities  taken 

Hy  the  Doge  Foscari,  with  citizens 

Destroy'd  by  him,  or  tliroK^h  him,  the  account 

Were  fearfully  against  him,  although  narrow'd 

To  private  havoc,  such  as  between  him 

And  my  dead  father. 

BARBARIGO. 

Are  you  then  thus  fix'd  ? 

LOREUANO. 

Why,  what  should  change  me  ? 

BARBARIGO. 

That  which  changes  me : 
But  you,  I  know,  are  marble  to  retain 
A  feud.      But  when  all  is  accom|>lish'd,  when 
riie  old  man  is  deposed,  his  name  degraded. 
His  sons  are  dead,  his  family  de|>r(!ssM, 
And  you  and  yours  triumphant,  shall  you  sleep  " 

»    A  la.-l„ii.ul  'r.u-t 


LOREDANO. 

More  soundly. 

BARBARIGO. 

That 's  an  error,  and  you  'II  find  it 

Ere  you  sleep  with  your  fathers. 

LORFDANO. 

They  sleep  not 
In  their  accelerated  graves,  nor  will 
Till  Foscari  fills  his.      Each  night  I  see  them 
Stalk  frowning  round  my  couch,  and,  pointing  tovvaiOS 
The  ducal  palace,  marshal  me  to  vengeance. 

BARBARIGO. 

Fancy's  distemperature !  There  is  no  passion 
More  spectral  or  fantastical  than  hate  ; 
Not  even  its  opposite,  love,  so  peo[jles  air 
With  phantoms,  as  this  madness  of  the  heart. 
Enter  an  Officer. 

LOREDA.NO. 

Where  go  you,  sirrah  ? 

OFFICER. 

By  the  ducal  order 
To  forward  the  preparatory  rites 
For  the  late  Foscari's  interment. 

BARBARIGO. 

Their 
Vault  has  been  often  open'd  of  late  years. 

LOREDANO. 

'T  will  be  full  soon,  and  may  be  closed  for  ever. 

OFFICER. 

May  I  pass  on? 

LOREDANO. 

You  may. 

BARBARIGO. 

How  bears  the  Doge 
This  last  calamity  ? 

OFFICER. 

With  desperate  firmness. 
In  presence  of  another  he  says  little, 
But  I  perceive  his  lips  move  now  and  then : 
And  once  or  twice  I  heard  him,  from  the  adjoining 
Apartment,  mutter  forth  the  words — "My  son!" 
Scarce  audibly.     I  must  proceed. 

[Exit  Officer. 

BARBARIGO. 

This  stroke 
Wi''  move  all  Venice  in  his  favour. 

LOREDANO. 

Right ! 
We  must  be  speedy:   let  us  call  together 
The  delegates  appointed  to  convey 
The  Council's  resolution. 

BARBARIGO. 

I  protest 
Against  it  a'  this  moment. 

LOREDANO. 

As  you  please — 
I  '11  take  their  voices  on  it  ne'ertheless, 
And  see  whose  most  may  sway  them,  yours  or  mine. 
[Exeunt  Barbarigo  and  Loredano, 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Doge's  Apartment. 
The  Doge  and  Attendant. 

ATTENDANT. 

INTy  lord,  the  deputation  is  in  waiting; 

'f  anoihrr  hour  would   better 


But  ; 
Acc< 


.1.1,  th 

■d    Wllh    V. 


ill,  tbev  will  iiiiikc  it  theirm 


THE    TWO    FOSCARI. 


383 


DOGE. 

To  mc  all  hours  are  like.     Let  them  approach. 

[Exit  Attendant. 
aN  officer. 
Prince  !  I  have  done  your  biuding. 
doge. 

What  command  ? 

OFFICER. 

A  melancholy  one — to  call  the  attendance 
Of 

DOGE. 

True — true — true  ;   I  crave  your  pardon.     I 
Rrsrin  to  tail  in  appreliension,  and 
W  IX  verv  old — old  almost  as  my  years. 
Tilliiow  1  fought  them  off,  but  they  begin 
To  overtake  me. 

I'nter  the  Deputation,  conxisfine  of  six  of  (he  Signory, 
and  the  Chief  of  the  Ten.] 
Noble  men,  your  pleasure  ! 

CHIEF    OF    THE     TEN. 

••le  first  place,  tlie  Council  doth  condole 
th  the  Doge,  on  his  late  and  private  grief. 

DOGE. 

No  more — no  more  of  tliat. 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

Will  not  the  Duke 
Accept  the  homage  of  respect  ? 

DOGE. 

I  do 
Accept  it  as  't  is  given — proceed. 

CHIEF     OF    THF     TEN. 

"  The  Ten   ' 
With  a  selected  giunta  from  the  senate 
Of  twentv-five  of  }\v:  best  bom  patricians, 
[livinir  dc'iboiTitrd,  on  the  state 
Ot  the  republic,  and  the  o'erwhelming  cares 
Which,  at  this  moment,  doubly  must  oppress 
Vour  years,  so  long  devoted  to  your  country, 
Have  judged  it  fitting,  with  all  reverence, 
Now  to  solicit  from  your  wisdom  (which 
L'pon  reflection  must  accord  in  this), 
The  resignation  of  the  ducal  ring, 
Which  you  have  worn  so  long  and  venerably ; 
And,  to  prove  that  they  are  not  ungrateful,  nor 
Cold  to  your  years  and  services,  they  add 
All  appanage  of  twentv  hundred  golden 
Ducats,  to  make  retirement  no"  less  splendid 
Than  should  become  a  sovereign's  retreat. 

DOGE. 

Did  I  hear  rightly? 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

Need  I  say  again? 

DOGE. 

No. — Have  you  done  ? 

CHIEF     OF    THE     TEN. 

I  have  spoken.  Twenty-four 
Hours  are  accorded  you  to  give  an  answer. 

DOGE. 

J  ^hall  not  need  so  many  seconds. 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

We 

Wir  now  retire. 

DOGE. 

Stay  !   Four  and  twenty  hours 
Will  alter  nothing  which  I  have  to  say. 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

Speak ! 

DOGE. 

When  I  twice  before  reiterated 
.VIv  wish  to  abdicate,  it  was  refused  me ; 
4nd  not  alone  refused,  but  ye  exacted 


An  oath  from  me  that  I  woui.l  never  more 
Renew  this  instance.     I  have  sworn  to  die 
In  full  exertion  of  the  fimctions  which 
My  country  call'd  me  nere  to  exercise, 
According  to  my  honour  and  my  conscience— 
I  cannot  break  my  oath. 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

Reduce  us  not 
To  the  alternative  of  a  decree. 
Instead  of  your  compliance. 

DOGE, 

Providence 
Proloncr-=  mv  days,  to  prove  and  chasten  me ; 
Hut  ve  have  no  right  to  reproach  my  length 
Of  (lavs,  since  everv  hour  has  been  the  country's, 
I  am  readv  to  lay  down  my  life  for  her. 
As  I  have  laid  down  dearer  things  than  hfe ; 
But  for  my  dignity — I  hold  it  of 
The  vjhole  repi;Mic  ;   when  the  general  will 
Is  manifest,  then  you  shall  be  answer'd. 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

We  grieve  for  siJch  an  answer  ;   but  it  cannot 
Avail  you  aught. 

DOGE. 

I  can  submit  to  all  things. 
But  nothing  will  advance ;   no,  not  a  moment. 
What  you  decree — decree. 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

With  this,  then,  must  wo 
Return  to  those  who  sent  us  ? 

DOGE. 

You  have  heard  me 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

With  all  due  reverence  we  retire. 

\ExeHnt  the  Deputation^  eli\ 
Enter  an  Attendant. 

ATTENDANT. 

My  lord, 
The  noble  damn  Marina  craves  an  audience, 

DOGE. 

My  time  is  hers. 

Enter  IMarina. 

MARINA. 

My  lord,  if  I  intrude — 
Perhaps  vou  fain  would  be  alone  ] 

DOGE. 

Alone ! 
Alone,  come  all  the  world  around  me,  I 
Am  now  and  evermore.      But  we  will  bear  it. 

iMARINA. 

We  will ;   and  for  the  sake  of  those  who  are. 
Endeavour Oh  my  husband  ! 

DOGE. 

Give  it  way ! 
I  cannot  comfort  thee. 

MARINA. 

He  might  have  lived, 
So  form'd  for  gentle  privacy  of  life. 
So  lovin2,  so  beloved,  the  native  of 
Another  land,  and  who  so  blest  and  blessing 
As  mv  poor  Foscari?   Nothing  was  wanting 
Unto  his  happiness  and  mine,  save  not 
To  be  Venetian. 

DOGE. 

Or  a  prince's  son. 

MARINA. 

Yes  ;  all  things  which  conduce  to  other  men's 

Imjterfect  happiness  or  high  ambitioji. 

By  some  strange  destiny,  to  him  proved  deadly 


384 


BYTION'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


rhe  country  and  the  peof>V  whom  he  loved, 
The  prince  of  whom  he  was  the  elder  born, 
And 

DOGE. 

Soon  may  be  a  prince  no  longer. 

MARIXA. 

How? 

DOGE. 

1  tiey  have  taken  my  son  from  me,  and  now  aim 
At  my  too  long  worn  diaticm  and  ring. 
Let  them  resume  the  gewgaws ! 

MARINA. 

Oh  the  tyrants ! 
In  such  an  hour  too ! 

DOGE. 

'T  is  the  fittest  time : 
An  hour  ago  I  should  have  felt  it. 

MARINA. 

And 
Will  you  not  now  resent  it  ? — Oh  for  vengeance  ! 
But  he,  wlio,  had  he  been  enough  protected. 
Might  have  rei)aid  protection  in  this  moment. 
Cannot  assist  his  father. 

DOGE. 

Nor  should  do  so 
Against  his  country,  had  he  a  thousand  lives 
Instead  of  that 

MARINA. 

They  tortured  from  hir 
May  be  pure  patriotism.     I  am  a  woman  : 
To  me  my  husband  and  my  chikh-en  were 
Country  and  home.     I  loved  him — how  I  loved  him! 
I  have  seen  him  pass  through  such  an  ordeal,  as 
The  old  martvrs  would  have  shrunk  from  :   he  is  gone. 
And  I,  who  would  have  given  my  blood  for  him, 
F-{ave  noujfht  to  givp  l-.ii!    t>'ar- !    \\\v  rouM  I  compass 
The  retribution  of  his  wrongs! — Well,  well; 
'  have  sons  who  shall  be  men. 

DOGE. 

Your  grief  distracts  you. 

MARINA. 

I  thought  I  could  have  borne  it,  when  I  saw  him 
Bow'd  down  by  su(;h  op[)ression  ;   yes,  I  thought 
That  I  would  rt.ther  look  upon  his  corse 
Than  his  prolorg'd  captivity  : — I  am  punish'd 
For  that  thouglt  now.     Would  I  were  in  his  grave! 

DOGE. 

'  must  look  on  him  once  more. 

MARINA. 

Come  witli  me ! 

DOGE. 


This 


le- 


MARINA. 

Our  bridal  bed  is  now  his  bier. 

DOGE. 

And  he  is  in  his  shroud? 

MARINA. 

Come,  come,  old  man  ! 
[Exeunt  the  Doge  and  Marina. 

Enltr  Barbarigo  and  Loredano. 
barbakigo  [loan  Attendant). 
Where  is  the  Ooge  7 

attendant. 
This  instant  retired  hence 
'»\''ith  the  illustrious  lady,  his  son's  widow. 

LOREDANO. 

Where  ? 

ATTENDANT. 

To  the  chamber  where  the  body  lies. 

BARBARIGO. 

'^^  US  rouirn  then. 


LOREDANO. 

You  forget,  you  cannot. 
We  have  the  .mpficit  order  of  the  giunta 
To  await  their  coming  here,  and  join  them  in 
Their  office :   they  '11  be  here  soon  after  us. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  will  they  press  their  ansvver  on  the  Doj^e  ? 

LOREDANO. 

'T  was  his  own  wish  that  all  should  be  done  promptly 
He  answer'd  quickly,  and  must  so  be  answer'd ; 
His  dignity  is  look'd  to,  his  estate 
Cared  for — what  would  he  more  ? 

BARBARIGO. 

Die  in  his  robes. 
He  could  not  have  lived  long  ;   but  I  have  done 
My  best  to  save  his  honours,  and  opposed 
This  proposition  to  the  last,  though  vainly. 
Why  would  the  general  vote  comi)el  me  hither  ? 

LOREDANO. 

'T  was  fit  that  some  one  of  such  different  thoughta 
From  ours  should  be  a  witness,  lest  false  tongues 
Should  wliisper  that  a  harsh  majority 
Dreaded  to  have  its  acts  belield  by  others. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  not  less,  I  must  needs  think,  for  the  sake 

Of  humbling  me  for  my  vain  opposition. 

You  are  ingenious,  Loredano,  in 

Your  modes  of  vengeance,  nay,  poetical, 

A  very  Ovid  in  the  art  of  liating  ; 

'T  is  thus   (although  a  secondary  object. 

Yet  hate  has  microscopic  eyes)  to  you 

I  owe,  by  way  of  foil  to  the  more  zealous, 

This  undesired  association  in 

Your  giunta's  duties. 

LOREDANO. 

How  ! — /ny  giunta 

BARBAIilGO. 

YOUTS  . 

They  speak  your  language,  watch  your  nod,  ajjprove 
Your  plans,  and  do  your  work.     Are  they  not  yow  s  ? 

LOREDANO. 

You  talk  unwarily.     'T  were  best  they  hear  not 
This  from  you. 

BARBARIGO. 

Oh  !   they  '11  hear  as  much  one  day 
From  louder  tongues  than  mine  :  they  have  gone  beyonf 
Even  their  exorbitance  of  [)<>wer;   and  when 
This  happens  in  the  most  coutemn'd  and  abject 
States,  stung  humanity  will  rise  to  check  it, 

LOREDANO. 

You  talk  but  idly. 

BARBARIGO. 

That  remains  for  proof. 
Here  come  our  colleagues. 

Enter  the  Deputation  as  before. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

Is  the  Duke  awaie 
We  seek  his  presence  ? 

ATTENDANT. 

He  shall  be  inform'd. 

\Ejnt  Attendant. 

BARBARIGO. 

The  Duke  is  with  his  son. 

CHIEF  OF  THE   TEN. 

If  it  be  so, 
We  will  remit  him  till  the  rites  are  over. 
Let  us  return.     'T  is  time  enough  to-morrow. 

LOREDANO     {aside  to   liARBARIGO). 

Now  the  rich  man's  hell-fire  upon  vour  tongue. 


THE    TWO    FOSCARI. 


385 


(Jnqiiench'd,  unquenrhable !     I  '11  have  it  torn 
Froir  its  vile  babbling  roots,  till  you  shall  utter 
Notluna  but  sobs  throu-h  blood,  for  this  !    Sage  signors, 
I  pray  ye  be  not  hasty:  [Aloud  to  the  others. 

BAKBARIGO. 

But  be  human  ! 

LOKEPANO. 

See,  Uie  Djkc  conies  ! 

Enter  the  Doge. 

DOGE. 

I  have  obcy'tl  your  summons. 

CHIEF   O}    THE   TEN. 

We  come  once  more  to  urge  our  past  request. 

DOGE. 

And  I  tc  answer. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

What? 

DOGE. 

INIy  only  answer, 
ifou  have  heard  it. 

CHIEF   OF  THE  TEN. 

Hear  you  then  the  last  decree, 
Definitive  and  absolute! 

DOGE. 

To  the  point — 
To  the  poiirt  !     I  know  of  old  tin;  forms  of  office. 
And  iientle  preludes  to  strong  acts— Go  on  ! 

CHIEF   OF   THE  TEN. 

Vou  are  no  longer  Doge  ;   you  are  released 
Froiu  your  imperial  oath  as  sovereign  ; 
Your  ducal  robes  must  l)e  put  off;    but  for 
Your  services,  tlie  state  allots  the  apjianage 
Already  mention'd  in  our  former  congress. 
Three  days  are  left  you  to  remove  from  hence, 
•Tiuler  the  penalty  to  see  conhscated 
A^  your  own  private  fortune. 

DOGE. 

That  last  clause, 
I  am  proud  to  say,  would  not  enrich  the  treasury. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

Your  answer,  Duke  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Your  answer,  Francis  Foscari  ? 

DOGE. 

If  I  could  have  foreseen  that  my  old  age 
Was  prejudicial  to  the  state,  the  chief 
Of  the  republic  never  would  have  shown 
Himself  so  far  ungrateful  as  to  place 
[lis  own  high  dignity  before  his  country : 
But  this  /iVHiuving  been  so  many  years 
X'lt  useless  to  tl;at  country,  I  would  fain 
Have  consecrated  my  last  moments  to  her. 
But  the  d(;cree  beiuii  renderM,  I  obey. 

CHIEF   OF    THE   TEN. 

If  you  woul.l  have  the  three  days  named  extended, 
We  wilfumly  will  lengthen  thein  to  eight. 
As  sign  '^f  our  esteem. 

DOGE. 

•  Not  eight  hours,  signor. 

Sot  eve',  eight  minutes.— There  's  th.;  ducal  ring, 

[Tukim:  of  his  ring  and  cap. 
\nd  .heie  the  ducal  diadem.     And  so 
riic  Adriatic's  free  to  wed  another. 

CHIEF   OF  THE  TEN. 

Yet  gyj  not  forth  so  quickly. 

DOGE. 

I  am  old,  sir, 
.And  even  to  move  t)ut  slowly  must  begin 
To  move  -ePtMncs.      Methinks  I  see  amongst  you 
A  fpce  I  Wnow  not— Senator !   your  name, 
Vou.  ov  your  garb,  Ch.cf  ^i  the  Forty.  25 


am  the  son  of  Marco  Memmo. 
dog"e. 


Signor, 


Ah, 


Your  father  was  my  friend.— But  sons  and  fathers 
What,  ho  !   my  servants  there  ! 

ATTENDANT. 

My  pruice ! 

POGE. 

No  prinop- 
There  are  the  princes  of  the  prince  ! 

\ Pointing  to  the  Ten's  Deputation. 
Prepare 
To  part  from  hence  upor  the  instant. 

CHIEF  OF   THE  TEN. 

Why 
So  rashly  ?  't  will  give  scandal. 

DOGE. 

Answer  that  ; 

[Totlie  Ter^ 
It  is  your  province.— Sirs,  bestir  yourselves  ; 

[To  the  Servants 
There  is  one  burthen  which  I  beg  yoii  bear 
With  care,  although  't  is  past  all  further  harm- 
But  1  will  look  to  that  myself. 

BARBARIGO. 

He  means 
The  body  of  his  son. 

DOGE. 

And  call  Marina, 
My  daughter ! 

Enter  Marina. 

DOGE. 

Get  thee  ready  ;    we  must  mourn 
Elsewhere. 

marina. 
And  every  where. 

DOGE. 

j  True  ;  but  in  frcedoni, 

'     Without  these  jealous  spies  upon  the  great. 

I     Signors,  you  may  depart :    wr.ai  would  you  more? 

I     We  are  going  :   do  you  fear  that  we  shall  bear 
The  palace  with  us?    Its  old  walls,  ten  times 
As  old  as  I  am,  and  I  'm  very  old. 
Have  served  you,  so  have  I,  and  I  and  they 
Could  tell  a  tale  ;   but  I  invoke  them  not 
To  foil  Uj)on  you  !    else  they  would,  as  erst 
The  pillars  of  stone  Dagon's  temple  on 
The  Israelite  anfl  his  Philistine  foes. 
Such  power  I  do  believe  there  might  exist 
In  such  a  curse  as  mine,  provoked  by  such 
As  you;   but  I  curse  not.      Adieu,  good  signors! 
May  the  next  duke  be  better  than  the  present! 

LOREDANO. 

The  present  duke  is  Pascal  JNlalipiero. 

DOGE. 

Not  till  I  pass  tlie  threshold  of  these  doors. 

LOREDA.N'O. 

Sajuit  Mark's  great  bell  is  soon  about  to  toll 
For  his  inauguration. 

DOGE. 

Earth  and  heaven! 
Ye  will  reverberate  this  peal ;   and  I 
Live  to  hear  this  ! — the  first  doge  who  e'er  heuia 
Such  sound  for  his  successor  !      Happier  he, 
Mv  attainted  predecessor,  stern  Faliero — 
This  msult  at  the  least  was  spared  him. 

LOREDANO. 

What ! 
Do  you  regret  a  traitor  ? 


8Bd 


BYRON  S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


DOGE. 

No — I  merely 
Eliny  the  dead. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEW. 

My  lord,  if  you  indeed 
Are  hent  upon  this  nusli  abandonment 
Of  the  state's  palace,  at  the  least  retire 
B)-  the  private  staircase,  which  conducts  you  towards 
The  landing-place  of  the  canal. 

DOGE. 

No.     I 

Will  now  descend  the  stairs  by  which  I  mounted 

To  sovereignty — the  Giant's  Stairs,  on  whose 

Broad  ennnence  I  was  invested  duke. 

My  services  have  cali"d  me  up  those  steps. 

The  malice  of  my  foes  will  drive  me  down  them. 

There  five  and  thirty  years  ago  was  I 

In^tall'd,  and  traversed  these  same  halls  from  which 

I  never  tliought  to  be  divorced  except 

A  corse — a  corse,  it  might  be,  fighting  for  them — 

But  not  |)ush'(i  hence  by  fellow-citizens. 

But.  come ;   my  son  and  !  will  go  together — 

He  to  his  grave,  and  I  to  pray  for  mine. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

What,  thus  in  public  ? 

I)f)GE. 

I  was  publicly 
Elected,  and  so  will  I  be  deposed. 
Marina  !   art  thou  willing  ? 

MARINA. 

Here 's  my  arm  ! 

DOGE. 

And  here  my  /itajf:  thus  propp'd  will  I  go  forth. 

CHIEF   OF   THE   TKN. 

It  must  not  he — tlie  ()eop!e  will  perceive  it. 

DOGE. 

ITie  people  ! — Tiiere  's  no  people,  you  well  know  it, 

Eise  you  dare  not  deal  thus  by  them  or  me. 

There  is  a  populacf,  perhaps,  whose  looks 

May  shame  you  ;  but  they  dare  not  groan  nor  curse  you, 

Save  with  their  hearts  and  eyes. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

You  speak  in  passion, 

Else 

DOtrE. 

You  have  reason.     I  have  spoken  much 
iVIore  than  my  wont  ;   it  is  a  foible  which 
Was  not  of  mine,  but  more  excuses  you, 
Inasmuch  as  it  shows  that  I  approach 
A  dotage  which  may  justify  this  deed 
Of  yours,  although  the  law  does  not,  nor  will. 
Farewell,  sirs. 

BARBARIGO.  ' 

You  shall  not  depart  without 
An  escort  fitting  past  and  present  rank. 
We  will  accompany,  with  due  respect, 
The  Doge  unto  his  [)rivate  palace.     Say, 
My  brethren,  will  we  not  ? 

DIFFERENT  VOICES. 

Ay!— Ay! 

DOGE. 

You  shali  ^ot 
Stir-  -m  my  train,  at  least.     I  enter'd  here 
As  sovereign — I  go  out  as  citizen 
By  the  same  portals  ;    but  as  citizen. 
All  these  vain  ceremonies  are  base  insults. 
Which  only  ulcerate  the  heart  the  more, 
Applying  poisons  there  as  antidotes. 
Pom[)  is  br  princes — I  am  no)i£  .' — That  's  false, 
I  'WJ,  hut  ju\y  to  these  jiates. — Ah! 


LOREDANO. 

Hark? 

[The  great  hell  of  Saint  Mark's  toUt, 

BARBARIGO. 

The  bell! 

CHIEF    OF  THE  TEN. 

Saint  MarK's,  which  tolls  for  the  election 
Of  Malipiero. 

DOGE. 

Well  I  recognise 
The  sound !    I  heard  it  once,  but  once  before, 
And  that  is  five  and  thirty  years  ago ; 
Even  then  I  was  not  young. 

BARBARIGO. 

Sit  down,  my  lord  'i 
You  tremble. 

DOGE. 

'T  is  the  knell  of  my  poor  boy ! 
My  heart  aches  bitterly. 

BARBARIGO. 

I  pray  you  sit. 

DOGE. 

No  ;  my  seat  here  has  been  a  throne  till  now. 
Marina!   let  us  go. 

MARINA. 

Most  readily. 
DOGE  {walks  a  few  steps,  then  stops). 
I  feel  a  thirst — will  no  one  bring  me  here 
A  cup  of  water  ? 

BARBARIGO. 
MARINA. 

And  I 

LOREDANO. 

And  I 

[The  Doge  takes  a  goblet  from  the  hand  of  LonsDAKO, 

DOGE. 

I  take  yours,,  Loredano,  from  the  hand 
Most  fit  for  such  an  hour  as  this. 

LOREDANO. 

Why  so  ? 

DOGE. 

'T  IS  said  that  our  Venetian  crystal  has 
Such  pure  antipathy  to  poisons,  as 
To  burst  i'f  aught  of  venom  touches  it. 
You  bore  this  goblet,  and  it  is  not  broken. 

LOREDANO. 

Well,  sir ! 

DOGE. 

Then  it  is  false,  or  you  are  true. 
For  my  own  part,  I  credit  neither ;  't  is 
An  idle  legend. 

MARINA. 

You  talk  wildly,  and 
Had  better  now  be  seated,  nor  as  yet 
Depart.     Ah  !   now  you  look  as  look'd  my  husband ! 

BARBARIGO. 

He  sinks! — support  him! — quick — a  chair — support  tiim 

DOGE. 

The  bell  tolls  on! — let's  hence — my  brain's  on  fire! 

BARBARIGO. 

I  do  beseech  you, lean  upon  us ! 

DOGE. 

No! 
A  sovereign  should  die  standing.     My  poor  boy! 
Off  with  your  arms  !  —  That  hell ! 

[The  Doge  drops  down,  and  dies. 

MARINA. 

My  God!   my  God  J 

BARBAKIGO    {tO  LoREDANO). 

Behold !    your  work  's  completed ! 


THE    TWC    FOSCARL 


887 


OIIEF  OF  THE    TEN. 

Is  there  tiien 
Nd  al  J  '■'    Call  ir  assistance  ! 

ATTENDANT. 

''I'is  all  over. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TKN. 

If  it  be  so,  at  least  his  obsequies 

Sliall  be  such  as  befits  his  name  and  nation, 

His  rank  and  his  devotion  to  the  duties 

Of  the  realm,  while  his  age  permitted  him 

To  do  himself  and  them  full  justice.     Brethren, 

Ray,  bhall  it  not  be  so  ? 

BARBARIGO. 

He  has  not  had 
The  misery  to  die  a  subject  where 
He  reign' J  :  then  let  his  funeral  rites  be  prmcely. 

CHIEF   OF  THE  TEN. 

We  are  agiccd,  then? 

All,  except  LoREDANO,  answer. 
Yes. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

Heaven's  peace  be  with  him. 

MARINA. 

Signors,  your  pardon  :  this  is  mockery. 
Jugg'e  r  o  more  with  that  poor  remnant,  which, 
A  moment  smce,  while  yet  it  had  a  soul 
(A  soul  by  whom  you  have  increased  your  empire, 
And  made  your  povver  as  proud  as  was  his  glory) 
You  banish'd  from  his  palace,  and  tore  down 
From  his  high  place  with  such  relentless  coldness  : 
And  now,  xvhen  he  ca.n  neither  know  these  honours. 
Nor  would  accept  them  if  he  could,  you,  signors, 
Purpose,  with  idle  and  superfluous  pomp, 
To  make  a  pageant  over  what  you  trampled. 
A  princely  funeral  will  be  your  reproach, 
And  not  his  honour. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

Lady,  we  revoke  not 
Our  purposes  so  readily. 

MARINA. 

I  know  it. 
As  far  as  touches  torturing  the  living. 
I  thought  the  dead  had  been  beyond  even  you. 
Though  (some,  no  doubt),consign'(l  to  powers  which  may 
Resemble  that  you  exercise  on  earth. 
Leave  him  to  me  ;  you  would  have  done  so  for 
His  dregs  of  life,  which  you  have  kindly  shorten'd : 
It  is  my  last  of  duties,  and  may  prove 
A  dreary  comfort  in  my  desolation. 
Grief  is  fantastical,  and  loves  the  dead, 
And  the  apparel  of  the  grave. 

'chief  of  the  TEN. 

Do  you 

Pretend  still  to  this  office  ? 

MARINA. 

I  do,  signor. 
Though  his  possessions  have  been  all  consumed 
In  the  state's  service,  I  have  still  my  dowry. 
Which  shall  be  consecrated  to  his  rites, 
And  those  of [ She  stops  with  agitation. 

chief   of  the   TEN. 

Best  retain  it  for  your  children. 

MARINA. 

Ay,  they  are  fatherless,  I  thank  you. 

CHIEF  OF   THE  TEN. 

We 

Cannot  comply  with  your  request.     His  relics 
Shall  be  exposed  with  wonted  pom{),  and  foUcw'd 
Unto  their  home  by  the  new  Doge,  not  Aad 
As  Uog^e,  but  simply  as  a  senator. 


MARINA. 

I  have  heard  of  murderers,  who  have  intcrr'd 

Their  victims;    but  ne'er  hoard,  until  this  hour, 

Of  so  much  splendour  in  hypocrisy 

O'er  those  they  slew.     I've  hcuird  of  widows'  tears — 

Alas!    I  have  sheil  some — always  thanks  to  you! 

I  *ve  heard  of  'wirs  in  sables — you  have  left  none 

To  the  deceased,  so  you  would  act  the  part 

Of  such.     Well,  sirs,  your  will  be  done  !   as  one  duy, 

I  trust.  Heaven's  will  be  done  too ! 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

Know  you,  lady. 
To  whom  ye  speak,  and  perils  of  such  speech  / 

MARINA. 

I  know  the  former  better  than  yourselves ; 
The  latter — like  yourselves ;   and  can  face  both. 
Wish  you  more  funerals  ? 

BARBARIGO. 

Heed  not  h(;r  rash  woras ; 
Her  circumstances  must  excuse  her  bearing. 

CHIEF   OF  THE  TEN. 

We  will  not  note  them  down. 

BARBARIGO  {turning  <r;LoREDANO,  who  is  v)riting upon 
his  tablets) . 

What  art  thou  writing. 
With  such  an  earnest  brow,  upon  thy  tablets  ? 

LOREDANO  {pointing  to  the  Doge's  body). 
That  Ae  has  paid  me  ! ' 

CHIEF  OF  THE   TEN. 

What  debt  did  he  owe  you? 

LOREDANO. 

A  long  and  just  one  ;   nature's  debt  and  mine. 

\  Curtain  Jails, 


APPENDIX. 


Extrait  de  VHistoire  de  la  Repuhlique  de  Venise,  par 
P.  Dam,  de  V Acadeniie  francaise.     Tom.  2. 

Depuis  trente  ans,  la  republique  n'avait  pas  depose 
les  amies.  Elle  avait  acquis  les  provinces  de  FJrescia, 
de  Bergame,  de  Creme,  et  la  principaute  de  Ravenne. 

IVIais  ces  guerres  continuelles  faisaient  beaucoup  de 
malheureux  et  de  mecontents.  Le  doge  Francois  Fos- 
cari,  a  qui  on  ne  pouvait  pardonner  d'en  avoir  etc  le  pro- 
moteur,  manifesta  une  seconde  fois,  en  1442,  et  probable- 
ment  avec  plus  de  sincerile  que  la  premi""re,  I'intention 
d'abdiquer  sa  dignite.  Le  conseil  s'y  refusa  encore.  On 
avait  exige  de  lui  le  serment  de  ne  plus  quitter  le  dogat. 
II  etait  deja  avance  dans  la  vieillesse,'Conservant  cepen- 
daut  beaucoup  de  force  de  tete  et  de  caractt're,  et  jouis- 
sant  de  la  gloire  d'avoir  vu  la  repuhlique  etendre  an  loin 
les  limites  de  ses  domaines  pendant  son  administration. 

Au  milieu  de  ces  prosperitcs,  de  grands  ch.agrins  vin- 
rent  mettre  a  I'epreuve  la  fermete  de  son  ame. 

Son  fils,. Jacques  Foscari,fut  accuse,  en  1445,  d'avoir 
reou  des  presents  de  quelcjues  princes  ou  seigneurs  clran- 
gers,  notamment,  disait-on,  du  due  de  Milan,  Philippe 
Visconti.  C 'etait  non  seulement  une  bassesse,  mais  une 
infraction  des  lois  positives  de  la  republiciue. 

Le  conseil  des  dix  traita  cette  affaire  comme  s'il  sc  fut 
agi  d'un  debt  commis  par  un  particuher  obscur.  L  ac- 
cuse fut  amene  devant  ses  juges,  devant  le  doge, qui  ne 
crut  pas  pouvoir  s'abstenir  de  presider  le  tribunal.  L.'i, 
il  fut  interroge,  applique  a  la  (juestion,^  dcclart'  (;oupable, 


1  "  L^ha  vnsdta.^^  A  historical  fact.  See  the  History  oi 
Veriicfj.  hy  P.  Diiru,  page  411.  vol.  ii. 

2  H  (latiiali  la  corda  per  avere  du  lui  la  .(!iit;\;  cliiiiniiUc  ii 
consiglio  de'  difici  ciilla  giutita,  nel  quale  tii  iiK^ssei  lodog'  ,  Sc 
senteiiziato.— (Marjfi  Sanuto  Vite  de'  Duchi.  F.  Foscari.) 


?88 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


el  il  entendit,  de  la  bouche  de  son  pore,  I'arret  qui  le 
condamnait  a  uii  banissenieiit  perpetutd,  et  le  releguait 
k  Naples  de  Roinanie,  pour  y  finir  ses  jours. 

Embaniut'  surune  galore  pourse  reudre  au  lieu  deson 
ixil,  il  tomba  malade  a  Trieste.  Les  solicitations  du 
doge  obtinrent,  non  sans  difficulte,  qu'on  lui  assignat  une 
autre  residence.  Entin  le  conseil  des  dix  lui  permit  de 
so  retirer  ii  Trcvise,  en  mi  imposant  I'obligation  d'y  res- 
tor  sous  peine  de  mort,  et  de  se  presenter  tous  les  jours 
devant  le  gouverneur. 

II  y  etait  depuis  cinq  ans,  lorsqu'un  des  cbefs  du  conseil 
dos  di.\  fut  assassine.  Les  soupcons  se  porterent  sur  lui : 
un  de  ses  domestiques  qu'on  avait  vu  a  Venise  fut  arrete 
et  subit  la  torture.  Les  bourreaux  ne  purent  lui  arracher 
aucun  aveu.  Ce  terrible  tribunal  se  tit  amencr  le  niaUre, 
lesouniit  aiix  mcmes  epreuves  ;  il  resistaa  tousles  tour- 
ments,  ne  cessant  d'attester  son  innocence  ;*  niais  on  ne 
vit  dans  cetie  Constance  (jue  de  I'obstination  ;  de  ce 
qu'il  taisait  le  fait,  on  conclut  que  cc  fait  existait :  on 
attribua  sa  ferrnetc  a  la  ma^ie,  el  on  le  relegua  a  la 
Canee.  De  cette  terre  lointaine,  le  banni,  digne  aiors 
de  (juelque  [)itic,  ne  cessail  d'ecrire  a  son  [)ere,  a  ses 
amis,  pour  obtenir  quclque  adoucissemenl  a  sa  depor- 
tation. N'obtenant  rien,  et  sachant  <]ue  la  terreur  qu'in- 
S[)irait  le  conseil  des  dix  ne  lui  permettait  pas  d'esperer 
de  trouver  dans  Venise  une  seule  voix  (]ui  s'elevat  en 
sa  favour,  il  hi  une  lettre  pour  le  nouveau  due  de  Milan, 
par  laquelli',  au  nom  da^  hons  offices  que  Sforce  avail 
recus  du  chef  de  la  rcpublique,  il  implorait  son  inter- 
vention en  favour  d'un  innocent,  du  lils  du  do^e. 

CeUe  lettre,  selon  quehjues  bistoriens,  fut  confiee  a 
un  marchand  qui  avait  prornis  de  la  faire  parvenir  au 
due,  mais  qui,  trop  averti  de  ce  qu'il  y  avait  a  craindre 
en  se  renrlant  rintermediaire  d'une  pareille  correspon- 
dancc,  se  h  ;ta,  en  dcbarquant  a  Venise,  de  la  remettre 
in  chef  du  tribunal.  Une  autre  version,  qui  parait  plus 
siire,  rafjporte  que  la  lettre  fut  surprise^)ar  un  espion, 
attache  aux  pas  de  I'exile.' 

Ce  fut  un  nouveau  debt  dont  on  eul  a  •{)unir  .Jacques 
Foscari.  Reclamer  la  protection  d'un  prnice  etranifer 
etait  un  cri'ue,  dans  un  sujet  de  la  republi(jue.  Une  jja- 
t-re  pari  it  sur-le-champ  pour  I'amener  dans  les  prisons 
de  Venise.  A  son  arrivee,  il  ful  soumis  a  I'estrapade.^ 
C  eiait  une  singuii"'re  destin'''e  pour  le  citoyen  d'une  re- 
publiijue  et  pour  le  fils  d'un  prince,  d'etre  trois  fois  dans 
sa  vie  appli(]ue  a  la  (piestion.  Cette  fljis  la  torture  etait 
d'autan!  plus  odieuse,  (pi'elle  n'avait  point  d'objet,  le 
fait  iju'on  avail  a  lui  reprocher  elant  incontestable. 

Quand  on  demandaa  I'accuse,  dans  les  intervallesque 

*  1]  :ii  i(»niiciil:Uo  lie  inai  o(3nfessb  cosa  alcuna,  pure  parve 
al  coi.si-  ill  (i(  '  ilicci  (ii  contiiiarlo  in  vita  alia  Canea.  (Ibiil.) 
Voici  If  icxtH  (III  jut'eintnt  :  "  Cum  .Ia(.'obns  Foscari  per  oc- 
casioiK'in  pitcussioiiii  et  inorti.s  Heririolai  Donati  fiiit  rtjtenlus 
et  (.xaiiiinuus,  et  pnipter  signiticationes,  testificatiDnes,  et 
scripiiiras  qua-  iiabeiiuir  contra  <;um,  clare  apparet  ipsuin  es'^e 
renin  fiiiiHiii>piiP'ii(;ti,se(l  propter  incantatiunes,  et  verba  (jua; 
Bibi  reperia  sunt,  de  giiibus  e.vi.mit  indicia  manifesta.  videtiir 
propter  (jb>t  inaiani  nienlem  s-uain,  non  esse  posRibile  extraliere 
ab  ipso  iihnn  veritateiii,  (iiia.-  clara  (;sl  pt'r  seripturas  et  per 
t(!Rtifieationes,  qiiiniain  in  tune  aiitjuani  iiec  voceiii,  nee  ireni- 
luni,  sed  sohiiii  intra  deiiK  s  voces  ipse  videtur  et  aiiditiir  iiilra 
je  loiiiii,  etr.  .  .  .  'J":unen  non  est  standnin  in  istis  feriniiiis, 
propter  bonorem  ^lalus  nosiri  et  pro  iniiltis  respuclibus,  prte 
•iortiin  (luod  reiiiineii  nostriim  orcnpatur  in  hac  re  et  ipiia  iii- 

fordictiim  (-t  a !iiis  pro-reibre  :  vadit  pars  (luod  dictiis  Ja- 

Ci-biis  Fos("irl,  prop>(>r  ea  (HKH  liabi'iitur  di;  illo,  inittaltir  in 
confininni  in  civitate  ( 'aneii-."  ('Ic.  N'olice  sur  le  proct-s  de 
Jaciines  F.iscan,  dans  un  voliiine  inlitnle.  Raccolia  di  niem- 
orie  M.)rirlie  e  annedote,  per  loriiijir  la  Storia  dell'  eccelK'ii- 
tiRsiino  consiirlio  di  X,  dalla  sin  prima  iiistiin/ione  sino  a' 
Itioriii  nor,iri.  con  le  diversi;  variazioni  e  ritorino  nelle  vario 
tpocbe  siiccensi'.   (Arcbives  de  X'enise.) 

1  Tja  notice  cilce  ci-des.-iis  <pii  rapporte  les  aclea  de  cette 
jrocednre. 

2  I'Jibe  prniia  t)er  sap<Te  la  veri  \  trenta  ^(jiiasBi  di  corda 
'Maiui  Saii'ite    \'it.   do'  l>iichi.  F    l"oB(  ari  ) 


les  bourreaux  lui  accordaient,  pourquoi  i!  avait  ecrit  c 
lettre  qu'on  lui  produisail.  il  repondil  que  c'elail  precise- 
ment  parcequ'il  ne  doutait  pas  (ju'elle  ne  toinbav  eniro 
les  mains  du  tribunal,  que  loule  autre  voie  lui  avail  ete. 
ferniee  pour  faire  i)arvenir  ses  rijclamations,  (ju'll  s'av- 
tendail  bien  qu'on  le  ferait  amener  a  Venise,  niais  qu'L 
avait  tout  risque  pour  avoir  la  consolation  de  voir  sa 
femme,  son  pere,  et  sa  mere,  encore  une  fois. 

Sur  cette  naive  declaration,  on  confirma  sa  sentence 
d'exil ;  mais  on  I'aggrava,  en  y  ajoutanl  (ju'il  serail  re- 
tenu  en  prison  pendant  un  an.  Cette  rigueur,  dont  on 
usait  envers  un  malheureux  etait  sans  doute  odieuse  ; 
mais  cette  politique,  qui  defendail  a  tous  les  citoyens  d<; 
faire  intervenir  les  etrangers  dans  les  atl'aires  intii'rieures 
de  la  republitjue,  etait  sage.  Elle  etait  chez  eux  une 
maxime  de  gouvernement  et  une  niaxime  infle.viblo. 
L'historien  Paul  Morosini*  a  conle  (]ue  rem])ereur 
Frederic  III.  pendant  qifil  etait  I'hi'te  d(;s  Venitiens,  de- 
manda  comme  une  favour  particuli(''re,  radmission  d'un 
citoyen  dans  le  grand  conseil,  el  la  grace  d'un  ancien 
gouverneur  de  Candie,  gendre  du  doge,  et  banni  pour 
sa  mauvaise  administration,  sans  pouvoir  obtenir  ni 
I'une  ni  I'autre. 

Cependant  on  ne  put  refuser  au  condaninij  la  permis- 
sion de  voir  sa  femme,  ses  enfants,  ses  parents,  qu'il 
allait  quitter  pour  totijours.  Cette  derniere  entrevue 
rneme  ful  accompagnt'e  de  cruaute,  par  la  stivere  cir- 
conspeclion,  qui  retenait  les  epanchements  de  la  douleur 
paternelle  et  conjugale.  Ce  ne  tut  point  dans  I'interieur 
de  leur  appartement,  ce  fut  dans  une  des  grandes  salles 
du  i>alais,  qu'une  femme,  accoinpagni^e  de  ses  quatre 
fils,  vint  faire  les  dernitrs  adieux  a  son  mari,  (ju'un  pere 
octoHenaire  el  la  dogaresse  accablt'e  d'infirmites,  jouir- 
ent  un  moment  de  la  tri-^te  consolation  de  meler  leurs 
larmes  a  cellos  de  leur  exile.  II  se  jela  a  leurs  genoux, 
en  leur  lendanl  des  mains  disloquees  par  la  torture,  pour 
les  supplier  de  soUiciter  quelque  adoucissemenl  a  la 
sentence  qui  venait  d'etre  prononcee  contre  lui.  Son 
pere  eut  le  courage  de  lui  repon  .re :  •'  Non,  mon  lils, 
respectez  voire  arr(}t,  el  obeissez  sawS  murmure  a  la 
seigneurie."  '  A  ces  mots  il  se  separa  de  I'infortune, 
qui  fut  sur-le-cbamj)  embarque  pour  Cantbe. 

L'antiquite  vit  avec  autanl  d'horreur  que  d'adimraticn 
un  pere  condamnant  ses  fils  evidemment  coupables. 
Elle  hcsita  pour  qualifier  de  vertu  sublime  on  de  ferocite 
eel  etibrt  qui  paruit  au-dessus  de  la  nature  huniaine  ;'^ 
mais  ici,  ofi  la  premiere  faulc  n'elail  qu'une  faiblesse,  oii 
la  scconde  n't-tait  pas  prouvee,  oiJ  la  troisieme  n'avait 
rien  de  criminel,  coiumenl  concevoir  la  Constance  d'un 
pere,  qui  voit  torturer  trois  fois  son  fils  unique,  qui  I'en- 
teiid  condamner  sans  preuves,  et  qui  n'eclate  pas  en 
plainles  ;  qui  ne  I'aborde  que  pour  lui  montrer  un  visage 

*  Historia  di  \  enezia,  lib.  ■:;{. 

1  Marin  Saniito,  dans  sa  chronique,  Vite  de'  Diichi,  se  sert 
ici.  sans  en  avoir  eu  I'mlention,  d'une  expression  ass(  z  ener- 
pi()ne:  "11  doge  era  veccbio  in  docrepita  eta  e  cainmiiiava 
con  una  mazzeUa.  E  quando  gli  andu  parlo^'Ii  iiiv>lto  con- 
Btanteniente  die  parea  che  non  fosse  suo  figliulo,  licet  fosse 
fiudiulo  unico,  e  .lacopo  dis.se,  '  ine.sser  padre,  vi  preeo  cbu 
procuriate  per  me,  nccioccht-  io  toriii  a  casa  niia.'  II  doge 
disse:  '  Jacopo,  va  e  obbedi.sei  a  quello  cbe  vnole  la  terra,  e 
non  cercar  piu  oltre.'  " 

2  Cehi  fut  un  acte  quo  INm  ne  .scaiiroit  ny  sutfissainnienr 
loiitT,  ny  assez  blasnier;  car,  ou  c'estoit  une  excellence  dc 
vertu.  qui  rendoit  amsi  son  cceiir  impassible,  ou  une  violence 
de  passion  qui  Ic  rendoit  insensible,  dont  ne  I'line  ne  I'autre 
n'eat  chose  petite,  aiiisi  snrpassant  I'ordiiiaire  d'luimaiiie  na- 
ture, et  t;'nant  ou  do  la  divinite  ou  de  la  bestialife.  Mais  il  est 
plus  raisonnabl(!  que  le  jiurement  des  lioinmes  s'accorde  il  sa 
ploire,  <ine  la  taibles.se  des  jiipeans  fasse  descroire  sa  vertu 
Mais  pour  Kirs  qiiand  il  se  fut  retire,  tout  le  inonde  demouro 
pur  la  |)lacc,  conime  transy  d'horreur  et  d('  tV-iyeur,  par  uo 
Ions;  U'liips  sans  mot  dire,  pour  avoir  veu  ce  qui  avoitet^  fait 
(Plutur(iue,  Valerius  Publicola.) 


THE    T  A^  0    F  0  S  C  A  K  T. 


383 


plvn  austere  qu'attendri,  et  .]ui,  au  moment  de  s'en  se-  j 
[).irer  pour  jamais,  lui  imordit  les  iniirmvires  et  jusqifa 
I'esperance  ?   Comment  expli(]iior  une  si  cruelle  cirron-   i 
:;pection,  si  ce  n'ost  en  avouaiit,  a  notre  honte,  que  la   ; 
!vrannio  pcut  ohtenir  do  re-pece  humaine  les  nn^'mes 
■efforts  (pie  la  vertu?     La  servitude  aurait-elle  son  he- 
loismc  coinme  la  liberie  I 

Quel(]ue  temps  apres  ce  juijement,  om  deeouvrit  le  ve- 
.-ilabif  aurcur  de  rassassinat,dont  Jac(jues  Foscari  por- 
tait  la  peine  ;  mais  il  n't'tait  plus  temps  de  reparer  cette 
itri  '-e  injustice,  le  maUieureux  etait  mort  dans  sajjfison. 

II  me  reste  a  raconter  la  suite  dcs  malheurs  du  pere. 
L'histoire  les  atfribue  a  Timpatience  qu'avaient  ses 
ennemis  et  ses  rivaux  de  voir  va(pier  sa  place.  Elle 
accuse  lonncllement  Jacques  Loredan,  Tun  des  chefs 
du  conseil  des  dix,  de  s'ctre  livre  contre  ce  vieillard  aux 
conseils  d'une  haine  hereditrare  ct  qui  depuis  lon^-temps 
divisait  leurs  maisons.* 

Francois  Foscari  avait  essaye  de  la  faire  cesser,  en 
offrant  sa  tiUe  a  rillnstre  amirai  Pierre  Loredan,  pour  un 
de  ses  (ils.  L'alliance  avait  etefejetee,  et  Tinimitie  des 
deux  families  s'en  etait  accrue.  Dans  tons  les  conseils, 
dans  toutes  les  atiaires,  !e  door;  trouvuit  toujours  les 
Loredan  |>rets  a  comhattre  ses  nro{>ositions  ou  ses  in- 
terets,  II  lui  ecl.appa  un  jour  de  dire  qu'il  ne  se  croi- 
rait  reellement  prince  que  lorseue  Pierre  Loredan  au- 
rait  cesse  do  vivre.  Cet  amirai  mourut  quelque  temps 
aprcs  d'une  incommodite  assez  prompte  qu'on  ne  put  ; 
expliquer.  II  n'en  faliut  pas  davantajre  aux  malveillants 
pour  insinuer  que  Francois  Foscari,  avant  desire  cette 
mort,  pouvait  bien  Tavoir  ha  tee. 

(\'s  bruits  s'accrediterent  encore  lorsqu'on  vit  aussi 
perir  subitement  3Iare  Loredan,  frere  de  Pierre,  et  cela 
dans  le  moment  oil,  en  sa  qualite  d'avogador,  il  instrui- 
sait  un  proces  centre  Andre  Donato,  gendre  du  doge, 
accuse  de  peculat.  On  ecrivit  sur  la  tombe  (le  Tamiral 
qu'il  avait  ete  enleve  a  la  patrie  par  ^e  poison. 

II  n'v  avait  aucune  preuve,  aucun  indice  contre  Fran- 
cois Foscari,  aucune  raison  m(}me  de  le  soupconner. 
Qiiand  sa  vie  entiere  n'aurait  pas  dementi  une  imputa- 
tion aussi  odieuse,  il  savait  que  son  rang  ne  lui  promet- 
tait  ni  I'impunite  ni  meme  Trndulgence.  La  niort  tra- 
ffique  de  Tun  de  ses  prtedecesseurs  Pen  avertissait,  el 
il  n'avait  que  trop  d'exemples  domestiques  du  soin  que 
le  conseil  des  dix  prenait  d'humilier  le  chef  de  la  re- 
publique. 

Cependant,  Jacques  Loredan,  fils  de  Pierre,  croyait  ou 
fei2iiait  de  croire  avoir  a  venger  les  pertes  de  sa  famille.' 
Dans  ses  livres  de  comptes  (car  il  faisait  !e  commerce, 
comme  ii  cette  epoque  ])res(pie  tous  les  patriciens),  il 
avait  inscrit  de  sa  propre  main  le  doge  au  nombre  de  ses 
dcbiteurs,  jiour  la  mort,  y  etait-il  dit,  de  mon  pere  et  de 
mon  oncle.-  De  I'autre  cote  du  registre,  il  avait  laisse 
une  pa^e  en  blanc,  pour  y  faire  mention  du  recouvre- 
ment  de  cette  dette,  et  en  etfet,  apres  la  perte  du  doge,  il 
ecrivit  sur  son  recristre  :   ii  me  Ta  payee,  Pha  pagata. 

Jac(]i!es  Loredan  tut  elu  membre  du  consed  des  dix, 
en  devuit  un  des  trois  chefs,  et  se  promit  bien  de  profi- 
ler de  cette  occasion  pour  accomplir  la  vengeance  qu'il 
meditait. 

Le  do2e,  en  sortant  de  la  terrible  epreuve  qu'il  venait 
de  subir,  pendant  le  proces  de  son  fils,  s'elait  retirt?  au 

-  .If  ^uis  p'inf ipaltinent  dans  c  rt-'-it  une  relation  manu- 
i-ri'"  (ic  !ii  deposition  de  Fr:inr(jis  Foscari  qui  est  dans  le 
I  iliinie  intitule:  Riiccolta  di  niemorie  storiche  e  anu'^dote, 
o^■l  tbrinar  la  Storia  dell'  eccelientissimo  consislio  di  X. 
:  Ar'^hives  de  Venise.) 

1  Insc^  lam-n  injurias  quamvis  imnainanas  i.  >n  tani  :id 
au'iniun  revocaverat  Jacobus  Lauredanns  drfunctorum  ne- 
iMS  qiinm  in  abecedarium  vindictam  orportuiia.  (Palazzi 
I'asti  ducales.) 

'2  Ibid  el  THistoire  Vanitienne  de  Vianoio. 


fonn  ae  son  palais :  incapable  de  se  livrer  aux  affaires, 
consume  tie  chagrins,  accable  de  vieillesse,  il  ne  se  moii- 
trait  plus  en  public,  ni  m(>me  dans  les  conseils.  Cette 
rctraite,  si  facile  a  expliquer  dans  un  vieillard  octotje- 
naire  si  maUieureux,  deitlut  aux  decemvirs,  (jui  voulu- 
rt-nt  V  voir  un  murmure  contre  leurs  arr("'ts. 

Loredan  eommenea  par  se  [ilaindre  devant  ses  col- 
It'- iiues  du  tort  (jue  les  iiUirmitt's  du  dog-^,  son  absence 
t!c:-  conseils,  apportaient  ii  Texpt-dition  des  atiaires  ;  il 
fiidr  jiar  hasardcr  et  reussit  a  laire  agreer  la  proposition 
de  le  deposer.  Ce  n'etait  pas  la  preim'^re  f  lis  que  Ven- 
ise avait  pour  prince  un  homme  dans  la  caducitt? :  Tu- 
sage  et  les  lois  y  avaient  pourvu:  dans  ces  circonstances 
le  doge  etait  supplee  par  le  plus  aneien  tiu  conseil. 
Ici.  ccla  lie  suttisait  pas  aux  ennemis  de  Foscari.  Poui 
douiier  plus  de  solenmte  ;i  la  delibt:ration,  le  conseil  des 
tiix  liemanda  une  atijonction  de  vingt-cin(i  senateurs; 
mais  comme  on  n'en  enoncait  pas  Tobjet,  et  que  le  grand 
consi.il  etait  loin  de  le  soup(;onner,  il  se  trouva  que  Marc 
FiKcari,  l>ere  du  doire,  leur  fut  donne  pour  Tun  des  ad- 
jdints.  Au  lieu  de  Tadtnettre  a  la  deliberation,  ou  de 
reclamer  contre  ce  choix,  on  enfi^rma  ce  senaieur  dans 
une  chambre  st^part^e,  et  on  lui  fit  juror  do  ne  jamais 
parlor  de  cette  exclusion  qu'il  eprouvait,  en  lui  ilecla- 
rant  qu'i!  v  allait  de  sa  vie  ;  ce  (jui  irempccha  pas  qu'on 
inscrivit  son  nom  au  has  du  decret,  coinine  s'i!  y  eul 
pris  part.' 

Quand  on  en  vint  a  la  dt^'liberation,  Loredan  la  provo 
qua  en  ces  tonnes.-  "  Si  Tutilite  pubiique  doit  imposei 
silence  a  tous  les  intt'r.'-ts  prives,  je  ne  doute  pas  qu" 
nous  ne  prenions  aujourd'hui  une  mesure  que  la  patrie 
i-fclanie,  que  nous  lui  devons.  Les  etats  ne  peuvent 
so  maailenir  dans  un  ordre  de  chores  immuable :  vous 
n'avez  qu'a  voir  comme  le  ni^re  est  change,  et  combien 
il  le  serait  davantase  s'il  n'y  avait  une  autorite  assek. 
ferine  pour  v  porter  remede.  J'ai  honte  de  vous  taire 
remarquer  la  confusion  qui  regne  dans  les  conseils,  le 
desordre  des  delibt'ratii^ns,  I'encombrement  des  affaires, 
et  la  legerete  avec  laquelle  les  plus  importantes  sont 
decidces ;  la  licence  de  notre  jounesse,  le  pen  d'assi- 
duite  des  magistrals,  rintrodu<-tinn  de  nouvoautes  dan- 
goreuses.  Quel  est  reifot  do  ct.s  desordres  /  do  com 
promettre  notre  consideration.  Que'le  en  est  la  cause  ? 
l'al)sence  d'un  chef  capable  do  moderer  les  uns,  de  di- 
riirer  les  autres,  de  donner  I'exom; ile  a  tous,  et  de  main- 
tonir  la  force  des  lois. 

"OiJ  est  le  temps  of;  nos  decro's  etaient  aussitot  ex- 
ecutes que  roiidus  ?  oi;  Franc. i-.s  Carrare  se  trouvait 
investi  dans  Padoue,  avant  de  louvuir  otre  soulement 
inforint"  (jue  nous  voulions  lui  fuire  la  iruerro  /  ISous 
avons  vu  tout  le  contraire dans  la  tierniere  guerre  cm, tre 
e  due  de  INIilan.  Malheureuse  la  rei)ub!ique  qui 
est  sans  chef! 

"Je  ne  vous  rappelle  pas  tous  ces  inconvenients  el 
lours  suites  deplorables,  pour  vous  atiliger,  ])our  vous 
etiraver,  mais  pour  vous  faire  souvenir  que  vous  etes 
les  maitres,  les  conservateurs  de  cet  etat  fondti  par  vos 
pores,  et  de  la  liberie  que  nous  devons  ;i  leurs  travaux, 
a  leurs  institutions.  Ici,  le  mal  indique  le  remede. 
Xous  n' avons  point  de  chef,  il  nous  en  faut  un.  Notre 
[irince  est  notre  ouvrase,  nous  avons  done  le  droit  do 
juser  son  mt?rite  quand  il  s'agit  de  I'elire,  et  son  inca- 
laciti^  quand  elle  se  manifeste.  J'ajouterai  que  le 
peuple,  encore  bien  qu'il  n'ait  pas  le  droit  de  pronon- 
cer  sur  les  actions  de  ses  mattres,  apprendra  ce  chan 
Sement  avec  transport.  C'est  la  Providence,  je  n'en 
doute  pas,  qui  lui  inspire  elle-meme  cos  disjiositions, 

1  II  faut  cependant  remarquer  que  dans  la  notire  oil  I'or. 
raconte  ce  fait,  la  deliberation  est  rappurtee.  quo  les  vins* 
cinq  adjoiiits  y  sont  noniines,  et  que  le  noni  de  .Marc  Foscir 
ne  s'y  trouve  pas. 

2  Cette  harangue  se  lit  dans  la  notice  citee  ci-dessus 


390 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


pour  vuus  avertir  que  la  republique  reclame  cette  reso- 

jUorx,  el,  que  le  sort  d«  IVtat  est  en  vos  mains." 

Ce  discours  n'eprouva  que  de  timides  contradictions  ; 
cependant,  la  deliberation  dura  huit  jours.  L'assemblee, 
ne  se  jugeant  pas  aussi  sure  de  I'approbation  univer- 
selle  que  I'orateur  voulait  le  lui  faire  croire,  desirait  que 
le  do<^'^,  donnat  lui-meme  sa  demission.  II  I'avait  deja 
oroposee  deux  fois,  et  on  n'avait  pas  voulu  I'accepter. 

Aucune  loi  ne  portait  que  !e  prince  fut  revocable :  il 
etait  au  contraire  a  vie,  et  les  exeniples  qu'on  pouvait 
citcr  de  plusjeurs  doges  deposes,  prouvaient  que  de 
telles  revolutions  avaient  toujours  ete  le  resuitat  d'un 
mouvenicnt  populaire. 

Mais  d'ailleurs,  si  le  doge  pouvait  elre  depose,  ce  n'etait 
pas  assurement  par  un  tribunal  compose,  d'un  petit  nom- 
bre  de  membres,  institue  pour  punir  ics  crimes,  et  nulle- 
mt^nt  invesfi  du  droit  de  rcvoquer  ce  que  Ic  corps  souve- 
rain  de  I'etat  avait  fait. 

Cependant  !e  tribunal  arreta  que  les  six  conseillers  de 
la  seigneurie,  et  les  chefs  du  conseil  dcs  dix,  se  trans- 
porteraient  aupres  du  doge,  pour  lui  signifier  que  I'ex- 
cellentissimc  conseil  avait  jugeconvenable  qu'il  abdiquat 
une  (iignite  (iont  son  Age  ne  lui  ])crmettait  plus  de  rem- 
plir  Ics  fonctions.  On  lui  donna  loOO  ducats  d'or  pour 
son  entretien,  et  vingt-quatre  heures  pour  se  decider. 

Foscari  repondit  sur-le-champ  avec  beaucoup  de  gra 
vite,  que  deux  fois  il  avait  voulu  so  demettre  de  sa  chargcj 
qu'au  lieu  de  le  lui  permettre,  on  avait  exige  de  lui  le 
serment  de  ne  plus  r«}iterer  cette  demande  ;  que  la  Pro- 
viderice  avait  prolonge  ses  jours  pour  I'eprouver  et  pour 
i'afiliger ;  que  cependant  on  n'etait  pas  en  droit  de  re- 
procher  sa  longue  vie  a  un  homme  qui  avait  employe 
quatre-vingt-quatre  ans  au  service  de  la  republiqvie ; 
qu'il  etait  pret  encore  a  lui  ^acrifier  sa  vie  ;  mais  que, 
pour  sa  dignite,  il  la  tenait  de  la  republique  entiere,  et 
qu'il  se  reservait  de  repondre  sur  ce  sujet,  ouand  la 
volonte  generale  se  scrait  legalement  manifestee. 

Le  lendemain,  a  I'heure  indiquee,  les  conseillers  et  les 
cliefs  des  dix  se  presenterent.  II  ne  voulut  pas  leur  don- 
ner  d'autre  reponse.  Le  conseil  s'assembla  sur-le- 
champ,  lui  envoya  demander  encore  unc  fois  sa  resolu- 
tion, seance  tenante,  et,  la  reponse  ayant  ete  la  memo, 
on  pronon9a  (|ue  le  doge  etait  releve  de  son  serment  et 
de|)ose  de  sa  dignite  :  on  lui  as'signa  une  pension  de 
1500  du(;ats  d'or,  en  lui  enjoignaiit  de  sortir  du  palais 
dans  huit  jours,  sous  peine  de  voir  tons  ses  biens  con- 
fistiues."* 

Le  lendemain,  ce  decret  fut  porte  au  dojre,  et  ce  fut 
Jacques  Loredan  qui  eut  la  cruelle  joie  de  le  lui  presen- 
ter. II  repondit :  ."Si  j'avais  pu  pre  voir  (pie  ma  vieil- 
lesse  fut  prejudiciable  a  I'etat,  le  chef  de  la  republique 
ne  se  serait  pas  montrc  assez  ingrat,  pour  preferer  sa 
diirnite  ii  la  patrie  ;  mais  cette  vie  lui  avant  ete  utile 
pendant  tant  d'annees,  je  voulais  lui  en  consacrer  jus- 
qu'au  dermer  moment.  Le  decret  est  rendu,  je  m'y 
conformerai."  Apres  avoir  parle  ainsi,  il  se  depouilla 
des  marciues  de  sa  dignite,  remit  I'anneau  ducal  qui  fut 
brise  en  sa  presence,  et  des  le  jour  suivant  il  (juitta  ce  pa- 
lais, qu'il  avait  habit.e  pendant  ti-enle-cinii  '^ns?  accom- 
pngne  iUi  son  frerr,  de  ses  parents,  et  de  ses  amis.  Un 
secretaire,  (pii  se  trouva  sur  le  ];errou,  I'invita  a  des- 
ccridre  par  un  escalier  i!ero!)e,  atln  d  eviter  la  foule  du 
peuple,qui  s'etait  rassemble  dans  l(!s  cours,  mais  i!  s'y 
refusa,  disant  qu'il  voulait  d(;sc(,'ndre  par  ou  il  etait 
monte  ;  et  tpiand  il  fut  au  has  de  rescalifT  d(!s  geants,  il 
be  refourna,  apjaiyc  sur  sa  be(|uill(;,  vers  !e  palais,  en 
jniferanf  ces  paroles.'  "JNles  services  m'y  avaient  ap- 
p<;e,  la  malice  d<-  mes  ennemis  nr«ii  fait  sortir." 


I  Ce  (lei'-ret  est  rappori 
■2  hi)  iiunrc  r; 


I       La  foule  qui  s'ouvrait  sur  son  passage,  et  qyi  .ivail 

{  peut-etre  desire  sa  mort,  etait,  emue  de  respect  et  d'at- 
j  tendrissement. '  Rentre  dans  sa  maison,  il  recommaxida 
I  a  sa  famille  d'oublier  les  injures  de  ses  ennemis.  Pei- 
sonne  dans  les  divers  corps  de  I'etat  ne  se  crut  en  droit 
des'etonner,  qu'un  prince inamovibleeut ete  depose  san. 
qu'on  lui  reprochat  rien  ;  que  I'etat  eut  perdu  son  chef, 
a  rinsu  tlu  senat,  et  du  corps  souverain  lui-meme.  Lt 
jieuple  seul  laissa  echapper  quelques  regrets :  une  pro- 
clamation du  conseil  des  di.^  prescrivit  le  silence  le  plus 
absolu  sur  cette  affaire,  sous  peine  de  mort. 

Avant  de  donner  un  successeur  a  Francois  Foscari, 
line  nouvelle  loi  fut  rendue,  qui  defendait  au  doge 
d'ouvrir  etde  lire,  autrementqu'en  presence  de  ses  con 
seillers,  les  depeches  des  ambassadeurs  de  la  repub 
lique,  et  les  lettres  des  princes  etrangers.^ 

Les  electeurs  entrcrent  au  conclave,  et  nommerent  au 
dogat  Paschal  Malipier,  le  30  octobre  1457.  La  cloche 
do  Saint-Marc,  qui  annonoait  a  Venise  son  nouveau 
prince,  vint  frapper  I'oreille  de  Frani^ois  Foscari ;  cette 
fois  sa  fermete  I'abandonna,  il  eprouva  un  tel  saisisse- 
ment,  qu'il  mourut  le  lendemain.^ 

La  republique  arreta  qu'on  lui  rendrait  les  memos  hon- 
neurs  funebres  que  s'il  fut  mort  dans  I'exercice  de  sa 
dignite ,  mais  lorsqu'on  se  jiresenta  pour  enlever  ses 
restes,  sa  veuve,  qui  de  son  nom  ecait  Marine  Nani,  de- 
clara  qu'elle  ne  le  souffrirait  point ;  qu'on  ne  devait  pas 
traiter  en  prince  apres  sa  mort  celui  (jiic  vivant  on  avait 
depouille  de  la  couronne,  et  que,  puisqu'i!  avait  consume 
ses  biens  au  service  de  Fetat,  elle  saurait  consacrer  sa 
dot  a  lui  faire  rendre  les  derniers  honneurs.'^  On  ne  tint 
aucun  compte  de  cette  resistance,  et  malgre  les  [)rotes- 
tations  de  I'aricienne  dogaresse,  le  corps  fut  enleve,  re- 
vetu  des  ornemens  ducaux,  expose  en  public,  et  les  ob- 
seques  furent  celebrees  avec  la  pompe  accoutumee.  Le 
nouveau  doge  assista  au  convoi  en  robe  de  senateur. 

La  pitie  qn'avait  inspiree  le  malheur  de  ce  vieillard, 
ne  fut  pas  tout-;i-fait  sterile.  Un  an  a))res,  on  osa  dire 
que  le  conseil  des  dix  avait  outrepasse  ses  poiivoirs,  et 
il  lui  fut  defendu  par  une  loi  du  grand  conseil  de  s"in- 
geier  h  I'avenir  de  juger  le  prince,  a  moins  que  ce  no 
fut  [)our  cause  de  felonie^. 

Un  ;icte  d'autonte  te!  (|ue  la  deposition  d'un  doge  in- 
amoviblo  de  sa  natn.re,  atiroit  pu  exciter  un  souleve- 
ment  gc'-neral,  ou  au  moins  occasioner  une  division 
dans  una  republifjue  autrf'ment  constituee  que  Vemse. 
Mais  de  puis  trois  ans,  il  existait  dans  celle-ci  une 
magistrature,  ou  plutot  une  autorite,  devant  laquulle 
tout  devait  se  taire. 


Extmif.  dp  P  Histoire  des  Republique};  Italieimes  du  moyen 
age,  par  J.  C.  L.  Simondc  dr  Sismondi,  foni.  x. 
Le  doge  de  Venise,  qui  avait  prevenu  par  ce  traite  une 
guerre  non  moms  dangereuse  que  ceile  <ju'il  avait  ter- 
minee  presque  en  menie  temps  par  le  traite  de  Lodi, 
etait  alors  parvenu  a  une  extreme  vieillesse.  Francois 
Foscari  occupait  cette  premiere  dignite  de  I'etat  des  le 
15  avril  1423.  Quoiqu'il  fut  deja  age  de  plus  de  cin- 
quantc-un  ans  ;i  INquxpie  de  son  ele»  tion,  il  etait  cepen- 
dant le  plus  jeune  des  quarante-un  electeurs.  II  avail 
eu  beaucoup  de  peine  a  parvenir  au  rang  (ju'il  convoi- 
tait,  et  son  election  avait  ete  conduife  avec  beaucoup 
d'adresse.  Pendant  pliisieiirs  tours  de  scrutin  ses  amis 
les  plus  zeles  s'etaient  abstenus  de  lui  donner  leur  suf- 


1  ( )ii  lii  dans  la  norioi;  ces  propro  mots  ;  "Se  fosse  stalo  in 
11(1  potnc  voit'iiiieri  lo  avrclibfro  restituito." 
•-'  ilisi.  ,li  Vciiiua,  <H  Paolo  MoroMiii.  lib.  23, 
:;  Hist,  .li  l',.tro.Iii>^iiiii,iiii,  lib.  8. 
(  Ili>i,.  li'lvuialio.  lib.  f).  cap.  7, 
.')  Cr  .If.i.it  c.-,!  dii-r)  Octohrv!,  ll.')H.  La  notice  n  'apporla 


THE    TWO    FOSCARL 


391 


fiage,  pour  que  les  autr<?s  neleconsiderassent  pas  coninie 
U!i  concurrent  redoutable. '  Le  conseil  des  di.x  craignait 
5on  credit  parmi  la  noblesse  |)auvre,  parcequ'il  avail 
cherche  a  se  la  rcndre  Aivorable,  tandis  qu'il  etait  pro- 
curatcur  de  Saint-Marc,  en  faisant  employer  plus  de 
tronte  mille  ducats  a  doter  dcs  jeunes  titles  de  bonne 
maison,  ou  ;i  etablir  des  jeunes  sentilshonuues.  On 
craiiTiiaif  encore  sa  nonibreuse  lainille,  car  alors  il  etait 
pt're  de  qiiatre  enf\ins,  et  marie  de  nouveau  ;  entin  on 
reloutait  son  ambition  et  son  gofit  })our  la  guerre.  L'opi- 
nion  (|ue  ses  adversaires  s'etaient  tbrinee  de  lui  fut  veri- 
fice  par  les  evenemens  ;  pendant  trenle-quatre  ans  (jue 
Foscari  fut  ii  la  tcte  de  la  renublique,  elle  ne  cessa  point 
de  coinbattre.  vSi  les  hostilitcs  etaient  susjiendiu's  du 
rant  (luelques  mois,  c'etait  pour  reconimcncer  bient'H 
avec  plus  de  vigueur.  Ce  fut  Tepoque  ou  Venisc  etentlit 
son  empire  sur  Krescia,  Bergame,  Ravenne,  et  Creme, 
oil  die  fonda  sa  domination  de  Lombarilic,  et  parut 
sans  cesse  sur  le  point  d'asservir  toute  cette  province. 
Profond,  courageux,  inebranlable,  Foscari  communiqua 
aux  conseils  son  propre  caractere,  et  ses  talens  lui  tirent 
obtcnir  plus  d'intluence  sur  la  rcpubliquc,  (jue  n'avaient 
exerce  la  pluj)art  de  ses  predecesseurs.  Mais  '^i  son  am- 
bition avait  eu  pour  but  I'agrandissement  de  sa  famille, 
elle  tut  cruellemcnt  trompee  :  trois  de  ses  tils  moururent 
dans  les  huit  annees  qui  suivirent  son  election  •  le  qua- 
trieme,  Jacob,  par  lequel  la  maison  Foscari  s'cst  per- 
petuee,  fut  vicfime  de  la  jalousie  du  conseil  des  dix,  et 
empoisonna  par  ses  malheurs  les  jours  de  son  pere.- 

En  etfet,  le  conseil  des  dix,  redoublant  de  defiance 
envers  le  chef  de  i'etat,  lors(]u'il  le  vovait  plus  fort  pai 
ses  tal-?iis  et  sa  popularite,  vcillait  sans  cesse  sur  Fos- 
cari, pour  ie  punir  de  son  credit  et  de  sa  gioire.  Au 
iiiois  de  fi-N'iicr  1445,  Mulu'l  Bevilarqua,  Florentin, 
e.viie  a  Venise,  accusa  en  secret  Jactjues  Foscari  auprt's 
di  s  iiKjui-iteurs  d'etp.t,  tra\(jir  reou  du  due  Philippe 
\  isconti,  des  presens  d"arizent  et  de  jovaux,  par  les 
mains  des  £ens  de  sa  maison.  Telle  etait  I'oilleuse 
procedure  a. 'optee  a  Venise,  que  sur  cette  accusation 
secrete,  le  tils  du  doge,  du  representanl  de  la  majeste 
de  la  republicpie,  fut  mise  a  la  torture.  On  lui  arracha 
par  Testrapa  le  I'aveu  des  charges  portees  centre  lui; 
il  tut  relegiie  pour  le  reste  de  ses  jours  a  Napolrde  Ro- 
manic, avec  obligation  de  se  presenter  chacjue  matin  au 
commandant  de  la  place.;'  Cependant,  le  vaisseau  qui 
'';  portait  avant  touclie  a  Trieste,  .Jacob,  grievement 
malade  des  suites  de  la  torture,  et  plus  encore  de  I'lui- 
iiiiliation  (pri!  avail  epniuvee,  demanda  en  grace  au 
ci)nseii  des  dix  tie  n'etre  pas  eiivoye  plus  loin.  II  obtint 
cette  faveur,  par  une  deliberation  du  "23  decembre  1446  ; 
il  fut  rapj)ele  a  Trevise,  et  i!  eul  ia  libertc  d'habiter  tout 
le  Trevi>;aii  inditleremment.  < 

II  vivait  en  paix  a  Trevise  ;  et  la  fille  de  Leonard  Con- 
tarini,  (|u"i!  avait  eixHisee  le  10  fcvrier  i441,  etait  venue 
le  joiiiiire  dans  son  exil,  lorsque,  le  5  novembre  1450, 
Alnioro  Donate,  chef  du  conseil  des  dix,  fut  a-;sassine. 
Les  deux  autres  inquisiteurs  d'etat,  Triadano  Gritti  et 
Antonio  Venieri,  portereut  leiir  soupcons  sur  Jacob 
Fuscari,  pareeqirun  domestique  "i  lui,  nomme  Olivier, 
avait  ete  vu  ce  soir-la  meme  a  Venise,  et  avait  des  iire- 
miers  donne  la  nmivelle  de  cet  assassinat.  Olivier  fiit 
mis  a  la  torfu'-**  mais  il  nia  jusqifa  la  tin,  avec  un  cour- 
age ineliran'able,  le  crime  dont  on  raccus'iil,  quoique 
ses  juixi's  eussent  la  barbari(Mle  lui  fiire  d(j!ii!er  jusiju'a 
qiiatie-viiml  tours  (restra;'ade.  Cependant,  corune 
Jacob  Foscari  avait  de  pnissans  motifs  iriiiimiti'"  eontre 
I'j  :oiiseil  des  dix  rpii  I'avait  conda-nne,  et  qui  tenini.fnail 

1  M:irin  Sanuto,  Vite  de'  Duchi  til  Vunezia,  p.  967. 

2  Marin  r^anuto,  p.  9G8. 

S  Ibid.  p.  iltW.  4  Ibid    Vite    p.  r23 


de  la  haine  au  c'^ge  son  p^re,  n  cssava  rie  inettre  a  son 
tour  Jacob  a  la  orture,  el  I'on  prolongea  coiitre  lui  cea 
atfreux  tourmen.s,  sans  reussir  a  en  tirer  aucune  con- 
fession. Malgre'  sa  denegation,  le  conseil  des  tlix  le 
condamna  a  etre  transporte  a  la  Canee,  et  accor<!a  une 
recompense  a  son  delateur.  Mais  les  horribles  douleurs 
que  Jacob  Foscari  avail  eprouvecs,  avaient  trdnble  sa 
raisoii ;  ses  persecuteurs,  touches  de  cv.  dernier  malhiur, 
permirenl  (jn'on  le  ramenU  a  Venise  le  "26  mai  145L 
II  embrassa  son  pere,  il  puisa  dans  ses  exhortations 
queKiue  courage  et  queUpie  calme,  el  il  fut  reconduit 
iniim'diatement  a  la  Canee.'  Sur  ces  eritrefaites,  Nico- 
las Eriz/.o,  homine  deja  note  pour  un  precedent  crime, 
confessa,  en  mourant,  que  c'etait  lui  qui  avoit  fue  Ai- 
moro  Donate. - 

J^e  malheureux  doge,  Fran9ois  Foscari,  avait  deja 
cherche,  a  plusieurs  reprises,  a  abdiquer  une  difrniU'  si 
fuiieste  il  lui-meme  el  a  sa  famille.  II  lui  semblait 
que,  redescendu  au  rang  de  simple  citoyen,  comme  il 
n'inspirerail  plus  de  crainle  ou  de  jalousie,  on  n'acca- 
blerait  plus  son  tils  par  ces  etlroyables  persecutions. 
Abattu  par  la  mort  de  ses  premiers  enfans,  il  avoit  vou- 
lu,  des  le  26  juin,  1433,  dcposer  une  digiiite,  durant 
Fexereice  de  laquelle  sa  palrie  avait  ete  tourmentee  par 
la  guerre,  par  la  peste,  et  par  des  malheurs  de  tout 
genre.'  II  renouvela  cette  proposition  apres  les  juge- 
mens  rendus  centre  son  tils  ;  mais  le  conseil  des  dix  le 
retenait  torcemeiil  sur  le  trone,  comme  il  retenail  son 
tils  dans  les  fers. 

Eu  vain  Jacob  Foscari,  oblige  de  se  presenter  chaquo 
jour  au  gouverneur  de  la  Canee,  reclamait  contre  Fin- 
justice  de  sa  derniere  sentence,  sur  laquelle  la  contession 
d'Erizzo  n<^  laissail  plus  de  doutes.  En  vain  il  acuKin- 
dait  gr.ice  au  farouche  conseil  des  dix ;  il  ne  pouvah 
obicmr  aucune  reponse.  Le  desir  de  revoir  son  pere  el 
sa  nvM-e,  arrives  tons  deux  au  dernier  terme  de  u  vieil- 
lesse,  le  liesir  de  revoir  une  jiatrie  dont  ia  criiaute  ne 
meritait  pas  un  si  tendre  amour,  se  chaiigerent  en  lui 
en  une  vraie  fureur.  Ne  pouvant  retonrner  a  Venise 
p>our  y  vivre  libre,  il  Toulut  du  moins  y  aller  chercher 
un  supplice.  II  eerivit  au  due  de  Milan  a  la  tin  de  mai 
1456,  pour  iu'plorer  sa  protection  aupres  du  scnat:  et 
sacliant  (]u'uue  telle  lettre  sorail  consideree  comme  un 
crime,  il  rexpo.-~a  lui-mcme  dans  un  lieu  ofi  il  etait  sur 
qu'elle  scrait  i:'aisie  par  les  espions  qui  rentouraient. 
En  erfet,  la  lettre  etant  deferee  au  conseil  des  dix,  or 
I'envoya  chercher  aussitot,  el  il  tut  reconduit  a  Venis( 
le  19jud!ef  1458.^ 

Jacob  i'^oscari  ne  nia  point  sa  lettre,  il  raconta  en 
meme  temps  dans  qviel  but  il  Tavait  ecrite,  et  comment 
il  r  avait  fiit  tomber  entre  les  mains  de  son  delateur 
Malgre  ees  aveux,  Proscar!  fut  remis  a  la  torture,  ei  on 
lui  donii  I  trente  tours  d'estrapade,  pour  voii  s"il  contir- 
merait  ensuite  ses  depositions.  Quand  on  le  defacha 
de  la  corJe,  on  le  trouva  deehire  par  ces  horribles  se- 
cousses.  Jjf^s  juges  permii'ent  alors  a  son  pere,  a  sc. 
mere,  a  sa  femnie,  el  a  ses  tils,  d'aller  Ic  voir  dans  sa 
prison.  Le  vieux  Foscari,  appuye'sur  son  baton,  ne  se 
traina  qii'avee  peine  dans  la  chambre  oti  sen  tils  unique 
etait  [lae.i^e  de  ses  blessures.  Ce  fils  demalidait  encore 
la  iirace  'e  piourir  dans  sa  maison. — "  Retourne  a  ton 
exil,  mon  .ils,  puis(pie  la  patrie  I'ordonne,"  Im  dit  le 
doge,  "(t  &o;iniets-toi  a  savolonte."  Mais  en  rentrant 
dans  sou  palais,  ce  malheureux  vieiliard  s'evanouii, 
epuis;'  par  la  violence  qu'il  s'etait  faite.  Jacob  devail 
encore  [lasser  une  annee  en  prison  a  la  Canee,  avaet 
nu'on  lui   reiidil  la  meine  liberte  limitee  a  latjuelle  i, 


into,  p.  1133. 


-M.  Ant.  SabeMico.    Dcca  I'll 


4  Ibid.  p.  116*2. 


3  Ibid,  p   1032. 


392 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


etait  lerluit  .ivant  cet  evenenient ;  niais  a  peine  fut-il 
debarque  siir  cette  terro  d'exil,  quil  y  mourut  de  dou- 
leur. ' 

Des-iors,  et  pendant  quinze  mois,  le  vieux  doge  acca- 
ble  d'aniiees  et  de  chagrins,  ne  rccouvra  phis  la  forre 
de  son  cori-p  ou  celle  de  son  ame  ;  il  n'assistait  phis  a 
aucun  des  conseils,  et  il  ne  pouvait  plus  remplir  aucune 
des  fonctions  de  sa  dignite.  II  etait  entre  dans  sa 
quatre-vii)<jt-sixiorne  aiineo,  et  si  le  conseil  des  dix  avait 
ete  susof^,ptib]e  de  quekpie  pitie,  il  aurait  attendu  en 
silcncf  ';v  fin,  sans  doule  prochaine,  d'une  carriere  mar- 
quee pa':t  tant  de  gloire  et  taut  de  malheurs.  Mais  le 
ohef  c\u  conseil  des  dix  etait  alors  Jacques  Loredano, 
fils  drj  Marc,  et  neveu  de  Pierre,  le  grand  ainiral,  qui 
toiite  Icur  vie  avaient  etc  les  cnnemis  acharnes  du  vieux 
doge.  lis  avaient  transinis  leur  haine  a  leurs  enfants, 
etceUe  vieille  raucune  n'ctait  pas  encore  satisfaite.^  A 
['instigation  de  Loredano,  Jer  ime  Barbarigo,  inquisi- 
t(!ur  d'etat,  [)roposa  au  conseil  des  dix,  au  mois  d'oc- 
•.obre  1457,  de  soumettre  Foscari  a  une  nouvelle  humi- 
liation. Des  que  ce  niagistrat  ne  pouvait  plus  remplir 
ses  fonctioMs,  Barbarigo  demanda  qu'on  nomrnat  un 
autre  doge.  Le  conseil,  (|ui  avait  refuse  par  deux  fois 
['abdication  de  Foscari,  [larceque  la  constitution  ne 
pouvait  la  perniettre,  hesita  avant  de  se  mettre  en  con- 
tradiction avec  ses  propres  drcrets.  Les  discussions 
dans  le  conseil  et  la  junte  so  prolongerent  pendant  huit 
jours,  jusque  fort  avant  dans  la  nuit.  Cependant,  on 
fit  entrer  dans  I'assemblee  Marco  Foscari,  procurateur 
de  Saint-Marc,  et  frere  du  doge,  pour  qu'il  fOt  lie  par 
le  redoutable  sennent  du  secret,  et  (]u'il  ne  put  arreter 
les  mesures  do  ses  ennemis.  Enfin,  le  conseil  se  rendit 
auprcs  du  doge,  et  lui  demanda  d'abdicpier  volontaire- 
ment  un  einploi  qu'il  ne  pouvait  plus  exercer.  "  J'ai 
jure"  repondii  le  vieillard,  "de  remplir  justpra  mu 
mort,  selon  rnon  honneur  et  ma  conscience,  les  fonc- 
tions auxquelles  ma  patrie  m'a  appele.  .Je  ne  puis  me 
deli»T  moi-mcme  de  inon  serinent ;  qu'un  ordre  des  con- 
seils dispose  de  moi,  je  m'y  soumettrai,  mais  je  ne  lo 
dcvancerai  [)as."  ^lors  une  nouvelle  deliberation  du 
conseil  delia  Francois  Foscari  de  son  serment  ducal,  lui 
assura  une  pension  de  deux  mille  ducats  pour  le  reste 
de  sa  vie,  et  lui  ordonna  d'cvacuer  en  trols  jours  le 
palais,  et  de  dej»oser  les  ornemens  de  sa  dignile.  Le 
doge  ayant  rewiarquc  parmi  les  conseilh^rs  (]ui  lui  por- 
terent  cet  ordrs,  un  chefde  la  quarantJe  (pril  ne  con- 
naissait  (las,  demanda  son  nom :  "  Je  siiis  le  tils  de  Marco 
MemuK),"  lui  dit  le  conseiller — "Ah!  ton  p~re  etait 
n)on  ;iini,"  lui  dit  le  vieux  doge,  en  soupiran'.  II  donna 
aussilAt  th?s  ordres  pour  qu'on  transport.!  ses  diets 
dans  une  maison  a  lui ;  et  le  lendemain,  23  octob)re,  on 
le  vit,  se  sfutenant  a  peine,  et  appuye  sur  son  vieux 
frere,  redesccMidre  ces  memes  escaliers  sur  iesquels, 
trente-quatre  ans  auparavant,  on  I'avait  vu  installe  avec 
tant  de  pomt)e,  et  traverser  ces  incmes  salles  of.  la  repu- 
blicpif;  avait  raqu  ses  sermens.  Le  [)eu[)le  entier  parut 
mdigne  de  tant  de  diir;;te  exercee  centre  un  vieillard 
qu'il  resp(!ctait  f:t  (jtj*il  aimait ;  mais  le  conseil  des  dix 
fit  publier  une,  defense  de  parler  de  c!i'1t(;  n'volution, 
gons  ])eine  d'»>tre  tra/luit  devant  les  in(]nisil«'urs  d'etat. 
Le  20  octobre,  Pas(]ual  Malipieri,  procurateur  de  Samt- 
Marc,  fut  elu  pour  successeur  d(;  Foscari  ;  c(;lui-ci  n'eut 
pas  neanmoins  l'huiniliati(m  de  vivre  sujet,  la  ou  il 
avait  regnc.  Fn  enicndant  le  son  des  cloclies,  qui  son- 
naient  en  actions  de  irrace  pour  cette  el. 'ction,  il  mourut 
subitement  d'une  lieuiorragie  causee  par  une  veinc  qui 
s'eclata  dans  sa  pnitiine.s 

1  Marin  Snrnito,  p.  llfi:?.— NuvMffi.To  i'tor.  Vfii^z.  p.  111;,'. 

2  VclK.r  Saudi  Storia  civile  di  Vcn.-/,rn,  ..  I',  il,  I,.  Vlil.  p 
715.  p.  717. 

8  M;,rin  Samito.  Vilo  dii'  |)n.-l,i  di  X'  ,,,/.,.  i..  I  •,>,,.- 
riinirac.in.  KM-al.iMiiin,  T  XX!.  p  <>'.)■.! —I  ■hnMul',,-,.  ,;.. 
Soldo  Utorif  IJresciuiiii,  T.  XXI.  p.  8U1. — NaVKcro  Ktorij 


"  Le  doge,  blesse  de  trruver  constamment  un  contni- 
dicteur  et  un  censeur  si  amer  dans  son  frere,  lui  dit  un 
jour  en  plein  conseil :  '  Messire  Augustin,  vous  faites 
tout  votre  possible  pour  hater  ma  mort ;  vous  vou  ;  flat- 
ic/.  de  me  succeder  ;  mais  si  les  autres  vous  connaissenl 
aussi  bien  que  je  vous  connais,  ils  n'auront  garde  de 
vous  elire.'  La  dessus  il  se  leva,  emu  de  colere,  rentra 
dans  son  appartement,  el  mourut  quelques  jours  apres. 
Ce  frere  contre  lequel  il  s'etait  emporte  fut  pi ecisement 
le  successeur  qu'on  lui  donna.  C'etait  un  merite  dont 
on  aimait  a  tcnir  coinpte,  surtout  a  un  parent,  de  s'etrc 
mis  en  op])Osition  avec  le  chefde  la  rcpublique." '  .Daru, 
Histoire  de  Venisc,  vol.  ii.  sec.  xi.  p.  533. 

In  Lady  Morgan's  fearless  and  excellent  work  upon 
"  Italy,"  I  perceive  the  expression  of  "  Rome  of  tho 
Ocean"  applied  to  Venice.  The  same  j)hrase  occurs  in 
the  "  Two  Foscari."  My  publisher  can  vouch  for  me 
that  the  tragedy  was  written  and  sent  to  England  some 
time  before  I  had  seen  Lady  IMorgan's  work,  which  I 
only  received  on  the  16th  of  August.  I  hasten,  however 
to  notice  the  coincidence,  and  to  yield  tiie  originality  of 
the  phrase  to  her  who  first  placed  it  before  the  public. 
I  am  the  more  anxious  to  do  this,  as  I  am  informed  (for 
I  have  seen  but  few  of  the  specimens,  and  those  accident- 
ally) that  there  have  been  lately  brought  against  me 
charges  of  plagiarism.  I  have  also  had  an  anonymous 
sort  of  threatening  intimation  of  the  same  kind,  appa- 
rently with  the  intent  of  extorting  money.  To  such 
charges  I  have  no  answer  to  make.  One  of  f hern  is  lu- 
dicrous enough.  I  am  rcjproached  for  having  formed 
the  description  of  a  shij)wreck  in  verse  from  the  narra 
tives  of  many  actual  shijiwrecks  in  prosp,  selecting  such 
materials  as  were  most  striking.  Gibbon  makes  it  a 
merit  in  Tasso  "  to  have  co[)ied  the  minutest  details  of  the 
siege  of  Jerusalem  from  the  Chronicles."  In  wc  it  may 
be  a  demerit,  I  presume ;  let  it  remain  so.  Whilst  I  have 
been  occupied  in  defending  Pope'."^  character,  the  lower 
orders  of  Grub-street  ai)pear  to  have  been  assailing  mine.- 
this  is  as  it  should  be,  both  in  them  and  in  me.  One  of 
the  accusations  in  the  nameless  e[)istle  alluded  to  is  still 
more  laughable  :  it  states  seriously  that  I  "  received  five 
hundred  pounds  tor  writing  advertisements  f)r  Day 
and  Martin's  patent  blackiiiij!"  This  is  the  highest 
compliment  to  my  literary  powers  which  I  ever  received. 
It  states  also  "that  a  ];ersoii  has  been  trying  to  make 
acquaintance  with  Mr.  '^rown^en.l,  a  gantii'iiian  of  the 
law,  who  v.-as  wilh  nie  on  liu.-iiicss  in  Venice  three 
years  usjo,  tor  tiie  ixirpose  ot'  ohtainiiii;  r.ny  defama- 
tory particulars  of  my  life  from  this  occr.sion-d  visitor." 
Mr.  Townsend  is  welceme  to  say  wb.at  lie  Imows.  I  men- 
tion these  particulars  merely  to  show  \lm  wr.vld  in  gen- 
eral what  the  liUrnrii  lower  world  contains,  ami  their 
way  of  setting  to  work.  .A.notlier  cliarge  made,  I  am 
told,  in  the  "  Literary  (;Ta/.ette,"  is,  tli;it  I  wrote  the  notes 
to  "  Queen  Mab  ;"  a  work  which  I  nt.'ver  saw  till  some 
tune  after  its  publicalinn,  and  whicli  I  rec^ollect  showing 
to  Mr.  Sotheby  as  a  jioem  of  great  power  and  imagi- 
nation. I  never  wrote  a  line  of  the  notes,  nor  ever  saw 
them  except  in  their  pul)lished  form.  No  one  knows 
better  than  their  real  author,  that  his  0])inions  and 
mine  diti'er  materially  upon  the  metaphysical  portion 
of  that  work  ;  though,  in  common  with  ail  who  are  not 
blinded  by  baseness  aiftl  !)igo1r\,I  highly  admire  tha 
poetry  of  that  and  Ins  other  publications. 

Mr.  Southev,  too,  in  his  [lious  i>ref;\c(>  to  apoem  whose 
blasphemy  is  as  harmh^ss  as  tlu;  seilition  of  Wat  Tyler, 

Vene/iana,  T.  XXIII.  p.  il-'O.— .M.  A.  S.il.clli.-u.     IVca  III 
L.  VIII.  I.  JOI 

I  'I'hc  Vciictiniis  appear  to  have  liad  a  particular  turn  foi 
hrcakinu'  the  hearts  of  ihcir  Doircs;  the  aliovc  i.s  aiioihrr  iii- 
Htaiice  oi'thc  kind  in  the  Doiie  Marco  Macha,  iiro  :  he  wa.s  sue 
(■ceded  by  Ins  hrotlier  Ano^'-iiio  Iliirl)an;;o,  whoso  cliief  ineri 
iw  ahove  iiieiitioiioci. 


THE    TWO    FOSCARI. 


393 


because  it  is  equally  absard  with  that  sincere  production, 
calls  upon  the  "  lejjislature  to  look  to  it,"  as  the  tolera- 
tion of  such  writings  led  to  the  French  Revolution:  not 
Fuch  writings  as  Wat  Tyler,  hut  as  those  of  the  "  Satanic 
School."  This  is  not  true,  and  Mr.  Soutlieyknowsittobe 
not  true.  Every  French  writer  of  ;iuy  freedom  was  perse- 
cuted; Voltau-e  and  Rouss(>;ui  wt-re  exiles,  Marniontel 
and  Diderot  were  sent  to  the  Bastile,  and  a  |)erpetvial  war 
was  wii<:ed  with  the  whole  cla«>^l)yt  lie  existing  despot  ism. 
In  the  next  place,  the  French  Revolution  was  not  occa- 
sioned hy  any  writings  whatsoever,  liut  must  ha\  c  occur- 
red had  no  su  :h  writers  ever  existed.  It  is  the  fashion  to 
attribute  everv  tiling  to  the  French  Revolution,  and  the 
French  Revolution  to  every  thing  hut  its  real  caiise. 
Tliat  cause  is  obvious — the  government  exacted  too 
much,  and  the  people  could  ni'itlier  i^ive  nor  bviir  more. 
Without  this,  the  Encyclopedists  might  have  written 
their  fingers  off  without  the  occurrence  of  a  single  ahcr- 
ation.  And  the  JUnalish  Revohition — (tlie  first,  1  mean) 
what  was  it  occasioned  by  ?  The  Puiil<uis  were  surely 
as  pious  and  moral  as  Wesley  or  his  biographer  ?  Acts — 
acts  on  the  part  of  government,  and  luif.  writings  against 
Ineni,  have  caused  the  past  convulsions,  and  are  tending 
to  the  future. 

I  look  upon  such  as  inevitable,  though  no  revolu- 
tionist: I  wish  to  see  the  Enghsh  constitution  restored, 
&nd  not  destroyed.  Born  an  aristocrat,  and  naturally 
one  by  temper,  with  the  greater  part  of  my  present  prop- 
erty in  the  funds,  what  have  /  to  gain  by  a  revolution  ? 
Perhaps  I  have  more  to  lose  in  every  way  than  Mr.  Sou- 
they,  with  all  his  places  and  |)rcsents  for  panegyrics  and 
abuse  into  the  bargain.  But  that  a  revolution  is  incvi- 
uible,  I  rej'eat.  The  government  may  exult  over  the 
repression  of  petty  tumults  ;  these  are  hut  the  receding 
waves  repulsed  and  broken  fir  a  moment  on  the  shore, 
while  the  groat  tide  is  still  rolling  on  and  gaining  ground 
with  every  breaker.  Mr.  Southey  accuses  us  of  attacking 
the  religion  of  the  country  ;  and  is  he  abetting  it  by  writ- 
ing lives  of  IVcsleii  ?  One  mode  of  worship  is  merely  de- 
stroy ed  by  another.  There  never  was,  nor  ever  will  be,  a 
country  without  a  religion.  We  shall  be  told  oi France 
again :  but  it  was  only  Paris  and  a  frantic  party,  which 
for  a  moment  u})held  their  dogmatic  nonsense  of  thco-phi- 
lanthropy.  The  church  of  f^ngland,  .if  overthrown,  will 
be  swept  away  by  the  sectarians,  and  not  by  the  sceptics. 
People  are  too  wise,  too  well-in  formed,  too  certain  of 
their  own  immense  importance  in  the  realms  of  space, 
ever  to  submit  to  the  imrtiety  of  doubt.  There  may  be  a 
few  s"  z\\  dithdent  speculators,  like  water  in  the  pale  sun- 
beam "f  human  reason,  but  they  are  very  few  ;  and  their 
opinions,  without  enthusiasm  or  appeal  to  the  passions, 
can  I'fiver  gain  proselytes — unless,  indeed,  they  are 
iM^rsccuted .  that^  to  b^  sure,  will  increase  any  thiri^. 


,  Mr.  S.,  with  a  cowardly  ferocity,  exults  over  the  an 
ticijjated  "death-bed  repentance"  of  the  objects  of  nis 
di^like  ;  and  indulges  himself  m  a  pleasant  "  Vivion  of 
Judgment,"  in  prose  as  well  as  verse,  full  of  inijiious 
iinpudence.  What  Mr.  S.'s  sensations  or  ours  may  he 
ill  the  awful  moment  of  leaving  this  state  of  existei>';e, 
lit  itiier  he  nor  we  can  pretend  to  (b^cide.  In  common, 
I  prc^suiiH^,  with  most  men  of  any  rellection,  /have  nol 
waited  for  a  '^  death-bed"  to  re[)ciit  of  many  of  my 
actit)iis,  notwithstaiidiiig  the  "diabolical  pride"  wiiic 
this  pitiful  rencgado  in  his  rancour^would  impute  to 
those  who  scorn  him.  Whether,  upon  the  whole,  the 
good  or  evil  of  my  deeds  may  preponderate,  is  not  for 
ine  to  ascertain  ;  but,  as  my  means  and  ofiportunities 
have  been  greater,  I  shall  limit  my  present  defiance  to  an 
assertion  (easily  proved,  if  necessary)  that  I,  "  in  my  de- 
grcMj,"  have  done  more  real  good  in  any  one  given  year. 
since  I  was  twenty,  than  Mr.  Southey  in  the  whole 
course  of  his  shifting  and  turncoat  existence.  There  are 
several  actions  to  which  I  can  look  back  with  an  honest 
pride,  not  to  be  damped  by  the  calumnies  of  a  hireling. 
There  are  others  to  which  I  recur  with  sorrov?  and  re- 
jientance  ;  but  the  only  art.  of  rnij  life  of  which  Mr. 
Southey  can  have  any  real  knowledge,  as  it  was  one 
which  brought  me  in  contact  with  a  near  conuexiun  of 
his  own,  did  no  dishonour  to  that  connexion  nor  to  me. 
I  am  not  ignorant  of  TJr.  Southey's  calumnies  on  a  dif- 
ferent occasion,  knowing  them  to  be  such,  which  he 
scattered  abroad,  on  his  return  from  Switzerla.nd,  against 
me  and  oth(.rs:  they  have  done  him  no  good  in  this 
world  ;  and,  if  his  creed  be  the  right  one,  they  will  do 
him  less  in  the  next.  What  hU  "  der.th-l'O  I  "  may  be, 
it  is  not  my  province  to  predicate :  let  him  settle  it  with 
his  INIaker,  as  I  must  do  with  mine.  There  is  something 
at  once  ludicrous  and  blasphemous  in  this  arrogant  scrib- 
bler of  all  works  sitting  down  to  deal  ilamnation  and  de 
struction  upon  his  fellow-creatures,  with  Wat  Tyler,  the 
Apotheosis  of  George  the  Third,  and  the  Eleiiy  on  Mar- 
tin the  regicide,  all  shuffled  together  in  liis  writing-desk. 
One  of  his  consolations  appears  to  be  a  Latin  note  from 
a  work  of  a  Mr.  Landor,  the  author  of"  Gebir,"  whose 
friendship  for  Robert  Southey  will,  it  s<^erns,  "  be  an 
honour  to  him  when  the  ephemeral  disputes  and  ephe- 
meral reputations  of  the  day  are  forgotten."  I  for  one 
neither  envy  him  '-the  friendship,"  nor  the  glory  in 
reversion  which  is  to  accrue  from  it,  like  Mr.  Thelus- 
son's  fortune  in  the  third  and  f)urtb  generation.— 
This  friendship  will  probably  be  as  meinofable  as  his 
own  epics,  which  (as  I  quoted  to  him  len  or  twelve  years 
ago  in  English  Bards)  Porson  said  "would  be  remem- 
bered when  Hoiner  and  Virgil  i:re  forirotten,  and  iir.t  L'l 
then."     For  the  present,  I  leave  hinu 


894 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


OR, 

THE  INHERITANCE; 

A    TRAGEDY. 


TO  THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  GOETHE, 

BY  ONE  OF  IirS  HUMBLEST  ADMIRERS, 
THIS  TRAGEDY  IS  DEDICATED 


PREFACE. 

The  following  drama  is  taken  eiitiroly  from  the  "  Ger- 
man\^  Tale,  Kruitzner,"  pul)lished  many  years  ago  in 
" /^e'.s  Canterbury/  jf'a/es;"  written  (I  believe)  by  two 
sisters,  of  whom  one  furnished  only  this  stv>ry  and 
another,  both  of  which  are  considered  superior  to  tlie 
remainder  of  the  collection.  I  have  adopted  the  char- 
acters, plan,  and  even  the  language,  of  many  parts  of 
.his  story.  Some  of  the  characters  are  modified  or 
altered,  a  few  of  the  names  changed,  and  one  character 
(Ida  of  Stralcnheim)  added  by  myself:  but  in  the  rest 
the  original  is  chieflv  followed.  When  I  was  young 
(about  fourteen,  I  think)  I  first  read  this  tale,  which 
'made  a  deep  impression  ujjon  me;  and  may,  indeed,  be 
suid  to  contain  the  germ  of  much  that  I  have  since 
written.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  ever  was  very  popular  ;  or 
dl  any  rate  its  popularity  has  since  been  eclipsed  by  that 
of  other  great  writers  in  the  same  department.  But  I 
have  generally  found  that  those  who  had  read  it,  agreed 
with  me  in  their  estimate  of  the  singular  [)ower  of  mind 
and  concei)tion  which  it  devel<>pes.  I  should  also  add 
conception,  rather  than  execution  ;  for  the  story  might, 
perhaps,  have  been  more  developed  with  greater  advan- 
tage. Amongst  those  whose  o])inions  agreed  with  mine 
upon  this  story,  I  could  mention  some  very  high  names  ; 
but  it  is  not  necessary,  nor  indeed  of  any  use  ;  for  every 
one  must  judge  according  to  their  own  feelings.  I 
men;ly  refer  tlie  reader  to  the  original  story,  that  he  may 
see  to  what  extent  I  have  borrowed  from  it ;  and  am  not 
unwilling  that  he  should  find  inucli  greater  pleasure  in 
nerusiMg  it  tlian  tlie  drama  which  is  foimded  upon  its 
contents. 

I  had  begun  a  drama  upon  this  tiile  so  far  back  as 
1815  (the  first  I  ever  attempted,  except  one  at  thirteen 
years  old,  called  "  Ulric  ami  llviiia,"  which  I  had  sense 
enough  to  l)urn),  an  1  had  nearly  completed  an  act, 
wncn  I  was  interrupted  by  circumstances.  Tiiis  is  some- 
v/here  amongst  my  papers  in  England;  but  as  it  has  not 
boen  found,  [  have  re-written  the  first,  and  added  the 
subseipient  acts, 

Th(!  vvholo  is  neither  intencJed,  nor  in  any  shape 
dapted,  f  jr  tlic  stage. 

Febiuary^  1822. 


WERNER. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 


MEN. 
Werner. 
Ulhic. 
StralenhejM. 

loENSTEIN. 

Gaeor. 
Fritz. 


Henrick. 

Eric. 

Arxheim. 

Meister. 

PODOLPH. 
I<UD^ylG. 


WOMEN. 

Josephine. 

Ida  Stralenheim. 


Scea« — partly  on  the  frontier  of  Silesia,  and  partly  in 
Siegendorf  Castle,  near  Prague. 

Time — the  close  of  tlie  thirty  years'  war. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE   I. 

The  Hall  of  a  decayed  Palace  near  a  small  Town  on  Lite 

northern  Frontier  of  Silesia — the  JVight  tempestuoua 

Werner  and  Josephine  his  wife. 

JOSEPHINE. 

My  love,  be  calmer  ! 

V^ERNER. 

I  am  calm. 

JOSEPHINE. 

To  me — 
Yes,  but  not  to  thyself:   thy  pace  is  hurried, 
And  no  one  walks  a  chamber  like  to  ours 
With  steps  like  thine  when  his  heart  is  at  rest. 
Were  it  a  garden,  I  should  deem  thee  hapjjy, 
And  stepping  with  the  bee  from  fiower  to  fiower, 
But  here ! 

WERNER. 

'T  is  chill ;   the  tapestry  lets  through 
The  wind  to  which  it  waves :   my  blood  is  frozep 

JOSEPHINE. 

Ah,  nc 

WERNER  {smiling). 
Why  !   wouldst  thou  have  it  so  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

1  would 

Have  it  a  healthful  current. 

WERNER, 

Let  it  flow 
Unnl  't  is  spilt  or  check'd — how  soon,  1  care  not. 


f^a^ 


W  E  R  N  E  K. 


305 


JOSEPHINt. 

A.n(I  am  I  nothing  in  thy  heiiil  ? 

WKK.NHU. 

All— all. 

JUSKIMUNK. 

Then  ciinst  thou  wish  for  t!i;il  which  must  break  mine? 

WKKNKU  {(ipprixirJiini]  lur  slowlt/). 
But  f'oi  t/ire  I  hiul  been — no  matter  what, 
Hut  much  of  good  anti  evil ;    wluil  I  am, 
Thou  knowesl ;    what  I  mi>:ht  or  should  have  been. 
Thou  knowest  not:    but  still  I  love  thee,  nor 
iilXiiW  aught  divide  us. 

[WKKNEti  walks  on  abrupili/,  and  then  ap- 
proaches Josephine. 

The  storm  of  the  night, 
Ferhap)S,  affects  me :   I  'ni  a  thing  of  feelings, 
And  have  of  late  been  sickly,  as,  alas! 
Thou  know'st  by  sufferings  more  than  mine,  ray  love  I 
In  watching  me. 

JOSEPHINE. 

To  see  thee  well  is  much — 
To  see  thee  happy 

WERNER. 

Where  hast  thou  seen  such  ? 
Let  me  be  wretched  with  the  rest! 

JOSEPHINE. 

But  think 
How  many  in  this  hour  of  tempest  shiver 
Beneath  the  biting  wind  and  heavy  rain, 
Whose  every  drop  bows  them  down  nearer  earth, 
V\'nu-h  hath  no  chamber  for  them  save  beneath 
Her  surface. 

WERNER. 

And  that's  not  the  worst:   who  cares 
For  chambers?   rest  is  oil.      The  wretches  whom 
Thou  namest — av,  tiie  winj  howls  rounrl  tliem,  and 
The  dull  and  dropping  rain  saps  in  their  bones 
The  creeping  marrow.     I  have  been  a  soldier, 
A  hiuiter,  and  a  traveller,  and  am 
A  beggar,  and  should  know  the  thing  thou  talk'st  of. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Aiid  art  thou  not  now  sheherM  from  them  all  ? 

WERNER. 

Ves — and  from  these  alone. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  that  is  something. 

WERNER. 

True — to  a  peasant. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Should  the  nobly  born 
Be  thankless  for  that  refuije  which  their  habits 
Of  early  delicacy  render  more 
N'eedful  than  to  the  peasant,  when  the  ebb 
Of  fortune  leaves  them  on  the  shoals  of  life  ? 

WERNER. 

It  is  not  that,  thou  know'st  it  is  not:  we 
Have  borne  all  this,  I  '11  not  say  [)atiently, 
Ex  3pt  in  thee — but  we  have  borne  it. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Weil  ! 

WERNER. 

Something  beyond  our  ovitward  sufferings  (though 
These  were  enough  to  gnaw  into  our  souls) 
Hath  stung  me  oft,  and,  more  than  ever,  voir. 
When,  but  for  this  untoward  sickness,  wliich 
Seized  me  upon  this  liesolate  frontier,  and 
Hath  'vasfed  not  alone  my  strength,  but  means. 
And  leaves  us, — no  !   this  is  beyond  me  !   hut 
For  this  I  had  been  happy — thou  been  hapjiy — 
The  splendour  of  my  rank  sustain'd — ray  name — 


My  father's  name — been  still  ui>Jield  ;   and,  more 

Than  those 

JOSEPHINE  {uhniptlij). 
My  son — our  son — our  Ulric, 
Been  clasn'd  again  in  these  long-empty  arms. 
And  all  a  mother's  hunger  satisiied. 
Twelve  years  !   he  was  but  eight  then :   oeautiful 
He  was,  and  beautiful  he  must  be  now 
My  Ulric  !   my  adored  ! 

WERNER. 

I  have  been  full  oft 
The  chase  of  fortune  ;   now  she  hath  o'ertakei» 
My  spirit  where  it  cannot  turn  at  bay, — 
Sick,  poor,  and  lonely. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Lonely  !   my  dear  husband  ? 

WERNER. 

Or  worse — involving  all  I  love,  in  this 

Far  worse  than  solitude.      Atone,  I  had  died, 

And  all  been  over  in  a  nameless  grave. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  I  had  not  outlived  thee  ;   but  pray  take 
Comfort !   We  have  struggled  long  ;  and  they  who  striv* 
Wilii  fortune  win  or  weary  her  at  last. 
So  that  they  find  the  goal,  or  cease  to  feel 
Further.     Take  comfort, — we  shall  find  our  boy. 

VERNER. 

We  were  in  siglit  of  him,  of  every  thing 

Which  could  bring  comiiensation  for  past  sorrow — 

And  to  be  baiHed  thus ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

We  are  not  baffled. 

WERNER. 

Are  we  not^pennyless  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

We  ne'er  were  wealthy. 

WERNER. 

But  I  w^as  born  to  wealth,  and  rank,  and  ])ower ; 
Enjoy'd  them,  loved  them,  and,  alas  !   abused  them, 
And  forfeited  them  by  my  father's  wrath. 
In  my  o'er-fervent  youth;    but  for  the  abuse 
Long  sufferings  have  atoned.     My  father's  death 
Left  the  path  open,  yet  not  without  snares. 
This  cold  and  creephig  kinsman,  who  so  long 
Kept  his  eye  on  me,  as  the  snake  upon 
The  fluttering  binl,  hath  ere  this  lime  outstept  me, 
Become  the  master  of  my  rights,  and  lord 
Of  that  which  lifts  him  up  to  princes  in 
Dominion  and  domain. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Wlio  knows  ?  our  son 
May  have  return'd  back  to  his  grundsire,  and 
Even  now  uphold  thy  rights  for  thee  ! 

WERNER. 

'T  is  hopelesb; 
Since  his  strange  disappearance  from  my  fathei's. 
Entailing,  as  it  were,  my  sins  u])on 
Himself,  110  tiifings  have  reveal'd  his  course. 
I  |)arted  with  him  t<j  his  grandsire,  en 
The  promise  that  his  anger  would  stop  short 
Of  the  third  generation  ;    but  Heaven  seems 
To  claim  her  stern  prerogativf ,  and  visit 
Upon  my  i)oy  his  father's  faults  and  follies. 

JOSEPH7NE. 

I  must  hope  better  still,— at  least  we  have  yci 
Balfle<l  the  long  pursuit  of  Stralenheim. 

vvi:i;ner. 
We  should  have  done,  but  for  this  fatal  sickness, 
More  fatal  than  a  mortal  malady. 
Because  it  takes  .not  life,  but  life's  sole  solace: 
Even  now  I  feel  my  spirit  girt  about 


806 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


By  the  snares  of  this  avaricious  fteno  \ — 
How  do  I  know  he  hath  not  track'd  us  here  ? 

JOSEPHIXE. 

He  does  not  know  thy  person  ;  and  his  spies, 

Who  so  long  watch'd  thee,  have  been  left  at  Hamburgh 

Our  unexpected  journey,  and  this  change 

Of  name,  leave  all  discovery  far  behind  : 

None  hold  us  here  for  aught  sa/o  what  we  seem. 

^VER^'F.R. 
Save  what  we  seem !   save  what  we  are — sick  beggars, 
Even  to  our  very  hojjes. Ha  !  ha  ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas ! 
That  bitter  laugh  ! 

WERNER. 

Who  would  read  in  this  form 
The  high  soul  of  the  son  of  a  long  line  ? 
IVIw,  in  this  garb,  the  heir  of  princely  lands  ? 
IVko^  in  this  sunken,  sickly  eye,  the  pride 
Of  rank  and  ancestry ;   in  this  worn  cheek, 
.\nd  famine-hoUow'd  brow,  the  lord  of  halls, 
VVhich  daily  feast  a  thousand  vassals? 

JOSEPHINE. 

You 
Ponder'd  not  thus  upon  these  worldly  things. 
My  Werner  !   when  you  deign'd  to  choose  for  bride 
The  foreign  daug()ter  of  a  wandering  exile. 

WERNER. 

All  exile's  daughter  whh  an  outcast  son' 
V\'ere  a  fit  marriage ;   but  I  still  had  hopes 
To  lift  thee  to  the  state  we  both  were  born  for. 
Your  father's  house  was  noble,  though  decay'd ; 
And  worthy  by  its  birth  to  match  with  ours. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Vour  father  did  not  think  so,  though  't  was  noble  ; 
But  had  my  birth  been  all  my  claini  to  match 
With  thee,  I  should  have  deeni'd  it  what  it  is. 

WERNER. 

And  what  is  that  in  thine  eyes  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 


All  which  it 


[las  done  in  our  behall, — nothi 

WERNEI 


How, — nothing  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Or  worse  ;   for  it  has  been  a  canker  in 

Thy  heart  from  the  beginning :   but  for  this. 

We  had  not  felt  our  poverty,  but  as 

Millions  of  myriads  feel  it,  cheerfully  ; 

But  for  these  phantoms  of  thy  feudal  fathers, 

Thou  might'st  have  earn'd  thy  bread  as  thousands  earn  it; 

Oi,  if  that  seem  too  humble,  tried  by  commf^rce. 

Or  other  civic  means,  to  mend  thy  tbrtimes. 

WERNER  {ironicalli/). 
An''  been  an  Hanseatic  burglicr  ?   Excellent! 

JOSEPHINE. 

V\  hale'er  thou  might'st  have  been,  to  me  thou  art, 

VVnat  no  state,  high  or  low,  can  ever  change, 

My  heart's  first   ciioice  ; — which  chose  tliee,  knowing 

neither 
rhyV)irth,  thy  hopes,  thy  pride;  nouL'ht,  save  thv  sorrows: 
While  they  last,  let  me  comfort  or  divide  them; 
When  they  end,  'Ct  nnne  end  with  tlicni,  or  thee  ! 


I  U 


er  r>nnd  th(;e  : 


til 


My  b.'ttiT  angel  !    >^U(:\ 

This  rysliiicss,  or  this  wcalu 

Ne'er  ruised  a  thon^jlit  to  nij 

Tlioii  (li  Isl  not  mar  my  forlums:    tnv  own 

(n  v(.ii!li  was  sii(di  us  t(/  unmake  an  <:mpire 

Had  su'di  l)e(^n  my  inheritance  ;    but  now. 


lupcr 
Imic. 


Chasten'd,  subdued,  outworn,  and  taught  to  Know 
Myself, — to  lose  this  for  our  son  and  thee ! 
Trust  me,  when,  in  my  two-and-twentieth  spring, 
My  father  barr'd  me  from  my  father's  house, 
The  last  sole  scion  of  a  thousand  sires 
(For  I  was  then  the  last),  it  hurt  me  less 
Than  to  behold  my  boy  and  my  boy's  motner 
Excluded  in  their  innocence  fiom  what 
My  faults  deserved  exclusion  ;   although  then 
My  passions  were  all  living  serpents,  and 
Twined  like  the  gorgon's  round  me. 

\A  knocking  is  heard- 

'"OSEPHINE. 

Hark! 

WERNER. 

A.  knocking  • 

JOSEPHINE. 

Who  can  it  be  at  this  lone  hour  ?  wc  have 
Few  visiters. 

WERNER. 

And  poverty  hath  none. 
Save  those  who  come  to  make  it  poorer  still. 
Well,  I  am  prepared. 

[Werner  puts  his  hand  into  hi'i  bosom,  as  if  to 
search  for  some  ivcapon. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh  !   do  not  look  so.    I 
Will  to  the  door  ;  it  cannot  be  of  import 
In  this  lone  spot  of  wintry  desolation — 
The  verjf  desert  saves  man  from  mankmd. 

[She  g:>es  to  the  dom. 

Enter  Idenstein. 

IDENSTKIN. 

A  fair  good  evening  to  my  fairer  hostess 

And  w^orthy what 's  your  name,  my  friend  ? 

WERNER. 

Aie  you 

Not  afraid  to  demand  it  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Not  af-'aid  ! 
Egad  !   I  am  afraid.    You  look  as  if 
I  ask'd  for  something  better  than  your  name, 
By  the  face  you  put  on  it. 

WERNER. 

Better,  sir  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Better  or  worse,  like  matrin^ony,  wdiat 

Shall  I  say  more  ?  Yon  have  been  a  guest  this  month 

Here  in  the  prince's  palace — (to  be  sure, 

His  highness  had  resi^n'd  it  to  the  ghosts 

And  rats  these  twelve  years — but  't  is  still  a  palace)— 

I  say  you  have  been  our  lodger,  and  as  yet 

We  do  not  know  your  name. 

WERNER. 

My  name  is  Werner. 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  goodly  name,  a  very  worthy  name. 
As  e'er  was  gilt  ujjon  a  trader's  hoard  ; 
I  have  a  cousin  in  the  lazaretto 
Of  Hamburgh,  wdio  has  got  a  wifi;  who  bore 
The  same.     He  is  an  oHiccr  of  trust, 
Surgt'on's  assistant  (hopiiiij  to  he  surgeon), 
And  has  done  mir:  cles  i'  the  uay  of  business. 
Perha])s  you  are  related  to  my  relative  ? 

wi:rner. 
To  vours  / 

JOSKl'IlINK. 

Oh,  yes,  we  are,  hut  ilistanti/. 

[Aside  tc  Wernkh. 
Cannot  you  humour  the  dull  gossip,  till 
We  learn  his  j)ur])0se? 


WERNER. 


397 


IDENSTEIN. 

Well.  I  'in  glad  of  that ; 
I  tnonght  so  all  along  ;   such  natural  yearnings 
Play'd  round  my  heart — blood  is  not  water,  cousin ; 
And  so  let 's  have  some  wine,  and  drink  unto 
Our  better  acquaintance:   relatives  should  be 
F'iends, 

WERXER. 

You  appear  to  have  drunk  enough  already, 
And  it'  you  had  not,  I  've  no  wine  to  otler, 
Else  it  were  yours  ;  but  this  you  know,  or  should  know : 
You  see  I  am  poov  ami  sick,  and  will  not  see 
That  I  would  be  alone  ;   but  to  your  business  ! 
What  brings  you  here  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  what  should  bring  me  here  ? 

WERNER. 

I  know  not,  though  I  think  that  I  could  guess 
That  which  will  send  you  hence. 

JOSEPHINE   (aftide). 

Patience,  dear  Werner ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

You  don't  know  what  has  happen'd,  then  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

How  should  we  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  river  has  o'erflow'd. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas !  we  have  known 
That  to  our  sorrow,  for  these  five  days,  since 
It  keeps  us  here. 

IDENSl  EIN. 

But  what  vou  don't  know  is. 
That  a  srrj.t  nersonage.  w;ho  fain  would  cross 
Against  the  stream,  and  three  postilions'  wishes, 
Is  drown'd  below  the  ford,  with  five  post-horses, 
A  monkey,  anc"  a  mastiff,  and  a  valet, 

JOSEPHINE. 

Poor  creatures     are  you  sure  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Yes,  of  the  monkey. 
And  the  valet,  and  the  cattle ;  but  as  yet 
We  know  not  if  his  excellency  's  dead 
Or  no  ;   your  noblemen  are  hard  to  drown, 
As  it  is  fit  that  men  in  office  should  be  ; 
But,  what  is  certain  is,  that  he  has  swallow'd 
Enough  of  the  Oder  to  have  burst  two  peasants; 
And  now  a  Saxon  and  Hungarian  traveller, 
Who,  at  their  proper  peril,  snatch'd  him  from 
The  whirling  river,  have  sent  on  to  crave 
A  lodging,  or  a  grave,  according  as 
[t  may  turn  out  with  the  live  or  dead  body. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  where  will  you  receive  him  ?  here,  I  hope. 
ii"  we  can  be  of  service — say  the  word. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Here  !   no  ;   but  in  the  prince's  own  apartment, 
Hs  fits  a  noble  guest  :   'tis  damp,  no  doubt, 
>.  }.  having  been  inhabited  these  twelve  years  ; 
But  then  he  ccmes  from  a  much  damper  place, 
So  scarcely  will  catch  cold  in  't,  if  he  be 
Slill  liable  to  cold— and  if  not,  why 
He  '11  be  worse  lodged  to-morrow  :   ne'ertheless, 
I  have  order'd  f  re  and  all  appliances 
To  be  got  read}-  for  the  worst — that  is, 
In  case  he  should  survive. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Poor  gentleman? 
[  hope  he  will,  with  all  my  heart. 


WERNER. 

Intenilant, 
Have  you  not  learn'd  his  name  ?  My  Josei)hine, 

[jisidc  to  his  u:ife 
Retire— I  '11  sift  this  fool.  [Exit  Josephixb 

IDENSTEIN. 

His  name  ?  oh  Lord  ! 
Who  knows  if  he  hath  now  a  name  or  no  ; 
'T  is  time  enough  to  ask  it  when  he  's  able 
To  give  an  answer,  or  if  not,  to  put 
His  heir's  upon  his  epita;:h.     Methought, 
Just  now  you  chid  me  for  demanding  names? 

WERNER. 

True,  true,  I  did  so  ;  you  say  well  and  wisely 
Enter  Gabor. 

GABOR. 

If  I  intrude,  I  crave 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh  !  no  intrusion ! 
This  is  the  palace ;  this  a  stranger  like 
Yourself;   I  pray  you  make  yourself  at  home: 
But  where  's  his  excellency,  and  how  fares  he  ? 

GABOR. 

Wetly  and  wearily,  but  out  of  peril  ; 

He  paused  to  change  his  garments  in  a  cottage 

(Where  I  dotf'd  mine  for  these,  and  came  on  hither). 

And  has  almost  recover'd  froin  his  drenching. 

He  will  be  here  anon. 

IDENSTEIN. 

What  ho,  there  !   bustle  ! 
Without  there,  Herman,  Weilburg,  Peter,  Conrad  ! 

[Gives  directions  to  different  servants  who  ent^.r 
A  nobleman  sleeps  here  to-night — see  that 
All  is  in  order  in  the  damask  chamber — 
Keep  up  the  stove — I  will  myself  to  the  cellar — 
And  Madame  Idenstein  (my  consort,  stranger) 
Shall  furnish  forth  the  bed-apparel ;   for. 
To  say  the  truth,  they  are  marvellous  scant  of  this 
Within  the  |)alace  precincts,  since  his  highness 
Left  it  some  dozen  years  ago.     And  then 
His  excellency  will  sup,  doubtless  ? 

GABOR. 

Faith ! 
i  cannot  tell  ;  but  I  should  think  the  pillow 
Would  please  him  better  than  the  table,  after 
His  soaking  in  your  river :   but  for  fear 
Your  viands  should  be  thrown  away,  I  mean 
To  sup  myself,  and  have  a  friend  without 
Who  will  do  honour  to  your  good  cheer  with 
A  traveller's  appetite. 

IDENSTEIN. 

But  are  you  sure 
His  excellency ^but  his  name,  what  is  il? 

GABOR. 

I  do  not  know. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  yet  you  saved  his  life. 

GABOR. 

I  help'd  my  friend  to  do  so. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Well,  that's  Strange, 
To  save  a  man's  life  whom  you  do  not  know. 

GABOR. 

Not  so  ;  for  there  are  some  I  know  so  well, 
I  scarce  should  give  myself  the  trouble. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Pray, 

Good  friend,  and  who  may  you  be  .? 

GABOR. 

Bv  my  family, 
Hungarian. 


398 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


IDENSTEIN. 

Which  is  callM  '! 

GABOR. 

It  matters  lit!  e. 
IDENSTEIN    [aside). 
I  think  that  all  the  world  are  grown  anonymous. 
Since  no  one  cares  to  tell  me  what  he  's  call'd ! 
Pray,  has  his  excellency  a  large  suite  ? 

GABOR. 

Sufficient. 

IDENSTEIN. 

How  many  ? 

GABOR. 

I  did  not  count  them. 
VVt  came  up  by  mere  accident,  and  just 
In  lime  to  drag  him  through  his  carriage  window. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Well,  what  would  I  give  to  save  a  great  man  ! 

No  doubt  you  'U  have  a  swinging  sum  as  recompense. 

GABOR. 

Perhaps. 

IDENSTEIX. 

Now,  how  much  do  you  reckon  on  ? 

GABOR. 

i  have  not  yet  put  up  myself  to  sale : 

In  the  mean  time,  my  best  reward  would  be 

A  glass  of  ycur  Hochheimer,  a  green  glass, 

Wreathed  with  rich  grapes  and  Bacchanal  devices, 

O'erflowing  with  the  oldest  of  your  vintage  ; 

For  which  I  promise  you,  in  case  you  e'er 

Run  hazard  of  being  drown'd  (although  I  own 

It  seems,  of  all  deaths,  the  leasl  hkely  for  you), 

I  'U  pull  you  out  for  nothing.     Quick,  my  friend, 

Ami  think,  for  every  bumper  I  shall  quaff, 

A  wave  the  less  may  roll  above  your  head. 

IDENSTEIN    {aside). 
I  don't  much  like  this  fellow — close  and  dry 
He  seems,  two  things  which  suit  me  not ;  however, 
Wine  he  shall  have ;   if  that  unlocks  him  not, 
I  siiaH  not  sleep  to-night  for  curiosity. 

[Exit  Idenstein 
SAEaR  (to  Werner.) 
This  master  of  the  ceremonies  is 
The  intendant  of  the  palace,  I  presume. 
T  is  a  fine  building,  but  decay'd. 

WERNER. 

The  apartment 
Design'd  for  him  you  rescued,  will  be  found 
In  fitter  order  for  a  sickly  guest. 

GABOR. 

I  wonder  then  you  occupied  it  not, 
.For  you  seem  delicate  in  health. 

WERNER  (quickly). 
Sir! 

GABOR. 

Pray 
Excuse  me :  have  I  said  aught  to  offend  you  ? 


Nothing 


WERNER. 

but  we  are  strangers  to  each  other. 


GABOR. 

And  that 's  the  reason  I  would  have  us  less  so ! 

I  thought  our  bu-stling  guest  without  had  said 

Yoi;  were  a  chance  and  passing  guest,  the  counterpart 

Of  me  and  my  companions. 

WERNER. 

Very  true. 

OABOK. 

Then,  as  we  never  met  before,  and  never, 
Itmay  be,  may  again  encounter,  why, 
I  thought  to  cheer  uj)  this  old  dungeon  here 
(At  Ifiust  to  me)  by  asking  you  to  share 
The  fiiro  ol  niv  companions  an  1  myself 


WE  RNER. 

Pray,  pardon  me  ;   mv  health 

GABOR. 

Even  as  you  jileasA 
I  have  been  a  soldier,  and  perhaps  am  blunt 
In  bearing. 

WERNER. 

I  have  also  served,  and  can 
Requite  a  soldier's  greeting. 

GABOR. 

In  what  service? 
The  Imperial? 

WERNER  (quickly^  mid  then  interrupting  himself) 
I  commanded — no — I  mean 
1  served  ;   but  it  is  many  years  ago. 
When  first  Bohemia  raised  her  banner  'gainst 
The  Austrian. 

GABOR. 

Well,  that's  over,  now,  and  peace 
Has  turn'd  some  thousand  gallant  hearts  adnit 
To  live  as  they  best  may  :   and,  to  say  truth. 
Some  take  the  shortest. 

WERNER. 

What  is  that  ? 

GABOR. 

Whate'er 
They  lay  their  hands  on.     All  Silesia  and 
Lusatia's  woods  are  tenanted  by  bands 
Of  the  late  troops,  who  levy  on  the  country 
Their  maintenance  :   the  Chatelains   must  keep 
Their  castle  walls — beyond  them  't  is  but  doubtfuj 
Travel  for  your  rich  count  or  full-blown  baren. 
My  c5rrifort  is  that,  wander  where  I  may, 
I  've  little  left  to  lose  now. 

WERNER. 

And  I — nothing. 

GABOR. 

That 's  harder  still.     You  say  you  were  a  soldier. 

WERNER. 

I  was. 

GABOR. 

You  look  one  still.     All  soldiers  are 
Or  should  be  comrades,  even  though  enemies. 
Our  swords  when  drawn  must  cross,  our  engines  aim 
(While  levell'd)  at  each  other's  hearts  ;   but  whea 
A  truce,  a  peace,  or  what  you  will,  remits 
The  steel  into  its  scabbard,  and  lets  sleep 
The  spark  which  lights  the  matchlock,  we  are  brethrea 
You  are  poor  and  sickly— I  am  not  rich,  but  heahhy ; 
I  want  for  nothing  which  I  cannot  want ; 
You  seem  devoid  of  this — wilt  share  it  ? 

[Gabor  pulls  out  his  purse. 

WERNER. 

Who 
Told  you  I  was  a  beggar  ? 

GABOR. 

You  yourself. 
In  saying  you  were  a  soldier  during  peace  time. 
WERNER  (looking  at  him  with  suspicion). 
You  know  me  not  ? 

GABOR. 

I  know  no  man,  not  even 
Myself:  how  should  I  then  know  one  I  ne'er 
Beheld,  till  half  an  hour  since  ? 

WERNER. 

Sir,  I  thank  you. 
Your  offer  's  noble,  were  it  to  a  frii^nd. 
And  not  unkind  as  to  an  unknown  stranger, 
Thoujih  scarcely  prudent ;   but  no  less  I  thank  jotk 
I  am  a  Ixigyar  in  all  save  his  trade, 
And  when  I  beg  of  any  one,  it  shall  be 


W  ERNE  R. 


^9 


Of  him  who  was  the  first  to  offer  what 
Fev\  can  obtain  by  asking.     Pardon  ine. 

[Exit  WeK  NER. 
GABOJ     (solus). 

A  goodly  fellow,  by  liis  looks,  tl'.ough  worn. 
As  most  gooti  fellows  are,  by  ;)ani  or  pleasure, 
Which  tear  life  out  of  us  b-jfcre  our  time  : 
I  scarce  know  whicli  most  quickly  ;    but  he  seems 
To  have  seen  better  davs,  as  who  has  not 
Who  has  seen  yesterday  ? — Hut  here  approaches 
Our  sage  intendant,  with  the  wine  ;   however. 
For  the  cup's  sake,  I  "J  bear  the  cup-bearer. 

Enter  Idenstein. 
'T  is  here  !   the  supernaculum  !   twenty  years 
Of  age,  if  't  is  a  day. 

GABOR. 

^Vhich  epoch  makes 
Young-  wouieu  and  old  wine,  and  'tis  great  pity 
Of  iwu  such  excelU'iit  tilings,  increase  of  years, 
Whicli  still  improves  the  one,  should  spoil  the  other. 
Fill  full — Here's  to  our  liostesa — your  fair  wife. 

I'fakes  the  glass. 

IDEXjTEIX. 

Fair ! — Well,  1  trust  your  taste  in  wine  is  equal 
To  that  you  show  for  beauty;  but  I  pledge  you 
Nevertheless. 

GABOR. 

Is  not  the  lovely  woman 
I  met  in  the  adjacent  hall,  who,  with 
An  air,  and  port,  and  eye,  which  would  have  better 
Beseem  (!  .iiis  palace  lu  its  biijrhtcst  davs 
(I'ho'igh  in  a  garb  adapted  to  its  present 
Abandonment ),^eturn"d  my  salutation — 
Fs  not  the  same  your  spouse  '/ 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  would  she  were  ! 
But  you  're  mistaken — that 's  the  stranger's  wife. 

GABOR. 

And  by  her  aspect  she  might  be  a  prince's  : 
Though  time  hath  touch'd  her  too,  she  sti.l  retains 
Much  beauty,  and  more  majesty. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  that 
Is  more  than  I  can  say  for  Madame  Idenstein, 
At  least  in  beauty :   as  tor  majesty, 
She  has  some  of  its  properties  which  might 
Be  spared — but  never  mind  ! 

GABOR. 

I  don't.     But  who 
May  be  this  stranger.     He  too  hath  a  bearing 
Above  his  outward  fortunes. 

IDENSTEIN. 

There  I  differ. 
He  's  poor  as  Job,  and  not  so  patie  it ;   but 
Who  he  may  be,  or  what,  or  augh'  cS  him. 
Except  his  name  (and  that  I  only   earn'd 
To-iiight).  I  know  not. 

GABOR. 

But  how  ;;ame  he  here  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

In  &  nios   miserao.e  old  caleche, 

Abcut  a  month  since,  and  immediately 

f^il  sick,  almost  to  death.     He  should  have  died. 

GABOR. 

lender  and  true! — but  why? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  what  is  life 
Without  a  hving?   He  has  not  a  stiver. 

GABOR. 

In  that  case,  I  much  wonder  tliat  a  person 


Of  your  apparent  prudence  should  a(hnit 
Guests  so  forlorn  into  this  noble  mansiori. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 's  true  ;   but  pity,  as  you  know,  docs  makt 
One's  heart  comnnt  these  follies  ;   and  besides, 
They  had  some  valuables  left  at  that  time, 
Which  paid  tlicir  way  up  to  the  present  hour, 
And  so  I  thought  they  might  as  well  be  lodged 
Here  as  at  the  small  tavern,  and  I  gave  thetn 
The  run  of  some  of  the  oldest  palace  rooms. 
They  served  to  air  tliem,  at  the  least  as  long 
As  they  could  pay  for  fire-wood. 

GABOR. 

Pooj  souls ! 


IDENSTEIN. 


Ay. 


Exceeding  poor. 

GABOR. 

And  yet  unused  to  poverty, 
If  I  mistake  not.     Whither  were  they  going? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh  !   Heaven  knows  where,  unless  to  '.eaven  iise!£ 
Some  days  ago  that  look'd  the  likeliest  journey 
For  Werner. 

GABOR, 

Werner  !   I  have  heard  the  name, 
But  it  may  be  a  feign'd  one. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Like  enough ! 
But  hark !   a  noise  of  wheels  and  voices,  and 
A  blaze  of  torclies  from  without.      As  sure 
As  destiny,  his  excellency's  corns. 
I  must  be  at  my  post :    will  you  not  join  me, 
To  help  hitp  from  his  carriage,  and  present 
Your  humble  duty  at  the  door  ? 

GABOR. 

I  flragg'd  him 
From  out  that  carriage  when  he  would  have  givon 
His  barony  or  county  to  repp) 
The  rushing  river  from  his  gurglin:j  throat. 
He  has  valets  now  enough:   they  stood  aloof  then, 
Shaking  their  dripping  ears  upon  the  shore, 
All  roaring,  "  Help  !"  but  offering  none  ;   and  as 
For  dutt/  (as  you  call  it)  I  did  mine  i/ie/j. 
Now  do  yours.    Hence,  and  bow  arul  cringe  him  here 

IDENSTEIN. 

/  crinse  ! — but  I  shall  lose  the  opportunity — 
Plague  take  it  !   he  '11  be  here,  and  I  not  there  ! 

[Exit  Idenstein,  'lastn^ 
Re-enter  Werner. 
WERNER  [to  himself). 
I  heard  a  noise  of  wheels  and  voices.     How 
All  sounds  now  jar  me  ! 

{Perceiving  G.\Bnii).     Still  here!   Is  he  nr» 
A  spy  of  mv  pursuer's  ?   His  fr  ink  offer, 
So  suddenly,  and  to  a  stranger,  wore 
The  aspect  of  a  secret  enemy  ; 
For  friends  are  slow  at  such. 

GABOR. 

You  seim  rapt, 
And  yet  the  time  is  not  akin  to  thought. 
These  old  walls  will  be  noisy  soon.     The  barer, 
Or  count  (or  wliatsoe'er  this  half-drown'd  noble 
May  be),  for  whom  this  desolate  village,  ann 
Its  lone  inhabitants,  show  more  respect 
Than  did  the  elements,  is  come. 

IDENSTEIN    {without). 

This  way— 
This  way,  your  excellence  : — have  a  care» 
Th*»  staircase  is  a  little  gloomy,  and 


400 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKfe. 


Somewhat  decay'd  ;   but  if  we  had  expected 

So  high  a  guest — pray  take  my  arm,  my  lord ! 

Enter   Stkalenheim,  Idev^I'ei.v,   and  Aitendanta, 

■partly  his  oivn,  and  pa'  ly  retainers  of  the  domain  of 

which  Idenstein  is  Inlendnnt. 

STRALENHEIM. 

1  ll  rest  me  here  a  moment. 

IDENSTEIN  {to  the  servants). 
Oh  !   a  chair  ! 
Instantly,  knaves  !  [Stkalenheim  sits  down. 

WER.VER  (aside). 
'T  IS  he ! 

STKALENHEIM. 

I  'm  better  now. 
Who  are  these  strangers  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Please  you,  my  good  lord, 
One  says  he  is  no  stranger. 

WEKNEK  {aloud  and  hastily). 

Who  says  that? 
[  They  look  at  him  with  surprise. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  no  one  spoke  of  you,  or  to  you  ! — but 

Here  's  one  his  excellency  may  be  pleased 

To  recognise.  [Pointing  to  Gabor. 

GABOR. 

I  seek  not  to  disturb 
His  noble  mesiiory. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  apy)rehend 
This  is  one  of  the  strangers  to  whose  aid 
(  owe  my  rescue.     Is  not  that  the  other  ? 

[Pointing  to  Werner. 
My  slate,  when  I  was  succour'd,  must  excuse 
My  uncertainty  to  whom  I  owe  so  much. 

IDENSTEIN. 

He  ! — no,  my  lord  !   he  rather  wants  for  rescue 
Than  can  afford  it.     'T  is  a  poor  sick  man. 
Travel-tit  ed,  and  lately  risen  from  a  bed 
From  whence  he  never  dream'd  to  rise. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Methought 
That  there  were  two. 

GAT^OR. 

Then^  were,  in  company ; 
But,  in  the  service  render'd  lo  your  lordship, 
I  needs  must  say  but  one,  and  he  is  absent. 
The  chief  part  of  whatever  aid  was  render'd 
Was  his:    it  was  his  fortune  to  be  first. 
My  will  was  not  inferior,  but  his  strength 
And  youth  outstri])p'd  me ;  therefore  do  not  waste 
■^'our  thanks  on  me.     1  was  but  a  glad  second 
f/nto  a  nobler  principal. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Where  is  he  ? 

rtN    ATTENDANT. 

My  lord,  he  tarried  in  the  cottage,  where 
Vour  excellency  rested  for  an  hour, 
\nd  said  he  would  be  here  to-morrow. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Till 

Th.it  hour  arrives,  I  can  but  offer  thanks. 
And  then 

GABOR. 

1  seek  no  more,  and  scarce  deserve 
So  much.      My  comrade  may  speak  for  himself. 

S  IHALENHEIM 

{Fiocinf^  his  c.i/rs  upon  Wekner,  tlien  aside), 
A  cannot  be !    and  vc^t  be  must  b«;  look'd  lo. 
'T  is  twenty  years  since  I  beheld  him  with 
These  eves :   and,  though  my  agents  still  have  kept 


Theirs  on  him,  policy  has  held  a'.oof 

My  own  from  his,  not  lo  alarm  tiitn  into 

Suspicion  of  my  plan.     Why  did  I  leave 

At  Hamburgh  those  who  would  have  made  assurace, 

If  this  be  he  or  no  ?     I  thought,  ere  now. 

To  have  been  lord  of  Siegendorf,  and  parted 

In  haste,  though  even  the  elements  appear 

To  fight  againsl  me,  and  this  sudden  flood 

May  keep  me  prisoner  here  till 

[He  pauses  and  looks  at  Werner  ;   then  resumes. 
This  man  must 
Be  watch'd.     If  it  is  he,  he  is  so  changed. 
His  father,  rising  from  his  grave  again. 
Would  pass  him  by  unknown      I  must  be  wary ; 
An  error  would  spoil  all. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Your  lordship  seems 
Pensive.     Will  it  not  please  you  to  pass  on  ? 

r.TRALENHEIM. 

'T  is  past  fatigue  which  gives  my  weigh'd-down  spirn 
An  outward  show  of  thought,     I  will  to  rest. 

IDENSTEIN 

The  prince's  chamber  is  prepared,  with  all 
The  very  furniture  the  prince  used  when 
Last  here,  in  its  full  splendour. 

(Aside.)   Somewhat  tatter'd 
And  devilish  damp,  but  fine  enough  by  lorch-lighl , 
And  thai 's  enough  for  your  right  noble  blood 
Of  twenty  quarterings  upon  a  hatchment ; 
So  let  their  bearer  sleep  'neath  something  like  one 
Now,  as  he  one  day  will  for  ever  lie, 

STRALENHEIM  (risijig  and  turning  to  Gabor). 
Good  night,  good  people !      Sir,  I  trust  lo-morrow 
Will  find  me  apter  to  reciuite  your  service. 
In  the  mean  time,  I  crave  your  company 
A  moment  in  my  chamber. 

GABOR. 

I  attend  you. 

STRALENHEIM. 

(After  a  few  steps,  pauses^  and  calls  Werner). 
Friend ! 

WERNER. 

Sir? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Sir  !  Lord  !— oh.  Lord  !   \V^hy  don't  you  say 
His  lordship,  or  his  excellency  ?     Pray, 
My  lord,  excuse  this  poor  man's  want  of  breeding : 
He  hath  not  been  accustoiii'd  to  admission 
To  such  a  presence. 

STRALENHEIM   (tO  IdENSTEIN). 

Peace,  iiUendant  |, 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh! 

I  am  dumb. 

STRALENHEIM   (tO  WeRNER). 

Have  you  been  long  here  ? 

WERNER. 

Long? 

STRALENHEIM. 


SOUG-h 


An  answer,  not  an  echo. 

WERNER. 

You  may  seek 
Both  from  the  walls.     I  am  not  used  to  answer 
Those  whom  I  know  not. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Indeed  !   ne'ertheless. 
You  might  reply  with  courtesy,  to  what 
Is  ask'd  in  kindness. 


WERNER. 


401 


WERNER. 

When  I  know  it  such, 
I  will  requite — tnal  is,  reply — in  unison. 

STRALENHEIM. 

rhe  u  tendanf  said, you  had  been  detained  by  sickness — 
[\  1  could  aid  you— journeying  the  same  way  ? 

WERNER    {(juickll/). 

Ixm  not  journeying  the  same  way. 

STHALEMIEIM. 

IIow  krow  ye 
nat,  ere  you  know  my  route  ? 

WERNER. 

Because  there  is 
But  one  way  that  the  rich  and  poor  must  tread 
Together.  You  diverged  from  that  dread  path 
Some  hours  ago,  and  I  some  days ;  henceforth 
Our  roads  must  he  asunder,  though  they  tend 
All  to  one  home. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Your  language  is  above 
Your  station. 

WERNER  (bitterly). 
Is  it  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Or,  at  least,  beyond 
Your  garb. 

WERNER. 

'T  is  well  that  it  is  not  beneath  it, 
As  sometnnes  hapj)ens  to  the  better  clad. 
Bvit.  in  a  word,  what  would  you  with  me  ? 

STRALENHEIM    {stCirtled) . 

I! 

WERNER. 

Yes — you !     You  know  me  not,  and  question  me, 
And  wonder  that  I  answer  not — not  knowing 
My  inquisitor.     Explain  what  you  would  have, 
An ."  then  I  '11  satisfy  yourself,  or  me. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  knew  not  that  you  had  reasons  for  reserve. 

WERNER. 

Man)  have  such  : — Have  you  none  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

None  which  can 
interest  a  mere  stranger. 

WERNER. 

Then  forgive 
The  same  unknown  and  humble  stranger,  if 
He  wishes  to  remain  so  to  the  man 
Who  can  have  nought  in  common  with  him. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Sir, 
I  will  not  balk  your  humour,  though  untoward  : 
I  only  meant  you  service — but,  good  night ! 
Intendant,  show  the  way  ! 

(<o  Gabor).   Sir,  you  will  with  me  ? 
[£^xcuni  Stralenheim  and  Attendants.  Iden- 
STEiN  and.  Gabou. 

WERNER    [solus). 

'T  is  he  !     I  'm  t'-tken  in  the  toils.     Before 
I  quitted  Hamburgh,  Gitilio,  his  late  steward, 
Inform'd  me,  that  ho  hud  obtain'd  an  order 
From  Brandtnburgh's  elector,  for  the  arrest 
Of  Kruitzncr  (such  the  name  I  then  bore),  when 
I  came  upon  the  frontier ;   the  free  city 
Alone  preserved  my  freedom — till  I  left 
Its  walls — fool  that  I  was  to  quit  them  !      But 
[  deem'd  this  humble  garlj,  and  route  obscure. 
Had  baffled  the  slow  houmls  in  their  pursuit. 
What 's  to  be  done  ?     He  knows  me  not  by  person  ; 
Nor  could  aught,  save  the  eye  of  apprehcns  -^n. 
Have  recognised  him^  after  twenty  years, 
26 


We  met  so  rarely  and  so  coldly  in 
Our  youth.     But  those  about  him  !     Nosv  I  <',an 
Divine  the  frankness  of  the  Hungarian,  who, 
No  doubt,  is  a  mere  tool  and  spy  of  Stralenhfcim'fe 
To  sound  and  to  secure  me.     Without  means  ! 
Sick,  poor — begirt  too  with  the  fioochiig  rivers, 
Imj)assable  even  to  the  wealthy,  with 
All  tlie  appliances  which  purchase  modes 
Of  overpowering  peril  with  men's  hves, — 
How  can  I  hope  ?   An  hour  ago,  melhought 
My  state  beyond  des[)air  ;   and  now,  'l  is  such, 
The  past  seems  paradise.     AnotJver  day. 
And  I  'm  detected, — on  the  very  eve 
Of  honours,  rights,  and  my  inheritance, 
Wtien  a  few  drops  of  gold  might  save  me  sti.l 
In  favouring  an  escape. 

Enter  Idenstein  and  Fritz  in  conversation. 

FRITZ. 

Immediately. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  tell  you,  't  is  impossible. 

FRITZ. 

It  must 
Be  tried,  however  ;   and  if  one  express 
Fail,  you  must  send  on  others,  till  the  answer 
Arrives  from  Frankfort,  fi-om  the  commandant* 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  will  do  what  I  can. 

FRITZ. 

And  recollect 
To  spare  no  trouble  ;   you  will  be  repaid 
Tenfold. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  baron  's  retired  to  '•est  ? 

FRITZ. 

He  hnth  thrown  hims-'lf  info  an  easy  chair 
Beside  the  fire,  and  slumbers  ;    and  has  order'd 
He  may  not  be  disturb'd  until  eleven. 
When  he  will  lake  himself  to  bed. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Be.ore 
An  hour  is  past,  I  '11  do  my  best  to  serve  him. 

FRITZ. 

Remember!  [Exit  Fv^lT7. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  devil  take  these  great  men  !   they 
Think  all  things  made  for  them.      Now  here  must  1 
Rouse  up  some  naif  a  dozen  shivering  vassals 
From  their  scant  pallets,  and,  at  peril  of 
Their  lives,  despatch  them  o'er  the  river  towards 
Frankfort.     ^lethinks  the  baron's  own  experience 
Some  hours  ago  might  teach  him  fellow-feeling: 
But  no,  "  it  must,''''  and  there 's  an  end.     How  now  ? 
Are  you  there.  Mynheer  Werner  ? 

WERNER. 

You  have  left 
Your  noble  guest  right  quickly. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Yes — he 's  dozing. 
And  seems  to  like  that  none  should  sleep  besides. 
Here  is  a  packet  for  the  commandant 
Of  Frankfort,  at  all  risks  and  all  expenses  ; 
But  I  must  not  lose  ti.ne :   good  night  ! 

[Ent  Idensimn 

WERNER 

"  To  Frankfort  !' 
So,  so,  it  thickens  !   Ay,  "  the  commandant." 
This  tallies  well  with  all  the  prior  steps 
Of  this  cool  calculating  fiend,  who  walks 
Between  me  and  my  father's  house.     No  doubt 
He  writes  for  a  detachment  to  convey  me 


402 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Into  some  secret  fortrtjss. — Sooner  than 
This 

[Werner  looks  around,  and  snctches  up  a  knife 
lying  on  a  table  in  a  recess. 

Now  1  am  master  of  myself  at  least. 
Hark  ! — footsteps  !   How  do  I  know  that  Stralenheim 
Will  wait  for  even  the  show  of  that  authority 
Which  is  to  overshadow  usurpation? 
That  he  suspects  me 's  certain,     I'm  alone  ; 
He  with  a  iminerous  train.     I  weak  ;   he  strong 
In  gold,  in  numbers,  rank,  authority. 
I  nameless,  or  involving  in  my  name 
Destruction,  till  I  reach  my  own  domain  ; 
He  full-blown  with  his  titles,  which  impose 
Still  further  on  these  obscure  petty  burghers 
Tlian  they  could  flo  elsewhere.     Hark  !   nearer  still ! 
I  '11  to  the  secret  passage,  which  communicates 

With  the No  !   all  is  silent — 't  was  my  fancy  ! — 

Still  as  the  breathless  interval  between 
The  Hash  and  thunder  : — I  must  hush  my  soul 
Vmidst  its  perils.     Yet  I  will  retire, 
To  see  if  still  be  unexplored  the  passage 
I  wot  of:   it  will  serve  me  as  a  den 
Of  secrecy  for  some  hours,  at  the  worst. 

[Werner  draws   a  panel,   and  exit,  closing  tt 
•      after  him. 

Enter  Gabor  and  Josephine. 

GABOR. 

Where  is  your  husband  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Here,  I  thought :  I  left  him 
Not  long  since  m  his  chamber.     But  these  rooms 
Have  many  outlets,  and  he  may  be  gone 
To  accompany  the  intendant. 

GABOR. 

Baron  Stralenheim 
Put  many  (jucstions  to  the  intendant  on 
The  subject  of  your  lord,  and,  to  be  plain, 
I  have  my  doubts  if  he  means  well. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas! 
What  can  there  be  in  common  with  the  proud 
A.nd  wealthy  baron  and  the  unknown  Werner? 

GABOR. 

That  you  know  best. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Or,  if  it  were  so,  how 
Come  you  to  stir  yourself  in  his  behalf, 
Rather  than  that  of  him  whose  life  you  saved  ? 

GABOR. 

I  help'd  to  save  him,  as  in  peril  ;   but 
I  did  not  pledge  myself  to  serve  him  in 
Oppression.     I  know  well  these  nobles,  and 
Their  thousand  modes  of  trampling  on  the  poor. 
I  have  proved  them  ;   and  my  spirit  boils  up,  when 

find  th(;rn  practising  against  the  weak  : — 
This  IS  my  only  motive. 

JOSEPHINE. 

It  would  be 
Not  e;c}  "■  o'?TS':ade  my  consort  of 
Yom  ^ood  intentions. 

GABOR. 

I.i  he  so  suspicious? 

JOSKPMINE. 

Jle  was  not  once  ;   but  time  and  troubles  have 
Made  hnn  wlmt  you  belxdd. 

GAIiOR. 

I  'm  sorry  for  iU 
Smpirion  is  a  heavy  armeur,  anJ 


With  its  o'vn  weight  impedes  more  than  protect  > 
Good  night.    I  trust  to  meet  with  him  at  day-break. 

[Exit  Gabor 

Re-enter  Idenstein  and  some  peasants.     Josei'HINE 
retires  up  the  Hall. 

FIRST    PEASANT. 

But  if  I  'm  drown' d  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  you  '11  be  well  pai'.l  for  'l 
And  have  risk'd  more  than  drowning  for  as  much, 
1  doubt  not. 

SECOND    PEASANT. 

But  our  wives  and  families  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Cannot  be  worse  off  than  they  are,  and  may 
Be  better. 

THIRD    PEASANT. 

I  have  neither,  and  will  venture. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 's  right.     A  gallant  carle,  and  fit  to  be 
A  soldier.     I  '11  promote  you  to  the  ranks 
In  the  prince's  body-guard — if  you  succeed  ; 
And  you  shall  have  besides  in  sparkling  com 
Tlwo  thalers. 

THIRD    PEASANT. 

No  more  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Out  upon  your  avarice  ! 
Can  that  low  vice  alloy  so  much  ambition  ? 
I  tell  thee,  fellow,  that  two  thalers  in 
Small  change  will  subdivide  into  a  treasure. 
Do  not  five  hundred  thousand  heroes  daily 
Risk  lives  and  souls  for  the  lithe  of  one  thaler? 
When  had  you  half  the  sum  ? 

THIRD    PEASANT. 

Never — but  ne'er 
The  less  I  must  have  three. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Have  you  forgot 
Whose  vassal  you  were  born,  knave  ? 

THIRD     PEASANT. 

No — the  princu 
And  not  the  stranger's. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Sirrah  !   in  the  prince's 
Absence,  I  'm  sovereign  ;   and  the  baron  is 
My  intimate  connexion  ; — "  Cousin  Idenstein  I 
(Quoth  he)  you  '11  order  out  a  dozen  villains." 
And  so,  you  villains  !   troop — march — march,  I  say : 
And  if  a  single  dog's  ear  of  this  packet 
Be  sprinkled  by  the  Oder — look  to  it ! 
For  every  page  of  paper,  shall  a  hide 
Of  yours  be  stretch'd  as  parchment  on  a  drum. 
Like  Ziska's  skin,  to  beat  alarm  to  all 
Refractory  vassals,  who  cannot  effect 
Impossibilities — Away,  ye  earth-worms  ! 

[Exit,  driving  ifiem  .mt 
JOSEPHINE  {coming  forward). 
I  fain  would  shun  these  scenes,  too  oft  repeated, 
Of  feudal  tyranny  o'er  petty  victims  ; 
I  cannot  aid,  and  will  not  witness  such. 
Even  here,  m  this  remote,  uimarned,  dull  spot. 
The  dimmest  in  the  district's  map,  exist 
The  insolence  of  wealth  in  poverty 
O'er  something  poorer  still — the  pride  of  rank 
In  servitii(l(!,  o'er  something  still  more  servile; 
And  vice  in  misery,  alfecting  still 
A  tiitt(T'd   splendour.     What  a  state  of  lieing. 
In  Tuseanv,  uiy  o-aii  dor  sunny  lanil. 


W  E  K  N  E  R. 


403 


Our  nobles  were  but  citizens  and  merchants, 

Tiike  Cosmo.     VVe  hud  evils,  but  not  such 

As  these  ;   and  our  all-ripe  and  gushing  valleys 

Made  poverty  more  cheerful,  where  each  herb 

Was  in  irself  a  meal,  and  every  vme 

Rain'd,  as  it  were,  the  beverage  which  makes  glad 

The  heart  ot'  man :   and  the  ne'er  unfelt  sun 

(l?u*.  rarely  cloudea,  and  when  clouded,  leaving 

Eli.s  svarmth  behind  in  memory  of  his  beams) 

INlakes  the  worn  mantle,  and  tlie  thin  robe,  less 

0[)pressive  than  an  emperor's  jewell'd  purple. 

Hut,  here!   the  des[)ots  of  the  north  appear 

To  imitate  the  ice-wind  of  their  clime, 

Searching  the  shivering  vassal  through  his  rags, 

To  wring  his  soul — as  the  bleak  elements 

His  form.     And  'tis  to  be  amongst  these  sovereigns 

INly  husband  pants  !   and  such  his  pride  of  birtli — 

That  twenty  years  of  usage,  such  as  no 

Father,  born  in  an  humble  state,  could  nerve 

His  soul  to  persecute  a  son  withal, 

Huth  changed  no  atom  of  his  early  nature  j 

But  I,  born  nobly  also,  from  my  father's 

Kindness  was  taught  a  different  lesson.     Father ! 

INIay  thy  long-tried  and  now  rewarded  spirit 

Look  down  on  us,  and  our  so  long-desired 

f'iric !   I  love  my  son,  as  thou  didst  me  ! 

What's  that?  Thou,  Werner!  can  it  be:  and  thus ! 

Enter  W'ek.ver  hastili/,  icith  the  knife  in  his  hand,  by 

tlie  secret  panel,  which  he  closes  hurriedli/  after  him. 

WERNER  {not  at  first  recognising  her). 

Discover'd  !   then  I  '11  stab {recognising  her). 

Ah !  Josephine, 
Why  art  thou  net  at  rest  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

What  rest?  My  God! 
WTiat  doth  this  mean  ? 

WERNER  {showing  a  rouleau). 

Here 's  gold — gold,  Josephine, 
Will  rescue  u^  from  this  detested  dungeon. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  how  obtair'd? — that  knife  ! 

WERNER. 

'T  is  bloodless — yet. 
Away —  we  must  to  our  chamber. 

JOSEPHINE. 

But  whence  com'st  thou? 

WERNER. 

Ask  not !  but  let  us  think  where  we  shall  go — 
This — this  will  make  us  way.  {showing  the  gold) — 
I  '11  fit  them  now. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  dare  not  think  thee  guilty  of  dishonour. 

WERNER. 

J)ishonour ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  have  said  it. 

WERNER. 

Let  us  hence : 
'T  is  the  last  night,  I  trust,  that  we  need  pass  here. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  not  the  worst,  I  hope. 

WERNER. 

Hope  !   I  make  stire. 
But  let  us  to  our  chamber. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Yet  one  question  ! 
What  hast  thou  done  ? 

WERNER   {fiercely). 

Left  one  thing  undone,  which 
Had  made  all  well :   let  me  not  think  of  it. 
Away ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas  that  I  should  doubt  of  thee ! 

[Exeunt, 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

A   Hall  in  the  same  Palace. 
Enter  Iden^tein  and  others. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Fine  doings  !   goodly  doings  !   honest  doings  ! 

A  baron  pillaged  in  a  prince's  palace  ! 

Where,  till  this  hour,  such  a  sin  ne'er  was  heard  of. 

FRITZ. 

It  hardly  could,  unless  the  rats  despcll'd 
The  mice  of  a  few  shreds  of  ta[»estry. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh  I   that  I  e'er  should  live  to  see  this  day  ! 
The  honour  of  our  city 's  gone  for  ever. 

FRITZ. 

Well,  but  now  to  discover  the  delinquent ; 
The  baron  is  determined  not  to  lose 
This  sum  without  a  search. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  so  am  L 

FRITZ. 

But  whom  do  you  suspect  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Suspect !   all  people 
Without — within — above — below — Heaven  help  nie  ► 

FRITZ. 

Is  there  no  other  entrance  to  the  chamber  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

None  whatever. 

FRITZ. 

Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Certain.     I  have  lived  and  served  here  since  my  birtb 
And  if  there  were  such,  must  have  heard  of  such. 
Or  seen  it. 

FRITZ. 

Then  it  must  be  some  one  who 
Had  access  to  the  antechamber. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Doubtless. 

FRITZ. 

The  man  call'd  Werner  's  poor ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Poor  as  a  miser, 
But  lodged  so  far  off",  in  the  other  wing. 
By  which  there  's  no  communication  with 
The  baron's  chamber,  that  it  can't  be  he : 
Besides,  I  bade  him  "  good  night"  in  the  hall, 
Almost  a  mile  otf,  and  which  only  leads 
To  his  own  apartment,  about  the  same  time 
When  this  burglarious,  larcenous  felony 
Appears  to  have  been  committed. 

FRITZ. 

There 's  another- 
The  stranger^ — 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  Hungarian  ? 

FRITZ. 


He  who  help'o 


To  fish  the  baron  from  the  Oder. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Not 
Unlikely.      But,  hold — might  it  not  have  been 
One  of  the  suite  ? 

t  RITZ. 

How?    IVe,  Sir! 

IDENSTEIN. 

No — n  x  yoa 
But  some  of  the  inferior  knaves.     You  say 
The  baron  was  asleep  in  the  great  chair — 


404 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


The  velvet  chair — in  his  en'oroider'd  night-gown  ; 

His  toilet  spread  before  him,  and  upon  it 

A  cabinet  with  letters,  papers,  and 

Several  rouleaux  of  gola  ;  of  which  one  only 

Has  disappear'd : — the  door  unbolted,  vvith 

No  difficult  access  to  any. 

FRITZ. 

Good  sir, 
Be  ni>t  so  quick :  tne  honour  of  the  corps, 
Which  forms  the  baron's  household,  's  unimpeach'd, 
From  steward  to  scullion,  save  in  the  fair  way 
Of  peculation  ;  such  as  in  accompts. 
Weights,  measures,  larder,  cellar,  buttery, 
Where  all  men  take  their  prey ;   as  also  in 
Postage  of  letters,  gathering  of  rents. 
Purveying  feasts,  and  understanding  with 
The  honest  trades  who  furmsh  noble  masters  : 
But  for  your  petty,  picking,  downright  thievery, 
We  scorn  it  as  we  do  board-wages :   then 
Had  one  of  our  folks  done  it,  he  would  not 
Have  been  so  poor  a  spirit  as  to  hazard 
His  neck  for  one  rouleau,  but  have  svvoop'd  allj 
Also  the  cabinet,  if  portable. 

IDENS'l'EIN. 

Tnere  is  some  sense  in  that 

FRITZ. 

No,  sir  ;  be  sure 
'T  was  none  of  our  corps  ;   but  some  petty,  trivial 
Picker  and  stealer,  without  art  or  genius, 
riie  only  question  is — Who  else  could  have 
Access,  save  the  Hungarian  and  yourself? 

IDKNSTEIX. 

You  don't  mean  me? 

FRITZ. 

No,  sir  ;   I  honour  more 
Vnur  talents 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  my  principles,  I  hope. 

FRITZ. 

Of  course.     But  to  the  point :  What 's  to  be  done? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Nothing — but  there 's  a  good  deal  to  be  said. 
We  '11  offer  a  reward  ;   move  heaven  and  earth, 
And  the  police  (though  there  's  none  nearer  than 
Frankfort);   post  nonces  in  manuscript 
(For  we've  no  printer);   and  set  by  my  clerk 
To  read  them  (for  few  can,  save  he  and  I). 
We'll  send  out  villains  to  strip  beggars,  and 
Search  empty  pockets  ;   also,  to  arrest 
All  gypsies,  and  ill-clothed  and  sallow  people. 
Prisoners  we  '11  have  at  least,  if  not  the  culprit ; 
And  for  the  baron's  gold — if  't  is  not  found. 
At  least  he  shall  have  the  full  satisfa(;tion 
Of  melting  twice  the  substance  in  the  raising 
The  ghost  of  this  rouleau.     Here  's  alchymy 
For  your  lord's  losses  ! 

FRITZ. 

He  hath  found  a  better. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Where  ? 

FRITZ. 

In  a  nost  immense  inheritance. 
'Y\ic  late  Couil  Siegendorf,  his  disJant  kinsman, 
Is  dead  near  Prague,  in  his  castle,  and  my  lord 
Is  on  his  way  U    take  |iossessi(>ri. 

I  DENS  IE  IN. 

Was  there 
No  neir? 

FRITZ. 

Oil,  y«!S  ;    but  he  has  disappear'd 
Lomj  from  the  world's  <!y(;,  atiii  perhaps  the  world. 
\  MD.iigal  son,  beneath  his  father's  bai. 


For  the  last  twenty  years  ;  for  whom  his  su« 
Refused  to  kill  he  fatted  calf;   and,  therefore. 
If  living,  he  must  chew  the  husks  still.      Bui 
The  baron  would  .find  means  to  silence  him, 
Were  he  to  re-appear:  he's  politic, 
And  has  much  influence  with  a  certain  court. 

IDENSTEIN. 

He 's  fortunate. 

FRITZ. 

'T  is  true,  there  is  a  grandson, 
Whom  the  late  count  reclaim'd  from  his  son's  hands, 
And  educated  as  his  heir ;  but  then 
His  birth  is  doubtful. 

IDENSTEIN. 

How  so? 

FRITZ. 

His  sire  made 
A  left-hand  love,  imprudent  sort  of  marriage, 
With  an  Italian  exile's  dark-eyed  daughter : 
Noble,  they  say,  too  ;   but  no  match  for  such 
A  house  as  Siegendorf's.     The  grandsire  ill 
Could  brook  the  alliance ;   and  could  ne'er  be  broughl 
To  see  the  parents,  though  he  took  the  son. 

IDENSTEIN. 

If  he  's  a  lad  of  mettle,  he  may  yet 

Dispute  your  claim,  and  weave  a  web  that  may 

Puzzle  your  baron  to  unravel. 

FRITZ. 

Why, 
For  mettle,  he  has  quite  enough :  they  say. 
He  forms  a  happy  mixture  of  his  sire 
And  grandsire's  quahiies, — impetuous  as 
The  former,  and  deep  as  the  latter  ;   but 
The  strangest  is,  that  he  too  disappear'd 
Some  months  ago. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  devil  he  did ! 

FRITZ. 

Why,  yes , 

It  must  have  been  at  his  suggestion,  at 

An  hour  so  critical  as  was  the  eve 

Of  the  old  man's  death,  whose  heart  was  broken  by  il 

IDENSTEIN. 

Was  there  no  cause  assign'd  ? 

FRITZ. 

Plenty,  no  doubt, 
And  none  perhaps  the  true  one.     Some  averr'd 
It  was  to  seek  his  parents ;   some,  because 
The  old  man  held  his  spirit  in  so  strictly 
I    (But  that  could  scarce  be,  for  he  doted  on  him): 
A  third  believed  he  wish'd  to  serve  in  war, 
But  peace  being  made  soon  after  his  departure. 
He  might  have  since  return'd,  were  that  the  motive , 
A  fourth  set  charitably  have  surmised, 
As  there  was  something  st'-ange  and  mystic  in  him. 
That  in  the  wild  exuberance  of  his  nature. 
He  had  join'd  the  black  bands,  who  lay  waste  Luratin 
The  mountains  of  Bohemia  and  Silesia, 
Since  the  last  years  of  war  had  duintlled  mto 
A  kind  of  general  condottiero  system 
Of  bandit  warfare  ;   each  troop  with  its  chief. 
And  all  against  mankind. 

IDENS",  EIN. 

That  cannot  be. 
A  young  heir,  bred  to  wealth  and  luxury. 
To  risk  his  life  and  honours  with  disbanded 
Soldiers  and  desperadoes ! 

FRITZ. 

Heaven  best  knows! 
{     But  there  are  human  natures  so  ^Mlied 
I     Unto  the  savage  love  of  enterprise. 


WERNER. 


405 


That  they  will  seek  for  peril  as  a  pleasure. 

I  've  heard  that  nothing  ca.i  reclaim  your  Indian, 

Or  tanie  the  tiger,  though  their  infavicy 

Were  fed  on  milk  and  honey.     After  all, 

Your  Wallenstein,  your  Tilly  and  Guslavus, 

Vour  Bannier,  and  your  Torstenson  and  Weimar, 

Were  but  me  same  thing  upon  a  grand  scale ; 

And  now  that  they  are  gone,  and  peace  proclaim'd, 

They  who  would  follow  the  same  pastime  must 

Pursue  it  on  their  own  account.     Here  comes 

The  baron,  and  the  Saxon  stranger,  whc 

Was  his  chief  aid  in  yesterday's  escajje, 

\iu\  did  not  leave  the  cottage  by  the  Oder 

Until  this  morning. 

Enter  Stralenheim  and  Ulric. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Since  you  have  refused 
All  coinpensation,  gentle  stranger,  save 
Inadequate  thanks,  you  almost  check  even  them, 
Making  me  feel  the  worthlessness  of  words. 
And  blush  at  my  own  barren  gratitude. 
They  seem  so  niggardly,  compared  with  what 
Your  courteous  courage  did  in  my  behalf. 

ULRIC. 

I  pray  you  press  the  theme  no  further. 

STRALENHEIM. 

But 

Can  I  not  serve  you  ?  You  are  young,  and  of 

That  mould  which  throws  out  heroes  ;   fair  in  favour ; 

Brave,  I  know,  by  my  living  now  to  say  so, 

And,  doubtlessly,  with  such  a  form  and  heart. 

Would  look  into  the  fiery  eyes  of  war, 

As  ardently  for  glory  as  you  dared 

Ail  obscure  death  to  save  an  unknown  stranger 

In  an  as  perilous  but  oppos'te  element. 

You  are  made  for  the  service  :  I  have  served  ; 

Have  rank  by  birth  and  soldiership,  and  friends 

Who  shall  be  yours.    'T  is  true,  this  pause  of  peace 

Favours  such  views  at  present  scantily  ; 

But  't  will  not  last,  men's  spirits  are  too  stirring ; 

And,  after  thirty  years  of  conflict,  peace 

fs  but  a  petty  war,  as  the  times  show  us 

[n  every  forest,  or  a  mere  arm'd  truce. 

War  will  reclaim  his  own  ;   and,  in  the  mean  time. 

You  might  obtain  a  post,  which  would  insure 

A  higher  soon,  and,  by  my  influence,  fail  not 

To  rise.     I  sjieak  of  Brandenburgh,  wherein 

I  stand  well  with  the  elector ;   in  Bohemia, 

Like  you,  I  am  a  stranger,  and  we  are  now 

Upon  its  frontier. 

ULRIC. 

You  perceive  my  garb 
{s  Saxon,  and  of  course  my  service  due 
To  my  own  sovereign.     If  I  must  decline 
Your  offer,  't  is  with  the  same  feeling  whi^.h 
Induced  it. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Why,  this  is  mere  usury  ! 
I  owe  my  life  to  you,  and  you  refuse 
The  acquittance  of  the  interest  of  the  debt, 
l"o  heap  more  obligations  on  me,  till 
I  bow  beneath  them. 

ULRIC. 

You  shall  say  so,  when 
1  -Jaim  the  payment. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Well,  sir,  since  you  will  not  — 
Fou  are  nobly  bom  ? 

ULRIC. 

I  've  heard  my  kinsmen  say  so. 


STRALENHEIM. 

Your  actions  show  it.     Might  1  ask  your  name? 

ULRIC. 

Ulric. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Your  house's? 

ULRIC 

When  I  'm  worthy  of  il, 
I  '11  answer  you. 

STRALENHEIM    {cmde). 

Most  probably  an  Austrian, 
Whom  these  unsettled  times  forbid  to  boast 
His  lineage  on  these  wild  and  dangerous  frontiers, 
Where  the  name  of  his  country  is  abhorr'd. 

[Aloud  to  Fritz  and  Idenstei^ 
So,  sirs !  how  have  you  sped  in  your  researches  '^ 

IDENSTEIN. 

Indifferent  well,  your  excellency. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Then 
I  am  to  deem  the  plunderer  is  caught? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Humph ! — not  exactly. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Or  at  least  suspected. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh !  for  that  matter,  very  much  suspected. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Who  may  he  be  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  don't  you  know,  my  lord  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

How  should  I  ?  I  was  fast  asleep. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  so 
Was  I,  and  that 's  the  cause  I  know  no  more 
Than  does  your  excellency. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Dolt! 

IDENSTEIN. 

W^hy,  if 
Your  lordship,  being  robb'd,  don't  recognise 
The  rogue ;   how  should  I,  not  being  robb'd,  identifv 
The  thief  among  so  many  ?   In  the  crowd. 
May  it  please  your  excellency,  your  thief  looks 
Exactly  like  the  rest,  or  rather  better : 
'T  is  only  at  the  bar  and  in  the  dungeon 
That  wise  men  know  your  felon  by  his  features  ; 
But  I  '11  engage,  that  if  seen  there  but  once, 
Whether  he  be  found  criminal  or  no. 
His  face  shall  be  so. 

STRALENHEIM   (^FrITz). 

Prithee,  Fritz,  inform  me 
What  hath  been  done  to  trace  the  fellow  ? 

FRITZ. 

Faith « 
My  lord,  not  much  as  yet,  except  conjecture. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Besides  the  loss  (which,  I  must  own,  affects  me 
Just  now  materially),  I  needs  would  find 
The  villain  out  of  public  motives  ;   for 
So  dexterous  a  spoiler,  who  could  creep 
Through  my  attendants,  and  so  many  peopled 
And  lighted  chambers,  on  my  rest,  and  snatch 
The  gold  before  my  scarce-closed  eyes,  would  sooe. 
Leave  bare  your  borough.  Sir  Intendant ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

True , 
If  there  were  aught  to  carry  off,  my  lord. 

ULRIC. 

What  is  all  this? 

STRALENHEIM. 

You  join'd  as  but  this  morning, 


106 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


And  have  not  heard  that  I  was  robb'd  last  night. 

ULRIC. 

Some  rumour  of  it  reach'd  ine  as  I  pass'd 
The  outer  chambers  of  the  palace,  but 
I  kno'v  no  further. 

STRALEiVHKIM. 

It  is  a  strange  business  : 
The  intendant  can  inform  you  of  the  facts. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Most  willingly.     You  see 

STRALENHEiM  {impatiently). 
Defer  your  tale, 
Till  certain  of  the  hearer's  jiatience. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 

<Jan  only  be  approved  by  proofs.     You  see 

sTRALENHEiM  [again interrupting  him,  and  addiesS' 
ing  Ulric). 
In  short,  I  was  asleep  upon  a  chair, 
M^'  cabinet  before  me,  with  some  gold 
ijDon  it  (more  than  I  much  like  to  lose, 
Tliough  in  part  only) :   some  ingenious  person 
Contrived  to  glide  through  all  my  own  attendants 
Besides  those  of  the  place,  and  bore  away 
A  hundred  golden  ducats,  which  to  find 
I  would  be  fain,  and  there  's  an  end  ;   perhaps 
You  (as  I  still  am  rather  faint),  would  add 
To  yesterday's  great  obligation,  tliis. 
Though  slighter,  yet  not  slight,  to  aid  these  men 
(Wtio  seem  but  lukewarm)  in  recovering  it '/ 

ULRIC. 

Most  willingly,  and  without  loss  of  time — 
^7V;  Idenstein).     Come  hither.  Mynheer  ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

But  so  much  haste  bodes 
R'arht  little  speed,  and 

ULRIC. 

Standing  motionless. 
None  ;  so  let 's  march,  we  '11  talk  as  we  go  on. 

IDENSTEIN. 

But 

ULRIC. 

Show  the  spot,  and  then  I  '11  answer  you. 

FRITZ. 

I  will,  sir,  with  his  excellency's  leave. 

STRALENIIEIM. 

Do  so,  and  take  yon  old  ass  with  you. 

FRITZ. 

Hence ! 

ULRIC. 

Come  on,  old  oracle,  expound  thy  riddle  ! 

[Exit  with  Idenstein  and  Fritz. 

STRALENHEIM   [solus). 

A  Stalwart,  active,  soldier-looking  stripling. 

Hajidsonie  as  Hercules  ere  his  first  labour. 

And  with  a  brow  of  thought  beyond  his  years 

VVhen  in  repose,  til!  his  eye  kindle  up 

In  answering  yours.     I  wish  I  could  engage  him ; 

I  have  need  of  some  such  spirits  near  me  now, 

For  this  inlierilance  is  worth  a  struggle. 

And  though  I  am  not  the  man  to  yield  without  one, 

Neither  are  they  who  now  rise  u[)  between  me 

Anr]  my  desire.     The  boy,  they  say, 's  a  bold  one: 

But  he  hath  i)lay'(i  the  truant  in  some  hour 

Of  Ireakish  folly,  l<!aving  fortune  to 

Chiimpion  his  claims:    that's  well.   The  father,  whom 

For  vears  I've  track'd,  as  docs  the  blood-hound,  never 

In  sight,  but  cf>nstaMtly  in  scent,  had  put  me 

To  fault,  but  hiri  1  liarc  him,  and  tliat  's  better. 

It  must  be  he!  All  circunislance  proclaims  it; 

And  careless  voices,  knowing  not  the  cause 

Of  my  UKiuiries,  still  conlirin  it — Yes  ! 


The  man,  his  bearing,  and  the  mystery 

Of  his  arrival,  and  the  time  ;   the  account,  oo, 

The  intendant  gave  (for  I  have  not  beheld  her) 

Of  his  wife's  dignified  but  foreign  aspect: 

Besides  the  anti[)athy  with  which  we  met, 

As  snakes  and  lions  shrink  back  from  each  othci 

By  secret  instinct  that  both  must  be  toes 

Deadly,  without  being  natural  prey  to  either ; 

All — all — confirm  it  to  my  mind  :   however. 

We  '11  grapple,  ne'ertheless.     In  a  few  hours 

The  order  comes  from  Frankfort,  if  these  waters 

Rise  not  the  higher  (and  the  weather  favours 

Their  quick  abatement),  and  I  '11  have  him  safe 

Within  a  dungeon,  where  he  may  avouch 

Flis  real  estate  and  name  ;   and  there  's  no  harm  dona 

Should  he  prove  other  than  I  deem.     This  robbery 

(Save  for  the  actual  loss)  is  lucky  also  : 

He  's  poor,  and  that 's  suspicious — he  's  unknown. 

And  that 's  defenceless, — true,  we  have  no  proofs 

Of  guilt,  but  what  hath  he  of  innocence  ? 

Were  he  a  man  indifferent  to  my  prospects, 

In  other  bearings,  I  should  rather  lay 

The  inculi)ation  on  the  Hungarian,  who 

Hath  something  which  I  like  not ;   and  alone 

Of  all  around,  except  the  intendant,  and 

The  prince's  household  and  my  own,  had  ingress 

Familiar  to  the  chamber. 

Enter  Gab  or. 

Friend,  how  fare  you? 

GAEOR. 

As  those  who  fare  well  every  where,  when  they 
Have  supp'd  and  slumber'd,  no  great  matter  how— 
And  you,  my  lord? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Bctt(^r  in  rest  than  purse: 
Mine  inn  is  like  to  cost  me  dear. 

GABOR. 

I  heard 

Of  your  late  loss :  but 't  is  a  trifle  to 
One  of  your  order. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You  would  hardly  think  so 
Were  the  loss  yours. 

GABOR. 

I  never  had  so  much 
(At  once)  in  my  whole  life,  and  therefore  am  not 
Fit  to  decide.     But  I  came  here  to  seek  you. 
Your  couriers  are  turn'd  back — I  have  outstripi  tnem, 
In  my  return. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You  !— Why  ? 

GABOR. 

I  went  at  day-break, 
To  watch  for  the  abatement  of  the  river 
As  being  anxious  to  resume  my  journey. 
Your  messengers  were  all  check'd  l!ke  myself; 
And,  seeing  the  case  hopeless,  I  await 
The  current's  pleasure. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Would  the  dogs  were  in  it ! 
Why  did  they  not,  at  least,  attempt  the  passage  ? 
I  order'd  this  at  all  risks. 

GABOR. 

Could  you  order 
The  Oder  to  divide,  as  Moses  did 
The  Red  Sea  (scarcely  redder  than  the  flood 
Of  the  swolii  stream),  and  be  obey'd,  perhaps 
They  might  have  ventured. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  must  see  to  it : 
The  Knaves  !  the  slaves  ! — but  th(>v  shall  smarl  for  thia 

[Exit  STRALENHEIM 


WERNER. 


407 


GABOR   {solus). 

riiere  goes  my  noble,  feudal,  self-will'd  baron  ! 
Epitome  of  wliat  brave  chivalry 
The  preux  chevaliers  of  the  good  old  times 
Have  let't  us.     Yesterday  he  would  luive  given 
His  lands  (if  he  hath  any),  and,  still  dearer 
His  sixteen  quarterings,  for  as  much  fresh  ai-' 
As  would  have  tilled  a  blailder,  while  he  lay 
Gurgling  and  foaming  halfway  through  the  window 
Of  his  o'erset  and  water-logg'd  conveyance  ; 
And  now  he  storms  at  half  a  dozen  wretches 
Because  they  love  their  lives  too  !   Yet  he  's  right : 
T  IS  strange  they  should,  when  such  as  he  may  put 

them 
To  hazard  at  his  pleasure.     Oh  !   thou  world! 
Thou  art  indeed  a  melancholy  jest !         [Exit  Gabor. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Apartment  of  Werner,  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Josephine  and  Ulric. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Stand  back,  and  let  me  look  on  thee  again ! 
My  Ulric  ! — my  beloved  ! — can  it  be — 
After  twelve  years  ? 

ULRIC. 

My  dearest  mother ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Yes! 
My  dream  is  realized — how  beautiful — 
How  more  than  all  I  sigh'd  for  !   Heaven  receive 
A  mother's  thanks  ! — a  mother's  tears  of  joy  ! 
riiis  is  indeed  thy  work  ! — At  such  an  hour  too, 
He  comes  not  only  as  a  son  but  saviour. 

ULKIC. 

If  such  joy  await  me,  i:  must  double 

What  I  now  feel,  and  lighten,  from  my  heart, 

A  part  of  the  long  debt  of  duty,  not 

Of  love  (for  that  was  ne'er  withheld) — forgive  me! 

This  long  delay  was  not  my  fiiiilt. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  know  it. 
But  cannot  think  of  sorrow  now,  and  doubt 
If  I  e'er  felt  it,  't  is  so  dazzled  from 
My  memory,  by  this  oblivious  transport! — 
My  son ! 

Enter  Werner. 

WERNER. 

-more  strangers  ? 


What  have  we  here  ? — i 

JOSEPHINE. 


Look  upon  him !  W^hat  do  you  see  ? 

WERNER. 


No! 


For  the  first  time- 


A  stripling, 


Oh,  God « 


ULRIC  {kneeling). 
For  twelve  long  years,  my  father ! 

WERNER. 


JOSEPHINE. 


He  faints  ! 

WERNER. 

No — I  am  better  now— 
Utno '    {Embraces  him). 

ULRIC. 

My  father,  Siegendorf ! 

WERNER  {startins;). 

Hush  !   boy  — 
Tht  waJls  may  hear  that  name  ! 

ULRIC 

What  then  ? 


WERNER. 

Why,  then— 
But  we  will  talk  of  that  anon.     Remember, 
I  must  be  known  here  but  ar;  Werner.     Come ! 
Come  to  my  arms  again !   Why,  thou  look'st  all 
I  should  have  been,  and  was  not.     Josephine ! 
Sure  'tis  no  father'^  fondness  dazzles  me; 
But  had  I  seen  that  form  amid  ten  thousand 
Youth  of  the  choicest,  my  heart  would  have  ciiusen 
This  for  my  son ! 

ULRIC. 

And  yet  you  knew  me  not ! 

WERNER. 

Alas !   I  have  had  that  ujion  my  soul 

Which  makes  mo  look  on  all  men  with  an  eye 

That  only  knows  the  evil  at  first  glance. 

ULRIC 

My  memory  served  me  far  more  fondly  :   I 

Have  not  forgotten  aught ;   and  oft-times  in 

The  proud  and  princely  halls  of — (I  'II  not  name  them, 

As  you  say  that  'tis  perilous),  but  i'  the  pomp 

Of  your  sire's  feudal  mansion,  I  look'd  back 

To  the  Bohemian  mountains  many  a  sunset, 

And  wept  to  see  another  day  go  down 

O'er  thee  and  me,  with  those  huge  hills  between  us. 

They  shall  not  "part  us  more. 

WERNER. 

I  know  not  that. 
Are  you  aware  my  father  is  no  more  ? 

ULRIC 

Oh  heavens  !   I  left  him  in  a  green  old  age. 

And  looking  like  the  oak,  worn,  but  still  steady 

Amidst  the  elements,  whilst  younger  trees 

Fell  fast  around  him.   'T  was  scarce  three  months  sinue 

WERNER. 

Why  did  you  leave  hiir.  ? 

JOSEPHINE   {embracing  Ulric). 

Can  you  ask  that  q  lestion? 
Is  he  not  here  ? 

WEHNER. 

True  ;   he  hath  sought  his  parents, 
And  found  them ;  but,  oh !  how,  and  in  what  stj^te  1 

ULRIC. 

All  shall  be  better'd.     What  we  have  to  do 

Is  to  proceed,  and  to  assert  our  rights. 

Or  rather  yours  ;   for  I  waive  all,  unless 

Your  father  has  disposed  in  such  a  sort 

Of  his  broad  lands  as  to  make  mine  the  foremost 

So  that  I  must  prefer  my  claim  for  form: 

But  I  trust  better,  and  that  all  is  yours. 

WERNER. 

Have  you  not  heard  of  Stralenheim  ? 

ULRIC. 

I  saved 

His  hfe  but  yesterday :  he  's  here. 

WERNER. 

You  saved 
The  serpent  who  will  sting  us  all ! 

,  UIRIC. 

You  speaA 
Riddles  :   what  is  this  Stralenheim  to  us  ? 

WERNER. 

Every  thing.     One  who  claims  our  fathers'  lands 
Our  distant  kinsman,  and  our  nearest  foe. 

ULRIC 

I  never  heard  his  name  till  now.     The  count. 
Indeed,  spoke  sometimes  of  a  kinsman,  who, 
If  his  own  line  should  fail,  might  be  remotely 
Involved  in  the  succession  :   but  his  titles 
Were  never  named  before  me — and  what  then? 
His  right  must  yield  t :  ours. 


408 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


WERNER. 

Ay,  if  at  Prague  : 
But  here  he  is  all-powerful;   and  has  spread 
Snares  for  thy  father,  which,  if  hitherto 
He  hath  escaped  them,  is  by  fortune,  not 
By  favour. 

ULRIC. 

Doth  he  personally  know  you  ? 

WERNER.    • 

N  ; ;  but  he  guesses  shrewdly  at  uiy  person. 
As  he  betray'd  last  night  ;   and  I,  perhaps, 
But  owe  my  temporary  liberty 
To  his  uncertainty. 

ULRIC. 

I  think  you  wrong  him, 
(Excuse  me  for  the  phrase)  ;   but  Stralenheim 
Is  not  what  you  prejudge  him,  or,  if  so, 
He  owes  me  something  both  for  past  and  present ; 
I  saved  his  life,  he  therefore  trusts  in  me ; 
He  hath  been  plunder'd  too,  since  he  came  hither ; 
Is  sick  ;   a  stranger ;   and  as  such  not  now 
Able  to  trace  the  villain  who  hath  robb'd  him ; 
I  have  pledged  myself  to  do  so  ;   and  the  business 
Which  brought  me  here  was  chiefly  that :   but  I 
Have  found,  in  searching  for  another's  dross. 
My  own  whole  treasure — you,  my  parents ! 
WERNER   {agitatedly). 

Who 
Taught  you  to  mouth  that  name  of  "  villain  ?" 

ULRIC. 

WHiat 
More  noble  name  belongs  to  common  thieves  ? 

WERNER. 

Who  taught  you  thus  to  brand  an  unknown  being 
V\  ith  an  infernal  stigma? 

ULRIC. 

My  own  feelings 
Taught  me  to  name  a  ruffian  from  his  deeds. 

WERNER. 

Who  taught  you,  long-sought,  and  ill-found  boy  !   that 
It  would  be  safe  for  my  own  son  to  insult  me  ? 

ULRIC 

I  named  a  villain.    What  is  there  in  common 
With  such  a  being  and  my  father  ? 

WERNER. 

Every  thing ! 
That  ruffian  is  thy  father ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh,  my  son  ! 

Believe  him  not — and  yet! {Her  voice  falters.) 

ULRIC  {starts.,  looks  earnestly  at  Werner,  and  then 
says  sloiuly). 

And  you  avow  it  ? 

WERNER. 

IJlric!   before  you  dare^lespise  your  father. 

Learn  to  divine  and  judge  his  actions.     Young, 

Rash,  new  to  life,  and  rear'd  in  luxury's  lap, 

Is  it  for  you  to  measure  passion's  force 

Or  misery's  temptation?   Wait — (not  long. 

It  coiricth  like  tiie  night,  and  (luickly) — Wait! — 

Wait  till,  like  me,  your  hopes  are  blighted — till 

Sorrow  and  shame  are  handmaids  of  your  cabin  ; 

Famine  and  poverty  your  guests  at  table ; 

Despair  your  bed-f«'llow — then  rise,  but  not 

From  sleep,  and  judge  !    Should  that  day  e'er  arrive — 

Should  you  see  then  the  serpent,  who  hath  coil'd 

Hunsiilf  around  all  ''lat  is  dear  and  noble 

Of  you  and  yours,  Ik;  slumbering  in  your  path. 

With  l)ut  his  folds  be'wecri  your  steps  ami  happiness, 

When  /le,  who  lives  but  to  tear  from  you  name, 

Lands,  lif<i  ji-^elf,  li(!s  at  ve-ir  niercv,  with 


Chance  your  conductor ;  midnight  for  your  mar  tie , 
The  bare  knife  in  your  hand,  and  earth  asleep. 
Even  to  your  deadliest  foe ;   and  he  as  't  wer^j 
Inviting  death,  by  looking  like  it,  while 
His  death  alone  can  save  you : — Thank  your  God ! 
If  then,  like  me,  content  with  petty  plunder. 
You  turn  aside 1  did  so. 

ULRIC. 

But 

WERNER   {abruptly). 

Hear  Tie} 

I  will  not  brook  a  human  voice — scarce  dare 

Listen  to  my  own  (if  that  bo  human  still) — 

Hear  me  !   you  do  not  know  this  man — I  do. 

He  's  mean,  deceitful,  avaricious.     You 

Deem  yourself  safe,  as  young  and  brave  ;   but  learn 

None  are  secure  from  desperation,  few 

From  subtilty.     My  worst  foe,  Stralenheim, 

Housed  in  a  prince's  palace,  couch'd  within 

A  prince's  chamber,  lay  below  my  knife ! 

An  instant — a  mere  motion — the  least  impulse — 

Had  swei)t  him  and  all  fears  of  mine  from  earth. 

He  was  within  my  power — my  knife  was  raised — 

W^ithdrawn — and  I  'm  in  his :   are  you  not  so  ? 

Who  tells  you  that  he  knows  you  not  ?    Who  says 

He  hath  not  lured  you  here  to  end  you,  or 

To  plunge  you,  with  your  parents,  in  a  dungeon? 

[He  pauses, 

\  ULRIC. 

Proceed — proceed ! 

WERNER. 

Me  he  hath  ever  known, 
And  hunted  through  each   change  of  time — name— 

fortune — 
And  why  not  vou  ?  Are  you  mo  e  rei-sed  in  men  ? 
He  wound  snares  round  me  ;   flun^i  a.ong  my  path 
Reptiles,  whom,  in  my  youth,  I  would  have  spum'd 
Evr-n  from  my  presence  :   but,  in  spurning    c  'v 
FiU  only  with  fresh  venom.     Will  you  be 
More  patient?   Ulric  ! — Ulric  ! — there  are  crimes 
Made  venial  by  the  occasion,  and  temptations 
Which  nature  cannot  master  or  forbear. 

ULRIC  {looks Jirst  at  him,  and  then  at  Josephi.ve). 
My  mother ! 

WERNER. 

Ay  !  I  thought  so :  you  have  now 
Only  one  parent.     I  have  lost  alike 
Father  and  son,  and  stand  alone. 

UI-RIC. 

But  stay ! 
[Werner  rushes  out  of  the  chamber, 
JOSEPHINE   {to  Ulric). 
Follow  him  not,  until  this  storm  of  passion 
Abates,    Think'st  thou  that  were  it  well  for  him 
I  had  not  foUow'd  ? 

ULRIC 

I  obey  you,  mother, 
Although  reluctantly.     My  first  act  shall  not 
Be  one  of  disobedience. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh  !   he  IS  good  I 
Condemn  him  not  from  his  own  mouth,  but  trust 
To  me  who  have  borne  so  much  with  him,  and  foi"  htm 
That  this  is  but  the  surface  of  his  soul. 
And  that  the  depth  is  rich  in  better  things. 

ULRIC 

These  then  are  but  my  father's  principles ! 
My  mother  thinks  not  with  him  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Nor  doth  he 
Think  as  he  speaks.     Alas  !  long  years  of  gr.ef 
Have  made  him  sometimes  thus. 


WERNER, 


mf 


tJLRIC. 

Explain  to  me 
More  clearly,  then,  these  claims  of  Stralenheim, 
That,  when  I  see  the  subject  hi  its  bearings, 
1  may  prepare  to  face  him,  or,  at  least. 
To  extricate  you  from  your  present  perils. 
I  pledge  myself  to  accomplish  this — but  would 
I  had  arrived  a  few  hours  sooner ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Ay! 

Hadst  thou  but  done  so  ! 

Enter  Gabor  and  Idexsteix,  with  Attendants. 

GABOK     {to   UlRIC). 

I  have  sought  you,  comrade. 
So  this  is  my  reward ! 

ULRIC. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

GABOR. 

'8  death  '   have  I  lived  to  these  years,  and  for  this  ? 
{To  Idenstein).   But  for  your  age  and  folly, I  would — 

IDENSTEir;. 

Help ! 
Hands  off!   'ouch  an  intendant! 

GABOR. 

Do  not  think 
I  '11  honour  you  so  much  as  to  save  your  throat 
From  the  Ravenstone,'  by  choking  you  myself. 

IDENSTEIX. 

I  thank  you  for  the  respite  ;   but  there  are 
Those  who  have  greater  need  of  it  than  me. 

ULRIC. 

Unriddle  this  vile  wranglini:,  or 

GABOR. 

At  once,  then, 
The  baron  has  been  robb'd,  and  upon  me 
This  worthy  personage  has  deign'd  to  fix 
His  kind  suspicions — me  !   whom  he  ne'er  saw 
Till  yestcr  evening. 

IDEXsTEIN. 

VVouldst  have  me  suspect 
My  own  acquaintances  ?     You  have  to  learn 
That  I  keep  better  company. 

GABOR. 

You  shall 
Keep  the  best  shortly,  and  the  last  for  all  men — 
The  worms  !   you  hound  of  malice  ! 

[Gabor  seizes  on  him. 
ULRIC   {iiderfering). 

Nay,  no  violence  : 
He  's  old,  unarm'd — be  temperate,  Gabor  ! 
GABOR    {letting  go  Idensteix). 

True : 
[  am  a  fool  to  lose  myself  because 
Fools  deem  me  knave ;   it  is  their  homage. 
ULRIC  [to  Idenstein). 

How 
Fare  you  ? 

idenstein. 
Help! 

ULRIC. 

I  have  help'd  you. 
idenstein. 

Kill  him !  then 
1*11  say  so. 

GABOR. 

I  am  calm — hve  on  ! 


1  The  Ravcnslyn.  "  Ral)enstpin,"  is  the  stone  gibbet  of 
Carmany,  and  ;o  ii'Md  from  the  ravens  perching  on  it. 


idenstein. 

That 's  more 
Than  you  shall  do,  if  there  be  judge  or  judgment 
In  Germany.     The  baron  shall  decide  ! 

GABOR. 

Does  he  abet  you  in  vour  accusation  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Does  he  not  ? 

GABOR. 

Then  next  time  let  him  go  sink, 
Ere  I  go  hang  for  snatching  him  from  drowning. 
But  here  he  comes  ! 

Enter  Stralenheim. 
GABOR  {goes  up  to  him). 

My  noble  lord,  I  'm  here ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

Well,  sir! 

GABOR. 

Have  you  aught  ^v!th  me  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

What  should  I 
Have  with  you  ? 

GABOR. 

You  know  best,  if  yesterday's 
Flood  has  not  wash'd  away  your  memory  ; 
But  that 's  a  trifle.     I  stand  here  accused. 
In  phrases  not  equivocal,  by  yon 
Intendant,  of  the  pillage  of  your  person. 
Or  chamber — is  the  charge  your  own,  or  his  f 

STRA1.ENHEIM. 

I  accuse  no  man. 

GABOR. 

Then  vou  acquit  me,  baron  ? 

STRALbNHEIM. 

I  know  not  whom  to  accuse  or  to  acquit, 
Or  scarcely  to  suspect. 

GABOR. 

But  you  at  least 
Should  know  whom  not  to  suspect.     I  am  insulted— 
Oppress'd  here  by  these  menials,  and  I  look 
To  you  tor  remedy — teach  them  their  duty  ! 
To  look  for  thieves  at  home  were  part  of  it, 
If  duly  taught :   but,  in  one  word,  if  I 
Have  an  accuser,  let  it  be  a  man 
Worthy  to  be  so  of  a  man  like  me. 
I  am  your  equal. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You! 

GABOR. 

Ay,  sir ;  and  for 
Aught  that  you  know,  superior  ;   but  proceed — 
I  do  not  ask  for  hints,  and  surmises. 
And  circumstance,  and  proofs  ;   1  know  enough 
Of  what  I  have  done  for  you,  and  what  you  owe  mo 
To  have  at  least  waited  your  payment  rather 
Than  paid  myself,  had  I  been  eager  of 
Your  gold.     I  also  know  that  were  I  even 
The  villain  I  am  deem'd,  the  service  render'd 
So  recently  would  not  permit  you  to 
Pursue  me  to  the  death,  exce})t  through  sliame. 
Such  as  would  leave  your  scutcheon  but  a  blank. 
But  this  is  notliing ;   I  demand  of  you 
Justice  upon  your  unjust  servants,  and 
From  your  own  lips  a  disavowal  of 
All  sanction  of  their  insolence:   thus  much 
You  owe  to  the  unknown,  who  asks  no  more, 
And  never  thought  to  have  ask'd  so  much. 


STRALENHEIM. 


May  be  of  innocence. 


Thig  tone 


410 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


'S  death  !  who  dare  doubt  it, 
Except  such  villains  as  ne'or  had  it  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

You 
Are  hot,  sir.  • 

GAEOR. 

Must  1  turn  an  icicle 
Before  the  breath  of  menials,  and  their  master  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ulric  !  you  know  this  man  ;  I  found  him  in 
Your  company. 

GA30R. 

We  found  you  in  the  Oder  : 
VVould  we  had  left  you  there  ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  give  you  thanks,  sir. 

GABOR. 

I  've  earn'd  them  ;  but  might  have  earn'd  more  from 

others, 
Perchance,  if  I  had  left  you  to  your  fate. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ulric  !  you  know  this  man  ? 

GABOR. 

No  more  than  you  do, 
If  he  avouches  not  my  honour. 

ULRIC. 

Can  avouch  your  courage,  and,  as  far  as  my 
Own  brief  connexion  led  me,  honour. 

STRALENHFIM. 

Then 
I'm  satisfied. 

GABOR  (ironically). 
Right  easily,  niethinks. 
What  is  the  spell  In  his  asseveration 
W  ore  than  in  mine  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  merely  said  that  / 
W  as  satisfied — not  that  you  were  absolved. 

GABOR. 

Again !     Am  I  accused  or  no  ? 

STRALENHEIM.  • 

Goto! 
You  wax  too  insolent :  if  circumstance 
And  general  suspicion  be  against  you. 
Is  the  fault  mine  ?     Is  't  not  enough  that  I 
Decline  all  question  of  your  guilt  or  innocence  ? 

GAEOR. 

My  lord,  my  lord,  this  is  mere  cozenage ; 

A  vile  ecjuivocation  :   you  well  know 

Your  doubts  are  certainties  to  all  around  you — 

Your  looks,  a  voice — your  frowns,  a  sentence ;   you 

Are  practising  your  power  on  me — because 

You  have  it ;  but  beware,  you  know  not  whom 

You  strive  to  tread  on. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Threat's!  thou  ? 

GABOR. 

Not  SO  much 
As  you  accuse.     You  hint  the  basest  injury. 
And  I  retort  it  with  an  o|)en  warning. 

STRALENHEIM 

As  you  have  said,  'l  is  true  I  owe  you  something, 
For  which  you  seem  disposed  to  pay  yourself. 

GABOR. 

Not  with  your  gold. 

STRALENHEIM. 

With  l)(><)tl<'ss  insolence. 
[7'o  his  vUlfiiflmits  and  Idenstein, 
Vou  need  not  further  to  molest  this  man. 
But  lot  him  go  his  way.      Ulric,  good  morrow  ! 
\Exit  S'>'»*^ALENHEiM,  Idenstein,  and  Attendants. 


GABOR  {following), 

I  '11  after  him,  and 

ULRIC  [stopping  him). 
Not  a  step. 

GABOR. 

Who  shall 


Oppose  me  ? 
Thought. 


ULRIC 

Your  own  reason,  with  a  moment's 


GABOR. 

Must  I  bear  this  ? 

ULRIC. 

Pshaw !  we  all  must  bua 
The  arrogance  of  something  higher  than 
Ourselves — the  highest  cannot  temper  Satan, 
Nor  the  lowes.t  his  vicegerents  upon  earth. 
I  've  seen  you  brave  the  elements,  and  bear 
Things  which  had  made  this  silk-worm  cast  his  skm 
And  shrink  you  from  a  few  sharp  sneers  and  words  ' 

GABOR. 

Must  I  bear  to  be  deem'd  a  thief?     If  't  were 
A  bandit  of  tie  woods,  I  could  have  borne  it — 
There  's  something  daring  in  it — but  to  steal 
The  moneys  of  a  slumbering  man ! — 

ULRIC 

It  seems,  then, 
You  are  not  guilty. 

GABOR. 

Do  I  hear  aright  ? 
You,  too! 

ULRIC 

I  merely  ask'd  a  simple  question. 

GABOK. 

If  the  judge  ask'd  me,  I  would  answer  "  No  " — 
To  you  I  answer  thus.  \He  draU'A, 

ULRIC  {drawing). 

With  all  my  heart ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Without  there  !  Ho  !  help  !  help  !— Oh  !  God  !  here  s 
murder  !  [Exit  Josephine,  shrieking. 

Gabor  and  Ulric  Jight.  Gabor  is  disarmed  just  aa 
Stralejv'heim,  Josephine,  Idenstein,  etc.  re- 
enter. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh  !  glorious  Heaven !  he  's  safe  ! 

STRALENHEIM   {<0  JoSEPHINE). 

WTio's  safe  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

My 

ULRic  {interrupting  her  with  a  stern  look,  and  turning 
afterwards  to  Stralenheim). 

Both  ! 
Here 's  no  great  harm  done. 

STRALENHEIM. 

What  hath  caused  all  this  ? 

ULRIC 

FoM,  baron,  I  believe ;  but  as  the  effect 
Is  harmless,  let  it  not  disturb  you. — Gabor  ! 
There  is  your  sword  ;   and  when  you  bare  it  next, 
Let  it  not  be  against  your  friends. 

[Ulric  promnmces  the  last  words  slowly  ,in 
emphatically  in  a  low  voice  to  Gabou. 

GABOR. 

r  ttiank  you 
Less  for  my  life  than  for  your  counsel. 

STRALENHEIM. 

These 
Brawls  must  cntl  here. 

GABOR  {taking  his  simrd). 
They  shall.     You  have  wrong'd  nin,  Ulnc, 
More  with  vour  unkind  thoughts  than  sworu :   I  wuul<l 


WERNER. 


411 


Thf  last  were  in  my  bosom  rather  than 

The  first  in  yours.     I  could  have  borne  yon  noble's 

Absurd  insinuations — Ignorance 

And  dull  suspicion  are  a  part  of  his 

B^ntail  will  last  him  longer  than  his  lands. — 

But  I  may  fit  him  yet : — you  have  vanquish'd  me. 

I  was  the  fool  of  passion  to  conceive 

That  I  could  cope  with  you,  whom  I  had  seen 

Already  proved  by  greater  perils  than 

Rest  in  this  arm.     We  may  meet  by  and  by, 

However — but  in  friendship.  [Exit  Gabor. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  will  brook 
No  more  !     This  outrage  following  up  his  insults, 
Perhaps  his  guilt,  has  canceil'd  all  the  little 
I  owed  him  heretofore  for  the  so  vaunted 
Aid  which  he  added  to  your  abler  succour. 
Ulric,  you  are  not  hurt  ? 

ULRIC. 

Not  even  by  a  scratch. 

STRALENHEIM   {to  IdENSTEIN). 

Intendant !   take  your  measm-es  to  secure 
Von  fellow  :   I  revoke  my  former  lenity. 
He  shall  be  sent  to  Frankfort  with  an  escort, 
The  instant  that  the  waters  have  abated. 

idenstein. 
Secure  him  !   he  hath  got  his  sword  again — 
And  seems  to  know  thr  ise  on  't ;  't  is  his  trade 
Behke : — I  'm  a  civil. an. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Fool  !   are  not 
Von  score  of  vassals  dogging  at  your  heels 
Enough  to  seize  a  dozen  such  ?  Hence !  after  him ! 

ULRIC 

Baron,  I  do  beseech  you  ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

1  must  be 
Obey  d.     No  words  ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Well,  if  it  must  be  so — 
March,  vassals  !  I  'm  your  leader — and  will  bring 
'I"he  rear  up :   a  wise  general  never  should 
Fxpose  his  precious  life — on  which  all  rests. 
I  like  that  article  of  war. 

[Exit  Idenstein  and  Attendants. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Come  hither, 
L'lric: — what  does  that  woman  here?  Oh  !  now 
I  recognise  her,  't  is  the  stranger's  wife 
Whom  they  name  "  Werner." 

ULRIC. 

'T  is  his  name. 


STRALENHEU 


Indeed ! 


Is  not  your  husband  visible,  fair  dame  ? 
Who  seeks  him  ? 


JOSEPHINE. 


STRALENHEIM. 

No  one — for  the  present:  but 
I  fain  would  parley,  Ulric,  with  yourself 
Alone. 

ULRIC. 

I  will  retire  with  you. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Not  so. 
Vou  are  the  latest  stranger   and  command 
All  places  here. 
(u4.side  to  Ulric  as  she  goes  out).  Oh!  Ulnc,  have  a 

care — 
Remember  wha/  deoends  on  a  rash  word  ! 


ULRIC  {tc  JosEi-nix't,). 
Fear  not '  — 

[Exit  Josephine. 

STKALENHEIM. 

Ulric,  I  think  that  I  may  trusi  you  ? 

You  saved  my  life — and  acts  like  these  beget 

Unbounded  confidence. 

ULRIC. 

Say  on. 

STRALENHLIM. 

Mysterious 

And  long-engender'd  circumstances  (not 
To  be  now  fully  enter'd  on)  have  made 
This  man  obnoxious — |)erhaps  fatal  to  me. 

ULRIC. 

Who?  Gabor,  the  Hungarian? 

STRALENHEIM. 

No — this  "Werner" 
With  the  false  name  and  habit. 

ULRIC. 

How  can  this  be '/ 
He  is  the  poorest  of  the  poor — and  yellow 
Sickness  sits  cavern'd  in  his  hollow  eye : 
The  man  is  helpless. 

SI  RALENHEIM. 

He  is — 't  is  no  matter — 
But  if  he  be  the  man  I  deem  (and  that 
He  is  so,  all  around  us  here — and  much 
That  is  not  here — confirm  my  apprehension). 
He  must  be  made  secure,  ere  twelve  hours  further. 

ULRIC. 

And  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  have  sent 
To  Frankfort,  to  the  governtjr,  my  finend — 
(I  have  the  authority  to  do  so  by 
An  order  of  the  house  of  Brandenburgh) 
For  a  fit  escort — but  this  cursed  flood 
Bars  all  access,  and  may  do  for  some  hours. 

ULRIC. 

It  is  abating. 

STRALENHEIM. 

That  is  well. 

ULRIC. 

But  how 
Am  I  concern'd  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

As  one  who  did  so  much 
For  me,  you  cannot  be  indifferent  to 
That  which  is  of  more  import  to  me  than 
The  life  you  rescued. — Keep  your  eye  on  him  ! 
The  man  avoids  me,  knows  that  I  now  know  him.— 
Watch  him ! — as  you  would  watch  the  wild  boar  wiiec 
He  makes  against  you  in  the  hunter's  gap — 
Like  him  he  must  be  spear'd. 

ULRIC. 

Why  so  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

He  stands 
Between  me  and  a  brave  inheritance. 
Oh !  could  you  see  it !   But  you  snail.  / 

VLBIC. 

I  hope  =iO. 

STRALENHEIM. 

It  is  the  richest  of  the  rich  Bohemia, 
Unscathed  by  scorching  war.     It  lies  so  near 
The  strongest  city,  Prague,  that  fire  and  sword 
Have  skimm'd  it  hghtly  :   so  that  now,  besides 
Its  own  exuberance,  it  bear?  double  value 
Confronted  with  whole  realms  afar  and  near 
Made  deserts. 

ULRIC. 

Vou  describe  it  faithfully. 


412 


BORON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


STSALENHEIM. 

Ay — cou.n  yoii  see  it,  you  would  say  so — buc 
As  I  have  said,  you  shall. 

ULRIC. 

I  accept  the  omen 

STRALENHEIM. 

Then  claim  a  recompense  from  it  and  me, 
Such  as  both  may  make  worthy  your  acceptance 
And  services  to  me  and  mine  for  ever. 

ULRIC. 

And  this  sole,  sick,  and  nr-^erable  wretch — 
This  wayworn  stranger — stands  between  you  and 
This  {^llradise? — (As  Adam  did  between 
The  devil  and  his.) — [Aside.] 

STRALENHEIM. 

He  doth. 

Ul.RIC. 

Hath  he  no  right? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Right !   none.     A  disinherited  prodigal. 
Who  for  these  twenty  years  disgraced  his  lineage 
In  all  his  acts — but  chiefly  by  his  marriage, 
And  living  amidst  commerce-fetching  burghers, 
And  dabbling  merchants,  in  a  mart  of  Jews. 

ULRIC. 

He  has  a  wife,  then  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

You  'd  be  sorry  to 
Call  such  your  mother.     You  have  seen  the  woman 
He  calls  his  wife. 

ULRIC. 

Is  she  not  so  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

No  more 
Than  he  's  your  father  : — an  Italian  girl. 
The  daughter  of  a  banish'd  man,  who  lives 
On  love  and  poverty  with  this  same  Werner. 

ULRIC. 

They  are  childless,  then  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

There  is  or  was  a  bastard, 
Whom  the  old  man — the  grandsire  (as  old  age 
Is  ever  doting)  look  to  warm  his  bosom, 
As  it  went  chilly  downward  to  the  grave  : 
But  the  imp  stands  not  in  my  path — he  has  fled. 
No  one  knows  whither  ;   and  if  he  had  not. 
His  claims  alone  were  too  contemptible 
To  stand. Why  do  you  smile  ? 

ULRIC. 

At  your  vain  fears  . 
A  poor  man  almost  in  his  grasp — a  child 
Of  doubtful  birth — can  startle  a  grandee ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

All 's  to  be  fear'd,  where  all  is  to  be  gain'd. 

ULRIC 

True  ;  and  aught  done  to  save  or  to  obtain  it. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Vou  have  harp'd  the  very  string  next  to  my  heart. 
t  may  de[)end  upon  you  ?  , 

ULRIC. 

'T  were  too  late 
To  doubt  iu 

STRALENHEIM. 

Let  no  foolish  pity  shake 
Vour  bosom  (for  the  appearance  of  the  man 
.8  [(itiful) — be  is  a  wretch,  as  likely 
To  have  ral)b'd  me  as  the  fellow  more  suspected, 
Ex<;e[)t  that  circumstance  is  less  against  bim  ; 
He  being  lodged  far  off,  and  in  a  chambiT 
V\  itboiit  approach  to  niim; ;    and,  to  say  truth, 
I  thuiK  l.)o  w«l.  of   bkxid  allied  t(>  mine. 


To  deem  he  would  descend  to  such  an  act , 
Besides,  he  was  a  soldier,  and  a  brave  one 
Once — though  too  rash. 

ULRIC 

And  they,  my  lord,  we  Know 
By  your  experience,  never  plunder  till 
They  knock  the  brains  out  first — which  makes  (heru 

heirs. 
Not  thieves.     The  dead,  who  feel  nought,  can   lose 

nothing, 
Nor  e'er  be  robb'd :  their  spoils  are  a  bequest — 
No  more. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Go  to  !   you  are  a  wag.      But  say 
I  may  be  sure  you  'II  keep  an  eye  on  this  man, 
And  let  me  know  his  shghtest  movement  towards 
Concealment  or  escape? 

ULRIC 

You  may  be  sure 
You  yourself  could  not  watch  him  more  than  I 
Will  be  his  sentinel. 

STRALENHEIM. 

By  this  you  make  me 
Yours,  and  for  ever. 

ULRIC. 

Such  is  my  intention. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE    I. 

A  Hall  in  the  same  Palace,  from  whence  the  sec? « 

Passage  leads. 

Enter  Werner  and  Gabor. 

GA30R. 

Sir,  I  ha'^e  told  my  tale ;   if  it  so  please  you 
To  give  me  refuge  for  a  few  hours,  well — 
If  not — 1  'U  try  my  fortune  elsewhere. 

WERNER. 

How 

Can  I,  so  wtofrjhed,  give  to  misery 

A  shelter  ? — v/anting  such  myself  as  much 

As  e'er  the  hunted  deer  a  covert 

GABOR. 

Or, 

The  wounded  lion  his  cool  cave.  Meihinks 
Vou  rather  look  U'/e  one  would  turn  at  bay, 
And  rip  the  hum.^r's  entrails. 

VERNER. 

Ah! 

Ga?10R. 

I  care  not 
If  it  he  so,  being  mi:ch  disposed  to  do 
The  same  myself;   but  will  you  sheker  me? 
I  am  o])press'd  like  you — and  poor  like  you— 
Disgraced — 

WERNER   [al.rupil'/). 

Who  told  you  that  I  was  disgrarei*  ? 

GABOR. 

No  one  ;   nor  did  I  say  you  were  so:   vvitht 
Your  poverty  my  likeness  ended  ;  but 
I  said  I  was  so — and  would  add,  with  truth. 
As  undeservedly  as  you. 


WERNER. 


4ia 


WERNER. 

Again ! 

As/; 

GABOR. 

Or  any  other  honest  man. 
Whai  the  devil  would  you  "lave  ?  You  don't  believe  me 
Guilty  of  this  base  theft  ? 

WERNER. 

No,  no — I  cannot. 

GABOR. 

Why,  that 's  my  heart  of  honour !   yon  young  gallant — 

Vour  miserly  inten('ant,  and  dense  noble — 

All — all  suspected  me  ;   and  why  ?  because 

I  am  the  worst-clothed  and  least-named  amongst  them, 

Although,  were  Mnmus'  lattice  in  our  breasts, 

INIy  soul  might  brook  to  open  it  more  widely 

Than  theirs  ;   but  thus  it  is — you  poor  and  helpless — 

Both  still  more  than  myself 

WERNER. 

How  know  you  that  ? 

GABOR. 

Yon  're  right ;  I  ask  for  shelter  at  the  hand 

Which  I  call  helpless  ;   if  you  now  deny  it, 

I  were  well  paid.     But  you,  who  seem  to  have  proved 

The  wholesome  bitterness  of  life,  know  well, 

Bv  svmpathv,  that  all  the  outspread  gold 

Of  the  New  World,  the  Spaniard  boasts  about, 

Could  never  tempt  the  man  who  knows  its  worth, 

Weigh'd  at  its  proper  value  in  the  balance. 

Save  in  such  guise  (and  there  I  grant  its  power. 

Because  I  feel  it)  as  may  leave  no  nightmare 

Upon  his  heart  o'  nights. 

WERNER. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

GABOR. 

Juel  vhat  I  say ;  I  thought  my  speech  wiis  plain  : 
Vou  are  no  thief — nor  I — and,  as  true  men, 
Should  aid  each  other., 

Werner. 

It  is  a  damn'd  world,  sir. 

GABOR. 

So  is  the  nearest  of  the  two  next,  as 

Thfc  priests  say  (and  no  doubt  they  should  know  best). 

Therefore  I'll  stick  by  this — as  being  loth 

To  suffer  martyrdom,  at  least  with  siich 

An  epitaph  as  larceny  upon  my  tomb. 

It  is  but  a  night's  lodging  which  I  crave  ; 

To-morrow  I  will  try  the  waters,  as 

The  dove  did,  trusting  that  they  have  abated. 

WERNER. 

Abated  ?  is  there  hope  of  that  ? 

GABOR. 

There  was 

At  noontide. 

WERNER. 

Then  we  may  be  safe. 

GABOR. 

Are  you 
In  peril  ? 

WERNER. 

Poverty  is  ever  so. 

GAEOR. 

Ttiat  I  know  by  long  practice.     Will  you  not 
Promise  to  make  mine  less  ! 

WERNER. 

Your  poverty? 

GABOR. 

N.J — you  don't  look  a  leech  for  that  disorder; 
I  meant  my  peril  only  :   you  've  a  roof. 
And  I  have  none  ;   I  merely  seek  a  covert. 

WERNER. 

Rightly  ,  for  now  should  such  a  wretch  as  I 
Have  gold? 


GABOR 

Scarce  honestly,  to  say  the  truth  on  t. 
Although  I  almost  wish  you  had  the  baron's. 

WERNER. 

Dare  you  insinuate  ? 

GABOR. 

What? 

WERNER. 

Are  you  aware 
To  whom  you  speak  ? 

GABOR. 

No  ;  and  I  am  not  used 
Greatly  to  care.     {A  noise  heard  without) .     But  hauk 
they  come ! 

WERNER. 

Who  come  ? 

GABOR. 

The  intendant  and  his  man-hounds  after  me : 
I  'd  face  them — but  it  were  in  vain  to  expect 
Justice  at  hands  Uke  theirs.     W^here  shall  I  go  ? 
But  show  me  any  place.     I  do  assure  you, 
If  there  be  faith  in  man,  I  am  most  guiltless : 
Think  if  it  were  your  own  case ! 

WERNER  {aside). 

Oh,  just  God 
Thy  hell  is  not  hereafter  !  Am  I  dust  still  ? 

GABOR. 

I  see  you  're  moved  ;  and  it  shows  well  in  you  • 
I  may  live  to  requite  it. 

WERNER. 

Are  yoj  not 
A  spy  of  Stralenheim's  ? 

GABOR. 

Not  I !   and  if 
I  were,  what  is  there  to  espy  in  you  ? 
Although  I  recollect  his  frequent  question 
About  you  and  your  spouse,  might  lead  to  some 
Suspicion  ;  but  you  best  know — what — and  why 
I  am  his  deadliest  foe. 

WERNER. 

Vou? 

GABOR. 

After  such 
A  treatment  for  the  service  which  in  part 
I  render'd  him — I  am  his  enemy  ; 
If  you  are  not  his  friend,  you  will  assist  me. 

WERNER. 

I  will. 

GABOR. 

But  how  ? 

WERNER  {showing  the  panel). 
There  is  a  secret  spring  ; 
Remember,  I  discover'd  it  by  chance, 
And  used  it  but  for  safety. 

GABOR. 

Open  it, 
And  I  will  use  it  for  the  same. 

WERNER. 

I  found  it. 
As  I  have  said :   it  leads  through  winding  walls, 
(So  thick  as  to  bear  paths  within  their  rits, 
Yet  lose  no  jot  of  strength  or  stateliness) 
And  hollow  cells,  and  obscure  niches,  to 
I  know  not  whither  ;  you  must  not  advance : 
'    Give  me  your  word. 

GABOR. 

It  is  urmecessary : 
flow  should  I  make  my  way  in  darkness,  through 
A  Gothic  labyrinth  of  unknown  windincfs? 

i  •  WERNER. 

I    Yes,  but  who  knows  to  what  place  it  may  lead? 

I    /  know  not — (mark  you  I ) — but  who  knows  it  might  noJ 


iU 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Lead  even  into  the  chambers  of  your  foe  ? 
So  strangely  were  contrived  these  galleries 
By  our  Teutoni';  fathers  in  old  days, 
When  man  built  less  against  the  elements 
Than  his  next  neighbour.     You  must  not  advance 
Beyond  the  two  first  windings  ;   if  you  do, 
(Albeit  I  never  pass'd  them),  I  '11  not  answer 
For  what  you  may  be  led  to. 

GABOR. 

But  I  will. 
A  thousand  thanks ! 

WERNKR. 

You  '11  find  the  spriu;"-  more  obvious 
On  the  other  side;   and,  when  you  would  return, 
ft  yields  to  the  least  touch. 

G.ABOR. 

I  ni  in — farewell ! 
[Gabor  goes  in  by  the  secret  panel. 

WERNER   (solus). 

What  have  I  done  ?  Alas !   what  had  I  done 
Before  to  make  this  fearful  ?   Let  it  be 
Si  ill  some  atonement  that  I  save  the  man, 
Whose  sacrifice  had  saved  perhaps  my  own — 
They  come !    to  seek  elsewhere  what  is  before  them  ! 
Enter  Idenstein,  and  others. 

TDENSTEIN', 

Is  he  not  here  ?  He  must  have  vanish'd  then 

Through  the  dim  Gothic  glass  by  pious  aid 

Of  pictured  saints,  upon  the  red  and  yellow 

C  asements,  through  which  the  sunset  streams  like  sunrise 

On  long  pearl-coiour'd  beads  and  crimson  crosses, 

And  gilded  crosiers,  and  cross'd  arms,  and  cowls, 

And  helms,  and  twisted  armour,  and  long  swords, 

All  the  fantastic  furniture  of  windows. 

Dim  with  brave  knights  and  holy  hermits,  whose 

Likeness  and  fame  alike  rest  on  some  panes 

Of  crystal,  which  each  rattling  wind  proclaims 

As  frail  as  any  other  life  or  glory. 

He 's  gone,  however. 

WERNER. 

Whom  do  you  seek  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  villam  ! 

WERNER. 

Why  need  you  come  so  far,  then  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

In  the  search 
O^  him  who  robb'd  the  baron. 

WERNER. 

Are  you  sure 
Yau  have  divined  the  man  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

As  sure  as  you 
Stand  there  ;  but  where  's  he  gone  7 

WERNER. 

Who  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

He  we  sought. 

WERNER. 

Y'Mi  see  he  is  not  here. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  yet  we  traced  him 
Up  to  this  hall:  are  you  accomplices, 
Or  deal  you  in  the  b.ack  art? 

WERNER. 

I  deal  plainly, 
To  many  men  the  blackest. 

lOKNSTKIN. 

It  may  be 
I  have  a  <iucstion  or  two  for  yourself 


Hereafter ;  but  we  must  continue  now 
Our  search  for  t'  otner. 

WERNER. 

You  had  best  begin  ' 

Your  inquisition  now ;   I  may  not  be 
So  patient  always. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  should  like  to  know 
In  good  sooth,  if  you  really  are  the  man 
That  Straleiiheim  's  m  quest  of? 

WERNER. 

Insolent ! 
Said  you  not  that  he  was  not  here  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Yes,  one : 
But  there 's  another  whom  he  tracks  more  keen  y. 
And  soon,  it  may  be,  with  authority 
Both  paramount  to  his  and  mine.     But,  come  ! 
Bustle,  my  boys !   we  are  at  fault. 

[Exit  Idenstein  and  Attendants, 

WERNER. 

In  what 
A  maze  hath  my  dim  destiny  involved  me ! 
And  one  base  sin  hath  done  me  less  ill  than 
The  leaving  undone  one  far  greater.     Down, 
Thou  busy  devil !   rising  in  my  heart ! 
Thou  art  too  late !  I  '11  nought  to  do  with  blood. 
Enter  Ulric. 

ULRIC. 

I  sought  you,  father. 

WERNER. 

Is  't  not  dangerous  ? 

ULRIC. 

No  ;   Straleiiheim  is  ignorant  of  all 
Or  any  of  the  ties  hetween  us :   more — 
He  sends  me  here  a  spy  upon  your  actions, 
Deeming  me  wholly  his. 

WERNER. 

I  cannot  think  it : 
'T  is  but  a  snare  he  winds  about  us  both, 
To  swoop  the  sire  and  son  at  once. 

ULRIC. 

I  cannot 

Pause  at  each  petty  fear,  and  stumble  at 

The  doubts  that  rise  like  briars  in  our  path, 

But  must  break  through  them  as  an  unarm'd  carle 

Would,  though  with  naked  limbs,  were  the  wolf  rustling 

In  the  same  thicket  where  he  hew'd  for  bread  : 

Nets  are  for  thrushes,  eagles  are  not  caughi  so  j 

We  '11  overfly,  or  rend  them. 

WERNER. 

Show  me  how  • 

ULRIC. 

Can  you  not  guess  ? 

WERNER. 

I  cannot. 

ULRIC. 

That  is  strange. 
Came  the  thought  ne'er  into  your  mind  last  night  ? 

WERNER. 

I  understand  you  not. 

ULRIC. 

Then  we  shall  never 
More  understand  each  other.     But  to  change 
The  topic 

WERNER. 

You  mean  to  pursue  it,  as 
'7' is  of  our  safety. 

ULUIC. 

Riglit ;   I  stnnd  corrected. 
I  »-ec  the  subject  now  more  clearly,  and 


WERNER. 


415 


Our  general  situation  in  its  bearings. 

Tlie  waters  are  abating  ;    a  few  hours 

Will  bring  his  suminoii'd  inyrniidons  from  Frankfort^ 

When  you  will  be  a  prisoner,  perhaps  worse, 

Ami  I  an  outcast,  bastardized  by  practice 

Of  this  same  baron,  to  make  way  for  him. 

WERNER. 

And  now  your  remedy !     I  thought  to  escape 
Ky  means  of  this  accursed  gold,  but  now 
I  dare  not  use  it,  show  it,  scarce  look  on  it. 
INIelliinks  it  wears  upon  its  face  my  guilt 
For  motto,  not  the.  mintage  of  the  state  ; 
And,  for  the  sovereign's  head,  my  own  begirt 
With  hissing  snakes,  who  curl  around  my  temples. 
And  cry  to  all  beholders — lo !   a  villain  ! 

UI.RIC. 

You  must  not  use  it,  at  least,  now ;   but  take 

T!\is  ring.  [He  gives  Werner  a  jewel. 

WERNER. 

A  gem !   it  was  my  father's. 

UI.RIC. 

And 

As  such  is  now  your  own.     With  this  you  must 
Bribe  the  intendant  for  his  old  caleche 
And  horses  to  pursue  your  route  at  sunrise, 
Poijetlier  with  my  mother. 

WERNER. 

And  leave  you, 
So  lately  found,  in  peril  too? 

ULRIC. 

Fear  nothing ! 
The  only  fear  were  if  we  lied  together. 
For  that  would  make  our  ties  beyond  all  doubt. 
The  waters  only  lie  in  Hoods  between 
This  burgh  and  Frankfort  ;   so  far  's  in  our  favour. 
The  route  on  to  Bohemia,  though  encuniber'd, 
Is  not  impassable  ;   and  when  you  gain 
A  few  hours'  start,  the  diHiculties  will  be 
The  same  to  your  pursuers.     Once  beyond 
The  frontier,  and  you  're  safe. 

WERNER. 

My  nobie  boy ! 

ULRIC. 

Hush !  hush  I   no  transports :  we  '11  indulge  in  them 

111  Castle  Siegendorf!      Display  no  gold: 

Show  Idenstein  the  gem  (I  know  the  man, 

And  have  look'd  through  him)  :   it  will  answer  thvs 

A  double  purpose.     Stralenheim  lost  gold — 

No  jewel :   therefore,  it  could  not  be  his  ; 

And  then,  the  man  who  was  possess'd  of  this 

Can  hardly  be  suspected  of  abstracting 

The  baron's  coin,  when  he  could  thus  convert 

This  ring  to  more  than  Stralenheim  has  lost 

Bv  his  last  night's  slumber.     Be  not  over  timid 

In  your  address,  nor  yet  too  arrogant. 

And  Idenstein  will  serve  you. 

WERNER. 

I  will  follow 
In  all  things  your  direction. 

ULRIC. 

I  would  have 
Spared  you  the  trouble ;   but  had  I  appear'd 
To  take;  an  interest  in  you,  and  still  more 
By  dabbling  with  a  jewel  in  your  favour. 
All  had  been  known  at  once. 

WERNER. 

Mv  guardian  angel  ! 
This  overpays  the  past !      But  how  wilt  thou 
Fare  in  our  absence  7 


tTLRIC. 

Stralenheim  knows  nothing 
Of  me  as  aught  of  kindred  with  yourself. 
I  will  but  wait  a  day  or  two  with  him     * 
To  lull  all  doubts,  and  then  rejoin  my  father. 

WERNER. 

To  part  no  more ! 

ULKIC. 

I  know  not  that ;  but  at 
The  least  we  '11  meet  again  once  more. 

WERNER. 

My  boy' 
My  friend — my  only  child,  and  sole  preserver ! 
Oh,  do  not  hate  me! 

ULRIC. 

Hate  my  father! 

WERNER. 

Ay, 

My  father  hated  me :  why  not  my  son  ? 

ULRIC. 

Your  father  knew  you  not  as  I  do. 

WERNER. 

Scorpions 
Are  in  thy  words !    Thou  know  me?    In  this  guise 
Thou  canst  not  know  me — I  am  not  myself— 
Yet  (hate  me  not)  I  will  be  soon. 

ULRIC. 

J  '11  wait ! 
In  the  mean  time  be  sure  that  all  a  son 
Can  do  for  parents  shall  be  done  for  mine. 

WERNER. 

I  see  it,  and  I  feel  it ;   yet  I  feel 
Further — that  you  desjiise  me. 

ULRIC 

Wherefore  should  1  ? 

WERNER. 

Must  I  repeat  my  humiliation  ? 

ULRIC. 

No! 
I  have  fathom'd  it,  and  you.      But  let  us  talk 
Of  this  no  more.     Or  if  it  must  be  ever, 
Not  now;  your  error  has  redoubled  all 
The  present  difficulties  of  our  house. 
At  secret  war  with  that  of  Stralenheim  ; 
All  we  have  now  to  think  of  is  to  baiHe 
Him.     I  have  shown  one  way. 

WERNER. 

The  only  one, 
And  I  embrace  it,  as  I  did  my  son. 
Who  show'd  himself  and  father's  safety  in 
One  day. 

ULRIC. 

You  sJinll  be  safe  :   let  that  suffice. 
Would  Stralenheim's  ajipearance  in  Bohemia 
Disturb  your  right,  or  mine,  if  once  we  were 
Admitted  to  our  lands  ? 

WERNER. 

■  Assuredly, 
Situate  as  we  are  now,  although  the  first 
Possessor  nuiiht,  as  usual,  prove  the  strongeel, 
Especially  the  next  in  blood. 

ifLRIC. 

Blood'  "lis 
A  word  ef  many  meanings  :   in  the  veins 
And  out  <if  them  it  is  a  different  thing — 
And  so  it  should  be,  when  the  same  in  blood 
(As  it  IS  call'd)   are  ahens  to  each  other, 
Like  Thehan  brethren:   when  a  part  is  bad, 
A  few  spilt  ounces  purify  the  rest. 

WERNER. 

I  do  not  apprehend  you. 


416 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


ULRIC. 

That  may  be — 
And  shoiilJ,  perhaps, — and  yet — but  get  ye  ready ; 
You  and  my  Mother  mu.sl  away  to-night. 
Here  comes  the  inlendant ;   sound  him  with  the  gem ; 
'T  will  sink  into  liis  venal  soul  like  lead 
Into  the  deep,  and  bring  up  slime,  and  mud, 
And  ooze,  too,  from  the  bottom,  as  the  lead  doth 
With  its  greased  understratum ;   but  no  less 
Will  serve  to  warn  our  vessels  through  these  shoals. 
Thi)  freight  is  rich,  so  heave  the  line  in  time  ! 
Fai  ewell  !   I  scarce  have  time,  but  yet  your  hand, 
My  father  ! 

WEIUXER. 

Let  me  embrace  thee  ! 

ULRIC. 

We  may  be 

Observed :  subdue  your  nature  to  the  hour ! 
Keep  ofT  from  me  as  from  your  foe ! 

WERNER. 

Accursed 
Be  he  who  is  the  stifling  cause,  which  smothers 
The  best  aud  sweetest  feeling  of  our  hearts, 
At  such  an  hour  too  ! 

ULRIC. 

Yes,  curse — it  will  ease  you  ! 
Here  is  the  intendant. 

Erder  Idenstein. 
Master  Idenstein, 
How  fare  you  in  your  purpose  ?     Have  you  caught 
The  rogue  ? 

idenstein. 
No,  faith  ! 

ULRIC 

Well,  there  are  plenty  more : 
Yon  ma}  have  !)etter  luck  another  chase. 
Whord  is  ;ne  baron  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Gone  back  to  his  chamber: 
And,  now  I  think  on  'i,  asking  after  you 
With  nobly-born  nnpatience. 

ULKIC. 

Your  great  men 
Must  be  answer'd  on  the  instant,  as  the  bound 
Of  the  stung  steed  replies  unto  the  spur  : 
'T  IS  well  they  have  horses,  too,  for  if  they  had  not, 
[  fear  that  men  must  draw  their  chariots,  as 
They  say  kings  did  Sesostris. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Who  was  he  ? 

ULRIC. 

All  old  Bohemian — an  imperial  gipsy. 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  gipsy  or  Bohemian,  'tis  the  same. 

For  they  j)ass  by  both  names.     And  was  he  one? 

ULRIC. 

I  've  heard  so  ;   but  I  must  take  leave.     Intendant, 
Vour  servant ! — Werner  {to  Werner,  slightli/),  if  that 

be  your  name, 
Vours.  [Exit  Ulejc. 

IDENSTEIN, 

A  well-sjjoken,  pretty-faced  young  man! 
And  prettily  behaved  !   He  knows  his  station, 
Vou  see,  sir     how  he  gave  to  each  his  due 
Precedence ! 

WERNER. 

I  perceived  it,  and  applaud 
His  just  discernment  and  your  own. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 's  well — 
Ffiat  s  very  well.  You  also  know  your  |tl;ice,  too, 
•^nd  yet  I  don't  know  that  I  know  your  place. 


WERNER  {shtmring  the  nng I 
Would  this  assist  your  knowledge  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

How  '.—What !— Eh 

A  jewel ! 

WERNER. 

'T  is  your  own,  on  one  condition. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Mine! — Name  it! 

WERNER. 

That  hereafter  you  permit  me 
At  thrice  its  value  to  redeem  it :  h'i§ 
A  family  ring. 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  family  !  yours  !  a  gem ! 
I  'm  breathless  ! 

WERNER. 

You  must  also  furnish  me. 
An  hour  ere  daybreak,  with  all  means  to  quit 
This  place. 

IDENSTEIN. 

But  is  it  real  ?  let  me  look  on  it : 
Diamond,  by  all  that 's  glorious  ! 

WERNER. 

Come,  I  '11  trust  you ; 
You  have  guess'd,  no  doubt,  that  I  was  born  above 
My  present  seeming. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  can't  say  1  did. 
Though  this  looks  like  it ;   this  is  the  true  breeding 
Of  gentle  blood  I 

W  Eli  NEK. 

I  have  iuiportant  reasons 
For  wishing  to  continue  privily 
My  journey  hence. 

IDENSTEIN. 

So  then  you  are  the  man 
Whom  Stralenheini 's  in  (juesl  of! 

WERNER. 

I  am  not ; 
But  being  taken  for  him  might  conduct 
So  much  emi)arrassment  to  me  just  now, 
And  to  the  baron's  self  hereafter — 'tis 
To  spare  both,  that  I  would  avoid  all  bustle. 

IDENSTKl.V. 

Be  you  the  man  or  no,  't  is  nut  niy  business  ; 

Besides,  I  never  should  obtain  the  half 

P^rom  this  proud  niggarrlly  noble,  who  would  raisr 

The  country  for  some  missing  hits  of  coin, 

And  never  offer  a  [)recise  reward — 

But  this  !   Another  look  ! 

WERNER. 

Gaze  on  it  freely ; 
Al  day-dawn  it  is  yours. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh,  thou  sweet  sparkler  '. 
Thou  more  than  stone  of  the  philosopher ! 
Thou  touchstone  of  Philosophy  herself! 
Thou  bright  eye  of  the  Mine  !   thou  load-star  of 
The  soul !   the  true  magnetic  pole  to  which 
All  hearts  point  duly  north,  like  trembling  needloa  ! 
Thou  tlaming  spirit  of  the  earth  !   which,  sitting 
High  on  the  monarch's  dianem,  attractest 
More  worship  than  the  majesty  who  sweats 
Beneath  the  crown  which  makes  his  head  ache,  like 
Millions  of  hearts  which  bleed  to  lend  it  lustre  ! 
Shalt  thou  be  mine?     I  am,  methinks,  alreaily 
A  little  king,  a  lucky  alchymist  !  — 
A  wise  magician,  who  has  bound  the  devil 
Without  the  forfeit  of  his  soul.      But  con^c, 
Werner,  or  what  else '' 


WERNER. 


417 


WERNER. 

Call  me  Werner  still: 
you  may  yet  kn ;  n  me  by  a  loftier  title. 

IDENSTEIN. 

(  do  believe  in  thee  !   thou  art  the  spirit 
Of  whom  I  long  have  droaniM,  in  a  low  garb. — 
But  come,  I  'il  serve  thee  ;   thou  shall  be  as  free 
As  air,  dcs[)ite  the  waters:   let  us  hence — 
I  '11  show  thee  I  am  honest — (oh,  thou  jewel  !) 
Thou  slialt  be  furmsh'd,  Werner,  with  surh  means 
Of  thfTJit,  that  if  thou  wert  a  snail,  not  birds 
Should  overtake  thee.y-Lct  me  gaze  again ! 
I  have  a  foster-brother  in  the  marl 
Of  Hamburgh,  siiilFd  in  precious  stones — how  many 
Carats  may  it  weigh  ? — Come,  Werner,  I  will  wing  thee. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. 

Stralexheim's  Chamber, 
STRA.LENHEIM  and  Frxtz. 

FRITZ. 

A.11  's  ready,  my  good  lord  ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  am  not  sleepy, 
And  yet  I  must  to  bed  ;   I  fain  would  say 
To  rest,  but  something  heavy  on  my  spirit, 
Too  dull  for  wakefulness,  too  quick  for  slumber, 
Sits  on  me  as  a  cloud  along  the  sky, 
Which  will  not  let  the  sunbeams  through,  nor  yet 
Descend  in  rain  and  end,  but  spreads  itself 
r.vixt  earth  and  heaven,  like  envy  between  man 
And  man,  an  everlasting  mist; — I  will 
I'nto  my  pillow. 

FRITZ. 

May  you  rest  there  well ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

i  feel,  and  fear,  I  shall. 

FRITZ. 

And  wherefore  fear? 

STRALENHEIM. 

1  know  not  why,  and  therefore  do  fear  more, 

Because  an  undesctibable but  'tis 

All  folly.     Were  the  locks  (as  I  desired) 
Changed  to-day,  of  this  chamber  ?  for  last  night's 
Adventure  makes  it  needful. 

FRITZ. 

Certainly, 
According  to  your  order,  and  beneath 
The  inspection  of  myself  and  the  young  Saxon 
VVho  saved  your  life.     I  think  they  call  him  "  Ulric." 

STRALENHEIM. 

Vou  think  !  you  sujjercilious  slave  !   what  right 

Have  you  to  tax  your  memory,  which  should  be 

Quick,  proud,  and  happy  to  retain  the  name 

Of  him  who  saved  your  master,  as  a  litany 

Whose  daily  repetition  marks  your  duty — 

Get  hence  !  "  j/oy  i/ii/i/c,"  indeed  !   you,  who  stood  still 

Howling  and  dripping  on  the  bank,  whilst  I 

Lay  dying,  and  the  stranger  dash'd  aside 

The  roaring  torrent,  and  restored  me  to 

Thank  hnn — aiid  despise  you.   "  You  think  /"  and  scarce 

Can  recollect  lis  name  !   I  will  not  waste 

More  words  on  you.     Call  me  betimes. 

FRITZ. 

Good  night ! 
[  trust  to-monow  will  restore  your  lordship 
To  renovated  stren^    and  temper. 


SCENE  III. 

The  secret  Passage, 

Gabor  {solus). 

Four — 
Five — six  hours  have  1  counted,  like  the  guard 
Of  out-posts,  on  the  never-merry  clock : 
That  hollow  tongue  of  time,  which,  even  when 
It  sounds  for  joy,  takes  something  from  enjoyment 
With  every  clang.    'Tis  a  perpetual  knell. 
Though  for  a  marriage  feast  it  rings :   each  stroke 
Peals  of  a  hope  the  less  ;   the  funeral  note 
Of  love  deep-buried  without  resurrection 
In  the  grave  of  possession  ;   while  the  knoll 
Of  long-lived  parents  finds  a  jovial  echo 
To  triple  time  in  the  son's  ear. 

I  'm  cold — 
I  'm  dark — I  've  blown  my  fingers — number'd  o'er 
And  o'er  my  steps — and  knock'd  my  head  against 
Some  fifty  buttresses — and  roufed  the  rats 
And  bats  in  general  insurrection,  till 
Their  cursed  pattering  feet  and  whirring  wings 
Leave  me  scarce  hearing  for  another  sound. 
A  light !   It  is  at  distance  (if  I  can 
INIeasure  in  darkness  distance)  :   but  it  blinks 
As  through  a  crevice  or  a  key-hole,  in 
The  inhibited  direction  ;  I  must  on, 
Nevertheless,  from  curiosity. 
A  distant  lamp-hght  is  an  incident 
In  such  a  den  as  this.     Pray  Heaven  it  lead  me 
To  nothing  that  may  tempt  me!     Else  Heaven  aia  ine 
To  obtain  or  to  escape  it  !   Shining  still ! 
Were  it  the  star  of  Lucifer  himselt", 
Or  he  himself  girt  with  its  beams,  I  could 
Contain  no  longer.     Softly  !   mighty  well  ! 
That  corner 's  turn'd — so — ah  !  no,  right !  it  diavss 
Nearer.     Here  is  a  darksome  angle — so. 
That's  weather'd. — Let  ine  pause. — Suppose  il  leuoa 
Into  some  greater  danger  than  that  which 
I  have  escaped  ? — no  matter,  'tis  a  new  one  ; 
And  novel  perils,  like  fresh  mistiesses. 
Wear  more  magnetic  aspects  :   I  will  on, 
And  be  it  where  it  may — I  have  my  dagger. 
Which  may  protect  me  at  a  pinch. — Burn  s  ill, 
Thou  little  light !      Thou  art  my  ignis  fatuus  ! 
INIy  stationary  Will  o'  the  wisp  ! — So!   so  ! 
He  hears  my  hivocation,  and  fails  not. 

[The  fcnc  closfi 


[The  scene  closett. 


27 


SCENE  IV. 
A  Garden. 
Enter  Werner. 
I  could  not  sleep — and  now  the  hour  's  at  hand ; 
All 's  ready.     Idenstein  has  kept  his  word  : 
And,  station'd  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
Ujion  the  forest's  edge,  the  vehicle 
Awaits  us.     Now  the  dwindling  stars  be.cfin 
To  pale  in  heaven ;   and  for  the  last  time  I 
Look  on  these  horrible  walls.     Oh  !   never,  nev«i 
Shall  1  forget  them.     Here  I  came  most  poor, 
But  not  nishonour'd:   and  I  leave  them  with 
A  siaiu, — if  not  upon  my  name,  yet  in 
.Mv  heart !    A  never-tlying  canker-worm. 
Which  all  the  coming  splendour  of  the  lands, 
Am!  rights,  and  sovereignty  of  Siegendorf, 
Can  srarrely  lull  a  moment :    I  must  find 
S'lnie  means  of  restitution    which  would  ease 
My  soul  in  part ;   but  how,  without  discovery  '^~ 
It  must  be  done,  however  ;   and  I  'II  pause 


418 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    "WORKS. 


Upon  the  method  the  fire*  hour  of  safety. 
The  madness  of  my  mist  ry  led  to  this 
Base  infamy  ;   repentance  must  retrieve  it : 
I  will  have  nought  of  Stralenheim's  upon 
My  spirit,  though  he  would  grasp  all  of  mine ; 
Lands,  freedom,  life, — and  yet  he  sleeps  !   as  soundly. 
Perhaps,  as  infancy,  with  gorgeous  curtains 
Spread  for  his  canopy,  o'er  silken  pillows, 

Such  as  when Hark  !   what  noise  is  that  ?  Again  ! 

The  branches  shake  ;  and  some  loose  sj^nes  have  fallen 
From  yonder  terrace. 

[Ulric  leaps  dowjifiom  the  terrace 
Ulric  !   ever  welcome  ! 
Tiirice  welcoi  le  now  !  this  filial 

ULRIC. 

Stop !  bef':^re 
We  approach,  tell  me 

WERNER. 

Why  look  you  so  ? 

ULRIC. 

Behold  my  father,  or 

WERNER. 

What  ? 

ULRIC. 

An  assassin ! 

WERNER. 

Insane  or  insolent ! 

ULRIC. 

Reply,  sir,  as 
You  prize  your  hfe,  or  mine  ! 

WERNER. 

To  what  must  I 
Answer  ? 

ULRIC. 

Are  you  or  are  you  not  the  assassin 
Of  Stralenhcim  ? 

WERNER. 

I  never  was  as  yet 
The  murderer  of  any  man.     What  mean  you  ? 

ULRIC. 

Did  you  not  this  night  (as  the  night  before) 
Retrace  ths  secret  passage  ?     Did  you  not 

Again  revisit  Stralenheim's  chamber  ?  and 

[Ulric  pauses. 

WERNER. 

Proceed. 

ULRIC. 

Died  he  not  by  your  hand  ? 

WERNER. 

Great  God ! 

ULRIC. 

You  are  innocent,  then  !   my  father  's  innocent ! 
Embrace  me !   Yes,-  -your  tone — your  look — yes,  yes — 
Yet  say  so  ! 

WERNER. 

If  I  e'er,  in  heart  or  mind, 
Conceived  deliberately  such  a  thought, 
But  ralher  strove  to  trample  back  to  hell 
Such  thoughts — if  e'er  they  glared  a  moment  through 
The  irritation  of  my  o|)press'd  spirit — 
May  II(;av(;n  Ix;  snut  for  ever  from  my  hopes 
As  from  mme  eyes  ! 

ULRIC. 

Hut  Stralenhcim  is  dead. 

Wf.ll.N'KR. 

T  IS  liorrible  !   't  is  hideous,  as  't  is  hateful '  — 
Bui  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  ? 

ULUJC. 

No  bolt 
Is  forced  ;   no  violence  can  be  (!i;tecte(i. 
Save  on  his  body.      Part  ol  bis  own  housebold 
ilavc  b<;en  alarin'd  ;    but  as  liie  inteudant  is 


Absent,  I  took  upon  myself  the  care 
Of  mustering  the  police.     His  chamber  has, 
Past  doubt,  been  enter'd  secretly.     Excuse  m«j 
If  nature 

WERNER. 

Oh,  my  boy  !   what  unknown  woeE 
Of  dark  fatality,  like  clouds,  are  gathering 
Above  our  house  ! 

ULRIC. 

My  Cither,  I  acquit  you  ! 
But  will  the  world  do  so  ?  Will  even  the  judge- 
If but  you  must  away  this  instant. 

WERNER. 

No! 
I  '11  face  it.     Who  shall  dare  suspect  me  ? 

ULRIC. 

Yet 

You  had  no  guests — no  visitors — no  life 
Breathing  around  you,  save  my  mother's  ? 

WERNER. 

Ah 
The  Hungarian ! 

ULRIC. 

He  is  gone !   he  disappear'd 
Ere  sunset. 

WERNER. 

No ;   1  hid  him  in  that  very 
Conceal'd  and  fatal  gallery. 

ULRIC. 

There  I  '11  find  him. 

[Ulric  i"  goin^ 

WERNER. 

It  is  too  late  :   he  had  left  the  palace  ere 

I  quitted  it.     I  found  the  secret  'janel 

Open,  and  the  doors  which  lead  from  that  hml 

VYhich  masks  it :  I  but  thought  he  had  snatch'd  the  sil^/il 

And  favourable  moment  to  esca[)e 

The  myrmidons  of  Idenstein,  who  were 

Dogging  him  yester-even. 

ULRIC 

You  re- closed 
The  panel  ? 

WERNER. 

Yes  ;   and  not  without  reproach 
(And  inner  trembling  for  the  avoided  peril) 
At  his  dull  heedlessness,  ui  leaving  thus 
j    His  shelterer's  asylum  to  the  risk 
Of  a  discovery. 

ULRIC 

You  are  sure  you  closed  it  ? 

WERNER. 

Certain. 

ULRIC 

That 's  well ;   but  had  been  better  if 
You  ne'er  had  tuni'd  it  to  a  ilen  for \^He.  pause* 

WERNER. 

Thieves 
Thou  wouldst  say :   I  must  bear  it,  and  deserve  it ; 
But  not 

ULRIC 

No,  father,  do  not  speak  of  this ; 
This  is  no  hour  to  think  of  petty  crimes, 
But  to  prevent  the  conse(|uence  of  great  ones. 
Why  would  you  shelter  this  man  ? 

WERNER. 

Could  I  shun  It  7 
A  man  pursued  by  my  chief  fi)e  5   disgraced 
For  my  own  frime  ;   a  victim  to  my  safety, 
imploring  a  fisw  hours'  concealment  from 
'I'ht!  vcrv  w  ictch  wlio  was  the  cause  he  needed 
.Siirji  r('fug<'.      Had  he  l)oen  a  wolf,  I  could  not 
Have,  in  such  circum^^taaces,  thrust  him  foita. 


W  E  E  N  E  R. 


419 


VLRIC. 

And  like  tlie  wolf  he  >ath  repaid  yon.     But 
It  is  too  late  lo  ponder  this  :   you  must 
Set  out  ere  dawn.     I  '.vill  remain  liere  to 
Tiitce  out  tlie  murderer,  if  't  is  possible. 

WERNER. 

But  this  my  sudden  flijrlu  will  give  the  INIoloch 
Suspicion,  two  new  victuns,  m  the  lieu 
Of  one,  if  I  remain.     The  tied  Hungarian,  * 

Who  seems  the  culprit,  and 

ULRIC. 

Who  seems  !    Who  else 
Can  be  so? 

WERNER. 

Not  /,  though  just  now  you  doubted — 
Vou,  my  son  ! — doubted 

ULRIC. 

And  do  you  doubt  of  him 
The  fugitive  ? 

WERNER. 

Boy  !  since  I  fell  into 
The  abyss  of  crime  (though  not  of  .wc/i  crime),  I, 
Having  seen  the  innocent  oppress'd  for  me, 
May  doubt  even  of  the  guilty's  guilt.     Your  heart 
Is  free,  and  quick  with  virtuous  wrath  to  accuse 
A[)pearances  ;   and  views  a  criminal 
[n  innocence's  shadow,  it  may  be, 
Because  't  is  dusky. 

ULRIC 

And  if  I  do  so, 
What  will  mankind,  who  know  you  not,  or  kn«w 
But  to  oppress  ?  You  must  not  stand  the  hazard. 
Away  ! — I  '11  make  all  easy.     Idenstein 
Will,  for  his  own  sike  and  his  jewel's,  hold 
His  peace — he  also  is  a  partner  in 
Your  flight — moreover 

WERNER. 

Fly !   and  leave  my  name 
Link'd  with  the  Hungarian's,  or  preferr'd,  as  poorest, 
To  bear  the  brand  of  bloodshed  ^ 

ULRIC 

Pshaw  !  leave  any  thing 
Except  our  fathers'  sovereignty  and  castles, 
For  which  you  have  so  long  panted  and  in  vain ! 
What  name  ?  You  leave  no  name,  since  that  you  bear 
Is  feign'd. 

WERNER. 

Most  true ;   but  still  I  would  not  have  it 
Engraved  in  crimson  in  men's  memories, 
Though  in  this  most  obscure  abode  of  men — 
Besides,  the  search 

UI-RIC. 

I  will  provide  against 
Aught  that  can  touch  you.     No  one  knows  you  here 
As  heir  of  Siegendorf :   if  Idenstein 
Suspects,  't  is  hut  suspicion,  and  he  is 
A  fool :   his  folly  shall  have  such  employmen.. 
Too,  that  the  unknown  Werner  shall  give  way 
To  nearer  thoughts  of  self.     The  laws  (if  e'er 
Laws  reach'd  this  village)  are  all  in  abeyance 
\Vith  the  late  general  war  of  thirty  years, 
Or  crush'd,  or  rising  slov.iy  from  the  dust. 
To  which  the  march  of  armies  train[)lod  them. 
Stralenheim,  although  noble,  is  unheeded 
Here,  save  as  suck — without  lands,  influence. 
Save  what  hath  perish'd  with  him ;   few  prolong 
A  week  bevond  their  funeral  rites  their  sway 
O'er  men,  unless  by  relatives,  whf)se  interest 
Is  roused:   such  is  not  here  the  case  ;   he  died 
Alone,  unknown, — a  solitary  grave, 
Obscure  as  his  deserts,  without  a  scutcheon, 
l9  all  he'll  have,  or  wants.     If  /  discover 


The  assass.r.  *l  will  be  well — if  not,  believe  me, 

None  else,  though  all  the  full-fed  train  of  menials 

May  howl  above  his  ashes,  as  they  did 

Around  him  in  his  danger  on  the  Oder, 

Will  no  more  stir  a  linger  now  than  then. 

Hence  !   hence  !   I  must  not  heat  your  answer — look  ' 

The  stars  are  almost  faded,  and  the  gray 

Begins  to  grizzle  the  black  hair  Oi  night. 

Vou  shall  not  answer — Pardon  me,  that  I 

Am  peremptory  ;   't  is  your  son  that  speaks, 

Your  long-lost,  late-found  son — Let 's  call  my  motner 

Softly  and  swiftly  step,  and  leave  the  rest 

To  me ;   I  '11  answer  for  the  event  as  far 

As  regards  you,  and  that  is  the  chief  point, 

As  my  first  duty,  which  shall  be  observed. 

We'll  meet  in  Castle  Siegendorf— once  more 

Our  banners  shall  be  glorious !   Think  of  that 

Alone,  and  leave  all  other  thoughts  to  me. 

Whose  youth  may  better  battle  with  them — Hence  ' 

And  may  your  age  be  happy  ! — I  will  kiss 

INIy  mother  once  more,  then  Heaven's  speed  be  with  you! 

WERNER. 

This  counsel 's  safe — but  is  it  honourable  ? 

ULRIC 

To  save  a  father  is  a  child's  chief  honour. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  L 

A  Gothic  Hall  in  the  Castle  of  Siegendorf,  near  Pragut, 
Enter  Eric  and  Henrick,  retainers  of  the  Count. 

ERIC 

So,  better  times  are  come  at  last  ;   to  these 
Old  walls  new  masters  and  high  wassail,  both 
A  long  desideratum. 

IIENIilCK. 

Yes,  for  musters. 
It  might  be  unto  thoje  who  long  for  novelty, 
Though  made  by  a  new  grave :   but  as  for  wassail, 
Methinks  the  old  Count  Siegendorf  maintain'd 
His  feudal  hospitality  as  hiijh 
As  e'er  another  prince  of  the  empire. 

EUIC 

Why, 
For  the  mere  cup  and  trencher,  we  no  doubt 
Fared  passing  well ;   but  as  for  merriment 
'    And  sport,  without  which  salt  and  sauces  season 
The  cheer  but  scantily,  our  sizings  were 
Even  of  the  narrowest. 

HENRICK. 

The  old  count  oved  not 
The  roar  of  revel  ;   are  you  sure  that  this  does  ? 

EUTC 

As  yet  he  hath  been  courteous  as  he  's  bounteous. 
And  we  all  love  him. 

HENRICK. 

His  reign  is  as  yet 
Hardly  a  year  o'erpast  its  honey-moon,. 
And  the  first  year  of  sovereigns  is  bridal ; 
Anon,  we  shall  perceive  his  real  sway 
And  moods  of  mind. 

ERIC 

Pray  Heaven  he  keep  (he  preseni 
Then  his  brave  son.  Count  Ulric — there  's  a  knight ' 
Pity  the  wars  ;j-e  o'er ! 

HENRICK. 

Why  so? 

ERIC 

look  on  him! 
And  answer  that  yourself. 


420 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


HENRICK. 

He 's  very  youthful, 
And  strong  and  beautiful  as  a  young  tiger. 

ERIC. 

That 's  not  a  faithful  vassal's  likeness. 

HENRICK. 

But 

Perhaps  a  true  one. 

ERIC. 

Pity,  as  I  said, 
The  wars  are  over :  in  the  hall,  who  like 
Count  Ulric  for  a  well-supported  pride, 
Which  awes  but  yet  offends  not  ?  in  the  field, 
Who  like  him  with  his  spear  in  hand,  when,  gnashing 
His  tusks,  and  ripping  up  from  right  to  left 
The  howling  hounds,  the  boar  makes  for  the  thicket  V 
Who  backs  a  horse,  or  bears  a  hawk,  or  wears 
A.  sword  like  him  ?  Whose  plume  nods  knightlier  ? 

HENRtCK. 

No  one's,  I  grant  you  :   do  not  fear,  if  war 
Be  long  in  coming,  he  is  of  that  kind 
Will  make  it  for  himself,  if  he  hath  not 
Already  done  as  much. 

ERIC. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

HENRICK. 

You  can't  deny  his  train  of  followers 
(But  few  our  fellow  native  vassals  born 
On  the  domain)  are  such  a  sort  of  knaves 
As -{pauses). 

ERIC. 

What " 

HENRICK. 

The  war  (you  love  so  much)  leaves  living ; 
Like  oiher  parents,  she  spoils  her  worst  children. 

ERIC 

Nonsense !  they  are  all  brave  iron-visaged  fellows, 
Such  as  old  1  lly  loved. 

HENRICK. 

And  who  loved  Tilly  ? 
Ask  that  at  Magdebourg — or,  for  that  matter, 
Wallenstein  either — they  are  gone  to 

ERIC. 

Rest; 

But  what  beyond,  't  is  not  ours  to  pronounce. 

HENRICK. 

I  wish  they  had  left  us  something  of  their  rest: 
The  country  (nominally  now  at  peace) 
Is  overrun  with — God  knows  who — they  fly 
By  night,  and  disappear  with  sunrise  ;   but 
Leave  no  less  desolation,  nay,  even  more 
Than  tlie  most  open  warfare. 

ERIC 

But  Count  Ulric — 
What  has  al  this  to  do  with  him  ? 

HENRICK. 

With  him  ! 

He might  prevent  it.     As  you  say  he  's  fond 

)f  war,  why  makes  he  it  not  on  those  marauders? 

ERIC 

Vou'd  better  asK  himself 

HENRICK. 

I  would  as  soon 
Ask  of  the    on  why  he  laps  mdi  milk. 

EUIC, 

\nd  n(;rc  he  comt^s  ! 

HENRICK. 

The  devil !   you  '11  hold  your  tongue  ? 

KRIC. 

"Vhy  do  you  turl  so  pale  ^ 


Be  silent ! 


HENRICK. 

'T  is  notning — bui 


ERIC. 

I  will,  upon  what  you  have  said. 

HENRICK. 

I  assure  you  I  meant  nothing,  a  mere  sport 

Of  words,  no  more ;  besides,  had  it  been  other'uise. 

He  is  to  espouse  the  gentle  baroness, 

Ida  of  Str*ilenheim,  the  late  baron's  tieiress. 

And  she  no  doubt  will  soften  whatsoe'er 

Of  fierceness  the  late  long  intestine  wars 

Have  given  all  natures,  and  nwst  unto  those 

Who  were  born  in  them,  and  bred  up  upon 

The  knees  of  homicide  ,•  sprinkled,  as  it  were, 

With  blood  even  at  their  baptism.     Prithee,  oeace. 

On  all  that  I  have  said  ! 

Enter  Ulric  and  Robolph. 

Good  morrow,  couni . 

ULftlC. 

Good  morrow,  worthy  Henrick.     Eric,  is 
All  ready  for  the  chase  ? 

eric. 
The  dogs  are  order'd 
Down  to  the  forest,  and  the  vassals  out 
To  beat  the  bushes,  and  the  day  looks  promising. 
Shall  I  call  forth  your  excellency's  suite? 
What  courser  will  you  please  to  mount  ? 
ulric 

The  dun, 
Walstein. 

eric 
I  fear  he  scarcely  has  rccover'd 
The  toils  of  INIonday  :  't  was  a  noble  chase — 
You  spear'd  four  with  your  own  hand, 

ULRIC. 

True,  good  Eric, 
I  had  forgotten — let  it  be  the  gray,  then, 
Old  Ziska :  he  has  not  been  out  this  fortnight. 

eric 
He  shall  be  straight  caparison'd.     How  many 
Of  your  immediate  retainers  shall 
Escort  you  ? 

ULRIC 

I  leave  that  to  Weilburgh,  our 
Master  of  the  horse.  [Erit  Eric. 

Rodolph  ! 

ROUOLPH. 

My  lord ! 

ULRIC 

The  ne^^3 
Is  awkward  from  the — (Rodolph  points  to  Henrick. > 

How  now,  Henrick,  why 
Loiter  you  here  ? 

HENRICK. 

For  your  commands,  my  lord. 

ULRIC 

Go  to  my  father,  and  present  my  duty, 

And  learn  if  he  would  aught  with  mo  before 

I  mount.  [Exit  Hevrick- 

Rodolph,  our  friends  have  had  a  check 
Upon  the  frontiers  of  Franconia,  and 
'T  is  rumour'd  that  the  column  sent  against  theni 
Is  to  be  strengthen'd.     I  must  join  them  'Oon. 

RODOLPH. 

Best  wait  for  further  aial  more  sure  advices. 

u  L  R  I  r. 
I  mean  it — and  mdeed  it  Cv.uld  not  weil 
Have  fall<!n  out  at  a  time  more  oj)posite 
To  all  my  plans. 


WERNER. 


421 


RODOLPH. 

It  will  be  difficult 
To  excuse  your  absence  to  the  count,  your  lather. 

ULRIC. 

Ves,  but  the  unsettled  state  of  our  domain 

In  High  Silesia,  will  permit  and  cover 

My  journey.     In  the  mean  time,  when  we  are 

Engaged  in  the  chase,  draw  otf  the  eighty  men 

Whom  Wolile  leads — keep  the  forests  on  your  route  : 

You  know  it  well  ? 

RODOLPH. 

As  well  as  on  that  night 
When  we 

ULRIC. 

We  will  not  speak  of  that  until 
We  can  repeat  the  same  with  like  success  ; 
And  when  you  have  join'd,  give  Rosenberg  this  letter. 

[Gi'tes  a  tetter. 
Add  further,  that  I  have  sent  this  slight  addition 
To  our  force  with  you  and  Woltfe,  as  herald  of 
JNIv  coming,  though  I  could  but  spare  them  ill 
At  this  time,  as  my  father  loves  to  keep 
Full  numbers  of  retainers  round  the  cascie, 
Until  this  marriage,  and  its  feasts  and  fooleries. 
Are  rung  out  with  its  peal  of  nuptial  nonsense. 

KODOLPH. 

I  thought  you  loved  the  lady  Ida? 

ULRIC. 

Why, 
I  do  so — but  it  follows  not  from  tlrat 
I  would  bind  in  my  youth  and  glorious  years, 
So  brief  and  burning,  with  a  lady's  zone. 
Although  't  were  that  of  Venus  ; — but  I  love  her, 
As  woman  should  be  loved,  fairly  and  solely. 

RODOLPH. 

And  constantly  ? 

ULRIC. 

I  think  so  ;   for  I  love 
Nought  else. — But  I  have  not  the  time  to  pause 
Upon  these  gewgaws  of  the  heari.     Great  things 
We  have  to  do  ere  long.  Speed !  speed !  good  Rodolph! 

RODOLPH. 

On  my  return,  however,  I  shall  find 

The  Baroness  Ida  lost  in  Countess  Siegendorf ! 

ULRIC 

Perhaps :  my  father  wishes  it,  and  sooth, 
'T  is  no  bad  policy  ;   this  union  with 
The  last  bud  of  the  rival  branch  at  once 
Unites  the  future  and  destroys  the  past. 

RODOLPH. 

Adieu ! 

ULRIC. 

Yet  hold — we  had  better  keep  together 
Until  the  chase  begins  ;   then  draw  thou  off, 
And  do  as  I  have  said. 

RODOLPH. 

I  will.     But  to 
Return — 't  was  a  most  kind  act  in  the  count. 
Your  father,  «  >  send  up  to  Konigsberg 
For  this  ftiir  orphan  of  the  baron,  and 
To  hail  her  as  his  daughter. 

ULRIC. 

VVondrous  kind ! 
Especially  as  little  kindness  till 
Then  grew  between  them. 

RODOLPH. 

The  late  baron  died 
Of  a  fever,  did  he  not  ? 

ULRIC. 

How  should  I  know? 

RODOLPH. 

I  have  heard  it  whisper'd  here  was  something  strango 


About  his  death — and  even  llie  .  lace  of  it 
Is  scarcely  known. 

ULRIC 

Some  obscure  village  on 
The  Saxon  or  Silesian  frontier. 

RODOLPH. 

He 

Has  left  no  testament — no  farewell  words ! 

ULRIC 

I  am  neither  confessor  nor  notary. 
So  cannot  say. 

RODOLPH. 

Ah !  here 's  the  lady  Ida. 
Enter  Ida  Stralknheim. 

ULRIC 

You  are  early,  my  sweet  cousin  ! 

IDA. 

Not  too  early, 
Dear  Ulric,  if  I  do  not  interrupt  you. 
Why  do  you  call  me  "  cousin  .?" 

ULRIC  (smiling). 

Are  we  not  so '/ 

IDA. 

Yes,  but  I  do  not  like  the  name  ;  methinks 
It  sounds  so  cold,  as  if  you  thought  upon 
Our  pedigree,  and  only  weigh'd  our  blood. 

ULRIC  (startins;). 
Blood!  ' 

IDA. 

Why  does  yours  start  from  your  cheeks'/ 

ULRIC 

Ay !  doth  It  f 

IDA. 

It  doth — but  no !  it  rushes  like  a  torrent 
Even  to  your  brow  again, 

ULRIC  [recpvering  himself). 
And  if  it  fled. 
It  only  was  because  your  presence  sent  it 
Back  to  my  heart,  which  beats  for  you,  sweet  cou^iu ! 

IDA. 

"Cousin"  again! 

ULRIC 

Nay,  then  I  '11  call  you  sister. 

IDA. 

I  like  that  name  still  worse — would  we  had  ne'er 
Been  aught  of  kindred ! 

ULRIC  {gloomily). 

Would  we  never  had ! 

IDA. 

Oh  Heaven  !  and  can  you  wish  that  ? 

ULRIC. 

Dearest  Ida 
Did  I  not  echo  your  own  wish  ? 

IDA. 

Yes,  Ulric, 
But  then  I  wish'd  it  not  with  such  a  glance. 
And  scarce  knew  what  I  said  ;   but  let  me  be 
Sister  or  cousin,  what  you  will,  so  that 
I  still  to  you  am  something. 

ULRIC. 

Y'ou  shall  be 

All— all 

IDA. 

And  you  to  me  are  so  already ; 
But  I  can  wait. 

ULRIC. 

Dear  Ida ! 

IDA. 

Call  me  Ida, 
Your  Ida,  for  I  would  be  your.^,  none  else's — 

Indeed  I  have  none  else  left,  since  my  poor  %ther 

[She  pauses 


'^2 


BYRON'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ULRIC. 

Fou  have  mine — you  have  me. 

IDA 

Dear  Ulric  !  how  I  wish 
My  fatlier  could  but  view  our  happiness, 
Which  wants  but  this ! 

ULRIC. 

Indeed ! 

IDA. 

You  would  have  loved  him  ; 
He  you  ;   for  the  brave  ever  love  each  other : 
His  manner  was  a  little  cold,  his  spirit 
Proud  (as  is  birth's  prerogative),  but  under 
This  grave  exterior — would  you  had  known  each  other ! 
Had  such  as  you  been  near  him  on  his  journey, 
He  had  not  died  without  a  friend  to  soothe 
His  last  and  lonely  moments. 

ULRIC. 

Who  says  that  ? 

IDA. 

What? 

ULRIC. 

That  he  died  alone. 

IDA. 

The  general  rumour, 
And  disappearance  of  his  servants,  who 
Have  ne'er  return'd :  that  fever  was  most  deadly 
Which  swept  them  all  away. 

ULRIC. 

If  they  were  near  him, 
He  could  not  die  neglected  or  alone. 

IDA. 

Alas  !   what  is  a  menial  to  a  death-bed, 
When  the  dim  eye  rolls  vainly  round  for  what 
It  ioves  ? — they  say  he  died  of  a  fever, 

ULRIC 

Say  ! 


It  was  I 


IDA. 

sometimes  dream  otherwise. 

ULRIC. 


All  dreams  are  false. 

IltA. 

And  yet  I  see  him  as 
I  see  you. 

ULRIC. 

JVhere? 

IDA. 

In  sleep — I  see  him  lie 
Pale,  bleeding,  and  a  man  with  a  raised  knife 
Beside  him. 

ULRIC. 

But  do  you  not  see  his /ace  ? 
IDA  {looking  at  him). 
No  !   oh,  my  God  !   do  you  ? 

ULRIC. 

Why  do  you  ask  ? 

IDA. 

Because  you  look  as  if  you  saw  a  murderer  ! 

ULRIC  {agitatedly). 
Ida,  this  is  mere  childishness:   your  weakness 
Infects  me,  to  my  shame  ;   but  as  all  feehngs 
Of  )  ours  arc  common  to  mo,  it  affects  me. 
Prithiie,  sweet  chiki,  change 

IDA. 

Child,  indeed  !   I  have 
Pull  fifteen  summers  !  [A  bugle  sounds. 

RODOLI'ir. 

Hark,  my  lord,  the  bugle  ! 
IDA  {peevishly  to  Rodolph). 
Why  need  you  tell  him  that  ?  Can  he  not  hear  it, 
A'ithoul  your  echo  f 


RODOLPH. 

Pardon  me,  fair  baroness ' 

IDA. 

I  will  not  pardon  you,  unless  you  earn  it 
By  aiding  me  in  my  dissuasion  of 
Count  Ulric  from  the  chase  to-day. 

RODOLPH. 

You  will  not, 
Lady,  need  aid  of  mine. 

ULRIC 

I  must  not  now 
Forego  it. 

IDA. 

But  you  shall ! 

ULRIC 

Shall ! 

IDA. 

Yes,  or  be 
No  true  knight. — Come,  dear  Ulric  !   yield  to  me 
In  this,  for  this  one  day ;   the  day  looks  heavy, 
And  you  are  turn'd  so  pale  and  ill. 

ULRlC. 

You  jest. 

IDA. 

Indeed  I  do  not :  ask  of  Rodolph. 

RODOLPH. 

Truly, 
My  lord,  within  this  quarter  of  an  hour, 
You  have  changed  more  than  I  e'er  saw  you  change 
In  years. 

ULRIC 

'T  is  nothing  ;   but  if  't  were,  the  air 
Would  soon  restore  me.     I  'm  the  true  cameleon, 
And  live  but  on  the  atmos{)here  ;  your  feasts 
In  castle  halls,  and  social  banquets,  nurse  not 
My  spirit — I  'm  a  forester,  and  breather 
Of  the  steep  mountain-tops,  where  I  love  all 
The  eagle  loves. 

IDA. 

Except  his  prey,  I  hope. 

ULRIC 

Sweet  Ida,  wish  me  a  fair  chase,  and  I 

Will  bring  you  six  boars'  heads  for  trophies  home. 

IDA. 

And  will  you  not  stay,  then  ?     You  shall  not  go 
Come  !  I  will  sing  to  you. 

ULRIC 

Ida,  you  scarcely 
Will  make  a  soldier's  wife. 

IDA. 

I  do  not  wish 
To  be  so ;  for  I  trust  these  wars  are  over, 
And  you  will  live  in  peace  on  your  domains. 

Enter  Werner,  as  Count  Siegendorf. 

ULRIC 

My  father,  I  salute  you,  and  it  grieves  me 

With  such  brief  greeting. — You  have  heard  our  huge, 

The  vassals  wait. 

siegendorf. 
So  let  them — you  forget 
To-morrow  is  the  appointed  festival 
In  Prague,  for  peace  restored.     You  are  apt  to  follo\» 
The  chase  with  such  an  ardour  as  will  scarce 
Permit  you  to  return  to-day,  or  if 
Return'd,  too  much  fatigued  to  join  to-morrow 
The  nobles  in  our  marshall'd  ranks. 

ULRIC 

You,  count, 
Will  well  supply  the  place  of  both — I  am  not 
A  lover  of  these  pageantries. 


WERNER. 


42^ 


SIEGENDORF. 

No,  Ulric ; 
It  wero  not  woll  that  you  alone  of  all 
Oui  young  nobility 

IDA 

And  far  the  noblest 
In  aspect  and  demeanour. 

SIEGKNDOKF    {tO  Ida). 

True,  dear  child, 
Though  somewhat  frankly  said  for  a  fair  damsel. — 
But,  Ulric,  recollect  too  our  position. 
So  lately  reinstated  in  our  honours. 
Believe  me,  't  would  be  mark'd  in  any  house. 
But  most  in  ourft^  that  one  should  be  found  wanting 
At  such  a  time  and  place.     Besides,  the  Heaven 
Which  gave  us  back  our  own,  in  the  same  moment 
It  spread  its  peace  o'er  all,  hath  double  claims 
On  us  for  thanksgiving  ;   tlrst,  for  our  country. 
And  next,  that  we  are  here  to  share  its  blessings. 

ULRIC  {aside). 
Devout,  too  !  Well,  sir,  I  obey  at  once. 

[  Then  aloud  to  a  servaJit. 
Ludwig,  dismiss  the  train  without ! 

[Exit  Ludwig. 

IDA. 

And  so 
You  yield  at  once  to  him,  what  I  for  hours 
Might  supplicate  in  vain. 

s  EGE>'DORF  {sryuUng). 

You  are  not  jealous 
Of  me,  I  trust,  my  [)retty  rebel  !   who 
Would  sanction  disubtuiience  against  all 
Except  thyself?    But  fear  not,  thou  shalt  rule  him 
Hereafter  with  a  fonder  sway  and  firmer. 

IDA. 

Bill  I  should  like  to  govern  iwiv. 

SIEGENDORF, 

You  shall, 
Your  harp  ;  which,  by  the  way,  awaits  you  with 
The  countess  in  her  chamber.     She  complains 
That  you  are  a  sad  truant  to  your  music : 
She  attends  you. 

IDA. 

Then  good  morrow,  my  kind  kinsmen  ! 
Ulric,  you  '11  come  and  hear  me  ? 

ULRIC. 

By  and  by. 

IDA. 

Be  sure  I  'll  sound  it  better  than  your  bugles  ; 
Then  pray  you  be  as  punctual  to  its  notes : 
I  '11  play  you  King  Gustavus'  march. 

ULRIC 

And  why  not 

Old  Tilly's. 

IDA. 

Not  tiiat  monster's  !   I  should  think 
My  harp-strings  rang  with  groans,  and  not  with  music. 
Could  auaht  of  /n's  sound  on  it  ; — but  come  quickly; 
Your  mollier  will  be  eager  to  receive  you. 

[Exit  Ida. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ulric,  1  wish  to  speak  with  you  alone. 

ULRIC 

My  time  's  your  vassal. —  [A.vde  to  Rodolph. 

Rodolph,  hence  !   and  do 
As  I  directed  ;   and  by  his  best  speed 
And  readiest  means  let  Rosenberg  reply. 

rodolph. 
Count  Siegendorf,  command  you  aught  ?   I  am  bound 
Upon  a  journey  past  the  frontier. 

SIFGENDORF    {starts). 

Ah!— 
Where  ?  on  what  frontier  ? 


RODOLPH 

The  Snesian,  on 
My  way — {aside  to  Ulric).      IVhcrt  shall  [  say  ^ 
ULRIC  (a.sjr/e,  to  Rodolph). 

To  Hamburgh. 
[Aside  to  himself).     Thai 
Word  will,  I  think,  put  a  firm  padlock  on 
His  further  inquisiiion. 

RODOLPH. 

Count,  to  Hamburgh. 
SIEGENDORF  {agitated). 
Hamburgh  !   no,  I  have  nought  to  do  there,  nor 
Am  aught  connected  with  that  city.     Then 
God  speed  you ! 

rodolph. 
Fare  ye  well,  Count  Siegendorf! 

[Exit  Rodolph 

SIEGENDORF. 

[Uric,  this  man,  who  has  just  departed,  is 
One  of  those  strange  companions,  whom  1  fain 
W^ould  reason  with  you  on. 

ULRIC 

My  lord,  he  is 
Noble  by  birth,  of  one  of  the  first  houses 
In  Saxony. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  talk  not  of  his  birth, 
But  of  his  bearing.     Men  speak  lightly  of  him. 

ULRIC 

So  they  will  do  of  most  men.     Even  the  monarch 
Is  not  fenced  from  his  chamberlain's  slander  or 
The  sneer  of  the  last  courtier  whom  he  has  inadf 
Great  and  ungrateful. 

SIEGENDORF. 

If  I  must  be  ph.in, 
The  world  speaks  more  than  liglitlv  of  this  Rodolph 
They  say  he  is  leagued  with  the  '*  black  bands"  who  9  ii 
Ravage  the  frontier. 

ULRIC 

And  will  you  believe 
The  world  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

In  this  case — yes. 

ULRIC 

In  any  case, 

I  thought  you  knew  it  better  than  to  take 
An  accusation  for  a  sentence.    ^ 

SIEGENDORF. 

Son ! 

1  understand  you  :   you  refer  to but 

My  destiny  has  so  involved  about  me 

Her  spider  web,  that  I  can  only  flutter 

Like  the  poor  fly,  but  break  it  not.     Take  heed, 

Ulric  ;  you  have  seen  to  what  the  passions  led  me  , 

Twenty  long  years  of  misery  and  famine 

Quench'd  them  not — twenty  thousand  more,  perchance-, 

Hereafter  (or  even  here  in  vwments  which 

INlight  date  for  years,  did  anguish  make  the  dial)» 

May  not  obhterate  or  expiate 

The  madness  and  dishonour  of  an  instant. 

Ulric,  be  warn'd  by  a  father! — I  was  not 

By  mine,  and  you  behold  me ! 

ULRIC 

I  behold 
The  prosperous  and  beloved  Siegendorf, 
Lord  of  a  prince's  appanage,  and  honour'd 
By  those  he  rules,  and  those  he  ranks  with. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ah' 

Why  wilt  thou  call  me  jjrosjierous,  while  I  fea- 
For  thee  ?   Beloved,  when  thou  iovest  me  not  ? 
All  hearts  but  one  may  beat  in  kindness  for  me — 
But  if  my  son's  is  cold  ! 


424 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


tTLRlC. 

Who  dare  say  that  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

None  elsv  but  f,  who  see  li— feel  it— keener 
Than  would  vour  av.veriSdiy,  who  dared  say  so, 
Voui  sabre  in  nis  heart !     But  mine  survives 
The  wound. 

ULRIC. 

You  eir.     My  nature  is  not  given 
To  outward  fondhng ;   how  should  it  be  so, 
After  twelve  years'  divorcement  from  my  parents  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  did  not  I  too  pass  those  twelve  torn  years 
In  a  like  absence  ?     But  't  is  vain  to  urge  you — 
Nature  was  never  call'd  back  by  remonstrance. 
Let 's  change  the  theme.     I  wish  you  to  consider 
That  these  young  violent  nobles  of  high  name, 
But  dark  deeds  (ay,  the  darkest,  if  all  rumour 
Reports  be  true),  with  whom  thou  consortest, 

Will  lead  thee 

ULRIC  {impatientli/). 
I  'U  be  ted  by  no  man. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Nor 
Be  leader  of  such,  I  would  hope  :  at  once 
To  wean  thee  from  the  perils  of  thy  youth 
And  haughty  spirit,  I  have  thought  it  well 
That  thou  should'st  wed  the  lady  Ida — more, 
As  thou  appear'st  to  love  her. 

ULRIC. 

I  have  said 
I  will  obey  your  orders,  were  they  to 
Unite  with  Hecate — can  a  son  say  more  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

He  says  too  much  in  saying  this.     It  is  not 

The  nature  of  thine  age,  nor  of  thy  blood, 

Nor  of  thy  temperament,  to  talk  so  coolly, 

Or  act  so  carelessly,  in  that  which  is 

The  bloom  or  blight  of  all  men's  happiness, 

(For  glory's  pillow  is  but  restless,  if 

Love  lay  not  down  his  cheek  there):  some  strong  bias 

Some  master  fiend,  is  in  thy  service,  to 

Misrule  the  mortal  who  believes  him  slave. 

And  makes  his  every  thought  subservient ;   else 

Thou  'dst  say  at  once,  "  I  love  young  Ida,  and 

Will  wed  her,"  or,  "  I  love  her  not,  and  all 

The  powers  of  earth  shall  never  make  me." — Sc 

Would  I  have  answer'd. 

ULRIC. 

Sir,  you  wed  for  love. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  did,  and  it  has  been  my  only  refuge 
tn  many  miseries. 

ULRIC 

Which  miseries 
Had  never  been  but  for  this  luve-match. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Still 

Against  your  ago  and  nature  !   who  at  twenty 
E'er  answer'd  thus  till  now  ? 

ULRIC. 


Did 


you  not  warn  ine 


Against  your  o  vn  example  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Boyish  sophist] 
In  a  word,  do  you  love,  or  love  not,  Ida? 

ULRIC 

What  matters  it,  if  I  am  ready  to 
Obey  you  in  espousing  her? 

8IEGENDORK. 

As  far 
As  you  feel,  nothing,  but  all  life  for  her. 


She  's  young — all-beautiful — adores  you — 1% 
Endow'd  with  qualities  to  give  hai)pmess. 
Such  as  rounds  common  life  into  a  dream 
Of  something  which  your  poets  cannot  paint, 
And  (if  it  were  not  wisdom  to  love  virtue) 
For  which  philosophy  might  barter  wisdom  ; 
And  givmg  so  much  happiness  deserves 
A  little  in  return.     I  would  not  have  her 
Break  her  heart  for  a  man  who  has  none  to  break, 
Or  wither  on  her  stalk  like  some  pale  rose 
Deserted  by  the  bird  she  thought  a  nightingale, 
According  to  the  orient  tale.     She  is 

ULRIC. 

The  daughter  of  dead  Stralenheim,  your  foe ! 
I  '11  wed  her,  ne'ertheless  ;   though,  to  say  truth. 
Just  now  I  am  not  violently  transported 
In  favour  of  such  unions. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  she  loves  you. 

ULRIC 

And  I  love  her,  and  therefore  would  think  twice. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Alas !  Love  never  did  so. 

ULRIC 

Then  't  is  time 
He  should  begin,  and  take  the  bandage  from 
His  eyes,  and  look  before  he  leaps :   till  now 
He  hath  ta'en  a  jumo  i'  the  dark. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  you  consent? 

ULRIC. 

I  did  and  do. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Then  fix  the  day. 

ULRIC 

'T  is  usua\, 
And,  certes,  courteous,  to  leave  that  to  the  lady. 

SIEGENDORF. 

/  will  engage  for  her. 

ULRIC 

So  will  not  / 
For  any  woman ;   and  as  what  I  fix, 
I  fain  would  see  unshaken,  when  she  gives 
Her  answer,  I  '11  give^mine. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  'tis  your  office 
To  woo. 

ULRIC 

Count,  'tis  a  marriage  of  your  making. 
So  be  it  of  your  wooing ;   but  to  please  you 
I  will  now  pay  my  duty  to  my  mother. 
With  whom,  you  know,  the  lady  Ida  is — 
What  would  you  have  7   You  have  forbid  my  stirring 
For  manly  sports  beyond  the  castle  walls. 
And  I  obey  ;  you  bid  me  turn  a  chamberer. 
To  pick  up  gloves,  and  fans,  and  knitting-needles 
And  list  to  songs  and  tunes,  and  watch  for  smiles 
And  smile  at  pretty  prattle,  and  look  into 
The  eyes  of  feminie,  as  though  they  were 
The  stars  receding  early  to  our  wish 
Upon  the  dawn  of  a  world-winning  battle — 
What  can  a  son  or  man  do  more  ?  [Exit  Ulkic 

SIEGENDORF    {sclus). 

Too  much ! — 
Too  much  of  duty  and  too  little  love ! 
He  pays  me  in  the  coin  he  owes  me  not : 
For  such  hath  been  my  wayward  fate,  I  could  net 
Fulfil  a  parent's  duties  by  his  side 
Till  now ;   but  love  he  owes  me,  for  my  thoughts 
Ne'er  left  him,  nor  my  eyes  long'd  without  tear* 


WERNER. 


425 


To  see  my  child  again,  and  now  I  have  found  him.' 
But  how  ?  obedient,  but  with  coldness  ;   duteous 
[n  uiy  sight,  but  with  carelessness  ;   mysterious, 
Abstracted — distant — much  given  to  long  absence. 
And  where — none  know — in  league  with  tlie  most  riotous 
Of  our  young  nobles  :    though,  to  do  liim  justice. 
He  never  stoops  down  to  their  vulgar  pleasures ; 
Vet  there's  some  tie  between  them  which  I  cannot 
Unravel.    Tliey  look  up  to  him — consult  him — 
Throng  round  hun  as  a  leader :   but  with  me 
He  hath  no  confidence  !   Ah  !   can  I  hope  it 
After — what !   doth  my  father's  curse  descend 
Even  to  my  child?   Or  is  the  Hungarian  near 
To  shed  more  blood,  or — oh  !   if  it  should  be  ! 
Spirit  of  Stralenheim,  dost  thou  walk  these  walls 
To  wither  hun  and  his — who,  though  they  slew  not, 
Cnlatcird  the  door  of  dpath  for  thee?  'T  was  not 
Our  fault,  nor  is  our  sin :   thou  wert  our  foe. 
And  yet  I  spared  thee  when  my  own  destruction 
Slept  with  thee,  to  awake  with  thine  awakening  ! 
■  And  only  took — accursed  gold  !   thou  liest 
Like  poison  in  my  hands ;   I  dare  not  use  thee, 
Nor  part  from  thee ;   thou  earnest  in  such  a  guise, 
Methinks  thou  wouldst  contaminate  all  hands 
Like  mine.     Yet  I  have  done,  to  afone  for  thee. 
Thou  villanous  gold  !   and  thy  dead  master's  doom 
Though  he  died  not  by  me  or  mine,  as  much 
As  if  he  were  my  brother !   I  have  ta'en 
His  orphan  Ida — cherish'd  her  as  one 
SVho  will  be  mine. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

ATTENDANT. 

The  abbot,  if  it  please 
y^ur  excellencv,  whom  you  sent  for,  waits 
Tpon  you.  [Exit  Attendant. 

EntfT  the  Prior  Albert. 
PRIOR  albert. 
Peace  be  with,  these  walls,  and  all 

Within  them ! 

siegendorf. 
Welcome,  welcome,  holy  father  ! 
And  may  thy  prayer  be  heard !— all  men  have  need 
Of  such,  and  I 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Have  the  first  claim  to  all 
The  prayers  of  our  community.     Our  convent, 
Erected  by  your  ancestors,  is  still 
Protected  by  their  children. 

siegendorf. 

Yes,  good  father ; 
Continue  daily  orisons  for  us 
In  these  dim  days  of  heresies  and  blood, 
Though  the  schismatic  Swede,  Gustavus,  is 

Gone  home. 

PRIOR  albert. 
To  the  endless  home  of  unbehevers, 
Where  there  is  everlasting  wail  and  woe. 
Gnashing  of  teeth,  and  tears  of  blood,  and  fire 
Eternal,  and  the  worm  which  dieth  not! 

SIEGENDORF. 

True,  father :   and  to  avert  those  pangs  from  one, 
Wh.i,  though  of  our  most  faultless,  holy  church. 
Yet  died  without  its  last  and  dearest  offices. 
Which  smooth  the  soul  through  purgatorial  pains, 
I  have  to  offer  humbly  this  donation 
In  masses  for  his  spiric. 

[Siegendorf  fiferx  the  gold  which  he  had  taken 
from  Stralenheim. 

prior  albert. 
Count,  if  I 
Rece-ve  it,  't  is  because  I  know  too  well 


Refusal  would  offend  you.     Be  assured 
The  largess  shall  be  only  uealt  in  alms, 
And  every  mass  no  less  sung  for  the  dead. 
Our  house  needs  no  donations,  thanks  to  yours. 
Which  has  of  old  endow'd  it  ;   but  from  you 
And  yours  in  aU  meet  things  't  is  fit  we  obey. 
For  whom  shall  mass  )e  said  ? 

SIEGENDORF  {faltering). 

For — for — the  iea<i 
PRIOR  albert- 
His  name. 

SIEGENDORF. 

*T  is  from  a  soul,  and  not  a  name, 
I  would  avert  perdition. 

PRIOR  albert. 
I  meant  not 
To  pry  into  your  secret.     We  will  pray 
For  one  unknown,  the  same  as  for  the  proudest. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Secret !  I  have  none  ;  but,  father,  he  who  's  gone 
INIiofht  have  one ;   or,  in  short,  he  did  bequeath — 
No,  not  bequeath — but  I  bestow  this  sum 
For  pious  purposes. 

PRIOR   ALBERT. 

A  proper  deed 
In  the  behalf  of  our  departed  friends. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  he,  who 's  gone,  was  not  my  friend,  but  foe, 
The  deadliest  and  the  staunchest. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Better  still ! 
To  employ  our  means  to  obtain  heaven  for  the  soub 
Of  our  dead  enemies,  is  worthy  those  > 

Who  can  forg.ve  them  living. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  I  did  not 
Forgive  this  man.     I  loathed  him  to  the  last, 
As  he  did  me.     I  do  not  love  him  now, 
But 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Best  of  all !   for  this  is  pure  religion ! 
You  fain  would  rescue  him  you  hate  from  hell — 
An  evangelical  compassion!- -with 
Your  own  gold  too  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Father,  't  is  not  my  gold- 

PRIOR   ALBERT. 

Whose  then  ?  you  said  it  was  no  legacy. 

SIEGENDORF. 

No  matter  whose— of  this  be  sure,  that  he 
Who  own'd  it  never  more  will  need  it,  save 
In  that  which  it  may  purchase  from  your  altars 
'T  is  yours,  or  theirs. 

PRIOR   ALBERT. 

Is  there  no  blood  upon  it  / 

SIEGENDORF. 

No  :  but  there  's  worse  than  blood — eternal  shaint! 

PRIOR   ALBERT. 

Did  he  who  own'd  it  die  in  his  bed  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Alas' 
He  did. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Son !  you  relapse  into  revenge, 
If  you  regret  your  enemy's  bloodless  doath. 

SIEGENDORF. 

His  death  was  fathomlessly  deep  in  blood. 

PRIOR    ALBERT. 

You  said  he  died  in  his  bed,  not  battle. 


426 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


SIEGENDORF. 


He 


Died,  I  scarce  know — but — he  was  stabb'd  i'  the  dark, 

And  now  you  have  it — perish'd  on  his  pillow 

By  a  cat-throat ! — ay !  you  may  look  upon  me  ! 

/  am  not  the  man.     I  '11  meet  your  eye  on  that  point, 

As  I  can  one  day  God's. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

I\or  did  he  die 
By  means,  or  men,  or  instrument  of  yours  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

No !  by  the  God  who  sees  and  strikes  ! 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Nor  know  you 
Who  slew  him  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  could  only  guess  at  one, 
And  he  to  me  a  stranger,  unconnected. 
As  unemploy'd.     Except  by  one  day's  knowledge, 
I  never  saw  the  man  who  was  suspected. 

PRIOR   ALBERT. 

Then  you  are  free  from  guilt. 

SIEGENDORF  (cagerltj). 

Oh !  am  I  ? — say  ' 

PRIOR   ALBERT. 

You  have  said  so,  and  know  best. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Father !  I  have  spoken 
The  truth,  and  nought  but  truth,  if  not  the  whole  : 
Yet  say  I  am  not  guilty !   for  the  blood 
Of  this  man  weii^hs  on  me,  as  if  I  shed  it. 
Though  by  the  Power  who  abh«rreth  human  blood, 
1  did  not ! — nav,  once  spared  it,  when  1  might 
And  could — ay,  perhaps  should — (if  our  seli-safety 
Be  e'er  excusable  in  such  defences 
Against  the  attacks  of  over- potent  toes)  ; 
But  pray  for  him,  for  me,  and  all  my  house 
For,  as  I  said,  though  I  be  innocent, 
I  know  not  why,  a  like  remorse  is  on  me 
As  if  he  had  fallen  by  me  or  mine.     Pray  for  me, 
Father !   I  have  pray'd  myself  in  vain. 

PRIOR   ALBERT. 

I  will. 
Be  comforted  !    You  are  innocent,  and  should 
Be  calm  as  innocence. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  calmness  is  not 
Always  the  attribute  of  innocence  : 
I  feel  it  is  not. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

But  it  will  be  so. 
When  the  mind  gathers  up  its  truth  within  it. 
Remember  the  great  festival  to-morrow. 
In  which  you  rank  amidst  our  chiefest  nobles, 
As  well  as  your  brave  son  ;   and  smooth  your  aspect ; 
Noi  in  the  general  orison  of  thanks 
For  bloodshed  stopt,  let  blood,  you  shed  not,  rise 
A  cloud  upon  your  thoughts.    This  were  to  be 
Too  sensitive.    Take  comfort,  and  forget 
Such  ihings,  and  leave  remorse  unto  the  guilty. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

A  large  and  magnificent  Gothic  Hall  in  the  Castic  tt 
Siegendorf,  decorated  with  Trophies,  Banners,  ana 
Arms  of  that  Family. 

Enter  Arnheim  and  Meister,  Attendants  o/ Count 

SlEGENDORF. 
ARNHEIM. 

Be  quick  !    the  count  will  soon  return  :   the  ladies 
Already  are  at  the  portal.     Have  you  sent 
The  messengers  in  search  of  him  he  seeks  foi  ? 

meister. 
I  have,  in  all  directions,  over  Prague, 
As  far  as  the  man's  dress  and  figure  could 
By  your  description  track  him.     The  devil  take 
These  revels  and  processions !   All  the  pleasure 
(If  such  there  be)  must  fall  to  the  spectators. 
I  'm  sure  none  doth  to  us  who  make  the  show. 

ARNHEIM. 

Go  to  !  my  lady  countess  comes. 

MEISTER. 

I  'd  rather 
Ride  a  day's  hunting  on  an  outworn  jade, 
Than  follow  in  the  train  of  a  great  man 
In  these  dull  pageantries. 

ARNHEIM. 

Begone,  and  rail 
Within.  [Exeurd. 

Enter  the  Countess  Josephine,  Siegendorf,  and 
Ida  Stralenheim. 
josephine. 
Well,  Heaven  be  praised,  the  show  is  over! 

IDA. 

How  can  you  say  so !     Never  have  I  dreamt 
Of  aught  so  beautiful !     The  flowers,  the  boughs, 
The  banners,  and  the  nobles,  and  the  knishts. 
The  gems,  the  robes,  the  plumes,  the  happy  faces, 
The  coursers,  and  the  incense,  and  the  sun, 
Streaming  through  the  stain'd  windows,  even  the  tombi. 
Which  look'd  so  calm,  and  the  celestial  hymns. 
Which  seem'd  as  if  they  rather  came  f/om  heaven 
Than  mounted  there.     The  bursting  organ's  peal 
Rolling  on  high  like  a  harmonious  thiW'.der ; 
The  white  robes,  and  the  lifted  eyes  ;   t'.ie  world 
At  peace  !  and  all  at  peace  with  one  another  ! 
Oh,  my  sweet  mother  I  [Embracing  Josephine. 

JOSEPHINE. 

INIy  beloved  child . 
For  such,  I  trust,  thou  shall  be  shortly. 

IDA. 

Oh! 

I  am  so  already.    Feel  how  my  heart  beats ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

It  does,  my  love  ;   and  never  may  it  throb 
With  aught  more  bitter ! 

IDA. 

Never  shall  it  ao  so  J 
How  should  it?  What  should  make  us  grieve'  I  hate 
To  hear  of  sorrow  :   1  ow  can  we  oe  sad, 
Who  love  each  other  so  entirely  ?    You, 
The  count,  and  Ulric,  and  your  daughter,  Ida. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Poor  child ! 

IDA. 

Do  you  pity  me  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

No  ;   I  but  envy. 
And  that  in  sorrow,  not  in  the  world's  sense 


WERNER. 


i'J- 


Of  the  universal  vi(?e,  if  one  vice  be 
More  general  than  another. 

IDA. 

I  '11  not  hear 
A  word  against  a  world  which  still  contains 
You  and  my  l.'lric.     Did  you  ever  see 
Ausht  like  hini  '   Hosv  he  tower'd  amongst  them  all! 
How  all  eyes  foUow'd  him  !     The  Howers  fell  faster— 
Ixain'd  from  each  lattice  at  his  feet,  mcthought, 
Than  before  all  the  rest,  and  where  he  trod 
I  dare  he  sworn  that  they  grow  still,  nor  e'er 
Will  wither.  ft 

JOSEPHINE. 

You  will  s|)oil  lum,  little  flatterer, 
If  he  should  hear  you. 

IDA. 

But  he  never  will. 
1  dare  not  say  so  nmch  to  him — I  fear  him. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Why  so  ?  he  loves  you  well. 

IDA. 

But  I  can  never 
Shape  my  thoughts  of  him  into  words  to  him. 
Besides,  he  sometimes  frightens  me. 

JOSEPHINE. 

How  so  V 

IDA. 

A  cloud  comes  o'er  his  blue  eyes  suddenly, 
Yet  he  says  nothing. 

JOSEPHINE. 

It  is  nothing  :   all  men, 
Especiallv  in  these  dark  troublous  times, 
Have  much  to  think  of. 

IDA. 

But  I  cannot  think 
Of  aught  save  him. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Yet  there  are  other  men. 
In  the  world's  eve,  as  goodly.    There  's,  for  instance, 
The  young  Count  Waldorf,  who  scarce  once  withdrew 
His  eyes  from  yours  to-day. 

IDA. 

I  did  not  see  him, 
Bui  Ulric.     Did  you  not  see  at  the  moment 
Wher  all  knelt,  and  I  wept?  and  yet  methought 
Through  my  fast  tears,  though  they  were  thick  and 

warm, 
I  saw  him  smiling  on  me. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  could  not 
isee  aught  save  heaven,  to  which  my  eyes  were  raised 
Together  >vith  the  people's. 

IDA. 

I  thought  too 
Of  heaven,  although  I  look'd  on  Ulric. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Come, 
Let  us  retire  ;  they  will  be  here  anon. 
Expectant  of  the  banquet.     We  will  lay 
Aside  these  nodding  p  umes  and  dragging  trains. 

IDA. 

And,  aVjove  all,  these  stiff  and  heavy  jewels, 
Which  make  my  head  and  heart  ache,  as  both  throb 
Ber:eath  their  glitter  o'er  my  brow  anji  zone. 
Dear  mother,  I  am  with  you.  [Exeunt 

Enter  Count  Siegendorf  in  full  dress,  from  the 
solemnity,  and  Ludwig. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Is  he  hot  foun  3  ? 

LUDWIG. 

Strict  search  is  making  every  where  ;   and  it 
The  man  be  in  Prague,  be  sure  he  will  be  foixnd* 


SIEGENDORF 

Where  's  Ulric  ? 

LUDWIG. 

He  rode  round  the  other  way, 
With  some  young  nobles  ;   but  he  left  them  soon  j 
And,  if  I  err  not,  not  a  minute  sii.ce 
I  heard  his  excellency,  witli  his  train. 
Gallop  o'er  the  west  drawbridge. 

Enter  Ulric,  spleruHdli,  dressed. 

SIEGENDORF     {tO  LuDWIo). 

See  they  cease  not 
Their  quest  of  him  I  have  described.       [Exit  I-udwic 

Oh!   Uhic, 
How  have  I  long'd  for  thee  ! 

ULRIC. 

Your  wish  is  granted — 
Behold  me ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  have  seen  the  murderer. 

ULRIC. 

Whom?  Where? 

SIEGENDORF. 

The  Hungarian,  who  slew  Stralenheim. 

ULRIC. 

You  dream. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  live !   and  as  I  live,  I  saw  him — 
Heard  him !   He  dared  to  utter  even  my  name. 

ULRIC. 

What  name  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Werner !   H  uas  mine. 

ULRIC. 

It  must  be  so 
No  more :   forget  it. 

siece::dorf. 
Never  !   never  !   all 
My  destinies  were  woven  in  that  name: 
It  will  not  be  engraved  upon  my  tomb. 
But  it  may  lead  me  there. 

ulric 

To  the  point — the  Hungarian . 

SIEGENDORF. 

Listen! — The  church  was  throng'd;  the  hymn  was  raised 

"  Te  Deum"  peal'd  from  nations,  rather  than 

From  choirs,  in  one  great  cry  of  "  God  be  praised" 

For  one  day's  peace,  after  thrice  ten  dread  years, 

Each  bloodier  than  the  former ;   I  arose. 

With  all  the  nobles,  and  as  I  look'd  down 

Along  the  lines  of  lifted  faces, — from 

Our  banner'd  and  escutcheon'd  gallery,  I 

Saw,  like  a  Hash  of  lighi'ung  (for  I  saw 

A  moment,  and  no  more),  what  struck  me  sightless 

To  all  else — tJie  Hungarian's  face  ;   1  grew 

Sick  ;   and  wiien  I  recover'd  from  the  mist 

Which  curl'd  about  my  senses,  and  again 

Look'd  down,  i  saw  him  not.     The  thanksgiving 

W  as  over,  and  we  march'd  back  in  procession. 

ULRIC. 

Continue. 

SIEGENDORF. 

When  we  reach'd  the  Muldau^s  bridge. 
The  joyous  crowd  above,  the  numberless 
Barks  mann'd  svith  revellers  in  their  best  garbs. 
Which  shot  along  the  glancing  tide  below. 
The  decorated  street,  the  long  array. 
The  clashing  music,  and  the  thundering 
Of  far  artillery,  which  seem'd  to  bid 
A  long  and  loud  farewell  to  its  great  doings. 
The  standards  o'er  me,  and  the  tramjjlings  round. 


428 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


The  roar  of  rushing  thousands,  all — all  could  not 
Chase  this  man  from  my  mmd  ;  al 'hough  my  senses 
No  longer  held  him  palpable. 

ULRIC. 

You  saw  him 
No  more,  the>i  ? 

SIEGENDORF, 

I  look'd,  as  a  dying  soldier 
Looks  at  a  dra  ight  of  water,  for  this  man  ; 
But  still  I  saw  him  not ;  but  in  his  stead > 

ULRIC. 

What  in  his  stead  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

My  eye  for  ever  fell 
Upon  your  dancing  crest ;   the  loftiest, 
As  on  the  loftiest  and  the  loveliest  head 
It  rose  the  highest  of  the  stream  of  plumes. 
Which  overflosv'd  the  glittering  streets  of  Prague. 

ULRIC. 

What 's  this  to  the  Hungarian  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Much,  for  I 
Had  almost  then  forgot  him  in  my  son, 
When  just  as  the  artillery  ceased,  and  paused 
The  music,  and  the  crowd  embraced  in  lieu 
Of  shouting,  I  heard  in  a  deep,  low  voice. 
Distinct  and  keener  far  upon  my  ear 
Than  the  late  cannon's  volume,  this  word — "  Werner  T- 

ULRIC. 

Utter'd  by 

SIEGENDORF. 

Him  !   I  turn'd — and  saw — and  fell. 

ULRIC 

And  wherefore  ?  Were  you  seen  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

The  officious  care 
Of  those  around  me  dragg'd  me  from  the  spot, 
Seeing  my  faintness,  ignorant  of  the  cause ; 
You,  too,  were  too  remote  in  the  procession 
(The  old  nobles  being  divided  from  their  children) 
To  aid  me. 

ULRIC 

But  I  Ml  aid  you  now. 

SIEGENDORF. 

In  what  ? 

ULRIC. 

In  searching  for  this  man,  or when  he 's  found, 

What  shall  we  do  with  him  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  know  not  that. 

ULRIC. 

Then  wherefore  seek  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Because  I  cannot  rest 
Till  he  is  found.     His  fate,  and  Stralenheim's, 
And  ours,  seem  intertwisted  ;  nor  can  be 
Unravell'd,  till 

Enter  an  Attendant. 


Vour  Excellency. 


ATTENDANT. 

A  stranger  to  wait  on 


SIEGENDORF. 

Who  ? 

ATTENDANT. 

lie  gave  no  name. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Admit  him,  ne'erth<;less. 

[The  Attendan  r   introduces  Gabor,  and  af- 
terwards excit. 

Ah! 


GABOR, 

'T  IS,  then,  Werner  < 

SIEGENDORF    {haUghfUl/ ). 

The  same  you  knew,  sir,  by  that  name  ;   and  you  ? 

GABOK  {looking  round), 
I  recognise  you  both  ;   father  and  son. 
It  seems.     Count,  I  have  heard  that  you,  or  yours, 
ilave  lately  been  in  search  of  me :  I  am  here. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  have  sought  you,  and  have  found  you  ;  you  are  charge 
(Your  own  heart  may  inform  you  why)  with  such 
A  cr^e  as [He  pausen 

GABOR. 

Give  It  utterance,  and  then 
I  '11  meet  the  consequences. 

SIEGENDORF. 

You  shall  do  so — 
Unless 

GABOR. 

First,  who  accuses  me? 

SIEGENDORF. 

All  things, 
If  not  all  men :   the  universal  rumour — 
My  own  presence  on  the  spot— the  place— the  time^ 
And  every  speck  of  circumstance,  unite 
To  fix  the  blot  on  you. 

GABOR. 

And  on  ?/?e  only  ? 
Pause  ere  you  answer:   is  no  other  name, 
Save  mine,  stam'd  in  this  business  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Trifling  villain  ! 
Who  play'st  with  thine  own  guilt  ?  Of  all  that  breatho 
Thou  best  dost  know  the  innocence  of  him 
'Gainst  whom  thy  breath  would  blow  thy  bloody  slande? 
But  I  will  talk  no  further  with  a  wretch. 
Further  than  justice  asks.     Answer  at  once, 
And  without  quibbling,  to  my  charge. 

GABOR. 

r  is  false ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Who  says  so  ? 

GABOR. 


I. 


SIEGENDORF. 

And  how  disprove  it? 

GABOR. 


By 


The  presence  of  the  murderer. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Name  him ! 

GABOR. 

He 

May  have  more  names  than  one.   Your  lordship  had  so 
Once  on  a  tune. 

SIEGENDORF. 

If  you  mean  me,  I  dare 
Your  utmost. 

GABOR. 

You  may  do  so,  and  in  safety : 
I  know  the  assassin. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Where  is  he  ? 
GABOR  [pointing  to  Ulric). 

Beside  you ! 
[Ulric  rushes  formard  to  attack  Gaboh 
SiEGENDORF  interposes. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Liar  and  fiend !   but  you  shall  not  be  slain  ; 
These  walls  are  mine,  and  you  are  safe  within  them. 
[He  turns  to  Ulrio. 
Ulric  repel  this  calumny,  as  I 


WERNER. 


42y 


Will  .lo.  I  avow  it  is  a  growth  so  monstrous, 
1  CO  jid  not  deem  it  earth-born  :  but,  be  cahn  ; 
It  will  refute  itself.     But  touch  him  not. 

[Ulric  endeavours  to  compose  himself. 

GABOR. 

Look  at  him,  and  then  hear  me. 

SIKGENDORF. 

(FiA?r  to  Gabor,  and  then  looking  at  Ulric). 
I  hear  thee. 
rGod!  you  look 

ULRIC. 

How? 

SIEGENDORF. 

As  on  that  dread  night 
When  we  met  in  the  garden. 

ULRIC  {composes  himself). 
It  is  nothing. 

GAEOR. 

Count,  you  are  bound  to  hear  me.     I  came  hither 
Not  seeking  you,  but  sought.    When  I  knelt  down 
Amidst  the  people  in  the  church,  I  dream'd  not 
To  find  the  beggar'd  Werner  in  the  seat 
Of  senators  and  princes  ;  but  you  have  cali'd  me, 
And  we  have  met. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Go  on,  sir. 

GABOR. 

Ere  I  do  so, 
Al'ow  me  to  inquire  who  profited 
Hy  Slralenheim's  death  ?  W^as'tl— as  poor  as  ever- 
And  poorer  by  suspicion  on  my  name. 
The  baron  lost  in  that  last  outrage  neither 
Jewe^  nor  gold  ;   his  life  alone  was  sought— 
A  life  which  stood  between  the  claims  of  others 
T  3  honours  and  estates,  scarce  less  than  princely. 

SIEGENDORF. 

These  hints,  as  vague  as  vain,  attach  no  less 
To  me  than  to  my  son. 

GABOR. 

I  can't  help  that. 
But  let  the  consequence  alight  on  him 
Who  feels  himself  the  guilty  one  amongst  us. 
[  speak  to  you.  Count  Siegendorf,  because 
1  know  you  innocent,  and  deem  you  just. 
But  ere  I  can  proceed — Dare  you  protect  me  ? — 
Dare  you  command  me  ? 

[Siegendorf  jirst  looks  at  the  Hungarian,  and 
then  at  Ulric,  who  has  unbuckled  his  sabre,  and 
is  drawing  lines  xmth  it  on  the  floor — still  in  its 
sheath. 
ULRIC  {looks  at  his  father,  and  sai/s) 

Let  the  man  go  on! 

GABrtR. 

I  am  unarm'd,  count — bid  your  son  lay  down 
His  sabre. 

ULRIC  {offers  it  to  him  contemptuously). 
Take  it. 

GABOR. 

No,  sir  ;  't  is  enough 
That  we  are  both  unarm'd — 1  would  not  choose 
To  wear  a  steel  which  may  be  stain'd  with  more 
Blood  than  came  there  in  battle. 

ULRIC  {casts  the  sabre  from  him  in  contempt). 
It — or  some 
Sucn  jther  weapon,  in  my  hands — spared  yours 
Once,  when  disarni'd  and  at  my  mercy. 

GABOK. 

True— 
I  have  not  forgotten  it :   you  spared  me  for 
Your  own  especial  purpose — to  sustain 
An  ignominy  not  mine  own. 


ULRIC. 

Proceed. 
The  tale  is  doubtless  worthy  the  relater. 
But  is  it  of  my  father  to  hear  further  ? 

[To  SlEOENDORF 

SIEGENDORF  {takes  his  son  hy  the  hand). 
My  son  !   I  know  mine  own  innocence — and  doubt  not 
Of  yours — but  I  have  promised  this  man  patience ; 
Let  him  continue. 

GABOR. 

I  will  not  detain  you 
Bv  speakmg  of  myself  much  ;   I  began 
Life  early — and  am  what  the  world  has  made  me.     . 
At  Frankfort,  on  the  Oder,  where  I  pass'd 
A  winter  in  obscurity,  it  was 
My  chance  at  several  places  of  resort 
(Which  I  frequented  someiimes,  but  not  often) 
To  hear  related  a  strange  circumstance. 
In  February  last.     A  martial  force. 
Sent  by  the  state,  had,  after  strong  resistance. 
Secured  a  band  of  desjjerate  men,  supi)osed 
Marauders  from  the  hostile  camp. — They  proved, 
However,  not  to  be  so — hut  banditti, 
Whom  either  accident  or  enterprise 
Had  carried  from  their  usual  haunt — the  forests 
Which  skirt  Bohemia — even  into  Lusatia. 
Many  amongst  them  were  reported  of 
High  rank — and  martial  law  slept  for  a  time. 
At  last  they  were  escorted  o'er  the  frontiers. 
And  placed  beneath  the  civil  jurisdiction 
Of  the  free  town  of  Frankfort.     Of  their  fate, 
I  know  no  more. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  what  is  this  to  Ulric  ? 

GABOR. 

Amongst  them  there  was  said  to  be  one  man 
Of  wonderful  endowments: — birth  and  fortune, 
Vouth,  strength,  and  beaiuy,  almost  superhuman, 
And  courage  as  unrivall'd,  were  proclaim'd 
His  by  the  public  rumour ;   and  his  sway. 
Not  only  over  his  associates  but 
His  judges,  was  attributed  to  wii  -licraft. 
Such  was  his  influence : — I  have  no  great  faith 
In  any  magic  save  that  of  the  mine — 
I  therefore  deem'd  him  wealthy.— But  my  soul 
Was  roused  with  various  feelings  to  seek  out 
This  prodigy,  if  only  to  behold  him. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  did  you  so  ? 

GABOR. 

You  '11  hear.     Chance  favour'd  me: 
A  popular  affray  in  the  pubhc  square 
Drew  crowds  together — it  was  one  of  those 
Occasions,  where  men's. souls  look  out  of  them. 
And  show  them  as  they  are — even  in  their  faces : 
The  moment  my  eye  met  his — I  exclaim'd 
"This  is  the  man  !"  though  he  was  then,  as  since, 
With  the  nobles  of  the  city.     1  felt  sure 
I  had  not  err'd,  and  watch'd  him  long  and  nearly : 
I  noted  down  his  form — his  gesture — features. 
Stature  and  bearing — and  amidst  them  all, 
'Midst  every  natural  and  acquired  distinction, 
i  could  discern,  methought,  the  assassin's  eye 
And  gladiator's  heart. 

ULRK.  {smiling). 

The  tale  sounds  welL 

GABOR. 

And  may  sound  better. — He  appear'd  to  me 
One  of  those  beings  to  whom  Fortune  bends 
i    As  she  doth  to  the  daring — and  on  whom 
The  fates  of  others  oft  depend  ;  besides. 


430 


BTKON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


An  ijidescribablo  scnsaiion  Hrovv  me 

Near  to  this  man,  as  if  my  pomi  of  fortune 

Was  to  be  fix'd  by  him — There  I  was  wrong. 

SIEGENDOKF. 

And  may  not  be  right  now. 

GAROR. 

I  follow'd  him — 
Solicited  nis  notice — and  o'otam'd  it — 
Though  not  his  friendship  : — it  was  his  intention 
To  leave  the  city  [)rivalely — we  left  it 
Together — and  together  we  ar  ived 
In  the  poor  town  where  Werne*-  was  concealed, 
Arid  Stralenheim  was  succour'd  •  — Now  we  are  on 
The  verge — dure  you  hear  further  "^ 

SIEGE.NDOKF. 

I  mttst  do  so — 
Or  I  have  heard  too  much. 

GABOR. 

I  saw  in  you 
A  man  above  his  station — and  if  not 
So  high,  as  now  I  tind  you,  in  my  then 
Conceptions — 't  was  that  I  had  rarely  seen 
JMon  such  as  you  appear'd  in  height  of  mind, 
In  tlie  most  high  of  worldly  rank ;  you  were 
Poor — even  to  all  save  rags — I  would  have  shared 
Wy  purse,  though  slender,  with  you — you  refused  it. 

SIEGEXDORF. 

Doth  my  refusal  make  a  debt  to  you, 
That  thus  you  urge  it  ? 

GABOR. 

Still  you  owe  me  something, 
Though  not  for  that — and  I  owed  you  rny  safety. 
At  least  my  seeming  safety — v.'hen  the  slaves 
Of  Stralenheim  pursued  me  on  the  grounds 
That  J  had  robb'd  hnn. 

SIEGEXDORF. 

I  conceal'd  you — I, 
Whom,  and  whose  house,  you  arraign,  reviving  viper ! 

GABOR. 

I  accuse  no  man — save  in  my  defence. 
You,  count !  have  made  yourself  accuser — ^judge — 
Your  hall's  my  court,  your  heart  is  my  tribunal. 
Be  just,  and  /  '11  be  merciful. 

SIEGENDORF. 

You  merciful ! 
You  !  base  calumniator  ! 

GABOR. 

I.     'T  will  rest 
W  ith  me  at  last  to  be  so.     You  conceal'd  me — 
In  secret  passages  known  to  yourself. 
You  said,  and  to  none  else.     At  dead  of  night, 
Weary  with  walcliing  in  the  dark,  and  dubious 
Of  tracing  back  my  way — I  saw  a  glmjmer 
Tiirougli  distant  craimies  of  a  twinkling  light. 
I  follow'd  it,  and  reach'd  a  door — a  secret 
Portal — which  open'd  to  the  chamber,  where, 
With  cautious  hand  and  slow,  havuig  first  undone 
As  much  as  made  a  crevice  of  the  fastening, 

look'd  through,  and  beheld  a  purple  bed, 
4iid  on  it  Stralenlicim  ! — 

SIEGENDOKF. 

Asleep !   And  yet 
You  slew  him — wretch  ! 

GAROR. 

He  was  already  slain, 
And  bleeding  like  a  sacrifice.     My  own 
Blood  became  ice, 

SIEGENDOKF. 

But  he  was  all  alone  ! 

fou  bavv  r:'»nc  else  !    Ydw  ili  I  !i-.t  sr<'  thr 

( //'■  jiivt-irs  fiinii  'isUiition 


No, 
He,  whom  you  dare  not  name — nor  3ven  I 
Scarce  dare  to  recollect — was  not  tiien  in 
The  chamber. 

SIEGENDORF   [tO  IjLRtc). 

Then,  my  boy  !   thou  art  guiltless  Sftili— 
Thou  bad'st  me  say  I  was  s|>  once — Oh  !   now 
Do  thou  as  much  ! 

GABOR. 

Be  patient !   I  can  not 
Recede  now,  though  it  shake  the  very  walls 
Which  frown  above  us.     You  remember,  or 
If  not,  your  son  does, — that  the  locks  were  changed 
Beneath  his  chief  inspection — on  the  morn 
Which  led  to  this  same  night :   how  he  had  enter''! 
He  best  knows — but  within  an  antechamber. 
The  door  of  which  was  half  ajar — I  saw 
A  man  who  wash'd  his  bloody  hands,  and  oft 
With  stern  and  anxious  glance  gazed  back  upon 
The  bleeding  body — but  it  moved  no  more. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Oh!  God  of  fathers  ! 

GABOR. 

I  beheld  his  features 
As  I  see  yours — but  yours  they  were  not,  though 
Resembling  them — behold  them  in  Count  Ulric's  ! 
Distinct — as  I  beheld  them — though  the  expression 
Is  not  now  what  it  then  was  ; — but  it  was  so 
When  I  first  charged  him  with  the  crime  : — so  lately. 

SIEGENDORF. 

This  is  SO 

GABOR  [interrupting  him). 
Nay — but  hear  me  to  the  end  ! 
Noiv  you  must  do  so. — 1  conceived  myself 
Betray'd  by  you  and  him  (for  novv  I  saw 
There  was  some  tie  between  you)  into  this 
Pretended  den  of  refiige,  to  become 
The  victim  of  your  gmlt,   and  my  first  thought 
Was  vengeance  :  but  though  arm'd  with  a  short  ponlsirfl 
(Having  eft  my  sword  without),  I  was  no  match 
For  him  at  any  time,  as  had  been  proved 
That  morning — either  in  address  or  force. 
I  turn'd,  and  fled — i'  the  dark :   chance,  rather  than 
Skill,  made  me  gain  the  secret  door  of  the  hall. 
And  thence  the  chamber  where  you  slept — if  I 
Had  found  you  waking.  Heaven  alone  can  tell 
What  vengeance  and  suspicion  might  have  prompteo  j 
But  ne'er  slept  guilt  as  Werner  slept  that  night. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  yet  I  had  horrid  dreams  !  and  such  brief  sleep — 
The  stars  had  not  gone  down  v\hen  I  awoke — 
Why  didst  thou  s])are  me  ?   I  dreamt  of  my  father — 
And  now  my  dream  is  out ! 

GABOR. 

'T  IS  not  my  fault, 
If  I  have  read  it. — Well  !   I  tied  and  hid  me — 
Chance  led  me  here  after  so  many  moons — 
And  show'd  me  Werner  in  Count  Siegendorf! 
Werner,  whom  I  had  sought  in  huts  in  vain, 
Inhabited  the  palace  of  a  sovereign  ! 
You  sought  me,  and  have  found  me — now  you  Know 
My  secret,  and  may  weigh  its  worth. 

SIEGENDOKF  [after  a  pause). 

Indeed  '■ 

GABOR. 

Is  it  revcni.'C  or  justice  which  inspires 
Your  uieditation  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Neither — I  was  weighing 
The  value  of  vour  secret. 


WERNER. 


431 


OABOR. 

You  shall  know  it 
At  one; — when  you  wert  poor,  and  I,  though  poor. 
Rich  enough  to  relieve  such  poverty 
As  might  have  envied  mine,  I  offer'd  you 
My  purse — you  would  not  share  ii : — 1  '!1  be  franker 
With  vou  ;  you  are  wealthy,  noble,  trusted  by 
The  nnperial  powers — you  un<lerstaiid  me  ? 

SIEGEXDOKF. 

Yes. — 

G.\BOR.  - 

Not  quite.     You  think  me  venal,  and  search  true  : 
'T  is  no  less  true,  however,  that  my  fortunes 
Have  made  nie  both  at  present  ;   you  shall  aid  me  , 
I  would  have  aided  you — and  also  have 
Heen  somewhat.damaged  in  my  name  to  save 
Yours  and  your  son's.     Weigh  well  what  I  have  said 

SIEGENDORF. 

Dare  you  await  the  event  of  a  few  minutes' 
Deliberation  ? 
GAEOK  [casts  his  eye  on  Ulrtc,  who  is  leaning  against 
a  pillar). 
If  I  should  do  so  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  [)ledge  my  life  for  yours.     Withdraw  into 
This  tower.  [Opens  a  turret  door. 

GABOR  [heaitntinsly). 
This  is  the  second  safe  asylum 
You  have  offer'd  me. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Aiid  was  not  the  first  so  ? 

G  ABOK. 

I  know  not  that  even  now — !)ut  will  approve 
Th<'  second.     I  have  still  a  further  shield. — 
i  dill  not  enter  Prapne  alone — and  should  I 
Be  put  to  rest  with  Stralenhenn — there  are 
Some  tongues  without  will  wag  in  my  behalf. 
Be  brief  in  your  decision  ! 

SIE.GENDORF. 

I  will  be  so — 
My  word  is  sacred  and  irrevocable 
Within  these  walls,  but  it  extends  no  further. 

GABOR. 

f  'ii  laKe  it  for  so  much. 

siEf^END0!iF  [points  to  Ulric's  sahre,  still  upon 
the  grounil). 

Take  also  that — 
I  saw  you  eye  it  eagerly,  and  him 
Distrustfully. 

GABOR  [takes  up  the  sabre). 
I  will  ;    and  so  provide 
To  sell  my  life — not  cheaijly. 
\GxBOR  goes  into  the  turrit,  which  Siegendorf  closes 
SIEGENDORF  [advances  to  Ulric). 

Now,  Count  Uh-ic  I 
Foi  son  I  dare  not  call  thee — What  say'st  thou  ? 

ULRIC. 

His  tale  is  true. 

SIEGENDORF. 

True,  monster  ! 


Most  true,  father : 

what 

iK     He  must 


And  you  did  well  to  listen  to  it 
\\  e  know,  we  can  provitle  aga 
Be  silenced. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ay,  with  half  of  my  domains  ; 
And  with  the  other  half,  could  he  and  thou 
tJnsav  mis  villanv. 


ULRIC. 

It  is  no  time 
For  trifling  or  dissembling.     1  have  said 
His  story  's  true  ;   and  he  too  must  be  silenced. 

SIEGENDORF. 

How  so  ? 

ULRIC. 

As  Stralenheim  is.     Are  you  so  dull 

As  never  to  have  hit  on  this  before  ? 
When  we  met  in  the  garden,  what  except 
Discoverv  in  the  act  could  make  me  know 
His  death  7  or  had  the  prince's  household  been 
Then  summon'd,  would  the  cry  for  the  ])olice 
Been  Ict't  to  such  a  sUptnger?   Or  should  I 
Have  loit(T'd  on  ihe  wav  ?  Or  couUl  youy  fVemct 
The  obje(-t  of  the  baron's  hate  and  fears. 
Have  fled — unless  by  many  an  hour  before 
Suspicion  woke  ?   I  sought  and  fathoni'd  you — 
Doubting  if  you  were  false  or  feeble  ;   I 
Perceived  you  were  the  latter  ;   and  yet  so 
Confiding  have  I  found  you,  that  I  doubted 
At  times  your  weakness. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Parricide !   no  less 
Than  common  stabber!  Whafdeed  of  my  Hfe, 
Or  thought  of  mine,  could  make  you  deem  me  fit 
For  your  accomplice  ! 

ULRIC. 

Father,  do  not  raise 
The  devil  you  cannot  lay,  between  us.     This 
Is  time  for  union  and  for  action,  not 
For  family  dis[)Utes.     While  you  were  tortured 
Could  /  be  calm?  Think  you  that  I  have  heard 
This  fellow's  tale  whhout  some  feeling?   you 
Have  taught  me  feeling  for  you  and  mvself ; 
For  whom  or  what  else  did  you  ever  ttach  it? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Oh  !   my  dead  father's  curse  !   't  is  workmg  now, 

L'LRIC. 

Let  it  work  on  !   the  grave  will  keep  it  down! 

Ashes  are  feeble  foes :   it  is  more  easy 

To  batiie  sueii,  than  countermine  a  mole, 

Which  winds  its  blind  but  living  path  beneath  you. 

Yet  hear  me  still! — If  you  condemn  me,  yet 

Remember  ivho  hath  taught  me  once  too  often 

To  listen  to  hun !    IVho  [iroclaim'd  to  me 

That  thirp  irtre  crimes  made  venial  by  the  occasicn? 

That  passion  was  our  nature  ?  that  the  goods 

Of  heaven  waited  on  the  goods  of  fortune  ? 

IViio  sho.v'd  me  his  humanity  secured 

By  his  nerves  only?    JVho  deprived  me  of 

All  [lower  to  vindicate  myself  and  race 

In  o-ien  .'ay  ?   By  his  disgrace  which  stamp'd 

(It  mi^h;  be)  bastardy  on  me,  and  on 

Himself — a   felon's  brantl !   The  man  who  is 

At  once  both  warm  and  weak,  invites  to  deeds 

He  lo'i2s  to  do,  but  dare  not.     Is  it  strange 

That  I  should  act  what  you  could  think?  We  have  dom 

With  riiT'it  or  wrong,  and  now  must  onlv  ponde"- 

Upon  eti'!;cts,  not  causes.      Stralenheim, 

Whose  life  I  saved,  from  impulse,  as,  unknown, 

I  would  have  saved  a  peasant's  or  a  dog's,  I  slew, 

Knovn  a-;  our  toe — but  not  from  vengeance.      He 

Was  a  rock  m  our  way,  which  I  cut  through. 

As  I  loth  t!ie  bolt,  h(,>cause  it  stood  between  us 

An  !  our  true  destination — but  not  idly. 

As  strani'er  I  jireserved  him,  and  he  owed  me 

His  ii/e;   when  due,  I  but  resumed  the  debt. 

He,  you,  and  I  stood  o'er  a  irulf,  wherein 

I  have  plunged  our  enemv.     You  kindled  first 

The  iorcii — ,'/');/  show'd  the  |)a»h:   now  'race  me  that 

Of  safiitv — i>r  let  me! 


132 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


SIEGENDORF. 

I  have  done  with  life ! 

ULRIC. 

Let  us  have  done  with  that  which  cankers  hfe — 

t'amihar  feuds  and  vain  recriminations 

Of  things  which  cannot  be  undone.     We  have 

No  more  to  learn  or  liide :   I  know  no  fear, 

And  have  within  these  very  walls  men  who 

(Although  you  know  them  not)  dare  venture  all  things. 

You  stand  high  with  the  state  ;   what  passes  here 

Will  not  excite  her  too  great  curiosity : 

Keep  your  own  secret,  keep  a  steady  eye, 

Stir  not,  and  speak  not ; — leave  the  rest  to  me : 

We  must  have  no  third  babblers  thrust  between  us. 

[Exit  Ulric. 

SIEGEXDORF   {solus). 

Am  I  awake  ?  are  these  my  father's  halls  ? 

And  yon — my  son  ?  JMy  son  !   mine  !  who  have  ever 

Abhorr'd  both  mystery  and  blood,  and  yet 

Am  pUmged  into  the  deepest  hell  of  both ! 

I  must  be  speedy,  or  more  will  be  shed — 

The  Hungarian's  ! — Ulnc — he  hath  partisans, 

It  seems  :   1  might  have  guess'd  as  much.     Oh  fool ! 

Wolves  prowl  in  company.     He  hath  the  key 

(As  I  too)  of  the  opjjo:-ite  dour  which  leads 

Into  the  turret.     Now  then  !   or  once  more 

To  be  the  father  of  fresh  crimes — no  less 

Than  of  the  criminal !   Ho  !   Gabor  !   Gabor ! 

[Exit  into  the  turret^  closijig  the  door  after  him. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Interior  of  the  Turret. 
Gabor  and  Siegendorf. 

GABOR. 

Who  calls  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I — Siegen<k)rf !   Take  these,  and  fly  ! 
Lose  not  a  moment ! 

[2'eurs  (iff  a  diamond  star  and  other  jewels,  and 
thrustft  them  into  Gabok's  hand. 

GABOR. 

What  am  I  to  do 
With  these? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Whate'er  you  will :  sell  them,  or  hoard, 
And  prosper  ;   but  delay  not — or  you  are  lost ! 

GABOR. 

You  pledged  your  honour  for  my  safety ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

And 
Must  thus  redeem  it.     Fly  !   I  am  not  master. 
It  seems,  of  my  own  castle — of  my  own 
Retainers — nay,  even  of  these  very  walls. 
Or  I  would  bid  them  fall  and  crush  me  !   Fly ! 
Or  you  '11  be  slain  by 

GABOR. 

Is  it  even  so  ? 
Farewell,  then !   Recollect,  however,  count, 
You  sought  this  fatal  interview  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  did : 
Let  it  not  be  more  fatal  still : — Begone ! 

GABOR. 

Bv  the  same  path  I  enter'd? 


SIEGE.VDOKF 

Yes;  that's  safe  still j 
But  loiter  not  in  Prague  ; — you  do  not  know 
With  whom  you  have  to  deal. 

GABOR. 

I  know  lOG  weU  — 
And  knew  it  ere  yourself,  unhappy  sire  I 
Farewell!  [Exit  Gaboh, 

SIEGENDORF  {solus  and  hxtening). 
He  hath  clear'd  the  staircase.     Ah!   1  hed/ 
The  door  ^ound  loud  behind  him  !   he  is  safe  ! 

Safe  ! — Oh,  my  father's  spirit ! — I  am  famt 

[He  leans  down  upon  a  stone  seat,  near  the  waX, 
of  the  tower,  in  a  drooping'  posture. 
Enter  Ulric,  ivith  others  armed,  and  with  weapons 
drawn. 

ULRIC. 

Despatch ! — he 's  tluere  ! 

LUDWIG. 

The  count,  my  lord  ! 
ULRIC  {recogninng  Siegendorf). 

You  here,  sir . 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes  :   if  you  want  another  victim,  strike  ! 

ULRIC  {seeing  him  stript  of  his  jewels). 
Where  is  the  ruffian  who  hath  plunder'd  you  ? 
Vassals,  despatch  in  search  of  liirn  !     You  see 
'T  was  as  I  said,  the  wretch  hath  stnpt  my  father 
Of  jewels  which  might  form  a  prince's  heirloom! 
Away  !   I  '11  follow  you  forthwith. 

[Exeunt  (dl  but  Siegendorf  a7id  Ulric, 
What's  this? 
Where  is  the  villain  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

There  are  two,  sir  ;   which 
Arc  you  in  quest  oi  ? 

ULRIC 

Let  us  hear  no  more 
Of  this  :   he  must  be  found.     You  have  not  let  him 
Escape  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

He  's  gone. 

ULRIC. 

With  your  connivance  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

With 
My  fullest,  freest  aid. 

ULRIC. 

Then  fare  you  well ! 

[Ulkic  is  going 

SIEGENDOKF. 

Sto]) !   I  command — entreat — implore  !   Oh,  Ulric  ! 
Will  you  then  leave  me  / 

ulric. 

What !   remain  to  be 
Denounced — dragg'd,  it  may  be,  in  chains  ;   and  aL 
By  your  inherent  weakness,  half-humamty. 
Selfish  remorse,  and  temporising  |)ity. 
That  sacrifices  your  whole  race  to  save 
A  wretch  to  profit  by  our  ruin  !     No,  count, 
Henceforth  you  have  no  son  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  never  had  one ; 
And  would  you  ne'er  had  borne  the  useless  name 
Where  will  you  go  ?  I  would  not  send  you  forth 
Without  protection. 

ULRIC 

Leave  that  unto  me. 
I  am  not  alone ;   nor  merely  the  varn  heir 
Of  your  domains :   a  thousand,  ay,  ten  thousand 
Swords,  hearts,  and  hands,  are  mine. 


THE    DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


483 


SIEGFNDOKF. 

The  foresters ! 
\X  ilh  whom  the  Hungarian  found  you  first  at  Frank- 
fort? 

ULRIC. 

Ves — men — who  are  worthy  of  the  name!   Go  tell 
Vour  senators  that  they  look  well  to  Prague  ; 
Their  feast  of  peace  was  early  for  the  times  ; 
T/iero  are  more  spirits  abroad  than  have  been  laid 
With  Wallenslein  ! 

Enler  Josephine  and  Ida. 

JOSEPHINE. 

What  is't  we  hear?  My  Siegendorf! 
Thank  Heaven,  I  see  you  safe  ! 

SIEGENDOKF. 

Safe ! 

IDA. 

Ves,  dear  father ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

No,  no  ;   I  have  no  children  :   never  more 
Call  me  by  that  worst  name  of  parent. 

JOSEPHINE. 

What 
Means  my  good  lord  ? 

SIKGENDORF. 

That  you  have  given  birth 
7  o  a  demon ! 

IDA  {taking  Ulkic's  hand). 
Who  shall  dare  say  this  of  Ulric? 

SIEGENDOKF. 

Ida,  beware!   there's  blood  upon  that  hand. 

IDA  {st()<)[jing  to  kiss  it). 
I  'd  kiss  it  off,  though  it  were  mine  ! 

SIEGENDOKF. 

It  is  SO  ! 
ULRIC. 

A  A.iy !  it  is  your  father's  !  [Exit  Ulric. 

IDA. 

Oh»  great  God! 
And  I  have  loved  this  man ! 

[lDAya^/5  senseless — Josephine  stands  speechless 
with  horror. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I'lie  wretch  hath  slain 
Them  both  ! — my  Josephine  !   we  are  now  alone  ! 
Would  we  had  ever  been  so! — All  is  over 
Foi  me  ! — Now  open  wide,  my  sire,  thy  grave  ; 
Thy  curse  hath  dug  it  deeper  for  thy  son 
In  mine  !— The  race  of  Sienendorf  is  past! 


THE 


DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

This  production  is  fountled  partly  on  the  story  of  a 
Novel,  called  "  The  Three  Brothers,"  published  many 
years  ago, from  which  M.  G.  Lewis's  '•  Wood  Demon" 
was  also  taken — and  |)arlly  on  the  "  Faust "  of  the  great 
Goi'llie.  The  [iresent  publicatmu  coiilams  liie  first  two 
Parts  only,  and  the  opening  chorus  oi'  the  tliiru.  Tii? 
rest  may  perhaps  appear  hereafter. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONyE. 
MEN. 

Stranger,  a/ierttards  C^sar, 

Arnold. 

Bourbon 

Piiilibert. 

Cellini. 

WOMEN. 
Bertha. 
Olimpia. 


Spirits,  Soldiers,  Citizen"  of  Rome,  Pricsto, 
Peasants,  etc. 


PART  I. 

SCENE   \.—A    Forest. 
Enter  Arnold  and  liis  mother  Bertha. 

BERTHA. 


Out,  hunchback! 

ARNOLD. 

I  was  born  so,  mother! 

BERTHA. 

Out  • 

Thou  incubus  !   Thou  nightmare  !     Of  seven  sonc 

The  sole  abortion ! 

ARNOLD. 

Would  that  I  had  been  so^ 
And  never  seen  the  light ! 

BERTHA. 

I  would  so  too  ! 
But  as  thou  hast — hence,  hence — and  do  thy  beat 
That  back  of  thine  may  bear  its  burthen  ;   't  is 
More  high,  if  not  so  broad  as  that  of  others. 

ARNOLD. 

Ft  hears  its  burthen  ; — but,  my  heart!  will  it 
Sustain  that  svhich  you  lay  u[)on  it,  mother? 
I  love,  or  at  the  '.easl,  I  loved  you :  nothing, 
Save  you,  in  nature,  can  love  ai||;ht  like  me. 
You  nursed  me — do  not  kill  me. 

BERTHA. 

Yes — 1  nursed  tlie* 
Because  tiiou  wert  my  first-born,  and  I  knew  not 


28 


i34 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


If  thtre  V.  Duld  be  another  unlike  thee, 

That  monstrous  sport  of  nature.     But  get  hence, 

And  gather  wood ! 

ARNOLD. 

I  will :   but  when  I  bring  it, 
Sj)eak  to  nie  kindly.     Though  my  brothers  are 
So  beautiful  and  lusty,  and  as  free 
As  the  Crea  chase  tliey  follow,  do  not  spurn  me : 
Our  milk  has  been  the  same. 

BERTHA. 

As  is  the  hedgehog's 
Which  sucks  at  midnigh'  from  the  wholesome  dam 
Of  the  young  bull,  until  the  milkmaid  linds 
The  nipple  next  dtiy  ?ore  and  udder  dry. 
Call  not  thy  brothers  brethren!   call  me  not 
Mother  ;    for  if  I  brought  thee  forth,  it  was 
As  foolish  hens  at  times  hatch  vipers,  by 
Sitting  u[)on  strange  eggs.     Out,  urchin,  out ! 

[Exit  Bertha. 
ARNOLD  (.«o/(/.s). 

Oh  mother! She  is  gone,  and  I  must  dc 

Her  bidding  ; — wearily  but  willmgly 

I  would  fuliil  It,  could  I  only  hope 

A  kind  word  in  return.    What  shall  I  do  ? 

[Arnold  begins  to  cut  wood :   in  doing  this  he 

wounds  one  of  his  hands. 
My  labour  for  the  day  is  over  now. 
Accursed  be  this  blood  that  Hows  so  fast  ; 
For  double  curses  will  be  my  meed  now 
At  home. — What  home  ?   I  have  no  home,  no  kin. 
No  kmd — nor  made  like  other  creatures,  or 
To  share  their  sports  or  pleasures.     Must  I  bleed  too. 
Like  them  ?   Oh  that  each  drop  which  falls  to  earth 
Would  rise  a  snake  to  sting  them  as  they  have  stung  me  ! 
Or  that  the  devil,  to  whom  they  liken  me, 
Would  aid  his  likeness !   If  I  must  partake 
His  form,  why  not  his  power  ?   Is  it  because 
I  liaVs^  not  his  will  too  ?   For  one  kind  word 
From  her  who  bore  rne,  would  still  reconcile  me 
Eve;i  t,o  this  hateful  aspect.     Let  me  wash 
The  v'ound. 

[Arnold  goes  to  a  spring,  and  stoops  to  wash 
his  hand ;   he  starts  hack. 
They  are  right  ;   and  Nature's  mirror  shows  me 
Wha    she  hath  made  me.     I  will  not  look  on  it 
Again.,  and  scarce  dare  think  on  't.      Hideous  vvretch 
That  I  am  !   The  very  waters  mock  me  with 
My  horrid  shadow — like  a  demon  placed 
Deep  in  the  fountain  to  scare  back  the  cattle 
From  drinking  therein.  [He  pauses. 

And  shall  I  live  on, 
A  bur'hen  to  the  earth,  myself,  and  shame 
Unto  what  brougiit  me  into  life  ?    Thou  blood, 
Which  Howest  so  freely  from  a  scratch,  let  me 
Try  if  thou  will  not  in  a  fuller  stream 
Pour  forth  my  woes  for  ever  with  thyself 
On  "irth,  to  which  I  will  restore  at  once 
This  iidteful  compound  of  her  atoms,  and 
Resolve  back  to  her  elements,  and  take 
The  shape  of  any  reptile  save  myself. 
And  make  a  world  for  myriads  of  new  worms! 
This  knife !    now  let  yie  prove  if  it  will  sever 
This  svitiier'd  slip  of  nature's  nightshade — my 
Vile  form — from  the  crijation,  as  it  hath 
The  green  bough  from  the  forest. 

[Arnold  places  the  knife  in  the  groxmd^  with 
Ike  point  upwards. 

Now  't  is  set, 
4n(!  I  i?i\  fall  upon  it.     Yet  one  glance 
On  the  Tan"  dav,  which  sees  no  foul  thing  like 
MvscU,  ioia  *hc  sweet  sun,  which  warni'd  me,  but 


In  vain.    The  birds — how  joyously  they  sing 
So  let  them,  for  I  w  -»uld  not  be  lamented  : 
But  let  their  merriest  notes  be  Arnold's  knell , 
The  falling  leaves  my  monument  ;   the  murmur 
Of  the  near  fountain  my  sole  elegy. 
Now,  knife,  stand  firmly,  as  I  fain  would  fal: ' 

[^.s  he  rushes  to  throw  himself  upon  the  Knifz 

his  eye  is  suddenly  caught  by  the  fourtinia^ 

which  seems  in  motion. 
The  fountain  moves  without  a  wind :   but  shall 
The  ripple  of  a  spring  change  my  resolve  ? 
No.     Yet  it  moves  again  !   the  waters  stir, 
Not  as  with  air,  but  by  some  subterrane 
And  rocking  power  of  the  internal  world. 
What 's  here  ?   A  mist !   no  more  ? — 

[A  cloud  comes  from  the  fountain.   He  s/unda 

gazing  upon  it ;   it  is  dispelled,  and  a  UtU 

black  man  comes  towards  him. 

ARNOLD. 

W^hat  would  you  ?   Speak  • 
Spirit  or  man  ? 

STRANGER. 

As  man  is  both,  why  not 
Say  both  in  one  ? 

ARNOLD. 

Your  form  is  man's,  and  yet 
You  may  be  devil. 

STRANGER. 

So  many  men  are  that 
Which  is  so  call'd  or  thought,  that  you  may  add  me 
To  whi(;h  you  [ilease,  without  much  wrong  to  eitner- 
But  come  :   you  svish  to  kill  yourself; — pursue 
Youi  purpose. 

ARNOLD. 

You  have  mt(!rruptcd  me. 

STRANGER. 

What  IS  that  resolution  which  can  e'er 

Be  interrupted  ?   If  I  be  the  devil 

You  lieem,  a  single  moment  would  have  made  vou 

Mine,  and  for  ever,  by  your  suicide ; 

And  yet  my  coming  saves  you. 

ARNOLD. 

I  said  not 
You  were  the  demon,  but  that  your  approach 
Was  like  one. 

STRANGER. 

Unless  you  keep  company 
With  him   (and  you  seem  scarce  used  to  sucli  high 
Society),  you  can't  tell  how  he  apt)roachcs ; 
x\nd  for  his  as[)ect,  look  upon  the  fountain. 
And  then  on  me,  and  judge  which  of  us  twain 
Looks  likest  what  tlie  boors  believe  to  be 
Their  cloven-footed  terror. 

ARNOLD. 

Do  you — dare  you 
To  taunt  me  with  my  born  deformity '/ 

STRANGER. 

Wore  I  to  taunt  a  buffalo  with  this 

Cloven  foot  of  thine,  or  the  swift  dromedary 

With  thy  sublime  of  humps,  the  animals 

Would  revel  in  the  compliment.     And  vet 

Both  beings  are  more  swift,  more  strong,  more  might/ 

In  action  and  endurance  than  thyself. 

And  all  the  fierce  and  fair  of  the  same  kind 

With  thee.     Thy  form  is  natural  :   'twas  only 

Nature's  mistaken  largess  to  bestow 

The  gifts  which  are  of  others  upon  man. 

ARNOLD. 

Give  me  the  strength  then  of  the  buffalo's  foot, 
When  he  spurns  high  the  dusi,  beholding  his 


THE    DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


435 


Noai  en(  my  .    or  lot  me  have  the  Iomo 
And  patient  swiftness  of  tlie  desert-sliip, 
The  hehnless  dromedary  : — and  1  'II  bear 
Thy  fiendisli  sarcasm  with  a  samily  patience. 

STRANG  EK. 

I  wiU. 

ARNOLD   {with  surjjrise). 
Thou  ca/ist  ? 

STRANGF.R. 

Perhaps.     Would  you  aught  else  ? 

ARNOLD. 

rhou  mockesl  me. 

STRANGER. 

Not  I.     Why  should  I  mock 
What  all  are  mocking?  1  hat  's  j)oor  sport,  methinks. 
To  talk  to  thee  in  human  language  (for 
Thou  canst  not  yet  speuk  nnn<;),  the  forester 
Hunts  not  the  wretched  coney,  hut  the  boar, 
Or  wolf,  or  lion,  leaving  paltry  game 
To  pettv  burghers,  who  leave  once  a-year 
Their  walls,  to  fill  their  household  caldrons  with 
Such  scullion  prey.     The  meanest  gibe  at  thee, — 
Now  /  can  mock  the  mightiest. 

ARNOLD. 

Then  waste  not 
Thy  time  on  me :   I  seek  thee  not. 

STRANGER. 

Your  thoughts 
Are  not  far  from  me.     Do  not  send  me  back : 
I  am  not  so  easily  recall'd  to  do 
Good  service. 

ARNOLD. 

Wha'  wilt  thou  do  for  me? 

STRANGER. 

Change 
Shanes  with  you,  if  you  will,  since  yours  so  irks  you  ; 
Or  form  you  to  your  wish  in  any  shape. 

ARNOLD. 

Oh !  thcr  vou  are  indeed  the  demon,  for 
Nought  else  would  wittingly  wear  mine. 

STRANGER. 

I  '11  show  thee 
The  brightest  which  the  world  e'er  bore,  and  give  thee 
Thy  choice. 

ARNOLD. 

On  what  condition  ? 

STRANGER. 

There  's  a  question  ! 
An  hour  ago  you  would  have  given  your  soul 
To  look  like  oiher  men,  and  now  you  pause 
To  wear  the  form  of  heroes. 

ARNOLD. 

No  ;   I  will  not. 
I  must  not  compromise  my  soul. 

STRANGER. 

What  soul. 
Worth  naming  so,  would  dwell  in  such  a  carcass  ? 

ARNOLD. 

*T  is  an  aspiring  one,  whate'er  the  tenement 

In  which  it  is  mislodged.     But  name  your  compact : 

Must  it  be  sign'd  in  blood  1 

STRANGER. 

Not  in  your  own. 

ARNOLD. 

Whose  blood  then? 

STRANGER. 

We  will  talk  of  that  heieafter. 
But  1  '11  be  moderate  with  you,  for  I  see 
Great  things  within  you.    You  shall  have  no  bond 
But  your  own  will,  no  contract  save  your  deeds. 
Are  you  content  ? 

ARNOLD. 

I  take  thee  at  thv  word. 


STKAN(JKH. 

Now  then  !  — 

[The  Stram^er  upjinxirlua  the  Jouiitaui,  nmi 
tuniK  to  .Arnold. 
A  little  of  vour  Mood. 


ARNOLD. 


For  what ' 


STRANGER. 

To  mingle  with  the  magic  of  the  waters, 
And'make  the  charm  etfeclive. 

ARNOLD  {h'dding  out  hia  woiindiil  arm). 
Take  it  all. 

ST  RANG  E  I<  . 

Not  now,      A  few  drops  will  sM[fic(^  f  )r  this. 

[The  Stranarr  t'lkrs  smne  (j/  Ahnold';;  blood  tn 
his  hantlj  toid  ais/s  i/  tnto  the  Jauiitain. 

Shadows  of  beauty  ! 

Shadows  of  power ! 
Rise  to  your  duty — 

This  is  the  hour ! 
Walk  lovelv  and  pliant  ! 

From  tile  dcpih  of  tins  fountain. 
As  the  cloud-shapci!  iriaiit 

Bestrides  the  Harlz  mountain.' 
Come  as  ye  were, 

That  our  eyes  may  behold 
»  The  inodoi  in  air 

Of  the  form  I  will  mould, 
Briglil  as  the  Iris 

When  ether  is  spaniiM  — 
Such  //!.■?  desire  is,  \  l^'iinttng  to  Any 01. D, 

Such  my  comiiiuiui  I 
Demons  heroic — 

Demons  who  wore 
The  form  of  the  Sloic 

Or  Sophist  of  yore — 
Or  the  shape  of  each  victor. 

From  Macedon's  boy 
To  each  high  Koinairs  picture. 

Who  breathed  to  destroy — 
Shadows  of  btaiity  ! 

Shadows  of  |)()wer  ! 
Up  to  your  duty — 

This  is  the  hour! 
[  Various  Phantoms  art.^e  from   the  waters,  -ind 
pass   in    succession    he/ore    the    Stranger    -ind 
Arnold. 

ARNOLD. 

What  do  I  see  ? 

STRANGER. 

The  bla<;k-eyetl   Roman,  witii 
The  eagle's  beak  between  those  eyes  which  ne'ei 
Beheld  a  conipieror,  or  look'd  along 
The  land  he  made  not  Rome's,  while  Rome  became 
His,  and  all  theirs  who  heir'd  his  very  name. 

ARNOLD. 

The  phantom  's  bald  ;   my  (piest  is  beauty.     Couid  I 
Inherit  but  his  fame  with  his  defects  ! 

STRANGER. 

His  brow  was  girt  with  laurels  more  than  hairs. 
You  see  his  aspect— choose  it  or  reject. 
I  can  but  promise  you  his  form  ;   Ins  fame 
Must  be  long  sought  and  fought  for. 

ARNOLP. 

I  will  tight  too. 
But  not  as  a  mock  Csesar.      Let  him  pass  ; 
His  aspect  may  be  fair,  but  suits  me  not. 

1  This  is   a  well-known  German  Buperstition — a  BViaauc 
ghadow  produced  by  reflection  on  the  Bm  Jien 


436 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


STRANGER. 

Then  you  are  far  more  ditficiill  to  please 
Thnn  Cato's  sister,  or  than  Brutus'  mother, 
Or  Cleopatra  at  sixteen — an  age 
When  love  is  not  less  m  the  eye  than  heart. 
But  be  it  so  !   Shatlow,  pass  on  ! 

[The  Phantom  of  Julius  CcBsar  diaappiars 

ARNOLD. 

Anil  can  it 
B«-,  that  the  man  who  shook  the  earth  is  gone 
And  left  no  footstep  ? 

STRA.VGER. 

There  you  err.     His  substanc( 
Left  graves  enough,  and  woes  enough,  and  fame 
Wore  than  enough  to  track  his  memory  ; 
But  for  Ins  shadow,  't  is  no  more  than  yours, 
Except  a  little  longer  and  less  crooked 
I'  the  sun.      Behold  another  ! 

[A  second  Phantom  passes. 

ARNOLD. 

Who  is  he  ? 

STRANGER. 

He  was  the  fairest  and  the  bravest  of  ^ 

Athenians.      Look  upon  him  well. 

ARNOLD. 

He  is 
More  lovely  than  the  last.     How  beautiful  ! 

STRANGER. 

Such  was  the  curled  son  of  Cluiias; — wouldst  thou 
Invest  thee  with  his  form  ? 

ARNOLD. 

Would  that  I  had 
Been  born  with  it  !    But  shice  I  may  choose  further, 
J  will  look  further. 

[The  Shade  of  Alcihiadts  dixapjicars, 

STRANGER. 

Lo  !    Behold  again  ! 

ARNOLD. 

Wnat!  that  low,  s  wart  hv,  short -nosed,  round-eyed  satyr. 
With  the  wide  nostrils  and  Silenus'  aspect. 
The  splay  feet  and  low  statu're !   I  had  better 
Remain  that  which  1  am. 

STRANGER. 

And  yet  he  was 
I'ne  earth's  perfection  of  all  mental  beauty, 
And  personification  of  all  virtue. 
But  you  reject  him  ? 

ARNOLD. 

If  his  form  could  bring  me 
That  which  redeem'd  it — no. 

STRANGER. 

I  have  no  power 
To  promise  th;U  ;  bvit  you  may  trv,  and  find  it 
Easier  in  such  a  form,  or  in  your  own. 

ARNOLD. 

No.     I  was  not  born  pjr  plulosophy. 
Though.  I  have  that  about  me   which  has  need  on  't.. 
^t  iiim  tii;el  on. 

ST  K  ANGER. 

Be  air,  thou  ti..mlock-(lrmker ' 
I  The  Shad'iu:  of  Somiies  disapjiears  ;   another  riseh. 

ARNOLD. 

V\' fiat's  hiTft?  whose  bmad  I. row  arid  whose  curly  beard 

And  rnanly  aspect  look  like  Hcrcuh.'s, 

Save  that  lur-  )0(!und  rye  bath  more  of  Bacchus 

riKiii  the  sad  purgcr  of  the  mfernal  world, 

Leamrig  dejected  on  his  club  of  coiKpicst, 

.\s  if  he  knew  the  worthlc^sness  of  those 

«<^.r  wh..m  he  had  fought. 


STRANGER. 

It  was  the  man  «ho  lost 
The  ancient  world  tor  love. 

ARNOLD. 

I  cannot  'ti.iinf  him, 
Since  I  have  risk'd  my  soul,  because  1  find  not 
That  which  he  exchanged  the  earth  for. 

STRANGER. 

Sir  -e  su  iat 
You  seem  congenial,  will  you  wear  his  features  ? 

ARNOLD. 

No.     As  you  leave  me  choice,  I  am  difficult, 
If  but  to  see  the  heroes  I  should  ne'er 
Have  seen  else  on  this  side  of  the  dim  shore 
Whence  they  float  back  before  us. 

STRANGER. 

Hence,  Triumvir 
Thy  C!eo])atra's  waiting. 

[  The  Shade  of  Antony  disappears  ;   another  risti 

ARNOI^D. 

Who  is  this? 
Who  truly  looketh  like  a  demigod. 
Blooming  and  bright,  with  golden  hair,  and  statuie 
If  not  more  high  than  mortal,  vet  immortal 
In  all  that  nameless  bearing  of  his  limbs. 
Which  he  wears  as  the  sun  his  rays — a  something 
Which  shines  from  him,  and  yet  is  but  the  flashing 
Emanation  of  a  thing  more  glorious  still. 
Was  he  e^er  human  only  ? 

STRANGER. 

Let  the  earth  speak, 
If  there  be  atoms  of  him  left,  or  even 
Of  the  more  solid  gold  that  forni'd  his  urn. 

ARNOLD. 

Who  was  this  glory  of  mankind? 

STRANGER, 

The  shame 
Of  Greece  in  peace,  her  thunderbolt  in  war— 
Demetrius  the  Macedonian,  and 
Taker  of  cities. 

ARNOLD 

Yet  one  shadow  more. 
STRANGER  {addressing  the  Shadow). 
Get  thee  to  Lamia's  lap  ! 

[The  Shade  of  Demetrius  Poliorcetes  vanishes  i 
another  rises. 

STRANGER. 

I  'II  fit  you  still. 
Fear  not,  my  hunchback.     If  the  shadow  of 
That  which  existed  please  not  your  nice  taste, 
I  'II  animate  the  ideal  marble,  till 
Your  sou!  be  reconciled  to  her  new  garment. 

ARNOLD. 

Content !   I  will  fix  here. 

STRANGER." 

I  must  commend 
Your  choice.     The  god-like  son  of  tlie  sea-goddes3; 
The  unshorn  boy  of  Peleus,  with  his  locks 
As  beautiful  and  clear  as  the  amber  waves 
Of  rich  Pactolus  roHM  o'er  sands  of  gold. 
Softened  by  intervening  crystal,  and 
Hippli;d  like  flowing  waters  by  the  wi-id. 
All  vow'd  to  S|)erchius  as  they  were — beholu  themi 
And  him — as  lie  stood  by  Polyxena, 
With  sanction'd  and  with  soften'd  love,  before 
The  altar,  gazing  on  his  Trojan  bride. 
With  some  remorse  within  f()r  Hector  slain 
And  Priam  weeping,  mingled  with  deep  passion 
For  the  swe(!l  downcast  virgin,  whose  young  hand 
Trembled  in  his  who  sl(;w  her  brother.      So 


THE    DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


437 


He  stood  i'  the  temp.e  .    Look  upon  him  as 
ttreece  look'd  her  last  upon  her  best,  the  instant 
Ere  Paris'  arrow  tie -v. 

ARXOt,  D. 

I  gaze  upon  him 
Aa  if  I  were  his  soul,  whose  form  shall  soon 
Enve'op  mine. 

STUANGKR. 

"i'oii  have  clone  well.     The  greatesi 
Deformity  should  only  barter  with 
The  extremesi  beauty,  if  tlie  proverb  's  true 
Of  mortals,  that  extremes  meet. 


I  am  impatient. 


Come  !   Be  quiek  ! 


STKANOKR. 

As  a  youthful  beauty 
Before  her  glass.      You  both  see  what  is  not, 
But  dream  it  is  what  must  be. 

ARNOLD. 

Must  I  wait  ? 

STRANGER. 

No  ;   that  were  pity.      But  a  \^  ord  or  two  : 
His  stature  is  twelve  cubits :   would  von  so  far 
Outstep  these  times,  and  be  a  Titan  ?     Or 
{To  talk  canoni-callv)  wax  a  son 
Of  Anak  ? 

ARNOLD. 

Why  not  ? 

STRANGER. 

Glorious  ambition  ! 
I  love  thee  most  in  dwarfs  !     A  mortal  of 
Philistine  stature  would  have  gladlv  pared 
His  own  Goliath  down  to  a  slight  David  ; 
But  thou,  my  manikin,  wonldst  soar  a  show 
RaJier  than  hero.     Thou  shall  be  indulged. 
If  sui-.h  be  thy  desire  ;   and  yet,  by  being 
A  litdc  less  removed  from  present  men 
In  figure,  thou  canst  sway  them  more  ;   for  all 
Would  risb  against  thee  now,  as  if  to  hiuit 
A.  new-found  mammoth  ;   and  their  cursed  engines, 
riieir  culverins  and  so  forth,  would  hnd  way 
Through  our  triend's  armour  there,  with  greater  ease 
Than  the  adulterer's  arrow  through  his  heel 
Which  Thetis  had  forgotten  to  baptize 
In  Styx. 

ARNOLD. 

Then  let  it  be  as  thou  rWem'st  best. 

STRANGER. 

Thou  shah  be  beauteous  as  the  thing  thou  see'st. 
And  strong  as  what  it  was,  and 

ARNOLD. 

I  ask  not 
For  valour,  since  defornnty  is  daring. 
It  is  its  essence  to  o'ertake  mankind 
liy  heart  and  soti!,  and  n-.ake  itself  the  equal — 
Ay,  the  superior  of  the  rest.     There  in 
A  spur  in  its  halt  movements,  to  bticome 
All  that  the  others  cannot,  in  such  things 
As  still  are  free  to  both,  to  comj)ensate 
For  stepdame  Nature's  avarice  at  first. 
They  woo  with  fearless  deeds  the  smiles  of  fortune, 
And  oft,  like  Timour  the  laine  Tartar,  win  thom. 

STRANGER. 

\T  ell  spoken!      And  thou  doubtless  wilt  remain 
Form'd  as  thou  art.      I  may  dismiss  the  mould 
Of  shadow,  which  must  turn  to  Hesii,  to  encase 
This  daring  soul,  which  could  achieve  no  less 
Without  it  ? 

ARNOLD. 

Had  no  power  presented  me 
The  possibility  of  «;hange.  I  would 


Have  done  the  best  which  spirit  inav,  to  make 

Its  way,  with  all  deformity's  dull,  deadlv. 

Discouraging  weight  upon  me,  like  a  mountain. 

In  feeling,  on  my  heart  as  on  my  shoulders — 

A  hateful  and  unsightly  mole- hi"  tc 

The  eyes  of  hap[)ier  man.     I  would  have  look'd 

On  beauty  in  that  sex  which  is  the  ' yue 

Of  all  we  know  or  dream  of  beautiiul 

Beyond  the  world  they  brighten,  with  a  sigh — 

Not  of  love,  but  despair  ;   nor  sought  to  win. 

Though  to  a  heart  all  love,  what  could  not  love  me 

111  turn,  because  of  this  vile  crooked  ckig. 

Which  makes  me  lonely.     Nay,  I  could  have  borne 

It  all,  had  not  my  mother  spurn'd  me  from  her. 

Tbe  she-bear  licks  her  cubs  into  a  sort 

Of  shape ; — my  dam  beheld  my  shape  was  hopeless. 

Had  she  exposed  me,  like  the  Spartan,  ere 

I  knew  the  passionate  i)art  of  life,  I  liad 

Been  a  clod  of  the  valley, — hap|)ier  nothing 

Than  what  I  am.      But  even  thus,  the  lowest. 

Ugliest,  and  meanest  of  niniikiiid,  what  coiir^ige 

And  jierseverance  could  have  done,  perchance. 

Had  made  me  something — as  it  has  made  hfiroes 

Of  the  same  mould  as  mine.     You  lat<!ly  saw  me 

Master  of  mv  own  life,  and  quick  to  (piit  it  ; 

And  he  who  is  so  is  the  master  of 

Whatever  dreads  to  die. 

STRANGER. 

Decide  between 
What  you  have  been,  or  will  be. 

ARNOLD. 

I  Iiave  do'.e  ro. 
You  have  opcm'd  brighter  prospects  to  my  eyes, 
And  sweeter  to  my  heart.      As  I  am  now, 
I  might  be  fcar'd,  admired,  resjiectcl,  i  ived. 
Of  all  save  those  next  to  me,  of  wliom  I 
W^ould  be  beloved.      As  thou  showest  me 
A  choice  of  forms,  I  take  the  one  I  view. 
Haste !  haste ! 

STRANGER. 

And  what  sh,'!!  /  wear? 

A R NO  LI). 

Surely  lie 
Who  can  command  all  forms,  uill  choose  the  iiighest 
Something 'superior  even  to  that  whicli  was 
Pelides  now  before  us.      Perhaps  ius 
Who  slew  him,  that  of  Paris: — or — still  higher — 
The  poet's  god,  clothed  in  such  hmbs  as  are 
Themselves  a  poetry. 

STRANGEI^v. 

Less  will  (content  me  ; 
For  I  too  love  a  change. 

ARNOLD. 

Your  aspect  is 
Dusky,  but  not  uncomely. 

STRANGER, 

If  I  chose, 
I  might  be  whiter  ;   but  I  have  a  penchant 
For  black — it  is  so  honest,  and  besid<!s 
Can  neither  blush  with  shame  nor  pale  with  fear : 
But  I  have  worn  it  long  enough  f)f  late. 
And  now  I  '11  take  your  figure. 

ARNOLD. 

Mine  ! 

STRANGER. 

Yes.       Yoi) 
Shall  change  with  Thetis'  son,  and  I  witli  Bertha 
Your  mother's  offspring.      Pe<;ple  havi;  ihnr  fasu  nj 
You  have  yours — 1  mine. 

ARNOLD. 

Despatch  !   despatcti  ' 


438 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


STK  ANGER. 

Even  so 

[The  Stranger  takes  mme  earth  and  moubi.-- 
it  along  the  turf;   and  then  addresses  tht 
Phantom  of  AchiLle-' 
Beautiful  shadow 

Of  Thet.s's  boy ! 
Who  sleeps  in  the  niendow 

Whose  grass  grows  o'er  Troy  : 
From  the  red  earth,  Uke  Adam,' 

Thy  hkeness  I  shape, 
As  the  Being  wlio  made  him, 

Whose  actions  1  ape. 
Thou  clay,  be  all  gl<iwing. 

Till  the  rose  in  his  cheek 
Be  as  fair  as,  when  blowing, 

It  wears  its  tirsl  streak  ! 
Ye  violets,  I  scatter. 

Now  turn  into  eyes  ! 
And  thou  sunshiny  water. 

Of  blood  take  the  guise  ! 
Let  th(!se  hyacinth  boughs 

He  his  long,  flowing  hair, 
Antl  wave  o'er  his  brows. 

As  thou  wavest  in  air  ! 
Let  Ins  heart  be  this  marble 

I  tear  from  the  rock  ! 
But  his  voice  as  the  warble 

Of  birds  on  yon  oak  ! 
Let  his  flesh  be  tlie  purest 

Of  mould,  in  which  grew 
The  lily-root  surest. 

And  drank  the  best  dew! 
Let  his  limbs  be  the  lightest 

Which  clay  can  compound  ! 
And  his  aspect  the  brightest 

On  earth  to  be  found  ! 
Elements,  near  me. 

Be  minghid  and  stirr'd, 
Know  me  and  hear  me. 

And  leap  to  my  word  ! 
Sunbeams,  awaken 

This  earth's  animation  ! 
'T  is  done  !      He  hath  taken 

His  stand  in  creation  ! 
[Arnold  /«//«  senseless  ;  his  soid  passes  into 

the  shape  of  Achillrs,  ich'-'i  nses  from  the 

ground;   white  the  phnntovL  has  disappeared^ 

part  btj  part,  as  the  Ji^ure  was  formed  from 

the  earth. 
ARNOLD  {in  his  ne::;  form). 
I  lOve,  and  I  shall  be  beloved  !    Oh  in": ! 
At  ast  I  feel  thee  !    Glorious  spirit: 

STtiANGER. 

Stop! 
What  shall  becf)me  of  your  abandon''!  garment, 
V'our  hump,  and  lump,  and  clod  of  ugliness. 
Which  late  you  wore,  or  were  ? 

ARNOLD. 

W^ho  cares  ?    Let  wolves 
And  vultures  take  it,  if  they  will. 

STRANGKR. 

And  if 
They  do,  and  arc  not  scru-ed  by  it,  you  '11  say 
It  must  be  peace  time,  and  no  bett(,'r  fare 
\broad  i'  the  fields. 

ARNOLD. 

Let  US  but  leave  it  there. 
No  matter  wliat  becomes  on  't. 

I  Aiiam  means  *'  red  eiirtli,"  I'roni  wliicii  llit;  fuoi  iiiaii  was 
fcriiK.'d. 


STR  VNGER. 

That 's  nngraci-n.» 
If  not  ungrateful.     Whatsoe'er  it  be, 
It  hath  sustain'd  your  sou!  full  many  a  day. 

ARNOLD. 

Ay,  as  the  dunghill  may  conceal  a  gem 
Which  is  now  set  in  gold,  as  jewels  should  he 

STRANGER. 

But  if  I  give  another  form,  it  must  be 
By  fair  exchange,  not  robbery.      For  they 
W'lio  make  men  without  women's  aid,  have  long 
Had  patents  for  the  same,  and  do  not  love 
Your  interlopers.     The  devil  may  take  men. 
Not  make  tliem, — tliough  he  reap  the  benefit 
Of  the  original  workmanship  : — and  therefore 
Some  one  must  be  found  to  assume  the  shape 
You  have  quitted. 

ARNOLD. 

Who  would  do  so  ? 

STRANGER. 

That  I  know  not. 
And  therefore  1  must. 

ARNOLD. 

You! 

STRANGER. 

I  said  It,  ere 
You  inhabited  your  present  dome  of  beauty. 

ARNOLD. 

True.     I  forget  all  things  in  the  new  joy 
Of  this  immortal  change. 

STRANGER. 

In  a  few  momenta 
I  will  be  as  vou  were,  and  you  shall  see 
Yourself  for  ever  l)y  you,  as  your  shadow. 

ARNOLD. 

I  would  be  spared  this. 

STRANGER. 

But  it  cannot  be. 
What !  shrink  already,  being  what  you  are, 
From  seeing  what  you  were? 

ARNOLD. 

Do  as  thou  wilt. 
STRANGER  {to  thc  late  form  r/ARNC:,D  extended  on 
the  earth). 
Clav  !   not  dead,  but  soulless  ! 

Thouirh  no  man  would  choose  thee, 
An  immortal  no  less 

Deii{!is  not  to  i-efuse  thee. 
Olav  thou  art :    and  unto  spirit 
All  clay  IS  of  e()ual  merit. 

Fire  !    without  which  nought  can  live ; 

Fire  !   but  in  which  nought  can  live, 
Save  the  fabled  salamander. 
Or  immortal  souls  which  wander, 

Praying  what  doth  not  forgive. 

Howling  for  a  drop  of  water. 

Burning  in  a  (juenchless  lot : 

Fire  !    the  only  element 

Where  nor  tish,  l)east,  l)ird,  nor  worm, 

Save  tlie  worm  which  dieth  not. 
Can  pr(;serve  a  moment's  form. 

But  must  with  thyst;lf  b(>  l)lent  : 

Fire  !    man's  safc^zuan!  and  his  slaughter; 

p^ire  !   crration's  tirsl-born  daughter. 
And  destruction's  threat(m'd  son, 
Whf'ii  IliNivcn  with  the  world  liath  done: 

Fire  !    assist  me  to  renew 

Lift'  111  what  lies  111  my  view 
Stifl'  ami  <-':ld! 

His  rcsiirrcctidii  rests  with  me  and  you? 

One  liitii-  marshy  s|)ark  of  flame — 


THE    DEFORMED    TRANSFORM  ED. 


439 


And  ho  again  shall  sccni  the  same ; 
But  1  his  sj)irii's  place  shall  hold ! 
[An  ifritis-fitiiiuf^  Jiilx  throui(/i  the  wood,  and  rests 
on  the  brow  of  the  body.      The  Stranger  disap- 
pears :   the  Ixidy  rises. 

ARNOLD  [in  his  new  form). 
Ob!   horrible! 

STiiANGEH  {in  Aknolp's  late  shape). 
What  !    tr(;ml)lesl  thou  ? 

ARNOLD. 

Not  SO 

I  merely  shudder.     Wiicre  is  tied  the  shape 
Thou  lately  woresl ! 

STRANGER. 

To  tlie  world  of  shadows. 
Rut  lei  us  thread  the  present.     Whither  wilt  thou? 

A  R  N  O  L  D. 

Must  thou  be  my  companion  ? 

STRANGER. 

Wherefore  not  ? 
You"-  betters  keep  worse  company. 

ARNOLD. 

JMy  betters ! 

STRANGER. 

Oh  I   you  wax  proud,  I  see,  of  your  new  form  : 
,  I  'm  alad  of  that.      Ungrateful  too  !      That  's  well  ; 
You  improve  a|)ace  : — two  changes  in  an  instant, 
An  1  vou  are  old  m  the  world's  ways  ah-eady. 
But  bear  with  me :   indeed  you  '11  find  me  useful 
Upon  your  pilsrrimage.      But  (;ome,  pronounce 
Wliei-e  shall  we  now  be  errant  ? 

ARNOLD. 

Where  the  >vorld 
Is  thickest,  that  I  may  behold  it  in 
lis  working. 

STRANGER. 

That's  to  sav,  where  there  is  war 
And  woman  in  activity.      Let  's  see  ! 
Spain — Italy — the  nt!\v  Atlantic  world — 
Afric  with  all  its  Moors.      In  very  truth, 
There  is  stnail  choice :   the  whole  race  are  just  now 
Tugging  as  usual  at  each  others'  hearts. 

ARNOLD. 

I  have  heard  great  things  of  Rome. 

STRANGER. 

A  goodly  choice — 
And  scarce  a  better  to  be  found  on  earth, 
Since  Sodom  was  put  out.     The  held  is  vride  too; 
Fi)i  now  the  Frank,  and  Hun,  and  Spanish  scion 
Of  the  ok  Vafidals,  are  at  j)lay  along 
The  sunny  shores  of  the  world's  garden. 

ARNOLD. 

How 

Shall  we  proceed? 

STRANGER. 

Like  gallants  on  good  coursers. 
What  fio  !   mv  chargers  !   Never  yet  were  better, 
Snice  Phaeton  was  upset  into  the  Po. 
Our  pages  too ! 

Enter  two  P<iges,  with  four  coal-hlack  Horses. 

ARNOLD. 

A  noble  sight  ! 

STRANGER. 

And  of 
A  nobler  i)reed.     Match  me  in  Barbary, 
Or  your  Kochlani  race  of  Araby, 
With  these  ! 

ARNOLD. 

The  tmi'litv  stream,  which  volumes  high 
Fioin  the  r  proud  nostrils,  burns  the  very  air; 


And  sparks  of  flame,  like  dancing  fire  ilies,  aneol 
Around  their  manes,  as  common  insects  swarm 
Round  connnon  steeds  towards  sunset. 

STRANGER. 

Mount,  my  lord, 
They  and  I  are  your  servitors. 

ARNOLD. 

And  these, 
Our  dark-eyed  pages — what  may  be  their  names  ? 

STRANGER. 

You  shall  baptize  them. 

ARNOLD. 

What!   in  holy  water'? 

STRANGER. 

Why  not  ?    The  deep(;r  sinner,  better  saint. 

ARNOLD. 

They  are  beautiful,  and  cannot,  sure,  be  demons  ? 

STRANGER. 

True  ;   tin;  devii  's  always  ugly  ;   and  your  beauty 
Is  never  iliabolical. 

ARNOLD. 

I  '11  call  him 
Who  bears  the  golden  horn,  and  wears  such  bright 
And  blooming  aspect,  Huon ;   for  he  looks 
Like  to  the  lovely  boy  lost  in  the  forest, 
And  never  found  till  now.     And  for  the  other 
And  darke'r,  and  more  thoughtful,  who  smiles  not, 
But  looks  as  serious  though  serene  as  night, 
He  slial!  Ix;  jMemnon,  from  the  Ethiop  king, 
Whose  statue  turns  a  harper  once  a-day. 
And  you  ? 

STRANGER. 

I  have  ten  thousand  names,  and  twice 
As  manv  attributes  ;    but  as  I  wear 
A  luunau  shape,  will  take  a  human  name. 

ARNOLD. 

More  human  than  the  shape  (though  it  was  mhie  onctj 
I  trust. 

STRANGER. 

Then  call  me  Caesar. 

ARNOLD. 

Why,  that  name 
Belongs  to  empires,  and  has  been  but  borne 
By  the  world's  lords. 

STRANGER. 

And  therefore  fittest  for 
The  devil  )n  dissuise — since  so  you  deem  me, 
Unless  you  call  ine  pope  instead. 

ARNOLD. 

Well  tlien, 
Ca'sar  thou  shalt  be.     For  myself,  my  name 

Shall  be  piam  Arnold  still. 

C-ESAR. 

We '11  add  a  title- 
"  Count  Arnold  :"  it  hath  no  ungra'-ious  sound, 
And  will  look  well  upon  a  billet-doux. 

ARNOLD. 

Or  in  an  order  for  a  battle-field. 

CESAR  {sings). 
To  liorsc!    to  hin-se!    my  coal-black  steed 

Paws  ;he  ground  and  snutfs  the  air  ! 
There 's  not  a  foal  of  Arab's  breed 
More  knows  whom  he  must  bear! 
On  the  tiill  he  will  not  tire, 
Swifter  as  it  waxes  higher  ; 
In  th'-  marsh  he  will  not  slacken, 
On  i!i('  plain  Ix;  overtaken  ; 
In  the  wave  lu;  will  not  sink, 
No!-  pause  at  the  brook's  side  to  drmk ; 
In  the  race  lu;  will  not  pant. 
In  tlie  combat  he'll  not  taint: 


440 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WOEKS. 


On  the  stones  he  \%ill  not  stumble, 
Time  nor  toil  shall  make  him  humble : 
In  the  stall  he  will  not  stiffen, 
But  be  winged  as  a  griffin. 
Only  flying  with  his  feet: 
And  will  not  such  a  voyage  be  sweet? 
Merrily  !   merrily  !   never  unsound, 
Shall  our  bonny  black  horses  skim  over  the  ground! 
From  the  Al[)s  to  the  Caucasus,  ride  we,  or  tly ! 
For  we'llloivc  thfvn  hiihiti  1  in  the  glance  of  an   eye. 
f  yVif.y  iiKiunt  thfir  horses,  and  disappear. 


SCENE  II. 

A  Camp  before  the  I  Vails  of  Rome. 

Arnold  and  Ci»:sAR 
ca;sak. 
You  are  well  enterM  now. 

V  lO'OI.D. 

Ay  ;  but  my  [)ath 
.Has  been  o'er  carcasses:  nuiie  eyes  are  full 
Of  blood. 

t:.*:sAr.. 
Then  wi[)e  tiicui,  and  see  clearly.     Why  ! 
Tliou  art  a  coinjiieror  ;    tin?  rhosen  kiiiirht 
And  free  comi)anioii  of  the  y;illaiii   Hourhon, 
Latt!  consia!)le  of  Frauf-e  ;    and  no'v  to  lie 
Lord  of  the  city  '.vhich  haiii  Iummi  earth's  lord 
Untler  its  cin;)erors,  ;iiid — ch.-iuijing  se\, 
Not  sceptre,  a  heniiaphrodiK;  of  tjiiipire — 
Lady  of  the  world. 

A  p.  NOl.]). 

Flow  ■lid?    What!    are  there 
Xerc  v.'orlds'f 

C.KSA  K. 

To  //'"<.    You'ii  iind  there  are  such  shortly 
By  its  rich  harvests,  new  diseast;,  and  gold  ; 
F. om  one  Italf  of  the  world  named  a  ivli:/le  new  one, 
Beciusc  you  know  no  better  than  the  dull 
Anil  duhious  ric/tice  of  your  eyes  and  e;i.rs 

AK.NOLIJ. 

I  'h  trust  thorn. 

(:j=;sak. 
Do!    Th(;y  will  deceive  you  sweetly, 
And  that  is  better  than  lite  hitter  truth  ! 

ARNOLD. 

Dog ! 

CESAR. 

.Man  ! 

ARNOLD, 

Devil ! 

CJDSAR. 

Your  obedient,  humble  servant. 

ARNOLD. 

Say  mt^^er  r;..ther.     Thou  hast  lured  me  on, 
Througii  .s«,ei)es  of  bl(;od  and  lust,  till  I  am  here. 

CjESAR. 

And  whtre  wouldst  thou  be? 

ARNOLD. 

Oh,  at  peace — in  peace! 

CyT':SAR. 

And  where  is  that  which  is  so?    From  the  star 

To  the  winding  worm,  all  life  is  motion,  and 

In  life  coinniolion  is  th(j  e.xtremest  point 

Of  life.     The  planet  wheels  till  it  l)('<'omcs 

A  com(!t,  and,  d(;stroying  as  it  s.veep.s 

Th<;  stars,  ifoes  out.     The  poor  worm  winds  its  way, 

Livini.'  upon  the  de;iih  of  other  things, 

But  slill,  like  them,  must  live  and  die,  the  suhjeci 

Of  soiiiethint,  which  hus  made  it  li\e  and  die. 


You  must  obey  what  all  obey,  the  ni  e 
Of  fix'd  necessity  :   agamst  her  edict 
Rebellion  prospers  not. 

ARNOLD. 

And  when  it  prospers 

C^-.SAR. 

'T  is  no  rebellion. 

ARNOLD. 

Will  it  prosper  now  ? 

CyJ:sAR. 

The  Bourbon  hath  given  orders  for  the  assault. 
And  bv  the  dawn  there  will  be  work. 

ARNOLD. 

Alas! 
And  shall  the  city  yield  ?   I  see  the  giant 
Abode  of  the  true  God,  and  his  true  saint, 
Saint  Peter,  rear  its  dome  and  cross  into 
That  s!(v  whetn;e  Christ  ascended  from  the  cress. 
I    Wincb  hi.'.  L'.ood  made  a  badge  of  glory  and 
I    Of  joy  (as  once  of  torture  unto  him, 
\    God  and  God's  sou,  man's  sole  and  only  refu^re), 

i  C.KSAR. 

I    'T  is  there,  and  '^iiall  be. 

ARNOLD. 

I  Wliat  ? 

C.>:SAR. 

The  crucLn^s 
Above,  nnd  inanv  altar  slirines  below, 
Also  some  culveriiis  upon  the  walls. 
And  h;iT(]iiebusse>,  and  \'.hat  not,  besides 
The  men  who  are  to  km  lie  them  to  ileath 
Of  other  men. 

ARNOLD. 

And  those  scarce  mortal  arches, 
Pile  above  [)i!e  of  everlastiui;  wall. 
The  theatre  wh(;r(-'  einj)erors  :'jid  iheir  subi<'(.td 
(Those  subjects  Ro7)iatis)  stood  at  gaze  upon 
i    The  battles  of  the  moiiarchs  of  the  wild 
j    And  wood,  the  lion  and  his  tusky  rebels 
j    Of  the  then  untamed  desert,  brought  to  joust 
i    In  the  arena  (a«  ritdit  well  they  miirhl. 

When  they  had  left  no  human  foe  unconcjuer'd), 
j    Made  even  the  forest  pay  its  tribute  of 
Life  to  their  am])Uilheatre,  as  svell 
As  Dacia  men  to  die  the  eternal  death 
For  a  sole  instant's  pastime,  and  "Pass  on 
To  a  new  gladiator  !" — 3Iusi  it  I'all  ? 

C.KSAR. 

The  citv  or  the  amphitheatre  ? 

The  church,  or  one,  or  ail  ?   for  you  confound 

Both  them  and  me. 

ARNOLD. 

To  m.)rrow  sounds  the  assault 
With  the  first  cock-crow. 

CJF.iWR. 

Which,  if  it  end  with 
The  evenmg's  first  nightingale,  will  be 
Something  new  in  the  annals  of  great  sieges : 
For  men  must  have  their  jirey  after  long  toil. 

ARNOLD. 

The  sun  goes  down  as  calmly,  and  perhaps 
More  beautifiiUy,  than  he  did  on  Rome 
On  the  day  Remus  leapt  her  wall. 
i'a:sar. 

I  saw  him. 

ARNOLD, 

You! 

C.'!':SAR. 

Yes,  sir.     You  forget  I  am  or  was 
Spirit,  till  I  took  up  with  your  cast  shape 
And  a  wdrse  name.     I  'm  Ca>sar  and  a  hunchback 
Now.    Well!   the  first  of  Caesars  was  a  bald-hea<i, 


THE    DEFORMED    TKANSFOHMED 


441 


And  loved  his  laurels  better  as  a  wig 

(So  history  says)   than  as  a  glory.    Thus 

The  world' runs  on,  but  we  U!  be  merry  still. 

I  saw  your  Romulus   (simple  as  I  am) 

Slay  his  own  twin,  quick-born  of  the  same  womb, 

Because  he  \ea\n  a  ditch   ('t  was  then  no  wall, 

VVhaio'er  it  now  be)  ;   and  Rome's  earliest  cement 

Was  brother's  bloocl ;   and  if  its  native  blood 

Be  spilt  till  the  choked  Tiber  be  as  red 

As  e'er  't  was  yellow,  it  will  never  wear 

The  deep  hue  of  the  ocean  and  the  earth, 

U'hich  the  great  robber  sons  of  F>atricide 

Have  made  their  never-ceasing  scene  of  slaughter 

For  ages. 

ARNOLD. 

But  what  have  these  done,  their  far 
Remote  descendants,  who  have  lived  in  peace, 
The  peace  of  heaven,  and  in  her  sunshine  of 

Piety '/ 

c.?:sAR. 
And  what  had  //;e(/  done  whom  the  old 
Romans  o'erswept  ?— Hark  ! 

ARNOLD. 

They  are  soldiers  singing 
A  reckless  roundelay,  upon  the  eve 
Cf  many  deaths,  it  may  be  of  their  own. 

C/l-SAR. 

And  why  should  they  "not  sing  as  well  as  swans? 
They  <ux'  black  ones,  to  be  sure. 

ARNOLD. 

So,  you  are  learn'd, 
I  see,  too. 

C-?:SAR. 

In  mv  grammar,  certes.     I 
\V  as  educated  hr  a  monk  of  all  times. 
And  once  I  was  well  versed  m  the  forgotten 
Etruscan  letters,  and — were  I  so  minded — 
Could  make  their  hieroglyphics  plainer  than 
Your  alphabet. 

ARNOLD. 

And  wherefore  do  you  not  ? 

CjESAR. 

It  answers  better  to  resolve  the  alphabet 

Back  into  hieroglyphics.     Like  your  statesman, 

And  prophet,  pontiff,  doctor,  alchyrnist. 

Philosopher,  and  what  not,  they  have  built 

More  Babels  without  new  dispersion,than 

The  stammering  young  ones  of  the  flood's  dull  ooze. 

Who  fail'd  and  fled  each  other.     Why  ?   why,  marry. 

Because  no  man  could  understand  his  neighboiir. 

They  are  wiser  novv',  and  will  not  sejjarate 

For  nonsense.     Nay,  it  is  their  brotherhood. 

Their  Shibboleth,  their  Koran,  Talmud,  their 

Cabala  ;   their  best  brick- work,  wherewithal 

They  build  more 

ARNOLD    ('mtrrruj)ting  him). 

Oh  !   thou  everlasting  sneerer ! 
Be  silent  !   How  the  soldiers'  rough  strain  seems 
Soften'd  by  distance  to  a  hymn-like  cadence  1 

Listen ! 

c^sar.  „. 

Yes.     I  have  heard  the  angels  sing. 

ARNOLD. 

Aid  -lemons  howl. 

CASAR. 

And  man  too.     Let  us  listen : 
love  all  music. 

Soni^  of  the  Soldiers   within. 
The  Black  Bands  came  over 
The  Alps  and  their  snow, 
VVith  Bourbon,  tin,'  rover, 
They  ])ass'dibe  hroad  Po. 


We  have  beaten  all  foemen, 
We  have  captured  a  king, 
We  have  turii'd  back  on  no  men, 

And  so  let  us  sing ! 
Here  's  the  Bourbon  for  ever! 

Though  penniless  all. 
We  '11  have  one  more  endeavour 

At  yonder  old  wall. 
With  the  Bourbon  we  '11  gather 

At  day-dawn  before 
The  gates,  and  together 
Or  break  or  climb  o'er 
The  wall :   on  the  ladder, 

As  mounts  each  firm  foot, 
Our  shout  shall  grow  gladder. 

And  dealh  only  be  mute. 
With  the  Bourbon  we  '11  mount  o'er 

The  walls  of  old  Rome, 
And  who  then  shall  count  o'er 

The  spoils  of  each  dome  ? 
Up  !   up  !   with  the  lily  ! 

And  down  with  the  keys! 
In  old  Rome,  the  Seven-hilly,. 

We  '11  revel  at  ease  : 
Her  streets  shall  be  gory. 

Her  Tiber  all  red. 
And  her  temples  so  hoary 

Shall  clang  with  our  tread. 
Oh  !   the  Bourbon  !   the  Bourbon,!' 

The  Bourbon  for  aye^ 
Of  our  song  bear  the  burthen  ! 

And  fire,  fire  away  ! 
With  Spain  for  the  vanguard. 

Our  varied  host  comes  ; 
And  next  to  the  Spaniard 

Beat  Germany's  drums  ; 
And  Italy's  lances 

Are  couch'd  at  their  mother  ; 
But  our  leader  from  France  is, 
Wlio  warr'd  with  his  brother. 
Oh,  the  Bourbon!   the  Bourbon! 

Sans  country  or  home. 

We  '11  follow  the  Bourbon, 

To  [.hinder  old  Rome. 

c.i:sAR. 

An  indifferent  song 

For  those  within  the  walls,  metliinks,  to  hear. 

ARNOLD. 

Yes,  if  they  keep  to  their  chorus.      But  here  conies 

The  general  with  his  chiefs  aiil  men  of  trust. 

A  goodly  rebel '. 

Enter  the  Constable  Boukro.n,  '■'■rumsuis,''''  etc.,  etc. ,  eU 

I'll  I  LIBKKT. 

How  now,  iiohle  prince, 
You  are  not  cheerful  ? 

liOUKBON. 

Why  should  1  be  so? 

PFULIBKRT. 

Upon  the  eve  of  coiniuest,  such  as  ours. 
Most  men  would  be  so. 

BOURBON. 

If  I  were  secure  ! 

PHI  LI  BERT. 

Doubt  not  our  soldiers.     Were  the  walls  oi  adamant, 
They'd  crack  them.      Hunger  is  a  sharp  arliil-'rv. 

BOURBON. 

That  they  will  falter,  is  my  least  of  feais. 
That  th(,'y  will  be  repulsed,  wilh  Bourbon  for 
Their  chief,  and  all  their  kiruJle.l  appetites 
To  marshal  them  on — were  those  hoary  Wulls 
Mountains,  and  ihose  who  guard  them  hkc  the  goda 


441 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Of  tlie  old  fables,  I  would  trust  my  Titans ; — 
But  now 

PHILIBEKT. 

They  are  but  men  who  war  with  mortals. 

BOUKBON. 

True :   but  those  walls  have  girded  in  great  ages, 

■Vnd  sent  forth  nnghty  spirits.     The  past  earth 

And  present  phantom  of  imperious  Rome 

Is  peopled  with  those  warriors  ;   and  methinks 

riiey  (lit  along  the  eternal  city's  rampart, 

And  strelcli  Uieir  glorious,  gory,  shadowy  hands. 

And  be.ckon  me  away  ! 

PHILIBEKT. 

So  let  them  !   Wilt  thou 
Turn  back  fr()m  shailowy  menaces  of  shadows ? 

BOUKBON. 

They  do  not  menace  me.     I  could  have  faced, 
IVl<Jthinks,  a  Sylla's  menace  ;   but  they  clasp 
And  raise,  and  wring  their  dim  and  deathlike  hands, 
And  wkli  their  thin  aspen  faces  and  fixed  eyes 
Fascinate  mine.     Look  there ! 


PHILIBEKT. 


A  lofty  battlement. 


look  upon 


BOURBON. 

And  there ! 


PHILIBEKT. 

Not  even 
A  guard  in  sigjjt  ;   they  wisely  keep  below, 
Slielter'd  by  the  gray  parapet,  from  some 
Strav  bullet  of  our  lans(|uenets,  who  might 
I'raitise  in  a  coo!  twilight. 

BOURBOX. 

You  are  blind. 

PHILIBEKT. 

If  seeing  nothing  more  than  may  be  seen 
Be  so. 

BOaRBON. 

A  thousand  years  have  mann'd  the  walls 
With  all  their  heroes, — the  last  Cato  stands 
And  tears  his  bowels,  rather  than  survive 
The  liberty  of  that  I  would  enslave ; 
And  the  tirst  Caesar  with  his  triumphs  flits 
From  battlement  to  battlement. 

PHILIBEKT. 

Then  conquer 
The  walls  for  which  he  conquer'd,  and  be  greater ! 

BOUKBON. 

True  :   so  I  will,  or  perish. 

PHILIBEKT. 

You  can  not. 
In  such  an  enterprise,  to  die  is  rather 
The  (lawn  of  an  etenial  day,  than  death. 

Con  III  Arnold  and  Caesar  advance. 
ca:sar. 
And  the  mere  men — do  they  too  sweat  Beneath 
riie  noon  (jf  this  same  ever-scorching  glory? 

BOUUBON. 

Ah! 
VWlcome  the  bitter  hunchback!   and  his  master. 
The  beauty  of  our  host,  and  brave  as  beauteous, 
And  generous  as  l(>vi:ly.     W(!  shall  find 
Work  for  you  both  ere  tnornnig. 
c'a;«ak. 

You  will  find. 
So  |)lease  your  highness,  tu)  biss  fur  yourself. 

liOlIP.llO.N. 

And  if  I  do,  there  will  not  be  a  labourer 
More  lorward,  hunchback! 


C-5:SAR. 

You  may  well  say  so 

For  yon  have  seen  that  back — as  general, 
Placed  in  tlic  rear  in  action — but  your  foes 
Have  never  seen  it. 

BOUKBON. 

That 's  a  fair  retort, 
For  I  provoked  it : — but  the  Bourbon's  breast 
Has  been,  and  ever  shall  be,  far  advanced 
In  danger's  face  as  yours,  were  you  the  dex'  I. 

CiESAR. 

And  if  I  were,  I  might  have  saved  myself 
The  toil  of  coming  here. 

PHILIBEKT. 

Why  so  ? 

CiESAR. 

One  half 
Of  your  brave  bands  of  their  own  bold  accoi  d 
Will  go  to  him,  the  other  half  be  sent, 
More  swiftly,  not  less  surely. 

BOURBON 

Arnold,  your 
Slight  crooked  friend 's  as  snake-like  in  his  words 
As  his  deeds. 

C^SAR. 

Your  highness  much  mistakes  me. 
The  first  snake  was  a  llatterer — 1  am  none  ,• 
And  for  my  deeds,  I  only  sting  when  stung. 

BOUKBON. 

You  are  brave,  and  that 's  enough  for  me  :  and  quicV 
In  sjieech  as  sharp  in  action — and  that 's  more. 
I  am  not  alone  a  soldier,  but  the  soldiers' 
Comrade. 

CESAR. 

They  are  Init  bad  company,  vour  highness  j 
And  worse  even  for  their  friends  than  foes,  as  bei.ig 
INIore  permanent  accjuaintance. 

PHILlBERT. 

How  now,  fell;w  J 
Thou  waxest  insolent,  beyond  the  privilege 
Of  a  bulfoon. 

C/ESAR. 

You  mean,  I  speak  the  truth. 
I  'II  lie — it  is  as  easy  ;   then  you  '11  praise  me 
For  calling  you  a  hero. 

BOUKBON. 

Philibert  ! 
Let  him  alone  ;   he  's  brave,  and  ever  has 
Been  first  with  tJiat  swart  face  and  mountain  shouldS' 
In  field  or  storm ;   and  patient  in  starvation  ; 
And  for  his  tongue,  the  camp  is  full  of  license, 
And  tlie  sharp  stinging  of  a  lively  rogue 
Is,  to  my  mind,  far  |)referable  to 
The  gross,  dull,  neavy,  gloomy  execration 
Of  a  mere  fjimish'd,  sullen,  grumbling  ^lave, 
Whom  nothing  can  convince  save  a  full  meal, 
And  wine,  and  sleeji,  and  a  few  maravcdis. 
With  which  he  deems  h:m  rich. 

C/ESAR. 

I*  It  would  be  well 

If  the  earth's  princes  ask'd  no  more. 

BOUKBON. 

Be  silent! 

Ay,  but  not  idle.     Work  yourself  with  words  ! 
You  have  few  to  speak. 

PHILIBEKT. 

What  means  the  audacious  prali^r 
(•.'>:s.\K. 
To  prate,  like  other  proplK'ts. 


THE    DEFORMED    T  R  A  X  S  F  0  R  :\I  E  D. 


443 


BtURBON. 

Pliilibert ! 
Why  wii;  you  vex  him  ?   Have  we  not  enough 
I'c  think  on  /  Arnoiu !   I  will  lead  the  atlaek 
To-morrow. 

AKNOLD. 

I  have  heard  as  much,  my  lord. 

BOURBON. 

And  you  will  follow  ? 

AK.NOLD. 

Since  I  must  not  lead. 

BOUUBON. 

'T  IS  necessary,  for  the  further  daring 
Of  our  too  needy  army,  that  their  chief 
Plant  the  first  fool  upon  the  foremost  ladder's 
First  step. 

C.CSAR. 

Upon  its  topmost,  let  us  hope  : 
So  shall  he  have  his  full  deserts. 

BOURBON. 

The  world's 
Great  capital  perchance  is  ours  to-morrow. 
Through  every  change  the  scven-hiird  city  hath 
Retain'd  her  sway  o'er  nations,  and  the  Ciesars 
But  yiehled  to  the  Alarics,  the  Alarics 
Tnto  the  pontiffs.      Roman,  Goth,  or  priest, 
Still  the  world's  masters!    Civilized,  barbarian. 
Or  saintly,  still  tlie  walls  cf  Romuhis 
Have  been  the  circus  of  an  empire.      Well ! 
'T  was  their  turn — now  'i  is  ours  ;    and  let  us  hope 
That  we  will  fight  as  well,  and  rule  much  better. 

C.l^:>AK. 

No  doubt,  the  camp  's  the  school  of  civic  rights. 
S\  hat  would  you  make  of  Rome  ? 

BOURBON. 

That  which  it  was. 

CyESAR. 

In  Alaric's  time  ? 

BOURBON. 

No,  slave  !   In  the  first  Caesar's, 
vVhose  name  you  bear  like  other  curs. 

CESAR. 

And  kings. 
T  is  a  great  name  for  blood-hounds. 

BOURBON. 

There  's  a  demon 
In  that  fierce  rattle-snake  thy  tongue.     Will  never 
Be  serious  ? 

CESAR.  * 

On  the  eve  of  battle,  no  ; — 
That  were  not  soldier-like.     'T  is  for  the  general 
To  be  more  pensive :    sve  adventurers 
Must  be  more  cheerful.     Wherefore  should  we  think? 
Otir  tutelar  deity,  in  a  leader's  shape, 
Takes  care  of  us       Keep  thought  aloof  from  hosts  ! 
If  the  knaves  take  to  thinking,  you  will  have 
To  cruck  those  walls  alone. 

BOURBON. 

You  may  sneer,  since 
T  is  lucky  for  you  that  voii  fi<iht  no  worse  for  't. 

C-ESAR. 

I  thank  you  for  the  freedom  ;   't  is  X\\C.  only 
Pay  1  have  taken  in  your  highness'  service. 

BOURBON. 

Well,  sir,  to-morrow  you  shall  [lay  yourself. 
Look  on  those  towers  ;    they  hold  my  treasury. 
But,  Philiberl,  we  '11  in  to  oimcil.      Arnold  ' 
We  would  request  your  presence. 

ARNOLD. 

Prince  !  my  service 
Is  yours,  as  in  the  field. 


BOURBON. 

In  both,  we  p-ize  it, 
And  yours  will  be  a  post  of  trust  at  day-break. 

.    ca;sar. 
And  mine  ? 

BOURBON. 

To  follow  glory  with  the  Bourbon, 
Good  night  I 

ARNOLD  [to  Cesar). 
Prepare  our  armour  for  the  assault, 
^nd  wait  within  my  tent. 

[Exeunt  Bourbon,  Arnold,  PHiLiBERT,tic, 
CAisAR  [mlus). 

Within  thy  tent ! 
Think'st  thou  that  I  pass  from  thee  wiih  my  presence  < 
Or  that  this  crooked  cotler,  which  contain'd 
Thy  principle  of  life,  is  aiight  to  me 
Exce|)t  a  mask  ?   And  these  are  men,  forsooth  ! 
Heroes  and  chiefs,  the  Hower  of  Adam's  bastards  ! 
This  is  the  conseipience  of  giving  matter 
The  power  of  thought.     It  is  a  stubborn  substance, 
And  thinks  chaotically,  as  it  acts, 
Ever  relapsing  into  its  first  elements. 
Well !   1  must  play  with  these  poor  puppets  :   't  is 
The  spirit's  pastime  in  his  idler  hours. 
When  I  grow  weary  of  it,  I  have  business 
Amongst  the  stars,  which  these  t)Oor  creatures  deem 
Were  made  for  them  to  look  at.     'T  were  a  jest  now 
To  bring  one  down  amonixst  them,  and  set  fire 
Unto  their'ant-hill :   how  the  pismires  then 
Would  scamper  o'er  the  scalding  soil,  and,  ceasing 
From  tearing  down  each  others'  nests,  pi|)e  forth 
One  universal  orison  !   Ha!   ha!  [Exit  CjESfiR, 


PART  II. 

SCENE    I. 

Before  the  walh  of  Rome.      The  asxautt ;  tne  mmy  w 
'motion^  with   ladders  to   scale   the   walls;    BouRBON 
with  a  white  scarf  over  his  armour,  foremost. 
Chorus  of  Spirits  in  the  air. 

I. 

'T  is  the  morn,  but  dim  and  dark. 
Whither  Hies  the  silent  lark  ? 
Whither  shrinks  the  clouded  sun  7 
Is  the  day  indeed  begun  ? 
Nature's  eye  is  melancholy 
O'er  the  city  high  and  holy ; 
But  without  there  is  a  din 
Should  arouse  the  saints  within. 
And  revive  the  heroic  ashes 
Round  which  yellow  Tiber  dashes. 
Oil  !    ve  seven  hills  !   awaken, 
Ere  vour  verv  base  i)e  shaken  ! 


Hearken  to  the  steady  staiaj) ! 

Mars  IS  in  thtJir  every  tramp  I  ^ 

Not  a  stejt  IS  out  of  tune. 

As  fh"  tides  obev  the  moon  ! 

On  ihev  march,  though  to  self-slaughter, 

ReiTular  as  rolling  water, 

Who-(,'  hish  waves  o'ersweei)  the  horde? 

Of  luiire  moles,  but  keep  their  order, 

Breakiiiij  onlv  rank  bv  rank. 

Hearken  to  the  armour's  clank  ! 

Look  down  o'er  each  frownins  warrior, 

How  he  glares  upon  the  oarrier  : 

Look  on  each  step  of  each  ladder. 

As  the  stripes  that  streak  an  adder. 


€44 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Look  upon  the  bristling  wall, 
Mdnn'd  without  an  interval  ! 
Round  and  round,  and  tier  on  tiex, 
Cannon's  black  mouth,  shining  spear, 
Lit  match,  bell-moulh'd  musquetoon, 
Gaping  to  be  murderous  soon. 
All  the  warlike  gear  of  old, 
Mix'd  with  what  we  now  behold, 
III  this  strife  'twixt  old  and  new,. 
Gather  like  a  locust's  crew. 
Shade  of  Remus  !   't  is  a  time 
Awful  as  thy  brother's  crime  ! 
Christians  war  against  Christ's  shrine;— 
Must  its  lot  be  hke  to  thine  ? 

4. 
Near — and  near — nearer  still. 
As  the  earthquake  saps  the  hill. 
First  with  trembling,  hollow  motion,. 
Like  a  scarce-awaken'd  ocean. 
Then  with  stronger  shock  and  louder. 
Till  the  rocks  are  crush'd  to  powder, — 
Onward  sweeps  the  rolling  host ! 
Heroes  of  the  immortal  boast ! 
Mighty  chiefs  !    Eternal  shadows  ! 
First  tlowers  of  the  bloody  meadows 
Which  encompass  Rome,  the  mothe? 
Of  a  people  without  brother  ! 
Will  you  sleep  when  nations'  quarrels 
Plough  the  root  up  of  your  laurels  ? 
Ye  who  wept  o'er  Carthage  burning, 
Weep  not — strike  .'  for  Rome  is  mournmg  ! 

3. 
Onward  sweep  the  varied  nations  ! 
Famine  long  hath  dealt  their  rations  ; 
To  the  wall,  with  hate  and  hunger. 
Numerous  as  wolves,  and  stronger, 
On  they  sweep.     Oh  !   glorious  city. 
Must  thou  be  a  theme  for  pity  ? 
Fight,  like  your  first  sire,  each  Roman  ! 
Alaric  was  a  gentle  foeman, 
Match'd  with  Bourbon's  black  banditti  ! 
Rouse  thee,  thou  eternal  city  ! 
Rouse  thee  !   Rather  give  the  porch 
With  thy  own  hand  to  thy  torch. 
Than  behold  such  hosts  pollute 
Your  worst  dwelling  with  their  foot. 

6. 

Ah  I  behold  yon  bleeding  spectre  ! 
Ilion's  children  find  no  Hector  ; 
Priam's  offspring  loved  their  brother  ; 
Roma's  sire  forgot  his  mother, 
When  he  slew  his  gallant  twin, 
With  inexpiable  sin. 
See  the  giant  shadow  stride 
O'er  the  ramparts  high  and  wide  ! 
When  he  first  o'erleapt  thy  wall, 
Its  foundation  mourn'd  thy  fitll. 
Now,  tluxigh  toweling  like  a  Babel, 
Who  to  sto]>  his  steps  are  able  ? 
Stalking  o'er  thy  highest  dome, 
Remus  claims  his  vengeance,  LJome  ! 

7. 
Now  they  reach  thee  m  their  anger: 
Fire,  ;iri(l  smoke,  and  helli'^h  clangour 
Are  around  tlujc,  thou  W()r!<l's  wonder  ! 
I)(;ath  IS  in  thy  walls  and  under. 

)  SciiJii.)  the  B(!(:on(l  Afiiciiinis.  is  hiuiI  to  liavi;  n*t)Mitc(]  a 
v.isr  "f  llimifr,  and  wi^pt  ovt'.r  \\\v  hiiriiiii^  of  (Juilhugu.  He 
h  :ii  b(.tit;r  huvi-  Krantcil  it  a  cupitulalion. 


Now  the  meeting  steel  first  clasnef  , 

Downward  then  the  ladder  crashes,  ^ 

With  its  iron  load  all  gleaming. 

Lying  at  its  foot  blaspheming ! 

Up  again  !   for  every  warrior 

Slain,  another  climbs  the  barrier. 

Thicker  grows  the  strife  :   thy  ditches 

Europe's  nnngling  gore  enriches. 

Rome  !   Although  thy  wall  may  perish, 

Such  manure  thy  fields  will  cherish. 

Making  gay  the  harvest-home  ; 

But  thy  hearths,  alas  !   oh,  Rome  ! — 

Yet  be  Rome  amidst  thine  anguish. 

Fight  as  thou  wast  wont  to  vanquish  ! 

8. 
Yet  once  more,  ye  old  Penates ! 
Let  not  your  quench'd  hearths  be  Ate's  I 
Yet  again,  ye  shadowy  heroes. 
Yield  not  to  these  stranger  Neros  ! 
Though  the  son  who  slew  his  mother. 
Shed  Rome's  blood,  he  was  your  brother; 
'T  was  the  Roman  curb'd  the  Roman : — 
Brennus  was  a  baffled  foeman. 
Yet  again,  ye  saints  and  martyrs. 
Rise,  for  yours  are  hoher  charters. 
Mighty  gods  of  temples  falling. 
Yet  in  ruin  still  appalling  ! 
Mightier  founders  of  those  altars. 
True  and  Christian — strike  the  assaulters! 
Tiber  !   Tiber  !   let  thy  torrent 
Show  even  nature's  self  abhorrent. 
Let  each  breathing  heart  dilated 
Turn,  as  doth  the  lion  baited  ! 
Rome  be  crush'd  to  one  wide  .omb, 
But  be  still  the  Roman's  Rome  ! 
BouKBON,  Arnold,  C^s.\r,  and  others,  arrive  ai  (ha 
foot  of  the  wall.  Arnold  is  about  to  plant  Ids  kinder. 

BOUREON. 

Hold,  Arnold  !   I  am  first. 

ARNOLD. 

Not  so,  my  lord. 

BOURBON. 

Hold,  sir,  I  charge  you  !   Follow  !   I  am   proud 
Of  such  a  follower,  but  will  brook  no  leader. 

[Bourbon  plants  his  ladder ,  and  begins  to  niouni. 
Now,  boys  !   On  !  on  ! 

[A  shot  striken  him,  and  Bovrbot^  falls. 

C.T.SAR. 

And  off! 

ARNOLD. 

Eternal  powers  ! 
The  host  will  be  appall'd. — But  vengeance !  vengeance! 

bourbon. 
'T  is  nothing — lend  me  your  hand. 

[Bourbon  takes  Arnold  /)/;  the  hand  and  rises. 
hut,  as  he  puts  Ids  J'ool  on  thi:  st(ii,  falls  ag'aiii. 
Arnold  !   I  am  sped 
Conceal  my  fall — all  will  go  well — conceal  it  ! 
Fling  my  cloak  o'er  what  will  be  dust  anon  ; 
Let  not  the  soldiers  see  it. 

ARNOLD. 

You  must  be 
Removed  ;  the  aid  of 

BOUKRON, 

No,  my  gallant  boy  , 
Death  is  upon  me.      But  what  is  one  life  ? 
The  Bourbon's  spirit  shall  command  th(>m  still. 
Keep  t.h(;m  yet  ignorant  that  I  am  hut  c:lay, 
Till  they  arc  coiiciuerors — then   lo  us  )oii  may. 


THE    DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


445 


c;esar. 

Would  nol  youi  hit,'luiess;  choose  to  kiss  the  cross  ? 
We  nave  no  priest  licre,  l)ut  the  hilt  of  sword 
May  serve  instead  : — it  did  the  same  for  Bayard. 

EOUHBON. 

ThtHi  hittor  slave  !   to  name  him-a.t  this  time ! 
BjI  I  deserve  it. 

ARXOLD    {to  C.fTSAK). 

V^illain,  hold  your  peace ! 

CESAR. 

What,  when  a  Christian  dies?   Shall  I  not  offer 
A  Christian  "  Vade  in  pace?" 

ARNOLD. 

Silence!  Oh! 
Those  eyes  are  srlaz.ing,  which  o'erlook'd  the  world, 
And  saw  no  equal. 

BOURBON. 

Arnold,  shouldst  thou  see 
France — but  hark  !   hark  !   the  assault  grows  warmer— 

Oh! 
For  hut  an  hour,  a  minute  more  of  life, 
To  die  within  the  wall !   Hence,  Arnold  !   hence  ! 
Vou  lose  time— they  will  conquer  Rome  without  thee. 

ARNOLD. 

And  without  thee  t 

BOURBON. 

Not  so  ;   I  '11  lead  them  still 
In  spirit     Cover  up  my  dust,  and  breathe  not 
That  I  have  ceased  to  breathe.     Away  !  and  be 
Victorious ! 

ARNOLD. 

But  I  must  not  leave  thee  thus. 

BOURBON. 

You  inusi— farewell — U[) !  Tip !   the  world  is  winning, 

[Bourbon  dies. 
c-ESAR  (^0  Arnold). 
Come,  count,  to  business. 

ARNOLD. 

True.     I  '11  weep  hereafter. 
[Arnoi  d  covers  Bourbon's  body  with  aviantle,  and 
mounts  the  ladder^  crying, 
The  Bourbon  !    Bourbon !   On,  boys  !  Rome  is  ours  ! 

CESAR. 

GtK;d  night.  Lord  Constable !   thou  wert  a  man. 

[C  -ES A  R  follows  Arnold;   they  reach  the  balilement ; 
Arnold  and  Cesar  are  struck  down. 
A  precious  somerset!   Is  your  countship  injured? 

ARNOLD. 

No.  [Remounts  the  lailder. 

CiESAR. 

A  rare  blood-hound,  when  his  o\vii  is  heated  ! 
And  't  is  no  boy's  play.   Now  he  strikes  them  down  ! 
His  hand  is  on  the  battlement — he  grasps  it 
As  though  it  were  an  altar  ;   now  his  foot 

Is  on  it,  and What  have  we  here,  a  Roman  ? 

[A  man  falls. 
The  first  bird  of  the  covey  !   he  has  fall'n 
On  the  outside  of  the  nest.   Why,  how  now,  fellow  ? 

THE    WOUNDED    MAN. 

A  drop  o.'  x\  A.,fer  ! 

CJESAR. 

Blood 's  the  only  liquid 
Nearer  than  Tiber. 

WOUNDED    MAN. 

I  have  died  for  Rome.  [Dies, 

CiESAR. 

And  so  did  Bourbon,  in  another  sense. 

Oh,  these  immortal  men !   and  their  great  motives  ! 

But  I  must  after  my  young  charge.     He  is 

By  this  time  i' the  forum.     Charge!   charge! 

[C^SAR  mounts  the  ladder  ;  the  Slcene  dnseit. 


SCENE  II. 

The  City.  —  Conduits  between  tlie  Bemtgers  and  Besieetd 
in  the  streets. — Inhabitants  Jlying  m  coufustnn. 

Enter  C^sar. 

r.ESAH. 

I  cannot  find  my  hero ;   he  is  mix'd 
With  the  heroic  crowd  that  now  pursue 
The  fugitives,  or  battle  with  the  desperate. 
What  have  we  here  ?   A  cardinal  or  two,  * 

That  do  not  seem  in  love  with  martyrdom. 
H'>w  the  old  red-shanks  scamper  !   Could  they  doff 
Their  hose  as  they  have  doif'd  their  hats,  't  would*  be 
A  blessing,  as  a  mark  the  less  for  plunder. 
But  let  them  tiy,  the  crimson  kennels  now 
Will  not  much  stain  their  stockings,  since  the  mire 
Is  of  the  self-same  purple  hue. 
Enter  a  party  fighting. — Arnold  at  the  head  of  tli^ 
Besiegers. 

He  comes. 
Hand  in  hand  with  the  mild  twins — Gore  and  Glort. 
Holla!   hold,  count! 

ARNOLD. 

Away !  they  must  not  raKy. 

CESAR. 

I  tell  thee,  be  not  rash ;  a  golden  bridge 

Is  for  a  living  enemy.     I  gave  thee 

A  form  of  beauty,  and  an 

Exem|4ion  from  some  maladies  of  body, 

But  not  of  mind,  which  is  not  mine  to  give. 

But  though  I  gave  the  form  of  Thetis'  son, 

I  dipt  thee  not  in  Styx  ;   and  'gainst  a  foe 

I  would  not  warrant  thy  chivalric  heart 

More  than  Pelides'  heel ;   why  then,  be  cautious, 

And  know  thyself  a  mortal  still. 

ARNOLD. 

And  who 
With  aught  of  soul  would  combat  if  he  were 
Invulnerable  ?  That  were  pretty  sport. 
Thmk'st  thou  I  beat  for  hares  when  lions  roar? 

[Arnold  rushes  into  the  comhst 

CESAR. 

A  precious  sample  of  humanity  ! 

Well,  his  blood  's  up,  and  if  a  little  's  shed, 

'T  will  serve  to  curb  his  fever. 

[Arnold  engages  with  a  Roman,  who  retires  toward* 
a  portico. 

ARNOLD. 

Yield  thee,  slave ! 
I  promise  quarter. 

ROMAN. 

That 's  soon  said. 

ARNOLD. 

And  done — 
My  word  is  known. 

ROMAN. 

So  sJiaJl  be  my  deeds. 
[They  re-engage.     CiESAR  ccmes forwara 

C^SAR. 

Why,  Arnold  !   Hold  thine  own  ;  thou  hast  in  haiul 

A  famous  artisan,  a  cunning  sculptor  ; 

Also  a  dealer  in  the  sword  and  dagger. 

Not  so,  my  musqueteer  ;  't  was  he  who  slew 

The  Bourbon  from  the  wall. 

ARNOLD. 

Ay,  did  he  SO  ' 
Then  he  hath  carved  his  monument. 


ROMAN. 


May  live  to  carve  your  better's. 


I  yet 


446 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


C.«SAR. 

Wei.  said,  my  man  of  marble  !   Benvenuto, 

Thou  hast  some  practice  in  both  ways  ;   and  he 

Who  slays  Cellini,  will  have  work'd  as  hajd 

As  e'er  thou  didst  upon  Carrara's  blocks. 

^Arnold  disarms  and  wounds  Celmm,  hut  slightly  ; 

the  latter  draws  a  ])istol,  andjires  •  then  retires  and 

disappears  through  the  portico. 

C.tSAR. 

How'farest  thou  ?  Thou  hast  a  taste,  methinks, 
Of  red  Bellona's  banquet. 

ARNOLD  (staggers). 

'T  IS  a  scratch. 
Lend  me  thy  scarf.     He  shall  not  'scape  me  thus. 

CiESAR. 

Where  is  it  ? 

ARNOLD. 

In  the  shoulder,  not  the  sword  arm — 
And  that 's  enough.     I  am  thirsty  :   would  I  had 
A  helm  of  water  ! 

C^SAR. 

That 's  a  hquid  now 
In  requisition,  bu>  by  no  means  easiest 
To  come  at. . 

ARNOLD. 

And  my  thirst  increases  ; — but 
I  'U  find  a  v^ay  to  quench  it. 

CJESAR. 


Thyself? 


Or  be  quench  d 


ARNOLD. 

The  chance  is  even  ;  we  will  throw 
The  dice  thereon.      But  I  lose  time  prating ; 
Prithee,  be  quick.  [C^sar  hinds  on  the  scarf. 

And  what  dost  ihou  so  idly  ? 
Why  dost  not  strike  ? 

CiESAR. 

Your  old  philosophers 
Beheld  mankind,  as  mere  spectators  of 
The  Olympic  games.     When  I  behold  a  prize 
Worth  wresthng  for,  I  may  be  found  a  Mile. 

ARNOLD. 

Ay,  'gamsl  an  oak. 

CJESAR. 

A  forest,  when  it  suits  me. 
I  combat  with  a  mass,  or  not  at  all. 
Meantime,  pursue  thy  sport,  as  I  do  mine  : 
Which  is  just  now  to  gaze,  since  all  these  labourers 
VVill  reap  :ny  harvest  gratis. 

ARNOLD. 

Thou  art  still 
A  fiend ! 

CitSAR. 

And  thou — a  man. 

ARNOLD. 

Why,  such  I  fain  would  show  me. 

C.«SAR. 

True — as  men  are. 

ARNOLD. 

linA  "what  is  that  ? 

ca:sar. 
Thou  feelest  and  thou  see''st. 
\Ejnt  \rsoi.d,  joining  in  the  combat  vjhirh  still 
t;ontinuei  between  detached  parties.    The  Scene 
clous. 


SCENE   [11. 

St.  Peter'' s.      The  Interior  oj  ine   Cliwch.      The   Pope 

at   ihe  Altar.      Priests,   etc.    irowding   m   con/union 

and  Citizens  fly ing  for  refuge,  pursued  hy  Soldiery 

FJnler  C-T,bAR. 

A    SPANISH   SOLDIER. 

Down  with  them,  comrades  !   sei/.e  upon  those  lamps 
Cleave  yon  bald-jjated  shaveling  to  the  chine  ! 
His  rosary 's  of  gold  ! 

LUTHERAN  SOL     lER. 

Revenge  !    Revenge  ! 
Plunder  hereafter,  but  for  vengeance  now 
Yonder  stands  Anti-Christ ! 

c.^iSAR  {interposing). 

How  now,  schismatic ! 
What  wouldst  thou  ? 

LUTHERAN   SOLDIER. 

In  the  holy  name  of  Christ, 
Destroy  proud  Anti-Christ.     I  am  a  Christian. 

CESAR. 

Yea,  a  disciple  that  would  make  the  founder 

Of  your  belief  renounce  it,  could  he  see 

Such  proselytes.     Best  stint  thyself  to  plunder. 

LUTHERAN  SOLDIER. 

I  say  he  is  the  devil. 

CESAR. 

Hush  !   keep  that  secret. 
Lest  he  should  recognise  you  for  his  own. 

LUTHERAN   SOLDIER. 

Why  would  you  save  him  ?   I  repeat  he  is 
The  devil,  or  the  devil's  vicar  upon  earth. 

CESAR. 

And  thpJ  's  the  reason  ;   would  you  make  a  ({uarrcl 
With  your  best  friends?   You  had  far  best  be  quiet: 
His  hour  is  not  yet  come. 

LUTHERAN  SOLDIER. 

That  shall  be  seen  ! 

[The  Lutheran  Soldier  rushes  forioard :  a  shot  striken 
him  from  one  of  the  Papers  guards,  and  he  fulls  at 
the  foot  of  the  altar. 

c^sAR  (to  the  Lutheran). 
I  told  you  so. 

LITTHERAN  SOLDIER. 

And  will  you  not  avenge  me  ? 

C9lSAR. 

Not  I !  You  know  that  "  vengeance  is  the  Lord's  :" 
You  see  he  loves  no  interlopers. 

LUTHERAN  (dying). 
Oh! 
Had  I  but  slain  him,  I  had  gone  on  high, 
Crown'd  with  eternal  glory  !      Heaven,  forgive 
My  feebleness  of  arm  that  reach'd  him  not. 
And  take  thy  servant  to  thy  mercy.      'T  is 
A  glorious  triumph  still  ;   proud  Babylon  's 
No  more  :   the  Harlot  of  the  Seven  Hills 
Hath  changed  her  scarlet  raiment  for  sackcloth 
And  ashes!  [The  Lutheran  dies* 

CJESAIl. 

Yes,  thine  own  amidst  the  rest. 
Well  done,  old  Babel ! 

[The  Guanls  defend  themselves  desperately,  whilr. 
the  Pontiff  esrajns,  hy  a  private  passage,  to  Urn 
Vatican  and  the  C(fstle  of  St.  Angela. 

CT-SAR. 

Ha  !   right  nobly  battled  ! 
Now,  priest !   now,  soldier  !   the  two  great  [)rofessionb 
Together  by  the  ears  and  hearts !  I  have  not 


THE    DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


447 


Sf-Pn  a  more  c<imic  pantorninie  since  Titus 

Took  Jewry.      H'lt  the  Romans  iiad  the  best  then  ; 

Now  ihev  must  take  their  turn. 

SOLUIKK. 

He  hath  escaped  ! 
FoUcnv  ! 

ANOTHF.K   SOLOIKR. 

They  have  barr'd  the  narrow  passage  up, 
And  i:  is  clogg'd  with  dead  even  to  the  door. 

C/KSAH. 

I  am  i^dad  he  hath  escaped  :   he  may  thank  me  for 't 

In  part.      I  would  not  liave  his  bulls  abohslTd — 

'T  were  worth  one  half  our  empire  :   liis  in(lul;^onces 

Demand  some  in  return  ; — no,  no,  he  must  not 

Fall ;   and  besides,  his  now  escape  may  furnish 

A  tiiture  miraclt;,  ni  future  proof 

01  his  inl'allibility.  [To  the  Spanish  Soldiery. 

Well,  cut-throats  ! 
What  do  you  pause  for  ?   If  you  make  not  haste, 
There  will  not  he  a  link  of  pious  gold  left. 
And  i/du,  too.  Catholics!   Would  ye  return 
From  such  a  pilgrimaije  without  a  relic  ? 
The  very  Lutherans  have  more  true  devotion : 
See  how  they  strip  the  shrines  ! 

SOLDIERS. 

By  holy  Peter  ! 
He  speaks  tiie  truth  ;   the  heretics  will  bear 
The  best  away. 

C.tSAK. 

And  that  were  shame  !   Go  to  ' 
Assist  in  ih-^ir  conversion. 

I  The  Soldiers  disperse  ;  many  quit  the  Churchy 
otliers  enter. 

C.KSAR. 

They  are  gone, 
And  others  come  ;   so  flows  the  wave  on  wave 
Oi   what  these  creatures  call  eternity, 
Deeming  themselves  the  breakers  of  the  ocean. 
While  they  are  but  its  bubbles,  ignorant 
That  foam  is  their  foundation.     So,  another  ! 

Enter  Olimpia,  Jiying  from  the  pursuit — She  springs 
upon  the  Altar, 

SOLDIER. 

She  's  mine. 

ANOTHER  SOLDIER  {opposing  the  former). 

Ycu  lie,  I  track'd  her  first ;   and,  were  she 
The  pope's  niece,  I  '11  not  yield  her.  [They  fight. 

THIRD  SOLDIER  {advancing  towards  Olimpia). 
You  may  settle 
Your  claims  ;   1  'U  make  mine  good. 

OLIMPIA. 

Infernal  slave  t 
You  touch  me  not  alive. 

THIRD  SOLDIER. 

Alive  or  dead  ! 
OLIMPIA  {embracing  a  massive  crucifix'). 
Respect  your  God  ! 

THIRD  SOLDIER. 

Yes,  when  he  shines  in  gold. 
Girl,  you  but  grasp  your  dowry. 

[As  he  advances^  Olimpia,  u:ith  a  strong  and  sudden 
effort.,  casts  down  the  crucifx  ;  it  strikes  the  Soldier^ 
who  falls. 

THIRD  SOLDIER. 

Oh,  great  God ! 

OLIMPIA. 

Ah  ;  now  you  recognise  him. 

THIRD  SOLDIER. 

My  brain  's  crush'd  ! 
Comrades,  help,  ho  !     All 's  darkness  '  [He  dies. 


OTHER  SOLDIERS  {coining  up).  / 

Slay  her,  although  she  had  .-i  thousand  'ives : 
She  hath  kill'd  our  comrade. 

OLIMPIA. 

Welcome  siu-h  a  death  • 
You  have  no  life  to  give,  which  tlie  worst  slave 
Would  take.   Great  God!  through  thy  redeeming  Son, 
And  thy  Son's  Mother,  now  receive  m<!  as 
I  would  apiiroach  thee,  worthy  her,  and  him,  and  tiieo' 

Elder  Arnold. 

ARNOLD. 

What  do  I  see  ?     Accursed  jackals  ! 
Forbear  ! 

ca:sar  {aside,  and  laughing). 
Ha  !   ha  I    here  's  equity  !   The  dogs 
Have  as  much  right  as  he.      But  to  the  issue  ! 

soldiers. 
Count,  she  hath  slain  our  comrade. 

ARNOLD. 

With  what  weapon  ^ 

SOLDIER. 

The  cross,  beneath  which  he  is  crush'd  ;   behold  him 
Lie  there,  more  like  a  worm  than  man ;   she  cast  it 
Upon  his  head. 

ARNOLD. 

Even  so ;   there  is  a  woman 
Worthy  a  brave  man's  liking.     Were  ye  such. 
Ye  would  have  honour'd  her.      But  get  ye  hence. 
And  thank  your  meanness,  other  God  you  have  none 
For  your  existence.     Had  you  touch'd  a  hair 
Of  those  dishevell'd  locks,  I  would  have  thinn'd 
Your  ranks  more  than  the  enemy.     Away ! 
Ye  jackals  !   gnaw  the  bones  the  lion  leaves. 
But  not  even  t!iese  till  he  permits. 

A  SOLDIER  {murmuring). 

The  hon 
Might  conquer  for  himself  then. 

ARNOLD  {cuts  him  down) 

Mutineer ! 
Rebel  in  hell — you  shall  obey  on  earth  ! 

[The  Soldiers  assault  Arnolo. 

ARNOLD. 

Come  on  !   I  'm  glad  on  't !    I  will  show  you,  slaves. 
How  you  should  be  commanded,  and  who  led  you 
First  o'er  the  wall  you  were  as  shy  to  scale. 
Until  I  waved  my  banners  from  its  height. 
As  you  are  bold  within  it. 

[Arnold  mows  down  the  foremost;  the  rest  ihruu 
down  their  arms. 

SOLDIERS. 

Mercy  !    mercy  ! 

ARNOLD. 

Then  learn  to  grant  it.     Have  I  taught  you  wlw 
Led  you  o'er  Rome's  eternal  battlements '/ 

SOLDIERS. 

We  saw  it,  and  we  know  it ;   yet  forgive 
A  moment's  error  in  the  heat  of  conquest — 
The  con(juest  wh.ch  you  led  to. 

ARNOLD. 

Get  you  hence ! 
Hence  to  your  quarters  !  you  will  fip.d  them  ftx'd 
In  the  Colonna  palace. 

OLIMPIA  {a'lidc). 
In  my  father' J 
House ! 

ARNOLD  {to  tfie  soldiers). 
Leave  your  arms  ;   ye  have  no  further  nee. 
Of  such  :   the  city  's  render'd.     And  mark  well 


448 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


You  keep  your  nands  clean,  or  I  '11  find  out  a  stream 
As  rej  as  Tiber  now  runs,  for  your  baptism. 

SOLDIEKS  {deposing  their  arms  and  departing). 
We  obey. 

ARNOLD   {to  OlIMFIA). 

Lady  !  you  are  safe. 

OLIMPIA. 

I  should  be  so, 
Had  I  a  knife  even  ;   but  it  matters  not — 
Death  hath  a  thousand  gates ;   and  on  the  marble. 
Even  at  the  altar  foot,  whence  I  look  down 
Tpon  destruction,  shall  my  head  be  dash'd, 
Ere  thou  ascend  it.     God  forgive  thee,  man  ! 

ARNOLD. 

(  wish  to  merit  his  forgiveness,  and 

Thine  own,  although  I  have  not  injured  thee. 

OLIMPIA. 

Go  !     Thou  hast  only  sack'd  my  native  land — 

No  injury  ! — and  made  my  father's  house 

A  den  of  thieves — No  injury  ! — this  teniple. 

Slippery  with  Roman  and  holy  gore — 

No  injury  !     And  now  thou  vvouldst  preserve  me. 

To  be but  that  shall  never  be  ! 

[She  raises  her  eyes  to  heaven,  folds  her  robe  round  her 
and  prepares  to  dash  herself  down  07i  the  side  of  the 
Altar,  opposite  to  that  where  Arnold  stands. 

ARNOLD. 

Hold!  hold! 
I  owear. 

OLIMPIA. 

Spare  thine  already  forfeit  soul 
A  perjury  for  which  even  hell  would  loathe  thee. 
I  know  thee. 

ARNOLD. 

No,  thou  know'st  me  not ;  I  am  not 
Of  'hese  men,  though 

OLIMPIA. 

I  judge  thee  by  thy  mates  ; 
It  is  for  God  to  judge  thee  as  thou  art.  # 

I  see  thee  purple  with  the  blood  ot  Rome  ; 
Take  mine,  't  is  all  thou  e'er  shalt  have  of  me  ! 
And  here,  upon  the  marble  of  this  temple, 
Where  the  baptismal  font  baptized  me  God's, 
1  offer  him  a  blood  less  holy 
But  not  less  pure  ())ure  as  it  left  me  then, 
A  redeeui'd  mfant)  than  the  holy  water 
The  saints  have  sanctified  ! 

[Olimpia  waves  her  hand  to  Arnold  vnth  disdain,  and 
dashes  herself  on  the  pavement  from  the  j4.lt.ar. 

ARNOLD. 

Eternal  God ! 
I  feel  thee  now !    Help !   help !   She 's  gone. 
CjTESar   {approaches). 

I  am  here. 

ARNOLD. 

Thou !  but  oh,  save  her ! 

CASAR   {assisting  him  to  raise  Olimpia). 
She  hath  done  it  well ; 
The  leap  was  serious. 

ARNOLD. 

Oh  !  she  is  lifeless  ! 


She  be  so,  I  have  nought  to  do  with  that: 
The  resurrection  is  beyond  me. 

ARNOLD. 

Slave ! 

CA-SAR. 

Ay,  Blavo  or  maHier,  'Hs  all  one :   methinks 
Good  worttii  hoAfcvei  j^i-e  us  well  at  tunes. 


ARNOLD. 

Words! — Canst  thou  aid  her' 

C^SAR. 

I  will  try.     A  sprinkjnjj 
Of  that  same  holy  water  may  be  useful. 

\He  brings  some  in  his  helmet  from  the  font 

ARNOLD. 

'T  is  mix'd  with  blood. 

CJESAR. 

Tiiere  is  no  cleaner  now 
In  Rome. 

ARNOLD. 

How  pale  !  how  beautiful !  how  lifeless ! 
Alive  or  dead,  thou  essence  of  all  beauty, 
I  love  but  thee ! 

C^SAR. 

Even  so  Achilles  loved 
Penthesilea  ;   with  his  form  it  seems 
You  have  his  heart,  and  yet  it  was  no  soft  one. 

ARNuLD. 

She  breathes  !      But  no,  't  was  nothmg,  or  the  last 
Faint  flutter  life  disputes  with  death. 

C^ESAK. 

She  breathes, 

ARNOLD. 

Thou  say'st  it  ?    Then  'tis  truth. 

CiESAR. 

You  do  me  right- 
The  devil  speaks  truth  much  oftener  than  he  's  deem'd . 
He  hath  an  ignorant  audience. 

ARNOLD   {imth;jul  attending  to  him). 

Yes  !   her  heart  beats. 
Alas !   that  the  first  beat  of  the  only  heart 
I  ever  wish'd  to  beat  with  nune,  should  vibrate 
To  an  assassin's  pulse! 

C^SAR. 

A  sage  reflection, 
But  somewhat  late  i'  the  day.  Where  shall  we  bear  her  ? 
I  say  she  lives. 

ARNOLD. 

And  v/ill  she  live  ? 
ca;sar. 

As  much 
As  dust  can. 

ARNOLD. 

Then  she  is  dead  ! 

C^SAR. 

Bah  !  bah  !   You  are  so. 
And  do  not  know  it.     She  will  come  to  life — 
Such  as  you  think  so,  such  as  you  now  are  ; 
But  we  must  work  by  human  means. 

ARNOLD. 

We  wtU 
Convey  her  unto  the  Colonna  palace, 
Where  I  have  pitch'd  my  banner. 

CiCSAR. 

Come  then  !   raise  her  up  ! 

ARNOLD 

Softly ! 

C^SAR. 

As  softly  as  they  bear  the  dead, 
Perhaps  because  they  cannot  feel  the  jolting. 

ARNOLD. 

But  doth  she  live  indeed  ? 

CACriAR. 

Nay,  never  fear! 
But  if  you  rue  it  after,  blame  not  me. 

ARNOLD. 

Let  her  but  live  ! 

CA'.SMl. 

The  spirit  of  her  life 
Is  yet  widnn  her  breast,  and  mav  revive. 


THE    DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


449 


Count !  count!  I  am  your  servant  in  all  things, 
And  this  is  a  new  otFice  : — 'tis  not  oft 
I  am  employ'd  in  such  ;   but  you  perceive 
How  staunch  a  friend  is  what  you  call  a  fiend. 
On  earth  you  have  often  only  fiends  for  friends ; 
Now  /  desert  not  mine.     Soft  !   bear  her  hence, 
Tho  beautiful  half-clay,  and  nearly  spirit ! 
I  a:n  almost  enainour'd  of  her,  as 
01  old  the  an"«ls  of  her  earliest  sex. 


ARNOLD. 


Vhc 


:;jF.s\r. 
I.     But  fear  not.    I  '11  not  be  your  rival. 

ARNOLD. 

Rival ! 

C^SAR. 

I  could  be  one  right  formidable ; 
But  since  I  slew  tlie  seven  husbands  of 
I'obia's  future  bride  (and  after  all 
'Twas  suck'd  out  but  by  some  incense)  I  have  laid 
Aside  intrigue:  'tis  rarely  worth  the  trouble 
Of  <^aimn2  or — what  is  more  difficult — 
Getting  rid  of  your  prize  again  ;   for  there  's 
The  rub  !  at  least  to  mortals. 

ARNOLD. 

Prithee,  peace ! 
Softly  !   methinks  her  lips  move,  her  eyes  open ! 

CESAR. 

Like  stars,  no  doubt  ;   for  that 's  a  metaphor 
For  Lucifer  and  Venus. 

ARNOLD, 

To  the  palace 
Colonna,  as  I  told  you  ! 

CESAR. 

Oh  !   I  know 
My  way  through  Rome. 

ARNOLD. 

Now  onward,  onward  !   Gently  ! 
[Exeunt^  bearing-  Olimpia. — The  Scene  closes. 


PART  III. 

SCENE  L 

A  Castle  in  the  Apennines,  surronnded  by  a  wild  but 
smiling  country.  Chorus  of  Peasa?ils  singijig  before 
the  Gates. 

Chorus. 

\. 

The  wars  are  over, 

The  spring  is  come  ; 
The  bride  and  her  lover 
Have  sought  their  home  : 
They  are  happy,  we  rejoice. 
Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  in  every  voice  ! 

2. 
The  spring  is  come  ;   the  violet 's  gone. 
The  first-born  child  of  the  early  sun  ; 
With  us  she  is  but  a  winter's  flower. 
The  snow  on  the  hills  cannot  blast  her  bower, 
And  she  lifts  up  her  dewy  eye  of  blue 
To  the  youngest  sky  of  the  self-same  hue. 

3. 

And  when  the  spring  comes  with  her  host 
Of  flowers,  that  flower  beloved  the  most 
Shrinks  from  the  crowd  that  may  confuse 
Her  heavenly  odour  and  virgin  hues. 

4. 
Pluck  the  others,  but  still  remember 
Their  herald  out  of  dim  December — 
29 


The  morning- star  of  all  the  flowers, 
The  pledge  of  daylight's  lengthen'd  hours  ; 
Nor,  'midst  the  roses,  e'er  forget 
The  virgin,  virgin  violet. 

Enter  C^SAR. 

c^sAR   {singing). 
The  wars  are  all  over. 

Our  swords  are  all  idle, 

The  steed  bites  the  bridle. 
The  casque  's  on  the  wall. 
There  's  rest  for  the  rover  ; 

But  his  armour  is  rusty. 

And  the  veteran  grows  crusty, 
As  he  yawns  in  the  hall. 
He  drinks — but  what's  drinking? 
A  mere  pause  from  thinking! 
No  bugle  awakes  him  with  life  and  death  call 

Chnrus. 
But  the  hound  bayeth  loudly, 

The  boar  's  in  the  wood. 
And  the  falcon  longs  proudly 

To  spring  from  her  hood. 
On  the  wrist  of  the  noble, 

She  sits  like  a  crest. 
And  the  air  is  in  trouble 

Wi'h  birds  from  their  nest. 

CESAR. 

Oh  !   shadow  of  glory  ! 

Dim  image  of  war  ! 
But  the  chase  hath  no  story, 

Her  hero  no  star. 
Since  Nimrod,  the  founder 

Of  empire  and  chase. 
Who  made  the  woods  wonder, 

And  quake  for  their  race, 
When  the  lion  was  young. 

In  the  pride  of  his  might, 
Then  't  was  snort  for  the  strong 

To  embrace  him  in  fight; 
To  go  forth,  with  a  pine 

For  a  spear,  'gainst  the  mammoin, 
Or  strike  through  the  ravine 

At  the  foamini;  behemoth  ; 
While  man  was  m  stature 

As  towers  in  our  time. 
The  first-born  of  Nature, 

And,  like  her,  subUine  ! 

Ch'inis. 
But  the  wars  are  over. 
The  si)rin2  is  come  ; 
The  bride  and  her  lover 
Have  sought  their  home  : 
Thev  are  happy,  and  we  rejoice , 
Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  in  every  voice . 

[Exeunt  the  Peasantry,  mninni'. 


450 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


€aUi; 

A  MYSTERY. 


Now  the  serpent  was  more  subtil  than  any  beast  of  the  field 
which  the  Lord  God  had  made. — Gen.  iii.  1 


TO  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  BART 

THIS   "iVTYSTERY   OF   CAIN" 
IS    INSCKIP-ED, 

BY   HIS  OBLIGED  FRIEND,  AND  FAITHFUL  SERVANT, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 


The  following  scenes  are  intitled  "a  Mystery,"  in  i  on- 
lormity  with  the  ancient  title  annexed  to  dramas  upon 
similar  subjects,  which  were  styled  "Mysteries,"  or 
"Moralities."  The  author  has  by  no  means  taken  tlie 
same  liberties  with  his  subject  which  were  common  for- 
merly, as  mav  be  seen  by  any  reader  curious  enoufxh  to 
refer  to  those  very  profane  productions,  whether  m 
Entrlish,  French,  Italian,  or  Spanish.  The  author  has 
enrleavoured  to  [)reserve  the  language  adapted  to  his 
characters  ;  and  where  it  is  (and  this  is  but  rarely)  taken 
from  actual  Srrij}ture,  he  has  made  as  little  alteration, 
even  of  words,  as  the  rhythm  would  permit.  The 
reader  will  recollect  that  the  book  of  Genesis  does  not 
state  that  Eve  was  tempted  by  a  demon,  but  by  "the 
Serpent;"  and  that  only  because  he  was  "tlie  most 
subtil  of  all  the  beasts  of  the  field."  Whatever  intcrpre- 
Uition  the  Rabbins  and  the  Fathers  may  have  put  upon 
this,  I  must  take  the  words  as  I  find  thesn,  and  reply 
with  Bishop  Watson  upon  similar  occasions,  when  the 
Fathers  wer>-  (juoled  to  him,  as  Moderator  in  the  Schools 
■)f  Cambridge,  "  Behold  the  Book!" — holding  up  the 
.Scripture.  It  is  to  be  recollected  that  my  present  sub- 
ject has  nothing  to  do  with  the  Nciv  Ttsianioit,  to 
whicli  no  reference  can  be  here  made  without  aua- 
'■hnjuisin.  ^  Wuii  the  p(;ems  upon  similar  topics  I  have 
tint  been  rt'ceutly  fanuliar.  Since  I  was  twenty,  1  have 
n;:-'-t>r  read  .Milton  ;  but  1  had  read  him  so  li-equently 
hi  f  )re,  lluit  this  may  make  little  ditierence.  Gesner's 
"  I)e;itli  of  Abel"  I  have  never  read  since  I  was  eight 
years  of  age,  at  Aberdeen.  The  general  im})ression  of 
my  re<;ollection  is  delight;  but  of  the  contents,!  remem- 
ber oiilv  tliat  Caiirs  wife  was  called  Mahala,  and  Abel's 
Tlnr/,a. — In  the  following  [)ages  I  have  called  llicu 
"  Adah"  and  "•  Zillah,"  the  earliest  female  names  which 
occur  111  Genesis  ;  they  were  those  of  Lamech's  wives: 
t.hose  of  Cam  and  Abel  are  not  called  by  their  names. 
Whether,  then,  a  coincidence  of  subject  may  have 
caused  the  same  in  e.xpression,  I  know  nothing,  and 
rare  as  little. 

The  reader  will  please  to  bear  in  mind  (what  few 
caofise  to  recollect)  that  there  is  no  allusion  to  a  future 
nlate  in  any  of  the  books  of  Mos(;s,  nor  indeed  in  the 
Old  'l\  ,famenl.  Fur  a  reason  for  this  extraordinary 
onussic  I,  he  ma)  consult  "  Warburtou's  Divine  Lega- 
tion;" whether  satisfactory  or  not,  no  better  has  yet 
oeen  assigned.  I  have  therefore  sup|)f>sed  it  new  lo 
Cam,  without,  I  hope,  any  perversion  of  Holy  Writ. 

With  regard  to  tlie  lan<:u:iire  of  Lucifer,  it  was  diffi- 
cult for  me  to  make  him  talk  like  a  cler:^-vm;in  upon  llie 
Bame  subjects  •  but  I  have  done  what  I  could  to  restrain 
hin    wiilin  Hie  bounds  of  spiritual  politeness. 


If  he  disclaims  having  tempted  Eve  in  the  shape  of 
the  Serpent,  it  is  only  because  the  book  of  Genesis  has. 
not  the  most  distant  allusion  to  any  thing  of  the  kind, 
but  merely  to  the  Serpent  in  his  ser])pntine  capacity 

Note. — The  reader  will  perceive  that  the  author  ht-s 
partly  adopted  in  this  poem  the  notion  of  Cuvier  hn« 
the  world  had  been  destroyed  several  times  befoie  the 
creation  of  man.  This  speculation,  derived  from  "bf. 
difierent  strata  and  the  bones  of  enormous  and  i\< 
known  animals  fnind  in  them,  is  not  coutrarv  to  tic 
iMosaic  account,  but  rather  confirms  it  ;  as  no  humiuQ 
bones  have  yet  been  discov(?red  in  those  strata,  :i'- 
though  those  of  n-.any  known  animals  are  found  neai 
the  remains  of  the  unknox'.n.  The  assertion  of  Luc  fer, 
that  the  Prc-Adamite  w)r!d  was  also  peopled  by  rational 
beings  much  mori;  intelligent  than  man,  and  propor- 
tionably  [)owerful  to  the  mammatli,  etc.,  etc.,  is,  of 
course,  a  poetica'  fiction,  to  help  him  to  make  out  his 
case. 

I  ought  to  add,  that  there  is  a  "Tramelogedia"  of 
Alfieri,  called  "  Aliel." — 1  have  never  read  that  noranv 
other  of  the  posthumous  works  of  the  writer,  e\cej>t 
lus  life. 


DRAMATIS  PERSON.^.. 


MEN. 

WOMEN 

Adam. 

EvE. 

Cain. 

\dah. 

Abel. 

SPIRITS. 

Zll  I.AH. 

Angel  ok  the  Lord. 

LUCIFEK. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  1. 

I'Tie  r^nnd  imthout  Paradke. —  Time,  Sunrta 

Adam,  Kvr.,  Cain,  Akkl,  Adah,  Zillah,  (>ffering 

a  Sdcrifice. 

ADAM. 

God,  the  Eternal!   Infinite!    All-Wise!  — 
Who  ;>ut  of  darkness  on  the  deep  didst  make 
Ligiit  on  the  waters  with  a  word — all  hail . 
.!eho»-ah,  uith  returning  light,  all  hail! 

E  \-  E . 

God !    who  didst  name  the  day,  and  separate 
.Morning  from  night,  tib  then  divided  never — 
Who  didst  divide  the  wave  from  wave,  and  call 
Part  of  thy  work  the  firmament — all  hail ! 

ABEL. 

God!   who  didst  call  the  elements  into 
Earth — ocean — air — and  fire,  and  with  the  day 
And  n-ight,  and  worlds  which  these  illumirAte 
Or  shadow,  madest  beings  to  enjoy  them, 
And  love  both  them  and  thoe — all  hail !   all  hail 

ADAH. 

God,  the  Eternal !   Parent  of  all  things  ! 

Who  didst  create  these  best  and  beauteous  beings 

I'o  be  beloved,  m(jre  tlian  all,  save  thee — 

I  .el  me  love  thee  and  tiiem : — All  hail !   all  hail' 

riLLAH. 

Oh,  (iod  !    who  loviiiiT,  making,  blessing  all, 
Vet  didst  pf^rinil  the  seri)eut  lo  creep  in. 


CAIN. 


451 


A.nii  ilrive  my  father  forth  from  Paradise, 
Kue|)  us  from  furilier  evil : — H;ul !    all  hail ! 

ADAM. 

Son  (^ain,  m)  firs. -burn,  wherefore  art  tiioj  silent? 

CAIN. 

Why  should  I  speak  ? 

ADAM. 

To  pray. 

CAIN. 

Have  ye  not  pray'd  ? 

ADAM. 

VV^e  have,  most  fervently. 

CAIN. 

And  loudly :   I 
Have  heard  you. 

ADAM. 

So  will  God,  I  trust, 

ABEL. 

Amen! 

ADAM. 

But  thou,  my  eldest-bom,  art  silent  stilL 

CAIN. 

'T  is  better  I  should  be  so. 

ADAM. 

Wherefore  so? 

CAIN. 

I  have  nought  to  ask. 

ADAM. 

Nor  aught  to  thank  for? 

CAIN. 

No. 

ADAM. 

Dost  thou  not  live  ? 

CAIN. 

Must  I  not  die  ? 

EVE, 

Alas! 
The  fruit  of  our  forbidden  tree  begins 
To  fall. 

ADAM. 

And  we  must  gather  it  again. 
Oh,  God  !  why  didst  thou  plant  the  tree  of  knowledge? 

CAIN. 

And  wherefore  pluck'd  ye  not  the  tree  of  life? 
Ve  might  have  then  defied  him. 

ADAM. 

Oh !  my  son, 
Blasi)heme  not :   these  are  serpents'  words. 

CAIN. 

Why  not? 
The  snake  spoke  truth :  it  wn-f  the  tree  of  knowledge  ; 
It  wnf<  the  tree  of  life  : — knowledge  is  good. 
And  life  is  good  ;   and  how  can  both  be  evil  ? 

EVE. 

Mv  hov !   thou  speakest  as  I  spoke  in  sin. 
Before  thy  birth:   let  me  not  see  renew' 
Mv  iniscrv  in  thine.     I  ha%'e  repented. 
Let  me  not  see  my  otTspriiig  fall  into 
The  snares  hevond  tlie  walls  of  Paradise, 
Which  e'en  in  Paradise  destroy'd  his  parents. 
Conteni  thee  with  what  i.s.     Had  we  been  so, 
Thou  now  hadst  been  contented. — Oh,  my  son ! 

ADAM. 

Our  orisons  completed,  let  us  hence, 
Each  to  his  task  of  toil — not  heavy,  ihoush 
Needful:   the  earth  is  young,  a. id  yields  us  kindly 
Her  fruits  with  little  labour. 

EVE. 

Cain,  my  son, 
Behold  thv  father  cheerful  H*d  resigu'd. 
And  do  as  he  d(»lh. 

[Exit  Adam  and  Eve. 


ZII.I    4H. 

Wilt  thou  not,  my  brother? 

AKEL. 

Why  wilt  thou  wear  tnis  gloom  upon  thy  brow, 
Which  can  avail  thee  nothing,  save  to  rouse 
I'he  Eternal  anger? 

ADAH. 

My  belovec  Cain, 
Wilt  thou  frown  even  on  me  ? 

CAIN. 

No,  Adah !  no ; 
I  fain  would  be  alone  a  little  while. 
Abel,  I  'm  sick  at  heart ;   but  it  will  pass : 
Precede  me,  brother — I  will  follow  shortly. 
And  you,  too,  sisters,  tarry  not  behind  : 
Your  gentleness  must  not  be  harshly  met  • 
1  '11  follow  you  anon. 

ADAH. 

If  not,  I  will 
Return  to  seek  you  here. 

ABEL. 

The  peace  of  God 
Be  on  your  spirit,  brother  ! 

[Exit  Abel,  Zillah,  and  Adah 

CAIN    [solus'). 

And  this  is 
Life  ! — Toil !   and  wherefore  should  I  toil  ? — because 
Mv  father  could  not  keep  his  place  in  Eden. 
What  had  /  done  in  this  '/     I  was  unborn, 
I  sousht  not  to  be  born  j   nor  love  the  state 
To  which  that  birtli  has  brought  me.    Why  did  1h; 
Yield  to  the  serpent  and  the  woman  ?   or, 
Yielding,  why  suffer?   What  was  there  in  this'' 
The  tree  was  planted,  and  why  not  for  him  • 
If  not,  why  place  him  near  it,  where  it  grew, 
The  fairest  in  the  centre  ?   They  have  nut 
One  answer  to  all  (questions,  " 'l  was  his  will 
And  he  is  ({ood."     How  know  I  that  ?    Because 
He  is  all-powerful,  nivist  all-good,  too,  follow  / 
I  judge  but   by  the  fruits — and  they  are  bilter — 
Which  I  must  feed  on  for  a  fault  not  nunc. 
Whom  have  we  here? — A  shape  like  to  the  ange.'s. 
Yet  of  a  sterner  and  a  sadder  asjiect, 
Of  spiritual  essence :   why  do  1  quake  ? 
Whv  should  I  fear  him  more  than  other  spirits, 
Whom  I  see  daily  wave  their  fiery  swords 
Before  the  gates  round  which  I  finger  eft. 
In  twiliirht's  hour,  to  catch  a  g!im[)se  of  those 
Gardens  which  are  my  just  inheritance. 
Ere  the  niijht  closes  o'er  the  inhibited  walls, 
And  the  immortal  trees  which  overtop 
The  cherubim-defended  battlements  ? 
If  I  shrink  not  from  thesf.-,  the  fire-arm'd  angels. 
Why  should  I  quail  from  him  who  now  approaches'' 
Yet  he  seems  mightier  far  than  them,  nor  less 
Beauteous,  and  yet  not  all  as  beautiful 
As  he  hath  been,  and  might  be  :   sorrow  seems 
Half  of  his  immortality.      And  is  it 
So?   and  can  aught  grieve  save  humanity? 
He  Cometh. 

Enter  Li'cifer. 

LUCIFER. 

Mortal ! 

CAIN. 

Spirit,  who  art  thou  7 

LUCIFER. 

Master  of  spirits. 

CAIN. 

And  being  so,  canst  ihou 
Leave  them,  and  walk  with  diLit? 


462 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LUCIFER. 

I  know  the  thoughts 
Of  dust,  and  feel  for  it,  and  with  you. 

CAIN. 

How! 
Vou  know  my  thoughts  ? 

LUCIFER. 

They  are  the  thoughts  of  all 
Wonhy  of  thought ; — 't  is  your  immortal  part 
Which  speaks  within  you. 

CAIN. 

What  immortal  part  ? 
This  has  not  been  reveal'd :  the  tree  of  life 
Was  withheld  from  us  by  my  father's  folly. 
While  that  of  knowledge,  by  my  mother's  haste. 
Was  pluck'd  too  soon  ;   and  all  the  fruit  is  death ! 

LUCIFER. 

They  have  deceived  thee ;  thou  shalt  live. 

CAIN. 

I  hve. 
But  live  to  die  :  and,  hving,  see  no  thing 
To  make  death  hateful,  save  an  innate  clinging, 
A  loathsome  and  yet  all  invincible 
Instinct  of  life,  which  I  abhor,  as  I 
Despise  myself,  yet  cannot  overcome — 
And  so  I  live.     Would  1  had  never  hved ! 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  livest,  and  must  live  for  ever :   think  not 
The  earth,  which  is  thine  outward  covering,  is 
Existence — it  will  cease,  and  thou  wilt  be 
No  less  than  thou  art  now. 

CAIN. 

No  less  !  and  why 
Na  more  ? 

LUCIFER. 

I   may  be  thou  shalt  be  as  we. 

CAIN. 

And  ye  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Are  everlasting. 

CAIN. 

Are  ye  happy? 

LUCIFER. 

We  are  mighty. 

CAIN. 

Aie  ye  happy? 

LUCIFER. 

No  :   art  t'lou  ? 

CAIN. 

How  should  I  be  so  ?  Look  on  me  ! 

LUCIFER. 

Poor  clay .' 
And  thou  pretendest  to  be  wretclied  !  Thou ! 

CAIN, 

I  am : — and  thou,  with  all  thy  might,  what  art  tiiou  ? 

LUCIFER. 

One  who  aspired  to  be  what  made  thee,  and 
Would  not  have  made  thee  what  thttu  art. 

CAIN. 

Ah  ! 
Thou  look'st  almost  a  god  ;   and — 

LUCIFER. 

I  am  none : 
Ajid  having  fail'd  to  be  one,  would  b(^  iiou>ilit 
Have  what  I  am.      He  cornjiKtr'd  ;    let  hini  rei<m  ! 

CAIN. 

Who? 

I.UCIFEU. 

Thy  sire's  IMaker,  and  tin;  eartli's. 

CAIN. 

And  heaven's, 
Aid  all  tluit  in  them  is.     So  I  have  hoard 

II  -  seraphs  sinj; ;    and  sv  my  (aitier  saith. 


LUCIFER. 

They  say — wha:  they  must  sing  and  say,  on  pain 
Of  being  that  wljch  I  am — and  thou  art— 
Of  spirits  and  of  men. 

CAIN. 

And  what  is  that  f 

LUCIFER. 

Souls  who  dare  us3  their  immortality- 
Souls  who  dare  look  the  Omnipotent  tyrant  in 
His  everlasting  face,  and  tell  him,  that 
His  evil  is  not  good  !   If  he  has  made, 
As  he  saith — which  I  know  not,  nor  believe- - 
But,  if  he  made  us — he  cannot  unmake  : 
We  are  immortal ! — nay,  he  'd  have  us  so. 
That  he  may  torture  : — let  him  !   He  is  great — 
But,  in  his  greatness,  i?  no  happier  than 
We  in  our  conflict !   Goodness  would  not  make 
Evil;   and  what  else  ha'.h  he  made?   But  let  hira 
Sit  on  his  vast  and  solitary  throne. 
Creating  worlds,  to  make  eternity 
Less  burthensome  to  his  immense  existence 
And  unparticipated  solitude ! 
Let  him  crowd  orb  on  orb  :   he  is  alone. 
Indefinite,  indissoluble  tyrant ! 
Could  he  but  crush  himself,  't  were  the  best  boosi 
He  ever  granted :   but  let  him  reign  on. 
And  multiply  himself  in  misery  ! 
Spirits  and  men,  at  least  we  sympathize  ; 
And,  suffering  in  concert,  make  our  pangs. 
Innumerable,  more  endurable, 
By  the  unbounded  sympathy  of  all— 
With  all!   But  He!  so  wretched  in  his  height, 
So  restless  in  his  wretchedness,  must  still 
Create,  and  re-create 

CAIN. 

Thou  spcak'st  to  me  of  things  which  long  have  bwu.Tj 

In  visions  through  my  thought :   I  never^Cfluid — . 

Reconcile  what  I  saw  vyiUl.>vdi^XJli,ard.  _ 

My  father  and  mv  mother  talk  to  m.e 

Of  serpents,  and  of  fruits  and  trees :   I  see 

The  gates  of  what  they  call  their  Paradise 

Guarded  by  fiery-sworded  clierubiin. 

Which  shut  them  out,  and  me  :   I  feel  the  weighi 

Of  daily  toil,  and  constant  thought :   I  look 

Around  a  world  where  I  seem  nothing,  with 

Thoughts  wliich  arise  within   me,  as  if  they 

Could  master  all  things: — but  I  thought  alone 

This  misery  was  ■mine. — My  father  is 

Tamed  down  ;   my  motlier  has  forgot  the  mind 

Winch  made  her  thirst  ibr  knowledge  at  the  risk 

Of  an  eternal  curse  ;   my  brother  is 

A  watching  shepherd  boy,  who  oilers  up 

The  firstlings  of  the  flock  to  him  who  bids 

The  earth  yield  nothing  to  us  without  sweat ; 

My  sister  Zillah  smgs  an  earlier  hymn 

Than  the  bird's  matins  ;    and  uuLAdaj),  my 

Own  and  beloved,  she  too  understands  not 

The  mind  whicli  overwhelms  me  :   never  till 

Now  met  I  aught  to  sympathize  with  me. 

'T  is  sveil — I   rather  would  consort  with  spirits. 

LUCIFER. 

And  hadst  thou  not  been  tit  by  thine  own  soul 
For  such  companionship,  I  would  not   now 
Have  stood  before  thee  as  I  am  :    a  serpent 
Had  been  enough  to  charm  ye,  as  before. 

C  A  I N . 

Ah!   didst  Ihoit  tempi  my  mother 

LUCIFER. 

I  tempt  none, 
Save  with  the  truth :   was   not  the  tree,  the  tree 


CAIN. 


458 


Of  knowlecige  /   and  was  not  the  tree  of  life 

Still  fruitful  ?   Did  /  bid  her  pluck  them  not? 

Old  I  plant  things  prohibited  within 

The  reach  of  beings  innocent,  and  carious 

By  Iheir  own  innocence  ?  I  would  have  made  ye 

Gods  ;   and  even  He  who  thrust  ye  forth  so  thrust  ye 

Beciiuse  "  ye  should  not  eat  the  fruits  of  hte, 

And  become  gods  as  we."    Were  those  his  words  ? 

CAIN. 

They  were,  as  I  have  heard  from  those  who  heard  them 
In  thunder. 

LUCIFER. 

Then  who  was  the  demon  ?  He 
Who  would  not  let  ye  live,  or  he  who  would 
Have  made  ye  live  for  ever  in  the  joy 
And  power  of  knowledge  ? 

CAIN. 

Would  they  had  snatch'd  both 
The  fruits,  or  neither ! 

LUCIFER. 

One  is  yours  already, 
The  other  may  be  still. 

CAlX. 

How  so  ? 

LUCIFER.  *^~ 

By  being 
Vuurselves,  in  your  resistance.     Nothing  can 
Quench  the  mind,  if  the  mind  will  be  itself 
And  centre  of  surrounding  things— 't  is  made 
To  sway. 

■■""-•--^ CAIN. 

But  didst  thou  tempt  my  parents  ? 

LUCIFER. 

I? 

Po<->r  clay !  what  should  I  tempt  them  for,  or  how  ? 

CAIN. 

They  say  the  serpent  was  a  spirit. 

LUCIFER. 

Who 
Saith  that  ?  It  is  not  written  so  on  high : 
The  proud  One  will  not  so  far  falsify, 
Though  man's  vast  fears  and  little  vanity 
Would  make  him  cast  upon  the  spiritual  nature 
His  own  low  faiHng.     The  snake  was  the  snake — 
No  more  ;   and  yet  not  less  than  those  he  tempted. 
In  nature  being  earth  also — more  in  wisdom, 
Sine?  he  could  overcome  them,  and  foreknew 
The  knowledge  fatal  to  their  narrow  joys. 
Think'st  thou  I  'd  take  the  sha[)e  of  things  that  die? 

CAIN. 

But  the  thing  had  a  demon  ? 

LUCIFER. 

He  but  woke  one 
In  those  he  spake  to  with  his  forky  tongue. 
I  tell  thee  that  the  serpent  was  no  more 
Than  a  mere  serpent :   ask  the  cherubim 
Who  guard  the  tempting  tree.   When  thousand  ages 
Have  roU'd  o'er  your  dead  ashes  and  your  seed's, 
The  seed  of  the  then  world  may  thus  array 
Their  earliest  fault  m  (able,  and  attribute 
To  me  a  shape  I  scorn,  as  I  scorn  all 
That  bows  to  him  who  made  things  but  to  bend 
Before  his  sullen  sole  eternity  ; 
But  we,  who  see  the  truth,  must  speak  it.     Thy 
Fond  parents  listen'cT\oar"creeping  thing. 
And  fell.     For  what  should  spirits  lempt  them  ?  What 
Was  there  to  envy  in  the  narrow  bounds 
Of  Paradise,  that  spirits  who  pervade 

Space but  I  speak  to  thee  of  w  hat  thou  knovv'st  not, 

With  all  thv  tree  of  luiowledgc. 


CAIN. 

B.jt  thou  canst  not 
Speak  aught  of  knowledge  which  1  would  not  know. 
And  do  not  thirst  to  know,  and  bear  a  mind 
To  know. 

LUCIFER. 

And  heart  to  look  on  ? 

CAIN. 

Be  It  proved. 

LUCIFER. 

Dar'st  thou  to  look  on  Death? 

CAIN. 

He  has  not  yot 
Been  seen. 

LUCIFER. 

But  must  be  undergone. 

CAIN. 

INIy  father 
Says  he  is  something  dreadful,  and  my  mother 
Wee()s  when  he's  named  ;   and  Abel  lifts  his  eyes 
To  heaven,  and  Zillah  casts  hers  to  the  earth, 
And  sighs  a  prayer ;   and  Adah  looks  on  me, 
And  speaks  noU 

LUCIFER. 

And  thou  ? 

CAIN. 

Thoughts  unspeakable 
Crowd  in  my  breast  to  burning,  when  1  hear 
Of  this  almighty  Death,  who  is,  it  seems. 
Inevitable.     Could  I  wrestle  with  him? 
I  wrestled  with  a  lion,  when  a  boy. 
In  play,  till  he  ran  roaring  from  my  gripe. 

LUCIFER. 

It  has  no  shape,  but  will  absorb  all  things 
That  bear  the  form  of  earth-born  being. 

CAIN. 

Ah! 

I  thought  it  wa  3  a  being :   who  could  do 
Such  evil  things  to  beiiigs  save  a  being  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Ask  the  Destroyer. 

CAIN. 

Who? 

LUCIFER. 

The  Maker- -call  him 
Which  name  thou  wilt ;  he  makes  but  to  deslrov. 

CAIN. 

I  knew  not  that,  yet  thought  it,  since  I  heard 

Of  death  :   although  I  know  not  what  it  is. 

Yet  it  seems  horrible.     I  have  look'd  out 

In  the  vast  desolate  night  in  search  of  him; 

And,  when  I  saw  gigantic  shadows  in 

The  umbrage  of  the  walls  of  Eden,  chequer'd 

By  the  far-Hashing  of  the  cherubs'  swords, 

I  watch'd  for  what  I  thought  his  coining ;  for 

Witli  fear  rose  longing  in  my  heart  to  know 

What  't  was  which  shook  us  all — but  nothing  came; 

And  theri  I  tiirn'd  my  weary  eyes  from  off 

Our  native  and  forbidden  Paradise, 

Up  to  the  lights  above  us,  in  the  azure, 

Which  are  so  beautiful :   shall  they,  too,  die  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Perhaps — but  long  outlive  both  thine  and  thee. 

CAIN. 

I  'm  glad  of  that ;   I  would  not  have  them  die, 
Thev  are  so  lovely.     What  is  death  ?    I  fear, 
I  feel.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing ;   but  what, 
I  cannot  compass  :   't  is  denounced  against  us. 
Both  them  wno  sinn'd  and  sinn'd  not,  as  an  ill- 
W hat  ill? 


454 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LUCIFER. 

To  be  resolved  into  the  earth. 

CAIN. 

But  shall  I  know  it? 

LUCIFER. 

As  I  know  not  death, 
I  cannot  answer. 

CAIN 

Were  I  quiet  earth, 
That  were  no  evil :   would  I  ne'er  had  been 
Aught  else  but  dust ! 

LUCIFER. 

That  is  a  grov'ling  wish, 
Less  than  thy  father's,  for  he  wish'd  to  know. 

CAIN. 

Rut  not  to  live,  or  wherefore  pluck'd  he  not 
The  life-tree  ? 

LUCIFER. 

He  was  hinder'd. 

CAIN. 

Deadly  error ! 
Not  to  snatch  first  that  fruit :  but  ere  he  pluck'a 
•  The  knowledge,  he  was  ignorant  of  death. 
Alas  !   I  scarcely  now  know  what  it  is. 
And  yet  I  fear  it — fear  I  know  not  what ! 

LUCIFER. 

And  I,  who  know  all  things,  fear  nothing:  see 
"What  is  true  knowledge. 

CAIN. 

Wilt  thou  teach  me  all? 

LUCIFER. 

Ay  upon  one  condition. 

CAIN. 

Name  iL 

LUCIFER. 

That 
Thou  dost  fall  down  and  worship  me — thy  Lord. 

CAIN. 

Thou  art  not  the  Lord  my  father  worships. 

LUCIFER. 

No. 

CAIN. 

His  equal  ? 

LUCIFER. 

No ; — I  have  nought  in  common  with  him! 
Nor  would :   I  would  be  aught  above — beneath — 
Aught  save  a  sharer  or  a  servant  of 
His  power.     I  dwell  apart ;   but  I  am  great: — 
Many  there  are  who  worship  me,  and  more 
Who  shall — be  thou  amongst  the  first. 

CAIN. 

I  never 

As  yet  have  bow'd  unto  my  father's  God, 
Although  my  brother  Abel  oft  implores 
That  I  would  join  with  him  in  sacrifice: — 
Why  should  I  bow  to  thee  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Hast  thou  ne'er  bow'd 
To  him? 

CAIN. 

Havel  not  said  it? — need  I  say  it? 
Could  not  thy  mighty  knowledge  teach  thee  that? 

LUCIFER. 

Ho  who  bows  not  to  him  has  bow'd  to  me ! 

CAIN. 

But  I  will  bend  to  neither. 

LUCIFER. 

Ne'ertheleas, 
rhou  art  my  worshipper :   not  worshipping 
Him  nakes  thee  mine  the  same. 


CAIN. 

And  what  is  that  T 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  'It  know  here — and  hereafter. 

GAIN. 

Let  me  bii» 

Be  taught  the  mystery  of  my  being. 

LUCIFER. 

Follovr 
Where  I  will  lead  thee. 

CAIN. 

But  I  must  retire 
To  till  the  Garth — for  I  had  promised — 


I' 

.UCIFER. 


To  cull  some  first  fruits. 

LUCIFER. 

Why  ? 

CAIN. 

With  Abel  on  an  altar. 


What? 


To  offer  up 


LUCIFER. 

Sauisi  thou  not 
Thoti  ne'er  hadst  bent  to  hnn  that  made  thee  ? 

CAIN. 

Yes— 

But  Abel's  earnest  prayer  has  wrought  upon  me  ; 
The  offering  is  more  his  than  mme — and  Adah 

r.UCIFER. 

Why  dost  thou  hesitate? 

CAIN. 

She  is  my  sister, 
Born  on  ttie  same  day,  of  the  same  womb ;   and 
She  wruiis;  from  tv.o.,  wuh  tt-ars,  this  promise,  and 
Rather  than  see  her  weep,  I  would,  methinks, 
Bear  all — and  worship  aught. 

LUCIFER. 

Then  follow  me  5 

CAIN. 

I  will. 

Enter  Adah. 

ADAH. 

My  brother,  I  have  come  for  thee  ; 
It  is  our  hour  of  rest  and  joy — and  we 
Have  less  without  thee.     Thou  hast  labour'd  nd 
This  morn  ;   but  I  have  done  thy  task  :   the  fruita 
Are  ripe,  and  glowing  as  the  light  which  ripens  : 
Come  away. 

CAIN. 

See'st  thou  not  ? 

ADAH. 

I  see  an  angel ; 
We  have  seen  many :  will  he  share  our  hour 
Of  rest  ? — he  is  welcome. 

CAIN. 

But  he  is  not  like 
The  angels  we  have  seen. 

ADAH. 

Are  tltere,  then,  othe«' 
But  he  is  welcome,  as  they  were :   they  deign'd 
To  be  our  guests — will  he  ? 

CAIN  {to  Lucifer). 

Wilt  thou  ? 

LUCIFER. 

I  asK 
Thee  to  be  mine. 

CAIN. 

I  must  away  with  him. 

ADAH. 

And  leave  us  ? 


CAIN. 


455 


Ay. 


CAIN. 
ADAH. 

And  vie  ? 

CAIN. 


Beloved  Adah ! 


jd  me  go  with  tliee. 


LUCIFER. 

No,  she  must  not. 

AI>AH. 

Who 
Art  tliou  that  steppest  between  heart  and  lieart  ? 

CAIN. 

He  is  a  god. 

ADAH. 

How  know'st  thou  ? 

CAIN. 

He  speaks  like 
A  god. 

ADAH. 

So  did  the  serpent,  and  it  lied. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  errest,  Adah  ! — was  not  the  tree  that 
Of  knowledge  ? 

ADAH. 

Ay — to  our  eternal  sorrow. 

LUCIFER. 

And  yet  that  grief  is  knowledge — so  he  lied  .not: 
And  if  he  did  betray  you,  't  was  with  truth  j 
And  '-  'th  m  its  own  essence  cannot  be 
But  goci. 

ADAH. 

But  all  we  know  of  it  has  gather'd 
Evil  on  evil :   expulsion  from  our  liome. 
And  dread,  anti  toil,  and  sweat,  and  heaviness; 
Remorse  of  that  which  was,  and  hope  of  that 
Which  conieth  not.    Cam  !  walk  not  with  this  spirit. 
Bcai  with  what  we  have  borne,  and  love  me — I 
Love  thee 

LUCIFER. 

More  tnan  thy  mother  and  thy  sire  ? 

ADAH. 

I  do.     Is  that  a  sm,  too  ? 

LUCIFER. 

No,  not  yet ; 
It  one  day  will  be  in  your  children. 

ADAH. 

What! 
Must  not  mv  daughter  love  her  brother  Enoch  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Not  as  thou  lovest  Cain ! 

ADAH. 

Oh,  my  God! 
Shall  they  not  love,  and  bruig  forth  things  that  love 
Out  ofthe-r  love?   have  they  not  drawn  their  milk 
Out  of  this  bosom  ?   was  not  he,  their  father. 
Born  of  the  same  sole  womb,  in  the  same  hour 
With  me  /  did  we  not  love  each  other,  and, 
In  multiplying  our  being,  multi|)ly 
Things  which  will  love  each  other  as  we  love 
Them? — And,  as  I  love  thee,  my  Cain  !   go  not 
Forth  with  this  spirit ;   he  is  not  of  ours. 

LUCIFER. 

The  sin  I  speak  <  f  is  not  of  my  making, 
And  cannot  be  a  sin  in  you — whate'er 
It  seem  in  those  who  will  replace  ye  in 
Mortality, 

ADAH.  -^ 

What  is  the  sin  which  is  not 
Sin  m  itself?   Can  circumsiance  make  sin 


Or  virtue  ? — if  it  doth,  we  are  the  slaves 
Of 

LUCIFER. 

Higher  things  than  ye  are  slaves:   and  higiier 
Than  them  or  ye  would  be  so,  did  they  not 
Prefer  an  indepentlency  of  torture 
To  the  smooth  agonies  of  adulation 
In  hynms  and  har|)iiigs,  and  self-seeking  prayers 
To  that  which  is  omnipotent,  because 
It  is  omnipotent,  and  not  from  love, 
But  terror  and  self-hope. 

ADAH. 

Omnipotence 
Must  be  all  goodness. 

LUCIFER. 

Was  it  so  in  Eden  ? 

ADAH. 

Fiend  !   tempt  me  not  with  beauty  ;   thou  art  fairei 
Than  was  the  serpent,  and  as  false. 

LUCIFER. 

A?  true. 
Ask  Evo,  your  mother;   bears  she  not  the  knowk    jif 
Of  good  and  evil  ? 

ADAH. 

Oh,  my  mother!   thou 
Hast  pluck'd  a  fruit  more  fatal  to  thine  offspring 
Than  to  thyself;   thou  at  the  least  hast  past 
Thy  youth  in  Paradise,  in  innocent 
And  happy  intercourse  with  haj)py  spirits  ; 
But  we,  thy  children,  ignorant  of  Eden, 
Are  girt  about  bv  demons,  who  assume 
The  words  of  God,  and   tempt  us  with  our  own 
Dissatisfied  and  curious  thoughts — as  thou 
Wert  work'd  on  i)y  the  snake,  in  thy  most  flush'd 
And  heedless,  harmless  wantonness  of  bliss. 
I  cannot  aiisw<'r  this  immortal  thin" 
Which  stands  before  me:   I  cannot  abhcf  him, 
I  look  upon  him  with  a  pleasing  fear, 
And  yet  I  fly  not  from  him  :   in  his  eye 
There  is  a  fastening  attraction,  which 
Fixes  my  fluttering  eyes  on  his  ;   my  heart 
Beats  (]uick  ;   he  awes  me,  and  yet  draws  me  near, 
Nearer  and  nearer:   Cain — Cain — save  me  from  him 

CAIN. 

What  dreads  my  Adah  ?     This  is  no  ill  spirit. 

ADAH. 

He  is  not  God — nor  God's  :  I  have  beheld 
The  cherubs  and  the  seraphs  :  he  looks  not 
Like  them. 

CAIN. 

But  there  are  spirits  loftier  still — 
The  archangels. 

LUCIFER. 

And  still  loftier  than  the  archangels 

ADAH. 

Ay — but  not  blessed. 

LUCIFER. 

If  the  blessedness 
Consists  in  slavery — no. 

ADAH. 

I  have  heard  it  said. 
The  seraphs  love  most. — cherubim  know  most — 
And  this  should  be  a  cherub — since  he  loves  not. 

LUCIFER. 

And  if  the  higher  knowledge  quenches  love, 

What  must  lie  he  you  cannot  lOve  when   known  ? 

Since  the  all-knowing  cherubim  love  least, 

The  seraphs'  love  can  be  but  ignorance* 

That  they  are  not  coni])atihle,  the  doom 

Of  thy  fond  parents,  for  their  daring,  proves. 

Choose  betwixt  love  and  kiiowledjie — since  there  ib 


456 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


For  thee,  my  Adah, 
Born  with  me — but  I 


No  other  choice  :  your  sire  hath  chosen  ab-eady : 
His  worship  is  but  fear. 

ADAH. 

Oh,  Cain  !  choose  love. 

CAIN. 

I  choose  not — it  was 
love  nought  else. 

ADAH. 

Our  parents  ? 

CAIN. 

Did  they  love  us  when  ihey  snatch'd  from  the  free 
That  which  hath  driven  us  all  from  Paradise  ? 

ADAH. 

We  were  not  born  then — and  if  we  had  been, 
Should  we  not  love  them  and  our  children,  Cain  ? 

CAIN. 

My  little  Enoch  !   and  his  lisping  sister  ! 
Could  I  but  deem  them  happy,  I  would  half 

Forget but  it  can  never  be  forgotten 

Through  thrice  a  thousand  generations  !   never 
Shall  men  love  the  remembrance  of  the  man 
Who  sow'd  the  seed  of  evil  and  mankind 
In  the  same  hour  !   They  pluck'd  the  tree  of  science 
And  sin — and,  not  content  with  their  own  sorrow, 
Begot  me — thee — and  all  the  few  that  are. 
And  all  the  unnumber'd  and  innumerable 
Multitudes,  millions,  myriads,  which  may  be, 
To  inherit  agonies  accumulated 
By  ages  ! — And  /  must  be  sire  of  such  things ! 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  love — my  love  and  joy, 
The  rapturous  moment  and  the  placid  hour, 
All  we  love  in  our  children  and  each  other, 
But  lead  them  and  ourselves  through  many  years 
Of  sin  and  pam — or  few,  but  still  of  sorrow, 
InterchecU'd  with  an  instant  of  brief  j)leasure, 
To  Death — the  unknown  !    Methmks  the  tree  of  know- 
ledge 
Hath  not  fulfiU'd  its  promise : — if  they  sinn'd. 
At  least  they  ouglit  to  have  known  all  things  that  are 
Of  knowledge — and  the  mystery  of  death. 
What  do  they  know  ? — that  they  are  miserable. 
What  need  of  snakes  and  fruits  to  teach  us  that  ? 

ADAH. 

1  am  not  wretched,  Cain,  and  if  thou 

Wert  happy 

CAIN. 

Be  thou  happy  then  alone — 
I  will  have  nought  to  do  with  happiness. 
Which  humbles  me  and  mine. 

ADAH. 

Alone  I  could  not, 
Nor  would  be  happy :  but  with  those  around  us, 
i  think  I  could  be  so,  despite  of  death. 
Which,  as  I  know  it  not,  I  dread  not,  though 
It  seems  an  awful  shadow — if  I  may 
Jn  \g(i  from  what  I  have  heard. 

LUCIFER. 

And  thou  couldst  not 
Alone,  thou  say'st,  be  happy  ? 

ADAH. 

Alone  !   Oh,  my  God  ' 
Who  could  be  happy  and  alone,  or  good  ? 
To  me  my  solitucle  seems  sin  ;   unless 
WlTenT  think  how  soon  I  shall  see  my  brother, 
His  brother,  and  our  children,  and  our  parents. 

I-UCIKKK. 

JTct  thy  God  is  aloiic  ;   and  is  he  happy. 
Lonely  anri  good  ? 

ADAH. 

He  is  not  so;  he  hath 
The  angels  and  the  mortals  to  make  happy, 


And  thus  becomes  so  m  diffusing  joy . 
What  else  can  jo)  be  but  the  spreading  joy  ? 

LUCIKER. 

Ask  of  your  sire,  the  exile  fresh  from  Eden , 
Or  of  his  first-born  son  ;  ask  your  own  heart  5 
It  is  not  tranquil. 

ADAH. 

Alas  !   no  ;   and  you — 
Are  you  of  heaven  ? 

LUCIFER. 

If  I  am  not,  incjuire 
The  cause  of  this  all-spreading  happiness 
(Which  you  proclaim)  of  the  all-great  xnd  good 
Maker  of  life  and  living  things ;   it  is 
His  secret,  and  he  keeps  it.     We  must  bear. 
And  some  of  us  resist,  and  both  in  vain. 
His  seraphs  say ;   but  it  is  worth  the  trial, 
Since  better  may  not  be  without :   there  is 
A  wisdom  in  the  spirit,  which  directs 
To  right,  as  in  the  dim  blue  air  the  eye 
Of  you,  young  mortals,  lights  at  once  upon 
The  star  v/hich  watches,  welcoming  the  mom. 

ADAH. 

It  is  a  beautiful  star ;  I  love  it  for 
Its  beauty. 

LUCIFER. 

And  why  not  adore  ? 

ADAH. 

Our  father 
Adores  the  Invisible  only. 

LUCIFER. 

But  the  symbols 
Of  the  Invisible  are  the  loveliest 
Of  what  is  visible;   and  yon  bright  stai 
Is  leader  of  the  host  of  heaven. 

ADAH. 

Our  father 
Saith  that  he  has  beheld  the  God  himself 
Who  made  him  and  our  mother. 


LUCIFER. 


Hast  thou  seen  him  ' 


Yes — in  his  works. 


LUCIFER. 

But  in  Ills  being  ? 

ADAH. 

No- 
Save  in  my  father,  who  is  God's  own  image ; 
Or  in  his  angels,  who  are  like  to  thee — 
And  brighter,  yet  less  beautiful  and  powerful 
In  seeming :   as  the  silent  sunny  noon. 
All  light,  they  look  upon  us  ;   but  thou  seem'st 
Like  an  ethereal  night,  where  long  white  clouds 
Streak  the  deep  {)urple,  and  unnumber'd  stars 
Spangle  the  wonderful  mysterious  vault 
With  things  that  look  as  if  they  would  be  suns ; 
So  beautiful,  unnumber'd,  and  endearing. 
Not  dazzling,  and  yet  drawing  us  to  them, 
They  fill  my  eyes  with  tears,  and  so  dost  thou. 
Thou  seem'st  unhappy  ;   do  not  make  us  so, 
And  I  will  weep  for  thee. 

LUCIFER. 

Alas  !  those  tears  ! 
Couldst  thou  but  know  what  oceans  will  be  shed- 

ADAII. 

By  me  ? 

LUCIFER, 

By  all  ? 

ADAH. 

What  all  ? 


CAIN. 


457 


LTJCIFF.R. 

The  million  millions — 
The  myriad  myriads — the  all-peopled  earth — 
The  unpeopled  earth — and  th3  o'er-peopled  hell, 
or  ^vhich  thy  bosom  is  the  germ. 

ADAH. 

Oh  Cain! 
This  spirit  curseth  us. 

CAIN. 

Let  him  say  on  ; 
Him  will  I  follow. 

ADAH. 

Whither? 

LUCIFER. 

To  a  place 
IVhence  he  shall  come  back  to  thee  in  an  hour; 
But  in  that  hour  see  things  of  many  days. 

ADAH. 

Hosv  can  that  be  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Did  not  your  Maker  make 
Out  of  old  worlds  this  new  one  in  few  days  ? 
And  cannot  I,  who  aided  in  tins  work, 
Show  in  an  hour  what  he  hath  made  in  many, 
Or  hath  destroy'd  in  few  ? 

CAIX. 

Lead  on. 

ADAH. 

Will  he 
In  sooth  return  withm  an  hour  ? 

LUCIFER. 

He  shall. 
With  us  acts  are  exempt  from  time,  and  we 
Can  crowd  eternity  into  an  hour. 
Or  stretch  an  hour  into  eternity  : 
We  breathe  not  by  a  mortal  measurement — 
But  that 's  a  mystery.     Cain,  come  on  with  me. 

ADAH. 

Will  he  return? 

LUCIFER. 

Av,  woman  !   he  alone 
Of  mortals  from  that  place  (the  first  and  last 
Who  shall  return,  save  One) — shall  come  back  to  thee. 
To  make  that  silent  and  expectant  world 
As  pojjulous  as  this :   at  present  there 
Are  few  inhabitants. 

ADAH. 

Where  dwellest  thou  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Throughout  all  space.  Wnere  should  I  dwell?  Where  are 
Thv  God  or  Gods — there  am  I  j   all  things  are 
Divided  with  me  ;    life  and  death — and  time — 
Eternity — and  heaven  and  »'arth — and  that 
Which  is  not  heaven  nor  earth,  but  peopled  with 
Those  who  once  peopled  or  shall  people  both — 
Tliese  are  my  realms !    So  that  I  do  divide 
i/is,  and  possess  a  kingdom  which  is  not 
//?s.      If  1  were  not  that  which  I  have  said. 
Could  I  stand  here?   His  angels  are  within 
Your  vision. 

ADAH. 

So  they  were  when  the  fair  serpent 
Spoke  with  our  mother  first. 

LUCIFER. 

Cain!   thou  hast  heard. 
If  thou  dot;   long  foi  knowledge,  I  can  satiate 
That  thirst:    nor  ask  thee  to  partake  of  fruits 
Which  shall  deprive  thee  of  a  siiiijle  good 
The  conqueror  has  left  thee.     Follow  me. 

CAIN. 

Spirit,  I  have  said  it.       [Ereunt  Luciffr  and  Cain. 
ADAH  (  fhllows,  exrlftimins) 

Cam!   ni}  brother!   Cain! 


ACT  II. 

SCENE    I. 

The  AbysK  of  Space, 

CAIN. 

I  tread  on  air,  and  sink  not ;  yet  I  fear 
To  sink. 

LUCIFER. 

Have  faith  in  me,  and  thou  shalt  bo 
Borne  on  the  air,  of  which  I  am  the  prince. 

CAIN. 

Can  I  do  so  without  impiety? 

LUCIFER. 

Believe — and  sink  not !   doubt — and   perish!   thu3 

SVould  run  the  edict  of  the  other  God, 

Who  names  me  demon  to  his  angels  ;   they 

Echo  the  sound  to  miserable  things, 

Which,  knowing  nought  bevond  their  shallow  senses 

Worship  the  word  winch  strikes  their  ear,  and  deem 

Evil  or  good  what  is  proclami'd  to  them 

In  their  abasement,     I  will  have  none  such : 

Worship)  or  worship  not,  thou  slialt  behold 

The  worlds  beyoml  thy  little  world,  nor  be 

Amerced,  for  doubts  beyond  thy  little  life. 

With  torture  of  mz/  dooming.     There  will  come 

An  hour,  wnen,  toss'd  upon  some  water-drops, 

A  man  shall  say  to  a  man,  "  Believe  in  me, 

And  walk  the  waters  ;"   and  the  man   shall  walk 

The  billows  and  be  safe.     /  will  not  say 

Believe  in  me,  as  a  conditional  creed 

To  save  thee  ;   but  flv  with  me  o'er  the  gulf 

Of  space  an  e']ual  flight,  and  1  will  show 

What  thou  dar'st  not  deiiv,  the  historv 

Of  past,  and  present,  and  of  future  worida, 

CAIN. 

Oh,  god,  or  demon,  or  whate'er  thou  art, 
Is  yon  our  earth? 

LUCIFER. 

Dost  thou  not  recognise 
The  dust  which  form'd  your  father  ? 

CAIN. 

Can  it  be  / 

Yon  small  blue  circle,  swinging  in  far  ether. 
With  an  inferior  circlet  near  it  still. 
Which  looks  hke  that  which  lit  our  earthly  night'' 
Is  this  our  Paradise  ?   Where  are  its  walls. 
And  they  who  guard  them  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Point  me  out  the  sile 
Of  Paradise. 

CAIN. 

How  should  I  ?  As  we  move 
Like  sunbeams  onward,  it  grows  small  and  smaller. 
And  as  it  waxes  little,  and  then  less. 
Gathers  a  halo  round  it,  like  the  light 
Which  shone  the  roundest  of  the  stars,  when  1 
Beheld  them  from  the  skirls  of  Paradise: 
INIethinks  they  both,  as  we  recede  from  them, 
Appear  to  join  the  innumerable  stars 
Which  are  around  us ;   and,  as  we  move  on, 
Increase  their  myriads. 

LUCIFER. 

And  if  there  should  be 
Worlds  greater  than  thine  own,  inhabited 
By  greater  things,  and  they  themselves  far  more 
In  number  than  the  dust  of  thy  dull  earth. 
Though  multij)lied  to  animated  atoms. 
All  living,  and  all  doom'd  to  death,  and  .vretched. 
What  wouldst  thou  think? 


458 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


CAIN. 

I  should  be  proud  of  thought 
Which  knew  such  things. 

LUCIFER. 

But  if  that  high  thought  were 
Link'd  to  a  servile  mass  of  matter,  and, 
Knowing  such  things,  aspiring  to  such  things, 
And  science  still  beyond  them,  were  chain'd  down 
To  the  most  gross  and  petty  paltry  wants, 
All  foul  and  fulsome,  and  the  very  best 
Of  thine  enjoyments  a  sweet  degradation, 
A  most  enervating  and  filthy  cheat, 
To  iure  thee  on  to  the  renewal  of 
Fresh  souls  and  bodies,  all  foredoom'd  to  be 
As  frail,  and  few  so  liappy 

CAIN. 

Spirit!  I 
Know  nought  of  death,  save  as  a  dreadful  thing, 
Of  which  I  have  heard  my  parents  speak,  as  of 
A  hideous  heritage  I  owe  to  them 
No  less  than  life  ;   a  heritage  not  happy, 
If  I  may  judge  till  now.      But,  spirit,  if 
It  be  as  thou  hast  said  (and  I  within 
Feel  the  profihetic  torture  of  its  truth), 
riere  let  me  die:   for  to  give  birth  to  those 
Who  can  but  suffer  many  years,  and  die, 
Methinks,  is  merely  propagating  death, 
And  multiplying  murder. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  canst  not 
All  die — there  is  what  must  survive. 

CAIN. 

The  Other 
Spake  not  of  this  unto  mv  father,  when 
If'-  ^liMt  hitn  f.rth  from    Paradise,  with  death 
Written  upon  his  forehead.      But  at  least 
Let  what  is  mortal  of  me  perish,  that 
I  may  be  in  the  rest  as  angels  are. 

LUCIFER. 

/  am  angelic  :  wouldst  thou  be  as  I  am  ? 

CAIN. 

I  know  not  what  thou  art :   I  see  thy  power. 
And  see  thou  show'st  me  things  beyond  my  power. 
Beyond  all  power  of  my  born  faculties, 
Although  inferior  still  to  my  desires 
And  my  conceptions. 

LUCIFER. 

What  are  they,  which  dwell 
So  humbly  in  their  pride,  as  to  sojourn 
With  worms  in  clay  ? 

CAIN. 

And  what  art  thou,  who  dwoUest 
So  haughtily  in  spirit,  and  canst  range 
Nature  and  immortality,  and  yet 
Seem'st  sorrowful  ? 

LUCIFER. 

I  seem  that  which  I  am ; 
And  therefore  do  I  ask  of  thee,  if  thou 
Wouldst  be  immortal  ? 

CAIN. 

Thou  hast  said,  I  must  be 
Immortal  in  despite  of  me.     I  knew  not 
This  un.il  lately — but,  since  it  must  be, 
Let  me,  or  hapjiy  or  unhappy,  learn 
To  anticii)alc  my  immortality. 

LtU  IFER. 

Thou  didst  before  I  came  ujxm  thee. 

CAIN. 

How? 

LUCIFER. 

Bv  suffering. 


CAIN. 

And  must  torture  be  immortal  ? 

LUCIFER. 

We  and  thy  sons  will  try.     But  now,  behold' 
Is  it  not  glorious  ? 

CAIN. 

Oh,  thou  beautiful 
And  unimaginable  ether!   and 
Ye  multiplying  masses  of  increased 
And  still-increasing  lights  !   what  are  ye  ?  what 
Is  this  blue  wilderness  of  interminable 
Air,  where  ye  roll  along,  as  I  have  seen 
The  leaves  along  the  limpid  streams  of  Eden  ? 
Is  your  course  measured  for  ye  ?  Or  do  ye 
Sweep  on  in  your  unbounded  revelry 
Through  an  aerial  universe  of  endless 
Expansion,  at  which  my  soul  aches  to  think, 
Intoxicated  with  eternity? 
Oh  God  !   Oh  Gods  !   or  whatsoe'er  ye  are  ! 
How  beautiful  ye  are  !   how  beautiful 
Your  works,  or  accidents*,  or  whatsoe'er 
They  may  be !   Let  me  die,  as  atoms  die 
(If  that  they  die),  or  know  ye  in  your  might 
And  knowledge!   My  thoughts  are  not  in  tl-.is  hotu 
Unworthy  what  I  see,  though  my  dust  is : 
Spirit !   let  me  expire,  or  see  them  nearer. 

LUCIFER. 

Art  thou  not  nearer  ?  look  back  to  thine  earth  ! 

CAIN. 

Where  is  it  ?   I  see  notlimw  save  a  mass 
Of  most  innumerable  liglits, 

LUCIFCrv. 

Look  there! 

CAIN. 

I  cannot  see  it. 

LUCIFER. 

Yet  it  sparkles  still. 

CAIN. 

What,  yonder  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Yea. 

CAIN. 

And  wilt  thou  tell  me  so  ? 
Why,  I  have  seep  the  fire-Hies  and  fire-worms 
Sprinkle  the  dusky  groves  and  the  green  banks 
In  the  dim  twilight,  brighter  than  yon  world 
Which  bears  thorn. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  hast  seen  both  worms  and  woilits^ 
Each  bright  and  sparkling, — what  dost  think  of  thcni/ 

c  A  I  N . 
That  they  are  beautiful  in  their  own  sphere. 
And  that  the  night,  which  makes  both  beautiful, 
The  little  shining  fire-Hy  in  its  Hight, 
And  the  immortal  star  in  its  great  course. 
Must  both  be  guided. 

LUCIFER. 

But  by  whom,  or  whatV 

CAIN. 

Show  me. 

LUCIFER. 

Dar'st  thou  behold  ? 

CAIN. 

Ilow  know  I  what 
I  dare  behold  ?   as  yet,  thou  hast  shown   nougul 
I  dare  not  gaze  on  further. 

Ll'CIFEK. 

On,  then,  with  me 
Wouldst  thou  behold  things  mortal  or  immortal  ? 

CAIN. 

Why,  what  arc  ihiiigs'^ 


CAIN 


45U 


Sit  next  thy  heart  t 


LUCIFf.R. 

Botli  [)arlly :   but  what  doth 


CAIN. 

The  things  I  see. 

LUCIFER. 


But  what 


Sate  nearest  it  ? 


The  thin<;s  I  have  not  seen, 
Nor  ever  shall — the  mysteries  of  death. 

LUCIFER. 

What  if  I  show  to  thee  things  which  have  died, 
As  1  have  shown  thee  much  which  cannot  die  ? 

CAIN. 

Do  so. 

LUCIFER. 

Away,  then  !   on  our  mighty  wings, 

CAIX. 

Oh  !  how  we  cleave  the  blue  !  The  stars  fade  from  us  ! 
Tlie  earth  !   where  is  my  earth  ?  let  me  look  on  it, 
For  I  was  made  of  it. 

LUCIFER. 

'T  is  now  beyond  thee, 
Less  in  the  universe  than  thou  in  it  : 
Yet  deem  not  that  thou  canst  escape  it;   thou 
Shalt  soon  returi;  to  earth,  and  all  its  dust; 
'1  IS  part  of  thy  eternity,  and  mine. 

c  A I N. 

Where  dost  thou  lead  me  ? 

LUCIFER. 

To  what  was  before  thee ! 
The  pliant^asm  of  the  world  ;   of  which  thy  world 
Is  but  the  wreck. 

CAIN. 

What !   IS  it  not  then  new  ? 

LUCIFER. 

N'j  more  thaji  life  is  :   and  that  was  ere  thou 
Or  /  were,  or  the  things  which  seem  to  us 
Greater  than  either :   many  things  will  have 
No  end  ;   and  some,  which  would  pretend  to  have 
Had  no  beginning,  have  had  one  as  mean 
As  thou  ;   and  nnghtier  things  have  been  extinct 
To  make  way  for  much  meaner  than  we  can 
Surmise  ;   for  moments  only  and  the  space 
Have  been  and  must  be  all  unchangeable. 
But  changes  make  not  death,  except  to  clay  ; 
But  thou  art  clay — and  canst  but  comprehend 
That  which  was  clay,  and  such  thou  shalt  behold. 

CAIN. 

Clay,  spirit!  What  thou  wilt,  I  can  survey. 

LUCIFER. 

Away,  then! 

CAIN. 

But  the  lights  fade  from  me  fast. 
And  some  till  now  grew  larger  as  we  approach'd. 
And  wore  the  look  of  worlds. 

LUCIFER. 

And  such  they  are. 

CAIN. 

And  Edens  in  them  ? 

LUCIFER. 

It  may  be, 

CAIN. 

And  men? 

LUCIFER. 

Yea,  or  things  higher. 

CAIN. 

Ay  !   and  serpents  too  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Wo  i.dst  thou  have  men  without  them  ?  must  no  reptile 
Breathe,  save  the  erect  ones  1 


CAIJV. 

How  int  ligtits  recede ! 
Where  fly  we  ? 

LUCIFER. 

To  tlie  world  of  i)hanlorns.,  which 
Are  beings  past,  and  shadows  still  to  come. 

CAIN. 

But  it  grows  dark,  and  dark — the  stars  are  gone  I 

LUCIFER. 

And  yet  thoi^  seest. 

CAIN. 

'T  is  a  fearful  light ! 
No  sun,  no  moon,  no  lights  innumerable. 
The  very  blue  of  the  empurplea''nighl 
Fades  to  a  dreary  twilight  ;   yet  1  see 
Huge  dusky  masses,  but  unlike  the  worlds 
We  were  approaching,  which,  begirt  with  light, 
Seem'd  full  of  life  even  when  their  atinus[)hcre 
Of  light  gave  way,  and  show'd  them  taking  shapes 
Unequal,  of  deep  valleys  and  vast  mountains  ; 
And  some  emitting  sparks,  and  some  displaying 
Knormous  liquid  plains,  and  sotui;  begirt 
With  luminous  belts,  an!l  floating  moons,  which  took 
Like  them  ttie  features  of  fair  earth: — instead, 
All  here  seems  dark  and  drt;adtnl. 

LUCIFEH. 

But  distinct. 
Thou  seekest  to  behold  death,  and  dead  things? 

C  A  1  N . 

I  seek  it  not ;   but  as  I  know  tliere  are 

Such,  and  that  my  sire's  siii  nuikes  him  and  me, 

And  all  that  we  inhenl,  iiid)le 

To  such,  I  would  behold  at  once  what  I 

Must  one  day  see  perforce. 

LUCIKEK. 

Beli.)!d  ! 

CAIN. 

'T  .s  darkness 

LUCIFER. 

Ai.d  so  it  shall  be  ever;   but  we  will 
Unfold  its  gates ! 

CAIN. 

Enormous  vaj)ours  roll 
Apart — wtiat  's  this  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Enter  h 

CAIN. 

Can  I  return? 

LUCtFEK. 

Return!  be  sure*   how  else  should  death  be  peopled  ? 
Its  present  realm  is  thin  to  what  it  will  be. 
Through  thee  and  thine. 

CAIN. 

T'he  clouds  still  open  wide 
And  wider,  and  make  widening  circles  round  us. 

LUCIFER. 

Advance ! 

CAIN. 

And  thou ! 

LUCIFER. 

Fear  not — without  me  thou 
Couldst  not  have  gone  beycnd  thy  world.     On  !   on  ! 
[  They  disappear  Ih'^ough  Uit  cluuiL 


SCENE  II. 

Hades. 
Enter  Lucifer  and  Cain. 

CAIN. 

How  silent  and  how  vast  are  these  dim  worlds! 
For  they  seem  more  than  one,  and  yet  more  peoulod 


460 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Than  fh(.  huge  brilliant  luminous  orbs  which  swung 

So  thickly  in  the  upper  air,  that  I 

Had  (ieem'd  them  rather  the  bright  populace 

Of  some  all  uiiiniacmable  heaven 

Than  things  to  be  inhabited  themselves, 

But  'hat  on  drawing  near  them  I  beheld 

Thei:  swelling  into  palpable  immensity 

Of  matter,  which  seem'd  made  for  life  to  dwell  on 

Rather  than  life  itself.      Rut  here,  all  is 

So  shadowy  and  so  full  of  twilight,  that 

It  speaks  of  a  day  past. 

LUCIFER. 

It  IS  the  realm 
Of  death. — Wouldst  have  it  present  ? 

CAIN. 

Till  I  know 
That  which  it  really  is,  I  cannot  answer. 
IJut  if  it  be  as  I  have  heard  my  father 
Deal  out  in  his  long  homilies,  't  is  a  thing — 
Oh  God!   I  dare  not  think  on 't !   Cursed  be 
He  who  invented  life  that  leads  to  death  ! 
Or  the  dull  mass  of  life,  that  being  life 
Could  not  retain,  but  needs  must  forfeit  it — 
Kven  for  the  innocent ! 

LUCIFER. 

Dost  thou  curse  thy  father? 

CAIN. 

Cursed  he  not  me  in  giving  me  my  birth? 
Cursed  he  not  me  before  my  birth,  in  daring 
To  pluck  the  fruit  forbidden? 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  say'st  well : 
Tho  curse  is  mutual  't  wixt  thy  sire  and  thee — 
Bui  for  thy 'sons  and  brother  ? 

CAIN. 

Let  them  share  it 
With  mc,  the.r  sire  and  brother!   What  else  is 
lie(|ueath'd  tc  me  ?   I  leave  them  my  inheritance. 
Oil  ve  interminable  jiloumy  realms 
Of  swimunng  shadows  and  enormous  shapes, 
Some  fully  shown,  some  indistinct,  and  all 
Mighty  and  melancholy — what  are  ye  ? 
Live  ye,  or  have  ye  hved  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Somewhat  of  both. 

CAIN. 

Tiien  what  is  death  ? 

LUCIFER. 

What  ?  Hath  not  He  who  made  ye 
Said  't  is  another  life  ? 

CAIN. 

Till  now  He  hath 
Said  nothing,  save  that  all  shall  die. 

LUCIFER. 

Perhaps 
He  one  day  will  unfold  that  further  secret. 

CAIN. 

Happy  the  day  I 

LUCIFER. 

Yes,  happy  !   when  uniblded 
Through  agonies  unspeakable,  and  clogg'd 
With  agonies  eternal,  to  innumerable 
Yet  untSorii  myriads  of  unconscious  atoms, 
All  to  be  animated  for  this  only  ! 

CAIN. 

What  are  these  mighty  phantoms  which  I  see 
Floating  around  mc  / — they  wear  not  the  form 
Of  the  intelligences  I  have  seen 
IIduikI  our  regretted  and  uiieiiter'd  Eden, 
Nor  vv(";ir  the  form  of  man  as  I  have  view'd  it 


In  x'Vdam's,  and  in  Abel's,  and  in  mine. 
Nor  in  my  sister-bride's  nor  in  my  children  s  ; 
And  yet  they  have  an  aspect,  which,  though  noi 
Of  men  nor  angels,  looks  like  something  which. 
If  noi  fhe  last,  rose  higher  than  the  first. 
Haughty,  and  high,  and  beautiful,  and  full 
Of  seeming  strength,  but  of  inexplicable 
Shape  ;   for  I  never  saw  such.     They  bear  not 
The  wing  of  seraph,  nor  the  face  of  man. 
Nor  form  of  mightiest  brute,  nor  aught  that  is 
Now  breathing ;   mighty  yet  and  beautiful 
As  the  most  beautiful  and  mighty  which 
Live,  and  yet  so  unlike  them,  that  I  scarce 
Can  call  them  living. 


LUCIFER. 

Yet  they  hved. 

CAIN. 
LUCIFER. 


Where  ? 


Where 


Thou  hvest. 


When? 


They  did  inhabit. 


LUCIFER. 

On  what  thou  callest  earth 


CAIN. 

Adam  is  the  first. 


LUCIFER. 

Of  thine,  I  grant  thee — but  too  mean  to  be 
The  last  of  these. 

CAIN. 

And  what  are  they  '* 

LUCIFER. 

That  which 
Th»u  shall  be. 

CAIN. 

But  what  wae  they  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Living,  high. 
Intelligent,  good,  great,  and  glorious  things, 
As  much  su[)erior  unto  all  thy  sire, 
Adam,  could  e'er  have  been  in  Ed"n,  as 
The  sixty-thousandth  generation  shall  be, 
In  its  dull  damp  degeneracy,  to 
Thee  and  thy  son  ; — and  how  weak  they  are,  judge 
By  thy  own  tlesh. 

CAIN. 

Ah  me  !   and  did  they  perish  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Yes,  from  their  earth,  as  thou  wilt  fade  from  thine. 

CAIN. 

But  was  mine  theirts? 

LUCIFER. 

It  was. 


CAIN. 


But  not  as  now: 

It  is  too  little  and  too  lowly  to 
Sustain  such  creatures. 

LUCIFER. 

True,  it  was  more  glorious, 

CAIN. 

And  wherefore  did  it  fall  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Ask  Him  who  fells, 

CAIN. 

But  how  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Bv  a  most  crushing  and  inexorable 
D(!struction  and  disorder  of  the  elements. 
Which  struck  a  world  to  chao«,  as  a  chao3 


CAIN. 


461 


Siibstdinc;  has  struck  out  a  world:  such  things, 
Though  rare  in  time,  are  fretiuent  in  eternity. — 
Pass  on,  and  gaze  upon  the  past. 

CAIN. 

'T  is  awful ! 

LUCIFKK. 

And  true.      Behold  these  piuuitoms  !   ihey  were  once 
Materia!  as  thou  aru 

CAIN. 

And  must  I  be 
Like  them? 

LUCIFER. 

Let  liim  who  nunle  thee  answer  that, 
show  thee  what  thy  predecessors  are, 
And  what  they  it'tre  thou  feelest,  in  degree 
Inferior  as  thy  petty  feelings,  and 
Thy  pettier  portion  of  the  immortal  part 
Of  hiixh  intelligence  and  earthly  strength. 
What  ye  in  common  have  with  what  they  had 
Is  lile,  and  what  ye  shall  have — death  ;  the  rest 
Of  your  poor  attributes  is  such  as  suits 
Reptiles  engender'd  out  of  the  subsiding 
Slime  of  a  mighty  universe,  crush'd  into 
A  scarcely-yet  shaped  planet,  peopled  with 
Thmgs  whose  enjoyment  was  to  be  in  blindness — 
A  Paradise  of  Ignorance,  from  which 
Knowledge  was  barr'd  as  poison.      But  behold 
What  these  superior  beings  are  or  were  : 
Or,  if  it  irk  thee,  turn  thee  back  and  till 
The  earth,  thy  task — I  '11  waft  thee  there  in  safety. 

CAIN. 

No :  I  '11  sta)  her* 

LUCIFER. 

How  long  ? 

CAIN. 

For  ever  !      Since 
I  must  one  day  return  here  from  the  earth, 
1  rather  would  remain  ;   I  am  sick  of  all 
Thu:  dust  has  shown  me — let  me  dwell  in  shadows. 

LUCIFER. 

I*,  cannot  be  :   thou  now  beholdest  as 

A  vision  that  which  is  reality. 

To  make  thyself  fit  for  this  dwelling,  thou 

Must  pass  through  what  the  things  thou  see'st  have 

pass'd — 
The  gates  of  death. 

CAIN. 

By  what  gate  have  we  enter'd 
Even  now  ? 

LUCIFER. 

By  mine  !   But,  plighted  to  return. 
My  spirit  buoys  thee  up  to  breathe  in  regions 
Where  all  is  breathless  save  thyself.     Gaze  on  ; 
But  do  not  think  to  dwell  here  till  thine  hour 
Is  come. 

CAIN. 

And  these,  too,  can  they  ne'er  repass 
T(   earth  again  '.' 

LUCIFER. 

Their  earth  is  gone  for  ever — 
S    changed  by  its  convulsion,  they  would  not 
Bfc  conscious  to  a  single  present  spot 
Of  its  i>ew  scarcely-harden'd  surlace — 'twas — 
<  )h,  what  a  beautiful  world  it  v:as  J 

CAIN.  ^t 

And  is ; 
It  IS  not  with  the  earth,  though  I  must  till  it, 
I  fepl  at  war,  but  that  I  may  not  proti* 
By  what  it  bears  of  beautiful,  untoiling. 
Nor  gratify  my  thousand  sweiriiii;  thoughts 
With  knowledge,  nor  allay  my  thousand  fears 
Of  death  and  life. 


LUCII  FR. 

What  thy  woild  is  thou  s(«e'sl, 
But  canst  not  comprehend  the  shadow  of 
That  which'  it  was. 

CAIN. 

Aitd  those  enormous  creatures, 
Phantoms  inferior  in  intelligeiK^e 
(At  least  so  seeming)  to  the  things  we  have  pass'd, 
Resembling  somewhat  the  wild  habitants 
Of  the  deep  woods  of  earth,  the  hiigest  which 
Roar  nightly  in  the  forest,  but  ten-fold 
In  magnitude  and  terror  ;   taller  than 
The  chcnilvguarded  walls  of  Eden,  with 
Eyes  flashing  like  the  fiery  swords  which  fen^e  tliein, 
And  tusks  projecting  like  the  trees  stripp'd  of 
Their  bark  and  branches — what  were  they  ? 

LUCIFER. 

That  which 
The  mammoth  is  in  thy  world  ; — but  these  lie 
By  myriads  iindcrneuth  its  surfiice; 

CAIN. 

But 

None  on  it  ? 

LUCIFER. 

No:    for  thy  frail  race  to  war 

With  them  would  render  the  curse  on  it  useless 

'T  would  be  desiroy'd  so  early. 

CAIN. 

But  why  )i:ar? 

LUCIFER. 

You  have  forgotten  the  denunciation 
Which  drove  your  race  from  Eden — war  with  all  thinga, 
And  death  to  all  thinos,  and  disease  to  most  thinas, 
And  pangs,  and  bitterness;   these  were  the  fruits 
Of  the  forbidden  tree. 

CAIN. 

But  animals — 
Did  they  too  eat  of  it,  that  they  must  die  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Your  Maker  told  ye,  thei/  were  made  for  you. 
As  you  for  him. — You  won!  I  iMi  'nave  iheir  doom 
Superior  to  your  own?   Had  Adam  wot 
Fallen,  all  had  stood. 

CAIN. 

Alas  !    the  hopeless  wretches  ! 
They  too  must  share  my  sire's  f;,te,  like  his  sons ; 
Like  them,  too,  v, ithout  having  shared  the  apple; 
Like  them,  too,  without  the  so  dear-bought  knnwLedgt 
It  was  a  lying  tree — for  we  knov:  nothing. 
At  least  it  promised  kiicirledge  at  the  price 
Of  death — but  kn'>wledge  s\\\\:    hut  what  knoics  man? 

LUCIFER. 

Il  may  be  death  leads  to  the  hiL^^ke^l  knowledge  ; 
And  being  of  all  things  the  sole  diing  certain. 
At  least  leads  to  the  surest  science  :    therefore 
The  tree  was  true,  though  deadly. 

CAIN. 

These  dim  realms 
I  see  them,  but  I  know  them  not. 

LUCIFER. 

liecause 
Thy  hour  ''■  vet  afar,  and  matter  cannot 
Comprehend  spirit  wholly — but  't  is  something 
To  know  there  are  such  realms. 

CAIN. 

We  knew  al.eadv 
That  there  was  death. 

LUClFEh 

But  not  wiia'  was  beyond  iL 

CAIS. 

Nor  know  I  now. 


462 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LU.IFER. 

Thou  kiiow'st  thai  there  is 
A  state,  auH  many  states  beyond  thine  own — 
And  this  tiiou  knewest  not  this  morn. 

CAIN. 

ButaU 
Seems  dim  and  shadowy. 

urciFER. 

Be  content ;   it  will 
Seem  clearer  to  thine  immortality. 

CAIN, 

And  yon  immeasurable  iiijisid  space 

Of  ijlorious  azure  which  floats  on  beyond  us, 

Which  looks  like  water,  and  which  I  should  deem 

The  river  which  Hows  out  of  Paradise 

Past  mv  own  dwelling,  but  that  it  is  bankless 

And  boundless  and  of  an  ethereal  hue — 

What  is  it  / 

LUCIFER. 

There  is  still  some  such  on  earth, 
Althoutrh  inferior,  and  thy  children  shall 
Dwell  near  it — 't  is  the  phantasm  of  an  ocean. 

CAIN. 

'T  is  like  another  world  ;   a  liquid  sun — 
And  those  inordinate  creatures  sporting  o'er 
Its  shining  surface  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Are  its  habitants, 
The  past  leviathans. 

CAIN. 

And  yon  immense 
Serpent,  which  rears  his  dripping  mane  and  vasty 
Head  ten  times  higher  than  tlie  haughtiest  cedar 
Forth  from  the  abyss,  looking  as  he  could  coil 
Himself  around  the  orbs  we  latclv  look'd  on — 
Is  he  not  of  the  kind  which  bask'd  beneath 
The  tree  in  Eden? 

LUCIFER. 

Eve,  thy  mother,  best 
Can  tell  what  shape  of  serpent  tempted  her. 

CAIN. 

This  seems  too  terrible.     No  doubt  the  other 
Had  more  of  beauty. 

LUCIFER. 

Hast  thou  ne'er  beheld  him? 

CAIN. 

INIany  of  the  same  kind  (at  least  so  call'd), 
liut  never  that  precisely  which  [persuaded 
The  fatal  fruit,  nor  even  of  the  same  aspect, 

LUCIFER. 

Vcur  father  saw  him  not? 

CAIN. 

No  ;   't  was  my  mother 
Who  tempted  him — she  tempted  by  the  serpent. 

LUCIFER. 

(jood  man  !  whene'er  thy  wife,  or  thy  sons'  wives 
Tempt  thee  or  tliem  to  aught  that 's  new  or  strange. 
Be  sure  thou  see'st  first  who  hath  tempted  litem. 

CAIN. 

Thy  precept  comes  too  late :   there  is  no  more 
Vnr  serpents  to  tempt  woman  to. 

LUCIFER. 

But  there 
Are  some  things  still  which  woman  may  tempt  man  to 
And  man  tempt  woman  : — let  thy  sons  look  to  it  ! 
My  counsel  is  a  kind  one  :   for  't  is  even 
Given  cliietly  at  my  own  expense  :    't  is  true. 
Twill  not  he  follow'd,  so  there's  little  IcaU 

CAIN. 

I  understand  not  tlii^ 


LUCIFER. 

The  happier  thou'! — 
The  world  ana  thou  are  still  too  young  !   Thouthinkest 
Thyself  most  wicked  and  unhappy  ■    is  it 
Not  so  '^ 

CAIN. 

For  crime  I  know  not ;   out  for  pain, 
I  have  felt  much. 

LUCIFER. 

First-born  of  the  first  man 
Thv  present  state  of  sin— and  thou  art  evil. 
Of  sorrow — and  thou  sutferest,  are  both  Eden, 
In  all  its  innocence,  compared  to  what 
Tlvni  shortly  may'st  be  ;   and  that  state  again, 
In  its  redoubled  wretchedness,  a  paradise 
To  v.hat  thy  sons'  sons'  sons,  accumulating 
In  generations  like  to  dust  (which  they 
In  fart  but  ad.d  to),  shall  endure  and  do. — 
Now  le^  us  back  to  earth  ! 

CAIN. 

And  wherefore  didst  thoii 
Lead  me  here  onlv  to  inform  me  this  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Was  not  thy  quest  for  knowledge  "^ 

CAIN 

Yes :  as  being 
The  road  to  happiness. 

LUCIFER. 

If  truth  be  so, 
Thou  hast  it. 

CAIN. 

Then  my  father's  God  did  well 
When  he  prohibited  the  fatal  tree. 

:  lUCIFEK. 

j    But  had  done  better  in  not  planting  it. 
But  ignorance  of  evil  doth  not  save 
From  evil ;    it  must  still  roll  on  the  sarns, 
A  part  of  all  things. 

CAIN. 

Not  of  all  things.     Nor 
I ']]  not  believe  it — for  I  thirst  for  good. 

LUCIFER. 

And  who  and  what  doth  not?  IVhn  covets  evil 
For  its  own  bitter  sake  ? — None — nothing  !  't  is 
The  leaven  of  all  life  and  lifelessness. 

c  A  I  N , 
Within  those  glorious  orbs  wliich  we  behold, 
Distant  and  dazzling,  and  innumerable. 
Ere  we  came  down  into  this  phantom  realm, 
111  cannot  come  ;   they  are  too  beautiful. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  hast  seen  them  irom  afar. 

CAIN. 

And  what  of  thai  7 
Distance  can  but  diminish  glory — they, 
When  nearer,  must  be  more  ineffable. 

LUCIFER. 

Approach  the  things  of  earth  most  beautiful, 
And  judge  their  beauty  near. 

CAIN. 

I  have  done  ihis— 
The  loveliest  ining  I  know  is  loveliest  nearest, 

LUCIFER. 

Then  there  must  be  delusion. — What  is  that. 
Which  being  nearest  to  thine  eyes,  is  still 
More  beautiful  than  beauteous  things  remote? 

CAIN. 

Mv  sister  Adah. — All  the  stars  of  heaven, 
Tlie  deep  blue  noon  of  night,  lit  by  an  orb 
Winch  looks  a  spirit,  or  a  sjjirit's  world — 

1    The  hues  of  twiliijht — the  sun's  gorgeous  coming- 

1    His  setting  indescribable,  which  fills 


CAIN. 


468 


My  pyos  wiih  pleasant  tears  a?  I  behold 

Him  sink,  ami  frel  my  heart  M'jat  softly  with  him 

Aiong  that  wcstorn  paradise  of  clouds — 

The  forest  shade — the  green  bough — the  bird's  voice-  - 

The  vesper  bird's,  which  seems  to  sing  of  love, 

And  mingles  with  the  son<:  of  cherubim, 

As  the  day  closes  over  E  Jen's  walls  ; — 

All  these  are  nothing  to  mv  wves  and  heart. 

Like  Adah's  face:   I  turn  from  earth  and  heaven 

To  gaze  on  it. 

LfCIFKR. 

'Tis  frail  as  fair  mortalitv, 
In  the  first  dawn  and  bloom  of  vounw  creation 
And  earliest  embraces  of  earth's  parents, 
Can  make  its  otisprinir ;   still  it  is  delusion. 

CAIX. 

You  think  so,  being  not  her  brother. 
i.rciFER. 

Mortal! 
I\Iy  brotherhood  's  with  those  who  have  no  children. 

C  A  I  N , 

Then  thou  canst  have  no  fellowship  with  us. 

LUCIFER. 

It  may  be  that  thme  own  shall  be  for  me. 
But  if  thou  dost  possess  a  beautiful 
Being  beyond  all  !>eauty  in  thine  eyes, 
Whv  art  thou  wretched? 

CAIN. 

Why  do  I  exist  ? 
Why  art  thmt  wretched?   whv  are  aii  things  so? 
Even  He  v.ho  made  us  must  be  as  the  maker 
Of  things  unhappy  I   To  produce  destruction 
Can  surely  never  be  the  task  of  jov. 
And  yet  nu    .ire  savs  He  's  omiiipf)tent : 
i'hen  whv  is  evil — He  being  iroo  I  ?     I  ask'd 
This  (]uestionpf  my  father ;    and  he  said, 
because  this  evil  only  was  the  path 
Te  2<jod.      Strange  good,  that  must  arise  from  out 
Its  deadly  op['osite !    I  lately  saw 
A  '?i<'b  Slung  by  a  reptile  :   the  poor  suckling 
L>i\  foaming  on  the  eartii,  beneath  the  vain 
Ami  [)iteous  blearing  of  its  restless  dam: 
Mv  fatiier  pluck'd  some  herbs,  and  laid  them  to 
The  wound  ;    and  by  degrees  the  helpless  wretch 
Resumed  its  careless  life,  and  rose  to  drain 
The  mother's  milk,  wiiu  o'er  it  tremulous 
Si'tod  licking  itsj-eviving  limbs  with  joy. 
Behold,  my  son!   said  Adam,  how  from  evil 
Sj)nngs  good  I 

I.UCIFER. 

What  didst  thou  answer? 


Nothing ; 
He  13  mv  father  :   but  I  thought,  that  't  were 
\  hotter  portion  for  the  animal 
Never  to  have  been  s/'/«ir  '^it  all,  than  to 
Purchase  renewal  of  its  little  life 
With  agonies  unutterable,  ihouirh 
Dispeird  by  antidotes. 

LUCIFER. 

Hut  as  tliou  saidst. 
Of  all  beloved  things  thou  lovest  her 
Whi   shared  thy  mother's  milk,  and  givcth  hers 
Unt'   th\  children 

CAIN'. 

Most  assuredly: 
VVh.il  siiould  I  be  without  her  1 

LUCIFER. 

What  am  I? 

CAIN. 

Dost  thou  love  nothing  ? 

I.UCIFER. 

What  does  tliv  God  love? 


for 


CAIN. 

All  things,  my  father  says  ;   but  I  confess 
I  see  it  not  in  their  allotment  here. 

LUCIFER. 

And  therefore  thou  canst  not  see  if  /  love 
Or  no,  except  some  vast  and  general  purpose, 
To  which  particular  things  must  melt  like  snow. 

CAIN. 

Snows  !   what  are  they  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Be  happier  in  not  knowin« 

What  thy  remoter  offspring  must  encounter  ; 

But  bask  beneath  the  clime  which  knows  i^o  wir.tei 

CAIN. 

But  dost  thou  not  love  something  like  thyself? 

LUCIFER. 

And  dost  thou  love  thyself? 

CAIN. 

Yes,  but  love  more 
What  makes  my  feelings  more  endurable. 
And  is  more  than  myself,  because  I  love  it. 

LUClFEK. 

Thou  lovest  it,  because  't  is  beautiful, 
As  was  the  apple  in  thy  mother's  eye  ; 
And  when  it  ceases  to  be  so,  thy  love 
Will  cease,  Uke  any  other  ap[ietite. 

CAIN. 

Cease  to  be  beautiful !   how  can  that  be? 

LUCIFER. 

With  time. 

CAIN. 

But  time  has  past,  and  hitherto 
Even  Adam  and  my  mother  both  are  fair: 
Xot  fair  like  Adah  and  the  seraphim — 
But  very  fair. 

LUCIFER. 

All  that  must  pass  away 
In  them  and  her. 

CAIN. 

I  'm  sorry  for  it  ;   but 
Cannot  conceive  mv  Njve  for  her  the  less. 
And  when  lier  hea\ity  thsappears,  methinks 
He  who  creates  iill  beauty  will  lose  more 
Than  me  in  seeing  perish  such  a  work. 

LUCIFER. 

I  pity  thee  who  lovest  what  must  perish. 

CAIN. 

And  I  thee  who  lov'st  nothing. 

LUCIFER. 

And  thy  b» other — 
Sits  he  not  near  thy  heart? 

CAIN. 

Why  should  he  not  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Thy  father  loves  him  well — so  does  thy  God. 

CAIN. 

And  so  <!o  I. 

LUCIFER. 

'T  is  well  and  meekly  done. 

CAIN. 

Meekly  ! 

LUCIFER. 

He  is  the  second  born  of  flesh, 
And  is  his  mother's  favourite. 

CAIN. 

Let  him  keep 
Her  favour,  since  the  serpent  was  the  first 
To  win  It, 

LTJCIFER. 

And  his  fathers? 


464 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


CAIN. 

What  is  that 
To  me  ?  should  I  not  love  that  which  all  love  ? 

LUCIFER. 

And  the  Jehovah — the  indulgent  Lord, 
And  beauteous  planter  of  barr'd  Paradise — 
He.  too,  looks  smilingly  on  Abel. 

CAIN. 

I 

Ne'er  saw  Him,  and  I  know  not  if  He  smiles. 

LUCIFER. 

But  you  have  seen  his  angels. 

CAIN. 

Rarely. 

LUCIFER. 

But 

Sufficiently  to  see  they  love  your  brother  ; 
His  sacrifices  are  accei)table. 

(JAIN. 

So  be  they  !   wherefore  speak  to  me  of  this  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Because  thou  hast  thought  of  this  ere  now. 

CAIN. 

And  if 
I  have  thought,  why  recall  a  thought  that {he pauses, 

as  agitated) — Spirit ! 
Here  we  are  in    thy  world  ;   speak  not  of  mine. 
Thou  hast  shown  me  wonders  ;  thou  hast  shown  me  those 
Mighty  Pre-Adamites  who  walk'd  the  earth 
Of  which  ours  is  the  wreck  :   thon  hast  pointed  out 
Myriads  of  starry  worlds,  of  which  our  own 
Is  the  dim  and  remote  companion,  in  i 

Infinhy  of  life :   thou  hast  shown  me  shadows 
Of  that  existence  with  the  dreaded  name 
Whirh  my  sire  brought  us — deaih  ;  thou  hast  shown  me 

mucli — 
But^not  all:  .show  me  where  Jehovah  dwells, 
InTiis  especial  paradise— or  tliine :  * 

VVhere  is  it? 

LUCIFER. 

4      .       //ere,  and  o'er  all  space. 

■•'*■  CAIN. 

But  ye 
Have  sonie  allotted 'dwelling — as. all  things  ; 
Clay  has  its  earth,  and  other  worlds  their  tenants  ; 
All  temporary  breathing  creatures  their 
Peculiar  element ;   and  things  which  have 
Long  ceased  to  breathe  our  breath  have  theirs,  thou 

say'st; 
And  the  Jehovah  and  thyself  have  thine — 
Ve  do  not  dwell  together  ?       ^ 

LUCIFER. 

No,  we  reign 
Together,  but  our  dwellings  are  asunder. 

CAIN. 

Would  there  were  only  one  of  ye !   perchance 

An  unity  of  purpose  might  make  union 

In  elements  which  seem  now  jarr'd  in  storms. 

How  came  ye,  being  spirits^  wise  and  infinite, 

To  se])arate  ?  Are  ye  not  as  brethren  in 

Your  essence,  and  youf  .nature,  and  your  glory  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Art  thou  not  Abel's  brother  ? 

CAIN. 

We  are  brethren, 
And  so  we  shall  remain ;  but,  were  it  not  so, 
Is  spirit  like  to  flesh  ?  can  it  fall  out  ? 
Infinity  with  immortality? 
Jarring  and  turning  space  to  misery — 
Fui  what? 

LUCIFER. 

To  reign. 


CAI^T. 

Did  ye  not  tell  me  that 
Ye  are  both  eternal  ? 

LUCIFEK 

Yea!    .  ,.  .. 

LAIN. 

And  what  I  have  seeiij 
Yon  blue  immensity,  is  boundless  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Ay. 

CAIN. 

And  cannot  ye  both  reign  then  ? — is  there  not 
Enough  ? — why  should  ye  differ  ? 

LUCIFER. 

We  both  reign. 

CAII«. 

But  one  of  you  makes  evil. 

LUCIFER. 

. .        Which;/ 

CAIN. 

Tho-1 !  for 
If  thou  canst'do  ni%p,good,  why  do>t  thou  not  { 

LUUIFI   R. 

And  why  not  He  who  made  ?     /  madq  ye  not  j 
Ye  are  his  creatures,  and  not  mine. 

CAIN. 

,     .  Then  leave  Us 

His  creatures,  as  thou  say'si  we  are,  or  show  me 
Thy  dwelling,  or  his  dwelling. 

LUCIFER. 

I  could -show  thee 
Both ;  but  the  time  will  come  thou  shalt  see  one 
Of  them  for  evermore.  . 

CAIN. 

And  why  not  now?  v     " 

LUCIFER. 

Thy  human  mind  hath  scarcely  gra>jp  to  gather 

The  little  I  have  shown:  thee  inlo  calm 

And  clear  thought;   and  thnjj  wouldst  go  on  aspiring 

To  the  great  double  tnvsteries  !   the  tii  o  Principles  ! 

And  gaze  upon  therrf  on  tlieir  s^ecret  thrones  ! 

Dust !   limit  thy  ambition,  for  to  see 

Either  of  these,. would  be  for  tliee  to  persh  ! 

CAIN. 

And  let  me  perish,  so  I  seel  hem. 

LUCIFER.        -    .  ,"     ;    ' 

"   There 
The  son  of  her  who  snatch'd  the  apple  spake! 
But  thou  wouldst  only  perish,  and  not  see  ihe'ra; 
That  sight  is  for  the  other  state.  ,        ■     -• 

CAIN.  ;    \* 

Of  death'? 

LUCIFER. 

That  is  the  prelude. 

CAIN.  ' 

Then  I  dread  it  less,      . 
I   Now  that  I  know  it  leads  to  something  definite, 

j  LUCIFER.  ^ 

!   And  now  I  will  convey  thee  to  thy  world. 
Where  thoushalt  multiply  the  race  of  Adam, 
Eat,  drink,  toil,  tremble,  laugh,  weep,  sleep,  and  die- 

CAIN.       ^  ^ 

And  to  what  end  have  I  beheld  these  things 
Which  thAi  hast  shown  me? 

LUCIFER. 

Didst  thou  not  require 
Knowledge  ?     And  have  I  not,  in  what  I  show'd. 
Taught  thee  to  know  thyself? 

CAIIf. 

.^las !  I  seem 
Nothing. 


/  \       -  7  \\ 


0-   .A.  jBC. 


CAIN. 


406 


LUCIFER. 

And  this  should  he  the  human  sum 
Of  knowledge,  to  know  mortal  nature's  nothingness  ; 
Bequeath  that  science  to  thy  children,  and 
'T  V  ill  spare  them  many  tortures. 

C  A  I N  . 

Haughty  spirit ! 
Thou  '^^•eak'st  it  proudly ;   but  thyself,  though  proud, 
Hast  a  superior. 

I  UCIFKR. 

No  !    By  heaven,  which  He 
Holds,  and  the  abyss,  and  the  immensity 
or  worlds  and  life,  which  I  hold  witli  him — No! 
I  have  a  victor — true  ;   but  no  superior. 
Homase  He  has  from  all — but  none  from  me: 
I  battle  it  airainst  him,  as  I  battled 
In  hiizhost  he-iven.     Thruuiih  all  eternity, 
And  the  unfathomable  gulfs  of  Hades, 
And  the  interminable  realms  of  space, 
And  the  infinity  of  endless  ages. 
All,  all,  will  I  dispute  !      And  world  by  world, 
And  star  bv  star,  and  universe  by  universe, 
Slirdl  tremble  in  the  balance,  till  the  great 
Conriict  shall  cease,  if  ever  it  shall  cease, 
Which  it  r.e'er  shall,  till  he  or  I  be  quench'd  ! 
And  what  can  quench  our  immortality. 
Our  mutual  and  irrevocable  hale  ? 
He  as  a  comiueror  will  call  the  conquer'd 
Eiil ;  but  what  v.ill  be  the  ,^wid  He  gives? 
Were  I  the  victor,  his  works  would  be  deem'd 
The  only  evil  ones.     And  you,  ye  new 
And  scarce-born  mortals,  what  have  been  his  gifts 
To  you  ab-eady  m  your  little  world  ? 

CAIN. 

Bui  few  ;  and  some  of  those  but  bitter. 

LUCIFER. 

Back 
With  me,  then,  to  thine  earth,  and  try  the  rest 
Of  his  celestial  boons  to  ye  and  yours. 
Evil  and  good  are  things  in  their  own  essence, 
And  not  made  good  or  evil  by  the  giver ; 
But  if  he  gives  you  good — so  call  him  ;   if 
Evil  springsfrom  him,  do  not  name  it  mine, 
Till  ye  know  better  its  true  fount  ;   and  judge 
Not  by  words,  thouah  of  spirits,  but  the  frufts 
Of  your  existence,  such  as  it  must  be. 
One  good  gift  has  the  fatal  ajjjjlfi  given — 
!Your  reason  .-—let  it  not  be  oversw^ay'd 
By  t}Tann6us  ITireats  to  force  you  into  faith 
'Gainst  all  external  sense  and  inward  feeling: 
Think  and  endure, — and  form  an  inner  world 
[n  your  own  bosom — \\  here  the  outward  fails  : 
So  shall  you  nearer  be  the  spiritual 
I  Nature,  and  war  triumphant  with  your  own. 

[  Tfuy  disappear. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

T^  Earth  near  Eden,  as  in  Act  I 
Enter  Cain  and  Adah. 

ADAH. 

Hush  !  tread  softly,  Cain. 

CAIN, 

I  will ;  but  wherefore  ? 

ADAH. 

Our  httle  Fnoch  Siee[)s  upon  von  bed 
Of  leaves,  be  icath  tlu-  (;vpress. 
"  30 


CAIf 

Cypress  !   't  is 
A  gloomy  tree,  which  looks  as  if  it  mourn'd 
O'er  what  it  shadows  ;   wherefore  didst  thou  choosi^  it 
For  our  child's  canopy  ?. 

ADAH. 

Because  its  branches 
Shut  out  the  sun  like  night,  and  therefore  -.eem'd 
Fitting  to  shadow  slumber. 

CAIN. 

Ay,  the  last — 
And  longest ;   but  no  matter — lead  me  to  him. 

[Thiy  go  up  t(  the  child. 
How  lovely  he  appears  I   his  little  cheeks, 
In  their  pure  incarnation,  vying  with 
The  rose-leaves  strewn  beneatli  them. 

ADAH. 

And  his  lips,  loo, 
How  beautifully  parted  !   No,  you  shall  not 
Kiss  him,  at  least  not  now:   he  will  awake  soon — 
His  hour  of  mid-day  rest  is  nearly  over. 
But  it  were  pity  to  disturb  him  till 
'T  is  closed. 

CAIN. 

You  hive  said  well ;   I  will  contain 
My  heart  till  tnen.     He  smiles,  and  sleeps  ! — Sleep  on 
And  smile,  thou  little,  young  inheritor 
Of  a  world  scarce  less  young:   sleep  on,  and  smile. 
Thine  are  the  hours  and  days  when  both  are  cheetinjf 
And  innocent !   thou  ha<t.  not  pluck'd  the  fruit — 
Thou  know'st  not  thou  art  r-^ked  !    Must  the  time 
Come  thou  slialt  he  ameiced  for  si.".;  --."known, 
Which  were  not  tljiiie  nor  mine?      But   now  A^n  on 
His  cheeks  are  reddening  into  deeper  smiles, 
And  shining  lids  are  trembrmg  o'er  his  li>na 
Lashes,  dark  as  the  cypress  which  waves  o'er  '.hem 
Half  open,  from  beneath  them  the  clear  blue 
Laughs  out,  although  in  slumber.     He  must  dream— 
Of  what?     Of  Paradise!— Ay  !    dream  of  it, 
iMy  disinherited  boy  !      'T  is  but  a  drciim  ; 
For  ne/er  more  thvself,  thy  sons,  nor  fathers. 
Shall  walk  in  that  forbidden  place  of  joy ! 

ADAH. 

Dear  Cain  !     Nay,  do  not  whisper  o'er  our  son 
Such  melancholy  ye;iriiings  o'er  the  past ; 
Why  wilt  thou  always  mourn  for  Paradise  ? 
Can  v,e  not  make  another  ? 

CAir?. 

Where  V 

ADAH. 

Here,  or 
Where'er  thou  wilt:   where'er  thou  art,  I  feel  not 
The  want  of  this  so  much  regretted  Eden. 
Have  I  not  thee,  our  boy,  "our  sire,  and  brother. 
And  Zillah — our  sweet  sister,  an<i  our  Eve, 
To  whom  we  owe  so  much  besides  our  birth  ? 

CAIN. 

Ves,  death,  too,  is  amongst  the  debts  we  owe  her. 

ADAH. 

Cain  !   that  proud  spirit,  who  withdrew  thee  nenc«. 
Hath  sadden'd  thine  still  deeper.      I  had  hoped 
The  promised  wonders  which  ihou  hast  beheld, 
Visions,  tlioii  say'sl,  of  past  ana  present  worlds, 
Would  iiave  composed  thy  mind  into  the  calm 
Of  a  coiileiit^jd   knowledge  ;    but  I  see 
Tliy  gtnde  hath  done  liiee  evil :   s'all  I  thank  him. 
And  can  forgive  him  all,  that  he  so  soon 
Hath  given  fhet,"  back  to  us. 

CAIN. 

So  soon  ? 


466 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


'T  is  scarcely 
'J'wo  hours  since  ye  departed ;   two  lo7ig  iioiirs 
To  me,  but  only  hcmrs  upon  the  sun. 

CAIN. 

And  yet  I  have  approach'd  tliat  sun,  and  seen 
Worlds  which  he  once  shone  on,  and  never  more 
Slial)  lioht ;   and  worlds  he  never  lit :   methought 
Years  had  roll'd  o'er  my  absence. 

ADAH. 

Hardly  hours. 

CAIN. 

The  mind  then  hath  capacity  of  time, 

And  measm-es  it  by  that  which  it  beholds, 

Pleasing  or  painful,  little  or  almighty. 

I  had  beheld  the  immemorial  works 

Of  endless  beings  ;   skirr'd  extinguish'd  worlds  : 

And,  gazing  on  eternity,  methought 

I  had  borrow'd  inore  by  a  few  drops  of  ages 

From  its  immensity  ;    but  now  1  feel 

My  littleness  again.     Well  said  the  spirit, 

That  I  was  nothing  ! 

ADAH. 

Wherefore  said  he  so  ? 
Jehovah  said  not  that. 

CAIN. 

No:   he  contents  him 
With  making  us  the  nothing  which  we  are ; 
And  after  Hattering  dust  with  glinipses  of 
Edon  and  immortality,  resolves 
ft  back  to  dust  again — for  what  ? 

ADAH. 

Thou  know' St — 
Kven  for  our  parents'  error. 

CAIN. 

What  is  that 
To  us  ?   they  sinn'd,  tb.en  kt  them  die  ' 

ADAH. 

Thou  hast  not  spoken  vv.eil,  nor  is  that  thought 
Thy  own,  but  of  the  spirit  wiio  was  with  thee. 
Would  /  could  die  for  them,  so  they  might  live  ! 

CAIN. 

Whv,  sc  say  I — provided  that  one  victim 

Might  satiate  the  insatiable  of  life, 

And  that  our  little  rosy  sleeper  there 

Might  never  taste  of  death  nor  human  sorrow, 

Nor  bund  it  down  to  those  who  spring  from  him. 

ADAH. 

How  know  we  that  some  such  atonement  one  day 
May  not  redeem  our  race  ? 

CAIN. 

By  sacrificing 
The  harmless  for  the  guilty?   what  atonement 
Were  there  ?   why,  we  are  innocent:   what  have  we 
Done,  that  we  must  be  victims  for  a  deed 
Before  our  birth,  or  need  have  victims  to 
Alone  *(>r  this  mysterious,  nameless  sin — 
[f  it  \n  such  a  sin  to  seek  for  knowledge  ? 

ADAH. 

Aias!  thou  sinnest  now,  my  Cain  ;  thy  words 
Suni.d  it  ipious  in  mine  ears. 

CAIN. 

Then  leave  me ! 

ADAH. 

Never, 
riiough  thy  God  left  thee. 

CAIN. 

Say,  what  have  we  here? 

A  D  A  H . 

Two  altars,  which  our  brotlH;r  Abel  made 
During  thine  abs.'iice,  whercuiioii  to  otfer 
A  sacrilii  e  to  (^'.d  on  thy  rrlurn. 


CAIN. 

And  how  knew  he,  that  /  would  be  so  ready 
With  the  burnt-offerings,  which  he  daily  bring 
With  a  meek  brow,  whose  base  numility 
Shows  more  of  fear  than  worship,  as  a  bribe 
To  the  Creator? 

ADAH. 

Surely,  't  is  well  done. 

CAIN. 

One  altai-  may  suffice ;   /  have  no  jfTerm  J. 

ADAH. 

The  fruits  of  the  earth,  the  early,  beauti)  il 
Blossom  and  bud,  and  bloom  of  Howers,  and  fruiJ^  , 
These  are  a  goodly  offering  to  the  Lord, 
Given  with  a  gentle  and  a  contrite  spirit. 

CAIN. 

I  have  toifd,  and  till'd,  and  sweaten  in  the  sun, 

According  to  the  curse: — must  I  do  mure? 

For  what  should  I  be  gentle?  for  a  war 

With  all  the  elements  ere  they  will  yield 

The  bread  we  eat  ?    For  what  must  I  be  grateful  ? 

For  being  dust,  and  grovelling  in  the  dust, 

Till  I  return  to  dust  ?   If  I  am  nothing — 

Foi  nothing  shall  I  be  a  hypocrite. 

And  seem  well  pleased  with  pain  ?   For  what  should  I 

Be  contrite  ?   for  my  father's  sin,  already 

Expiate  with  what  we  all  have  undergone. 

And  to  be  more  than  expiated  by 

The  ages  prophesied,  upon  our  seed. 

Little  deems  our  young  blooming  sleeper,  ihce, 

The  germs  of  an  eternal  misery 

To  myriads  is  within  him  !    better  't  were 

I  snatch'd  him  in  his  sleep,  and  dash'd    *iin.  'gainnj 

The  rocks,  than  let  him  live  to 

ADAH. 

Oh,  my  God ', 
Touch  not  the  child — my  child  !   thy  child  !   Oh  du  i  !■ 

CAIN. 

Fear  not !   for  all  the  stars,  and  all  the  power 
Which  sways  thein,  I  would  not  accost  yon  infant 
With  ruder  greeting  than  a  father's  kiss. 

ADAH. 

Then,  why  so  awful  in  thy  speech  ? 

CAIN. 

I  said, 
'T  were  tietter  that  he  ceased  to  live,  than  give 
Life  to  so  much  of  sorrow  as  he  must 
Endure,  and,  harder  still,  bequeath  ;    but  since 
That  saying  jars  you,  let  us  only  say — 
'T  were  better  that  he  never  had  been  born. 

ADAH. 

Oh,  do  not  say  so!   Where  were  then  the  Joys, 

The  mollier's  jovs  of  watching,  nourishing, 

And  loving  him?    Soft!    he  awakes.      Sweet  En(»ch 

[She  goes  to  the  rMd 
Oh  Cain  !    look  on  him  ;   see  how  full  of  life, 
Of  strength,  of  bloom,  of  beauty,  and  of  jov. 
How  like;  to  me — how  like  to  thee,  when  gentle 
For  then  we  are  all  alike  ;   is  't  not  so,  Cain  7 
Mother,  and  sire,  and  son,  our  features  are 
Reflected  in  each  other  ;   as  they  are 
In  the  clear  waters,  when  they  are  gentle,  ai.d 
When  Ihov,  art   gentle.      Love  us,  then,  my  Cain  ! 
And  love  tliyself  for  our  sakes,  tor  we  love  thee. 
Look!    how  he  laughs  amf  stretches  out  his  arms. 
And  opens  wide  his  blue  eyes  upon  thine, 
To  hail  his  tiither;    while  his  liltle  form 
Flutt(-is  as  wiiiir'd  with  joy.      Talk  not  of  pa=n ! 
The  cluldlc^s  clu'nibs  well  luigbt  envy  thee 


i'r.e  lueasures  of  a  parent!    Bless  him,  Cain! 
As  vet  lie  .iati»  no  words  to  tliank  thee,  but 
His  heart  will,  and  thme  own  loo. 

CAIN. 

Hless  thee.,  boy ! 
If  thai  I  mortal  blessing  may  avail  thee, 
1  ■->  save  thee  l"rom  the  serpent's  curse ! 

.VUAH. 

It  shall. 
Siireiv  a  father's  blessing  may  avert 
A  reptile  subtlety. 

CAIN. 

Of  tliat  I  doubt ; 
Bu.  bless  him  ne'ertheless. 

ADAH. 

Our  brother  comes. 

CAIN. 

Thy  brother  Abel. 

Enter  Abel. 

ABEL. 

Welcome,  Cain !     My  bro'her, 
The  peace  of  God  be  on  thee ! 

CAIX. 

Abel!  liail! 

ABEL. 

Our  sister  tells  me  that  thou  hast  been  wj^ndering, 
In  hiiih  eommunioM  with  a  spirit,  far 
Bevoiid  our  wonted  range.    Wps  he  of  those 
We  have  seen  and  spoken  -vith,  .ike  to  our  father  ? 

CAIN. 

No. 

APEL. 

Why  then  eonipume  with  him  ?  he  may  be 
A  foe  to  the  JNIosi  High. 

CAIN. 

And  friend  to  man. 
Has  the  Most  High  been  so— if  so  you  term  him? 

ABEL. 

Term  him  !  your  words  are  strange  to-day,  my  brother. 
My  sister  Adah,  leave  us  for  a  while — 
We  mean  to  sacrifice. 

ADAH. 

Farewell,  my  Cain  ; 
But  first  embrace  thy  son.     May  liis  soft  spirit, 
And  Abel's  pious  ministry,  recall  the 
To  peace  and  holiness  !     . 

[E.vit  Adah,  with  her  child. 

ABEL. 

Where  hast  thou  been  ? 

CAIN. 

I  know  not. 

ABEL. 

Nor  what  thou  liast  seen  ? 

CAIN. 

The  dead, 
Th.e  immortal,  the  unbounded,  the  omnipotent, 
The  over] towering  mysteries  of  space — 
The  innumerable  worlds  that  were  and  are — 
A  whirlwind  of  such  overwhelming  things. 
Suns,  moons,  and  earths,-upon  their  loud-voiced  spheres 
Sioiziiig  in  tlumcler  round  me,  as  have  made  me 
L'nrit  toi  mortal  converse:    leave  me,  Abel. 

ABEL. 

Tliinc  eves  are  HAshing  with  unnatural  light — 
Thy  cheek  is  tlush'd  with  an  unnatural  hue— 
Thy  v/ords  are  fraught  with  an  unnatural  sound — 
'•Vjxat  may  this  mean  7 

CAIN. 

It  means 1  pray  thee,  leave  me. 

ABKL. 

Not  till  we  have  pray'd  and  sacrificed  together. 

CAIN. 

\bel,  I  pray  thee,  sacrifice  alone — 


CAIN. 

Jeliovah  loves  thee  well. 


4G7 


^BEL. 

Bulh  well,  I  hope. 

CAIN. 

But  thee  the  better  :   I  care  not  for  t!iat ; 
riiou  art  fitter  for  his  worshio  than  I  am 
Kevere  him,  then — but  let  it  be  alone — 
At  least  without  me. 

ABEL. 

Brother,  1  should  ill 
Deserve  the  name  of  our  great  father's  sgHj 
If  as  my  elder  I  revered  thee  not, 
And  in  the  worship  of  our  God  call'd  not 
On  thee  to  join  me,  and  precede  me  in 
Our  priesthood — 'tis  thy  i)lace. 

CAIN. 

But  I  have  ne'er 
Asserted  it.' 

ABEL. 

The  more  my  grief;   I  pray  thee 
To  do  so  now  ;   thy  soul  seems  labouring  in 
Some  strong  delusion  ;   it  will  calm  thee, 

CAIN. 

No; 
Nothing  can  calm  me  more.    Calm  !  say  I  ?     Never 
Knew  I  what  calm  was  in  the  soul,  ahhough 
I  have  seen  the  elements  stsll'd.     My  Abel,  leave  me  i 
Or  let  me  leave  thee  to  thy  pious  purjiose. 

ABEL. 

Neither  ;   we  must  perform  our  task  together. 
Spurn  me  not. 

CAIN. 

If  it  must  be  so well,  then. 

What  shall  I  do  ? 

ABEL. 

Choose  one  of  those  two  altars. 

CAIN. 

Choose  for  me  :   they  to  me  are  so  much  turf 

And  stone. 

ABEL. 

Choose  thou! 

CAIN. 

I  have  chosen. 

ABEL. 

'T  is  the  highest 

And  suits  thee,  as  the  elder.     Now  prepare 
Thine  orienngs. 

CAIN. 

Where  are  thine? 

ABEL. 

Behold  them  here — 
The  firstliuiis  of  the  flock,  and  fat  thereof — 
A  shepherd's  humble  olfenng. 

CAIN. 

I  have  no  flocks  : 
I  am  a  tiller  of  the  ground,  and  must 
Vield  what  it  yieldeth  lo  lay  toil — its  fruit  : 

[He  gathers  fruit?. 
Behold  them  in  their  various  bloom  and  ripeness. 

[Till  1/  'Ircsfi  thtir  iillurft^  and  kindle  ajtame  upon 


My  brother,  as  the  elder,  offer  first 

Thy  prayer  and  thanksgiving  with  sacrifice. 

C  A  I  N  . 

No — I  am  new  to  tliis  ;    lead  thou  the  way 
And  I  wiil  follow — as  I  may. 

A  BE  I,  {Liic.eling), 

Oh  Goa! 
Who  matle  us,  and  who  breathed  the  breath  of  life 
Witlun  our  nostrils,  who  hath  blessed  us, 
And  spared,  despite  our  father's  iiii,  to  make 


468 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


His  children  all  lost,  as  they  might  have  been, 

Had  not  thy  justice  been  so  teiiiper'd  with 

The  mercy  which  is  thy  delight,  as  to 

Accord  a  pardon  hke  a  paradise, 

Compared  with  our  great  crimes  : — Sole  Lord  of  light ! 

Of  good,  and  glory,  and  eternity  ! 

Without  whom  all  were  evil,  and  with  whom 

Nothing  can  err,  except  to  some  good  end 

Of  thine  omnipotent  benevolence — 

Inscrutable,  but  still  to  be  fulfiU'd — 

Accept  from  out  thy  humble  first  of  shepheid's 

First  of  the  first-born  flocks — an  ofierihg, 

In  itself  nothing — as  what  otiering  can  be 

Aught  unto  thee  ? — but  yet  accept  it  for 

The  thanksgiving  of  hiin  who  spreads  it  in 

The  face  of  thy  high  heaven,  bowing  his  own 

Even  to  the  dust,  of  which  he  is,  in  honoui 

Of  thee,  and  of  thy  name,  for  evermore ! 

CAIN  {standing  erect  during  this  speech). 
Spirit !   whate'er  or  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
Omnipotent,  it  may  be — and,  if  good. 
Shown  in  the  exem])tion  of  thy  deeds  from  evil ; 
Jehovah  upon  earth  !   and  God  in  heaven! 
And  it  may  be  with  other  names,  because 
Tiiine  attributes  seem  many,  as  thy  works  : 
If  thou  must  be  propitiated  with  prayers. 
Take  them  !   If  thou  must  be  induced  with  altars 
And  soften'd  with  a  sacrifice,  receive  ihem  ! 
Two  beings  here  erect  them  unto  thee. 
If  thou  lovest  blood,  the  shepherd's  shrine,  which  smokes 
On  my  right  hand,  hath  shed  it  for  thy  service. 
In  the  firs'  of  his  flock,  whoseMiinbs  now  reek 
In  sanguinary  incense  to  thy  skies  ; 
Oi  if  the  sweet  and  blooming  fruits  of  earth, 
And  niildei    seasons,  which  the  unstain'd  turf 
f  spread  them  on,  now  offers  in  llie  face 
Of  the  broad  sun  wliich  ripen'd  them,  may  seem 
Good  to  thee,  inasmuch  as  they  have  not 
Suffer'd  in  limb  or  life,  and  rather  form 
.A  sample  of  thy  works,  than  supplication 
To  look  on  ours !   If  a  shrine  witnout  victim, 
And  altar  without  gore,  may  win  thy  favour. 
Look  on  it !   and  for  him  who  dresseth  it. 
He  is — such  as  thou  mad'st  Inin  ;   and  seeks  nothing 
Which  must  be  won  by  kneeling  :    if  he  's  eyfl. 
Strike  him!   thou  art  oininpotent,  and  may'st, — 
For  what  can  he  opfjose  ?   If  he  be  good, 
Strike  hun,  or  spare  him,  as  thou  wilt !   since  all 
Rests  upon  thee  ;   and  good  and  evil  seem 
To  have  no  power  themselves,  save  in  thy  will  ; 
And  whether  that  be  good  or  ill  1  know  riot. 
Not  being  omnipotent,  or  fit  to  judge 
Omnipotence,  but  merely  to  endure 
Its  mandate,  which  thus  far  I  have  endured. 

[Thejire  upon  the  altar  of  Arki.  kindles  into  a 
column  of  the  brightest  fame,  and  ascends 
to  he(cven;  uhile  a  ii;hirlu}ind  throws  down 
the  altar  of  Cain,  and  scatters  the  fruits 
ahroad  upon  the  earth. 

ABKI,    {kneeling). 
h,  brother,  pray  !   Jehovah  's  wroth  with  thee  ! 

Why  so? 

ABKI,. 

Thy  fruits  are  scaltcr'd  on  the  earth. 

C  A  I  N  . 

From  e.irth  th<;y  came,  to  cnrlli  let  iheni  return; 
i'hfir  seed  will  besir  frcjsh  fniii  ilicrc;  ere;  the  summer: 
Thy  nuriit  flesli-offering  prospers  better  ;    set; 
Hon  iieaven  li<-ks  up  the  flames,  wlu;!!  tliick  with  blood  ' 


AEEt 

Think  not  upon  my  offering's  acceptanc«j 
But  make  another  of  thine  own  before 
It  is  too  late. 

CAIN. 

I  will  build  no  more  altars, 
Nor  suffer  any. — 

ABEL    {rising). 
Cain  !   what  meanest  thou? 

CAIN. 

To  cast  down  yon  vile  flatt'rer  of  the  clouds. 
The  smoky  harbinger  of  thy  dull  prayers — 
Thine  altar,  with  its  blood  of  lambs  and  kids, 
Which  fed  on  milk,  to  be  destroy'd  in  blood. 

ABEL    {opposing  him). 
Thou  shalt  not: — add  not  impious  works  to  impsoii 
Words  !   let  that  altar  stand — 't  is  hallow'd  now 
By  the  immortal  pleasure  of  Jehovah, 
In  his  acceptance  of  the  victims. 

CAIN. 

His ! 

His  pleasure  !  what  was  his  high  pleasure  In 
The  fiimes  of  scorching  flesh  and  smoking  blood, 
To  the  pain  of  the  bleating  mothers,  which 
Still  yearn  for  their  dead  offsnring?  or  the  pangs 
Of  the  sad  ignorant  victims  underneath 
Thy  [)ious  knife  ?   Give  way  !   this  bloorly  record 
Shall  not  stand  in  the  sun,  to  shame  creation ! 

ABEL. 

Brother,  give  back  !   thou  shalt  not  touch  my  altar 
With  violence  :   if  that  thou  wilt  adopt  it. 
To  try  another  sacrifice,  't  is  thine. 

CAIN. 

Another  sacrifice  !   Give  way,  or  else 
That  sacrifice  may  be 

ABEL. 

What  meanest  thou  ? 

CAJN. 

Give^ 
Give  way  !   thy  God  loves  blood  ! — th^^n  look  to  it  :  — 
Give  way,  ere  he  hath  more  ! 

ABEL. 

In  his  great  name, 
I  stand  between  thee  and  the  shrine  which  hath 
Had  his  acceptance. 

CAIN. 

If  thou  lov'st  thyself, 
Stand  back  till  I  have  strew'd  this  turf  along 

Its  native  soil : — else 

ABEL    ( opposing  him ) . 

I  love  God  far  more 
Than  life. 

CAIN    {strihing  him  vnth  a  brandy  on  the  temples,  v-hicf. 
he  snatches  from  the  (dtar). 
Then  take  thy  life  unto  tiiy  God, 
Since  he  loves  lives. 

ABEL    {falls). 

What  hast  thoii  done,  my  brother 

CAIN. 

Brother! 

ABEL. 

Oh,  God!   receive  my  servant,  and 
Forgive  bis  slay<'r,  for  he  knew  not  what 
H(!  did. — Cain,  give  me — give  iiic  thy  hand  ;    and  leli 
Poor  Zillah 


CAIN    {(ftcr  a  mof/irnt's  stii:> 

eftrtifin). 

IMij  Imnd!  'tis  all'i 
What? 

I'd,  and  wii 

\A  h,ngpaus..—  Ij>o 

■ing  slnn-lfi 

Whr.-am  I?   aloii.'!    WImt 

■.\    Mh'I? 

Cain?   ('an  itbe  tliat  I  am  he?    My 

brother. 

CAIN 


469 


Awake  ! — wliy  liest  thou  so  on  the  ^een  earth? 
T  is  not  the  hour  of  shnr';er: — whv  so  pale? 

Wliat  hast  thou  ? thou  wert  full  of  life  this  morn  ! 

Alioli    I  |irav  tlu-e,  mock  nie  not !    I  smote 

Too  lieroely,  hut  not  tatally.     Ah,  why 

Wouldsi  iliou  op|)ose  me  /  Tliis  is  mockery; 

And  only  done  to  daunt  me  : — 't  was  a  blow — 

Auvl  but  a  bhvv.     Stir — stir — nav,  onlv  stir! 

NVhy,  so — ihat's  well! — thou  breath'st !    breathe  upon 

me  ! 
Oh,  God!  Oh,  God! 

ABEL    {vcrt^  fdintlij). 

What 's  he  who  speaks  of  God  ? 

CAIN. 

Tliy  murderer. 

ABF.L. 

Then  may  God  forgive  him  !   Cain, 
Comfort  poor  Zillah: — she  has  but  one  brother 
Now.  [Abkl  iUcs. 

CAIN. 

And  I  none  !   Who  makes  me  brotherless  ? 
His  eyes  are  oj)en !   then  he  is  not  dead  ! 
Death  is  like  sleep  ;    and  sleep  shuts  down  our  lids. 
His  lips,  too,  are  apart ;    why  then  he  breathes  ! 
And'yet  I  feel  it  not. — His  heart ! — his  heart!  — 

Let  me  see,  doth  it  beat? — mefhinks No! — no! 

This  is  a  vision,  else  I  am  become 
The  native  of  another  and  worse  world. 
The  earth  swims  roimd  me  : — what  is  this  ? — 't  is  wet ; 
[Puts  hift  hand  to  hist  brow,  and  then  looks  at  it. 
And  yet  there  are  no  dews !   'Tis  blood— my  blood — 
My  brother's  and  my  own  ;   and  shed  by  me ! 
Then  wliat  have  I  further  to  do  with  life. 
Since  I  have  taken  life  from  mv  own  tlesh  ? 
But  he  cannot  be  dead  ! — Is  silence  death  ? 
No:   he  will  wake:   then  let  me  watch  bv  him. 
Life  cannot  be  so  slight,  as  to  be  quench'd 
Thus  quickly  ! — he  hath  spoken  to  me  since — 
What  shall  I  say  to  him? — My  brother  ! — No  ; 
He  will  not  answer  to  that  name  ;   for  brethren 
Smite  not  each  other.     Yet — yet — speak  to  me. 
Oh !   for  a  word  more  of  that  gentle  voice, 
That  I  may  bear  to  hear  my  own  again  ! 

Enter  Zillah. 

ZILLAH. 

[  heard  a  heavy  sound  :    what  can  it  be  ? 

'Tis  Cain;    and  watching  by  my  husband.     What 

Dosl  thou  there,  brother  ?  Doth  he  sleep  ?  Oh  !  heaven  ! 

What  means  this  paleness,  and  yon  stream  ? — No  !  no  ! 

[t  is  not  blood  ;   for  who  would  shed  his  blood  ? 

Abel  !   what 's  this  ! — who  hath  done  this  ?  He  moves 

not  ; 
He  breathes  not :   and  his  hands  drop  down  from  mine 
With  stony  Ufelessness  !   Ah  !   cruel  Cain! 
Why  cam'st  thou  not  in  time  to  save  him  from 
This  violence  ?   Whatever  hath  assail'd  him, 
Thou  wert  the  stronger,  and  should'st  have  stepp'd  in 
Between  liim  aiid  aggression  !   Father  ! — five  ! — 
Adah  ! — come  hither  !   Death  is  in  the  world! 

[Exit  Zillah  calling  nn  her  parents^  etc. 
CAIN'    {sohii). 
And  who  hath  brought  him  there  ? — I — who  abhor 
The  name  of  death  so  deeply,  that  the  thought 
Empoison'd  all  my  life,  before  I  knew 
His  aspect — I  have  led  him  here,  and  given 
My  brother  to  his  cold  and  still  embrace. 
As  if  he  would  not  have  asserted  his 
Inexorable  claim  without  mv  aid. 
I  am  awake  at  last — a  dr  ^ary  dream 
Had  madden'c'  me  ;  —  but  he  shall  ne'er  iwake! 


Enter  Adam,  Eve,  Adah,  anr,  Zillah. 

ADAM. 

A  voice  of  woe  from  Zillah  brings  me  here. — 
What  do  I  see  ? — 'T  is  true  ! — My  sou  ! 
^Volnan,  behold  the  serpent's  work,  and  thine  ! 

[Tc  Eve. 

EVE. 

Oh  !   speak  not  of  it  now  :   the  s-erpcni  s  tangs 
Are  in  my  heart.    My  best  beloved,  Abel ! 
Jehovah  !   this  is  punishment  beyond 
A  mother's  sin,  to  take  htm  from  me! 

ADAVI. 

Who, 
Or  what  hath  done  this  deed  ? — speak,  Cain,  since  thou 
Wert  present :   was  it  some  more  hostile  angel, 
Who  walks  not  with  Jehovah  ?  or  some  wild 
Brute  of  the  forrest  ? 

EVE. 

Ah  !   a  livid  light 
Breaks  through,  as  from  a  thunder-cloud  !   yon  brand. 
Massy  and  bloody  !   snatcli'd  from  off  the  altar, 
And  black  wiih  smoke,  and  red  with 

ADAM. 

Speak,  my  son ' 
Speak,  and  assure  us,  wretched  as  we  are, 
That  we  are  not  more  miserable  still. 

ADAH. 

Speak,  Cain  !  and  say  it  was  not  thou  ! 

EVE. 

It  was. 
I  see  it  now — he  hangs  his  guilty  head. 
And  covers  his  ferocious  eye  with  hands 
Incarnadine. 

ADAH. 

Mother,  thou  dost  him  wrong- 
Cain  !  clear  thee  from  this  horrible  accusal, 
Which  grief  wrings  from  our  parent. 

EVE. 

Hear,  Jehovah ' 

May  the  eternal  rerpent's  curse  be  on  him  I 
For  he  was  titter  for  his  seed  than  ours. 
May  all  his  days  be  desolate  !   May 

ADAH. 

Hold! 
Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  thy  son  - 
Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  my  l)rotlier, 
And  my  betroth'd. 

EVE. 

He  hath  left  thee  no  brother— 
Zillah  no  husband — me  no  son  ! — for  this 
[  curse  him  from  my  sight  for  evermore ! 
All  bonds  I  break  between  us,  as  ho  broke 

That  of  his  nature,  in  yon Oh  death  !   death ! 

Why  didst  thou  not  take  me^  who  first  incurr'd  thee? 
Why  dost  thou  not  so  now  ? 

ADAM. 

Eve  !  let  not  this, 
Thy  natural  grief,  lead  to  impiety  ! 
A  heavy  doom  was  long  fortspoken  to  us  ; 
And  now  that  it  begins,  let  it  be  borne 
In  such  sort  as  may  show  our  God,  that  we 
Are  faithful  servants  to  his  holy  will. 

EVE    ( pointing  to  Cain). 
His  wdt  /  the  will  of  yon  incarnate  spirit 
Of  death,  whom  I  have  brought  upon  the  eartli 
To  strew  it  with  the  dead.    May  all  the  curses 
Of  life  be  on  him !   and  his  agonies 
Drive  him  forth  o'er  the  wilderness,  like  us, 
From  Eden,  till  his  children  do  by  him 
As  he  did  by  his  brother!    May  the  swords 
And  wings  of  fiery  cherub  jn  pursue  him 


470 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


By  day  and  night — siiakes  spring  up  in  his  path — 
Earth's  fruits  be  ashes  in  his  mouth — the  leaves 
On  which  he  lays  his  head  to  sleep  be  strew'd 
With  scoroions  !   May  his  dreams  be  of  his  victim  ! 
Bis  waKmg  a  continual  dread  of  death  ! 
May  the  clear  rivers  turn  to  blood,  as  he 
Stoops  down  to  stain  them  with  his  racing  lip ! 
May  every  element  shun  or  chaui-e  to  him  ! 
May  he  live  in  the  pangs  which  others  die  with ! 
And  death  itself  tvax  something  worse  than  death 
To  him  who  first  acquainted  him  with  man  ! 
Hence,  jVatricide!   henceforth  that  word  is  Cain, 
TTTrough  all  the  coming  myriads  of  mankind, 
Who  shall  abhor  thee,  though  thou  wert  their  sire  ! 
May  the  grass  wither  from  thy.  feet !   the  woods 
Deny  thee  sheher  !   earth  a  home  !   the  dust 
A  grave  !   the  sun  his  light !   and  heaven  her  God  ! 

[Exit  Eve. 

ADAM. 

Cain  !  gel  thee  forth  ;  we  dwell  no  more  together. 
Depart !  and  leave  the  dead  to  me — I  am 
Henceforth  alone — we  never  must  meet  more. 

ADAH. 

Oh,  part  not  with  him  thus,  my  father  :   do  not 
Add  thy  deep  curse  to  Eve's  upon  his  head  ! 

ADA.M. 

I  curse  him  not :   his  spirit  be  fiis  curse. 
Come,  Zillah ! 

ZILLAH, 

I  must  watch  n.y  husband's  corse. 

ADAM. 

We  will  return  again,  when  he  is  gone 
Who  hath  provided  for  us  this  dread  office. 
Come,  Zillah ! 

ZILLAH. 

Yet  one  kiss  on  yon  pale  clay, 
\nd  those  lips  once  so  warm — my  heart !   my  heart ! 
[Exeunt  Adam  and  Zillah,  weeping. 

ADAH. 

Cain  I  thou  hast  heard,  we  must  go  forth.  I  am  ready ; 

So  shall  our  children  be.     I  will  bear  Enoch, 

And  you  his  sister.     Ere  the  sun  dechnes 

Let  us  depart,  nor  walk  the  wilderness 

Under  the  cloud  of  night. — Nay,  sj>eak  to  me, 

To  me — thine  own. 

CAIN. 

Leave  me ! 

ADAH. 

Why,  all  have  left  thee. 

CAIN. 

And  wherefore  lingerest  thou  ?  Dose  thou  not  fear 
To  dwell  with  one  who  hath  done  this? 

ADAH. 

I  fear 
Nothing  except  to  leave  thee,  much  as  I 
Shrink  from  the  deed  which  leaves  thee  brotherless. 
I  must  not  sjieak  of  this— it  is  between  thee 
\nd  the  great  God. 

A  Voice  from  wiOiin  exclaims, 
Cain!   Cain! 

ADAH. 

Hear' St  thou  that  voice? 
Tlie  Voice  within, 
Cain!  Caini 

ADAH. 

It  soundeth  like  an  anixel's  tone. 
Enter  the  Anokl  of  the  Lohd. 

ANGEL. 

Where  is  thy  !:)rother  Abel? 


Am  I  then 
My  brother's  kee[>er  ? 

ANGEL. 

Cain  !   what  hast  thou  aonv/f 
The  voice  of  thy  slain  brother's  blood  cries  out. 
Even  from  the  ground,  unto  the  Lord  ! — Now  art  tliou 
Cursed  from  the  earth,  which  opentd  late  her  mouth 
To  drink  thy  brother's  blood  from  thy  rash  hand. 
Henceforth,  when  thou  shall  till  the  ground,  it  shall  not 
Yield  thee  her  strength  ;   a  fugitive  shalt  thou 
Be  from  this  day,  and  vagabond  on  earth  I 

ADAH. 

This  punishment  is  more  than  he  can  bear. 

Behold,  thou  drivest  him  from  the  face  of  earth, 

And  from  the  face  of  God  shall  he  be  hid. 

A  fugitive  and  vagabond  on  earth, 

'1'  will  come  to  pass,  tliat  whoso  findeth  him 

Shall  slay  him. 

C^IN. 

Would  thr^y  could  !   but  who  are  the) 
Shall  slay  me  ?   where  are  these  on  the  lone  earth 
As  yet  unpeopled  ? 

ANGEL. 

Thou  hast  slain  thy  brother. 
And  who  shall  wairant  thee  against  thy  son? 

A  D  V  H . 

Angel  of  light  I   be  merciful,  nor  say 

That  this  poor  aching  breast  now  nourishes 

A  murderer  in  my  boy,  and  of  his  father. 

ANGEL. 

Then  he  would  but  be  what  his  father  is. 
Did  not  the  milk  of  Eve  give  nutriment 
To  him  thou  now  see'st  so  hesmear'd  with  li^ood? 
The  fratricide  might  well  enjjender  parricides. — 
But  it  shall  not  be  so — the  Lord'  thv  GoiT~'        " — ~- 
And  mine  commandeth  me  a>  set  his  seal 
On  Cain,  so  that  he  may  go  forth  m  safety. 
Who  slayeih  Cain,  a  sevenfold  vengeance  shaU 
Be  taken  on  his  head.     Come  hither ! 
CAiri. 

What 
Wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 

ANGEL. 

To  mark  upon  thy  brovf 
Exemption  from  such  deeds  as  ihou  hast  done. 

CAIN. 

No,  let  me  die ! 

ANGEL. 

It  must  not  be. 
[The  Angel  sets  the  mark  on  Cain's  brow. 

CAIN. 

It  burns 
My  brow,  but  nought  to  that  which  is  within  it. 
Is  there  more?   lei  me  meet  it  as  I  may. 

ANGEL. 

Stern  hast  thou  been  and  stiihborn  from  the  womh, 
As  the  ground  thou  must  henceforth  till  ;   but  he 
Thou  slew'st  was  gentle  as  the  flocks  he  tended. 

CAIN. 

After  the  fall  too  soon  was  I  begotten  ; 

Ere  yet  my  mother's  mind  subsided  from 

The  serpent,  and  my  sire  stili  mourn'd  for  Eden. 

That  which  I  am,  I  am ;   I  did  not  seek 

For  life,  nor  did  I  make  myself;   but  could  I 

With  my  own  death  redeem  him  from  the  dust — 

And  why  not  so?   let  him  return  to  day. 

And  I  lie  ghastly!   so  shall  be  restored 

I}y  God  the  lifij  to  him  he  loved  ;   and  taken 

From  me  a  being  I  ne'er  loved  to  bear. 

ANGEL. 

Who  shall  heal  murder  ?   what  is  done  is  done. 


SxVRDANAPALUS. 


471 


Go  forth  !   fulfil  thy  days  !   and  he  thy  deeds 

Unhke  the  last!  [The  Angel  dixappenrs, 

ADAH. 

He  's  gone,  let  us  go  forth  ; 
i  heai  our  little  Enoch  cry  within 
Our  bower. 

•  CAIV. 

Ah!   little  knows  he  what  he  weeps  for! 
And  I  who  nave  shed  blood  cannot  shed  tears  ! 
But  the  four  rivers  '  would  not  cleanse  my  soul. 
Tiiiulv'st  thou  my  boy  wil!  bear  to  look  on  me? 

ADAH. 

I  thought  that  he  woidd  not,  I  would — 
CAIN  [iiUcrru^tvii^  her). 

No, 
No  more  of  threats  :   we  have  had  too  many  of  iheni : 
(Jo  to  our  children ;   I  will  follow  thee. 

ADA}!. 

I  will  not  leave  thee, lonely  with  the  dead; 
Let  us  depart  together. 

CAI\, 

Oh  !   thou  dead 
And  everlasting  witness  !   whose  unsinking 
Blood  darkens  earth  and  heaven !    wiiat  thou  7iow  art, 
I  know  not !   but  if  thou  see"st  what  /  am, 
I  think  thou  wilt  forgive  hnn,  whom  his  God 
Can  ne'er  forgive,  nor  his  own  soul. — Farewell! 
[  must  not,  dare  not,  touch  what  I  have  made  thee. 
I,  who  sprung  from  the  same  Nvomb  witli  ihee,  drain'd 
The  same  breast,  clasp'd  thee  often  to  my  own, 
In  fondness  brotherly  and  boyish,  I    . 
Can  never  meet  tiiee  more,  nor  even  dare 
To  do  that  for  thee,  which  thou  shouldst  have  done 
for  me — compose  thy  limbs  into  their  grave — 
The  first  grave  yet  dug  for  mortality. 
But  who  iiath  dug  that  grave?   Oh,  earth!   Oh,  earth  ! 
For  all  the  fruits  thou  hast  render'd  to  me,  I 
Give  thee  back  this. — Now  for  the  wilderness. 

[Ai^AH  stoops  down  and  kisses  the  body  of  Abkl. 

ADAH. 

A  dreary,  and  an  early  doom,  my  brother. 
Has  been  thy  lot !   Of  all  who  mourn  for  thee, 
I  alone  must  not  weep.      My  ollice  is 
Henceforth  to  dry  up  tears,  and  not  to  shed  them  ; 
But  yet,  of  all  who  mourn,  none  mourn  like  me. 
Not  only  for  thyseii',  b-j*  him  who  slew  thee. 
Now,  Cain!   I  will  divide  thy  burden  with  thee. 

CAIN. 

Eastward  from  Eden  will  we  take  our  wav; 
'Tis  the  most  desolate,  and  suits  my  steps. 

ADAH. 

Lead  !   thou  shalt  be  my  guide,  and  may  our  God 
FJe  thine !   Now  let  us  carry  forth  our  children. 

CAIN. 

A-ml  he  who  lieth  there  was  childless. 
I  iinvc  dried  tlu;  fountam  of  a  gentle  race, 
Wh'ch  might  have  graced  his  recent  marriage  couch, 
And  might  liave  temper'd  this  stern  blood  of  mine, 
Uniting  with  our  children  Abel's  otfsprmg! 
Abel. 

ADAH. 

I'eace  be  with  him ! 

CAIN. 

But  with  77JC  .' 

[EjKunt. 


I  The  "  four  riveis"  v.) 
qucnily  the  only  waters  wi 
thfc  eartli. 


ich  flowr.i  round  Kdcii,  ;ui;l  ronse- 
li  wliicli  Cain  uas  ic';uaiiii^.'<l  upoa 


A    HISTORICAL   TRAGEDY. 


PREFACE. 

In  publishing  the  Tragedies  oC  Sardanapnlus,  and  ot 
The  Two  fjstcarij  I  have  only  to  repeat  that  they  weie 
not  composed  with  the  most  remote  view  lo  the  stage. 

On  the  attempt  made  by  the  managers  in  a  former 
instance,  the  ])ublic  ()|)inion  has  been  already  expressed. 

With  regard  to  my  own  private  feelings,  as  it  seems 
that  they  are  to  stand  for  nothing,  I  shall  sav  nothing. 

For  the  historical  foundation  of  the  compositions  in 
question,  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  Notes. 

The  author  has  in  one  instance  attempted  lo  pre- 
serve, and  in  the  other  to  approach  the  "  unities  ;"  con- 
ceiving that,  with  anv  very  distant  departure  from 
them,  there  may  be  poetry,  but  can  be  no  drama.  He 
is  aware  of  the  uiipopularitv  of  this  notion,  m  |)re- 
sent  English  literature  ;  but  it  is  not  a  system  of  his 
own,  being  merely  an  opinion  which,  not  very  long 
ago,  was  the  law  of  literature  thn^ughout  the  worhi, 
and  is  still  so  in  the  more  civilized  parts  of  A.  But 
"  Nous  avons  change  tout  ceja,"  and  are  reauing  the 
advantages  of  the  change.  The  writer  is  f  tr  from  con- 
ceivini£  that  any  thiuij  he  can  adduce  by  personal  pre- 
cept or  example  can  at  ail  apfiroach  his  regular,  or  even 
irreirula.r  predecessors  :  he  is  merely  giving  a  rmsoii  why 
he  preferred  the  more  regular  formation  of  a  structure, 
however  feeble,  to  an  entire  abandonment  of  all  rulcr> 
whatsoever.  Where  he  has  failed,  the  failure  is  in  the 
architect, — and  not  in  the  art. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

Ln  this  tragedy  it  has  been  my  intention  to  follow  the 
account  of  Diodorus  Siculus,  reducing  it,  however,  to 
such  dramatic  regularity  as  I  best  could,  and  trying  to 
approach  the  unities.  I  therefore  suppose  the  rebellion 
to  explode  and  succeed  in  one  day  by  a  sudden  con 
spiracy,  instead  of  the  long  war  of  the  history. 


DRAMATIS  PERSOX.'E. 
MEN. 

Sardanapalus,  Kin^  of  Nineveh  and  Assyria,  etc 

Arbaces,  tlie  jMede  who  aspired  to  the  Throne. 

Beleses,  a  Chnidcati  and  Soothsayer. 

Salemenes,  the  King^  Brothcr-in-lnw. 

Alt  A  DA,  an  Assyrian  Ojicer  of  the  Palace. 

Pania. 

Zames. 

Sfero. 

Bale  A. 

WOMEN. 
Zarina,  the  Queen. 
MvRRHA,  an  Ionian  female  slave,  and  the  Javounl' 

of  Sardanapalus. 
Women  composing  the  Harem   of  Sa  RDANAPALUe 
Guards,  Attendants,  Chaldean  Pnests, 
Medes,  etc.,  etc. 


Scene — a  Hall  in  the  Rcval  Palace  of  Nineveli. 


472 


BYKON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


S^RDANAPALUS. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Hall  in  the  Palace. 

SALEMENES    {solus). 

Hr  hath  wrong'd  his  queen,  but  still  he  is  her  lord ; 

He  hath  wrong'd  my  sister,  still  he  is  my  brother ; 

He  hath  wrong'd  his  people,  still  he  is  their  sovereign, 

And  I  must  be  his  friend  as  well  as  subject; 

He  must  not  perish  thus.     I  will  not  see 

The  blood  of  Niinrod  and  Seiniramis 

Sink  in  the  earth,  and  thirteen  hundred  years 

Of  empire  ending  like  a  shepherd's  tale  ; 

He  must  be  roused.     In  his  etfeminate  heart 

There  is  a  careless  courage,  which  corruption 

Has  not  all  quench'd,  and  latent  energies, 

Represt  by  circumstance,  but  not  destroy'd — 

Steep'd  but  not  drown'd,  in  deep  voluptuousness. 

If  born  a  peasant,  he  had  been  a  man 

To  have  reach'd  an  empire  ;   to  an  empire  born, 

He  will  bequeath  none  ;   nothing  but  a  name, 

Which  bis  sons  w.ll  not  prize  in  heritage  : 

Yet,  not  all  lost,  even  yet  he  may  redeem 

His  sloth  and  shame,  by  only  being  thai 

Which  he  should  be,  as  easily  as  the  thing 

He  should  not  be  and  is.   Were  it  less  toil 

To  swav  his  nations  than  consume  his  life? 

To  head  an  army  than  to  rule  a  harem? 

He  sweats  in  palling  pleasures,  dulls  bis  soul, 

And  saps  his  goodly  strength,  in  toils  which  yield  not 

Health  like  the  chase,  nor  glory  like  the  war — 

He  must  be  roused.     Alas  !   there  is  no  sound 

[Sound  of  soft  music  heard  from  within. 
To  rouse  him,  short  of  thunder.     Hark  !   the  lute, 
The  lyre,  the  timbrel ;   the  lascivious  tinklings 
Of  lulling  instruments,  the  so<i(  ning  voices 
Of  women,  and  of  beings  less  than  women, 
Must  chime  in  to  the  echo  of  his  revel, 
While  the  great  king  of  all  we  know  of  earth 
Lolls  crowii'd  with  roses,  and  his  diadem 
Lies  negliiiently  bv,  to  be  caught  u{) 
By  the  first  manly  hand  which  dares  to  snatch  it. 
Lo,  where  they  come !   already  I  perceive 
The  reeking  odours  of  the  perfumed  trains, 
And  see  the  bright  gems  of  the  glittering  girls, 
Who  are  his  comrades  and  his  council,  flash 
A  :<ng  the  gallery,  and  amidst  the  damsels. 
As  feminmely  gnrb'd,  and  scarce  less  female. 
The  erandson  of  Semiramis,  the  man-queen. — 
He  comes!     Shall  I  await  him?  yes,  and  front  him, 
And  tell  him  what  all  good  men  tell  each  other. 
Speaking  of  him  and  his.     They  come,  the  slaves, 
Led  by  the  monarch  subject  to  his  slaves. 


SCENE  n. 

Ente   Sardanapalus,  effeminately  dressed,  his  Head 

(mrwned  xmth  Flowers,  and  his  liohe  neiflif^ently  fow- 

in^,   attended    hy  a     Train  of    IVornen    and  young 

Sla  rs. 

8AHI)anapam;s  {sj}fali>ii^  to  some  of  his  attendants). 

Let  the  pavilion  over  the  Euphrates 

Be  garlanded,  and  lit,  and  furnish'd  forth 

r''or  an  especial  banfjuet;   at  the  hour 

Of  midnight  vo  will  sup  there ;  see  nought  wanting, 


And  bid  the  galley  be  prepared.     There  is 
A  cooling  breeze  which  crisps  the  bioad  clear  rivoi  , 
We  will  embark  anon.     Fair  nymphs,  who  deign 
To  share  the  soft  hours  of  Sardamqial'is, 
We  '11  meet  again  in  that  the  sweetest  ..our. 
When  we  shall  gather  like  the  stars  above  us. 
And  vou  will  form  a  heaven  as  brigiit  as  theirs  9 
Till  then,  let  each  be  mistress  of  her  time, 
And  thou,  my  own  Ionian  Myrrha,  choose, 
Wilt  thou  along  with  them  or  me  ? 
myrkha. 

My  lord 

sardanapalus. 
My  lord,  my  life  !   why  answerest  thou  so  coldly! 
It  is  the  curse  of  kings  to  be  so  ans  .vered. 
Rule  thy  own  hours,  thou  rulest  mine — say,  v.ouldst  thou 
Accomi)any  our  guests,  or  charrn  away 
The  moments  from  me  ? 

MYRRHA. 

The  king's  choice  is  mine. 

SARDANAPAI-US. 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so :   my  chiefest  joy 

Is  to  contribute  to  thine  every  wish. 

I  do  not  dare  to  breath  my  own  desire. 

Lest  it  should  clash  with  thine  :   for  thou  art  still 

Too  prompt  to  sacrifice  thy  thoughts  for  others. 

MVRRII  \. 

I  would  remain  :   I  have  no  liappiness 
Save  in  beholding  thine  ;   yet- 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yet !  what  y£  i  ? 
Thy  own  sweet  will  snaii  ne  the  only  barrier 
Which  ever  rises  betwixt  thee  and  me. 

M  Y  R  R  II  A . 

I  think  the  present  is  the  wotifed  hour 
Of  council ;   it  were  bettor  I  retire. 

SALEMENES  {comcs  foTvmrd,  and  says). 
The  Ionian  slave  says  well ;   let  her  retire. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Who  answers'/     How  now,  brother? 

SALEMENES. 

The  queens  brother 
And  your  most  faithful  vassal,  royal  lord. 

SARDANAPALUS  {addressing  his  train). 
As  I  have  said,  let  all  dispose  their  hours 
Till  midnight,  when  again  we  pray  your  presence, 

[Thertnirt  retiring 
{To  Myrrha,  who  is  going.) 
Myrrha!   I  thought  thou  wouldsi  remain. 

MYRHHA. 

Great  king, 
Thou  didst  not  say  so. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

But  thou  lookedst  it ; 
I  know  each  glance  of  those  Ionic  eyes, 
Which  said  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me. 

MYRRHA. 

Sire  !  your  brother 

SALEMENES. 

His  consort\s  brother,  minion  of  Ionia! 
How  darest  thou  name  vie  and  not  lilush  ? 

SARD/.NAPALUS. 

Not  blush  ! 
Thou  hast  no  more  eyes  than  heart  to  make  her  crimson 
Like  to  the  dying  day  on  Caucasus, 
Where  sunset  tints  the  snow  with  rosy  shadows. 
And  then  reproach  her  with  thine  own  cold  blindness, 
Which  will  not  see  it.     What,  in  tears,  my  Myrrha? 

SALEMENES. 

Let  them  flow  on  ;   she  weeps  for  more  than  one, 
And  is  herself  the  cause  -^f  bitterer  tears. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


478 


SARDAXAPALCS. 

Cursed  be  he  who  caused  those  tears  to  flow  ! 

SALE.ME.NKS. 

Curse  not  thyself— millions  do  that  already. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thou  dost  forget  ihee  :   make  me  not  remember 
I  am  a  monarch. 

SALEME.NES. 

Would  thou  couldst ! 

MVRRHA. 

My  sovereign, 
1  prav,  and  thou  too,  prince,  permit  my  absence. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Since  it  must  be  so,  anil  this  churl  has  check'd 

Thv  ijentle  spirit,  jio ;   but  recollect 

Tiial  we  must  forthwith  meet:   1  had  rather  lose 

An  empire  than  thy  presence.  [Exit  Mvrkha. 

SALE.MKNF.S. 

It  mav  be, 
'J'hou  wilt  lose  both,  and  both  for  ever! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Brother, 
I  can  at  least  command  myself,  who  listen 
To  language  such  as  this  ;   yet  urge  me  not 
Bevond  my  easy  nature. 

SALEMK.NES. 

'Tis  beyond 
That  easv,  far  too  easy,  idle  nature, 
Which  I  would  urae  thee.    Oh  that  I  could  rouse  thee! 
Though  't  were  against  myself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

By  the  god  Baal ! 
The  man  would  make  me  tyrant. 

SALEMENES. 

So  thou  art. 
Think'st  tliou  there  is  no  tvranny  but  that 
Of  blood  and  chains  ?     The  despotism  of  vice — 
The  weakut'ss  and  the  wickedness  ot'  luxury — 
The  neahgence — the  apathy- -the  evils 
Of  sensual  sloth — prodm^e  ten  thousand  tyrants, 
Wiiose  delegated  cruelty  surpasses 
The  worst  acts  of  one  energetic  master, 
Howe\ er  harsh  and  hard  m  his  own  bearing. 
The  false  and  tond  examples  of  thy  lusts 
Corrupt  no  less  than  they  oppress,  and  sap 
In  the  same  moment  all  thy  paijeant  power, 
And  those  who  should  sustain  it ;   so  that  w  hethet 
A  foreign  foe  invade,  or  civil  broil 
Distract  within,  both  will  alike  prove  fatal: 
The  tirst  thy  subjects  have  no  heart  to  conquer ; 
The  last  they  rather  uould  assist  than  vanquish. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why,  what  makes  thee  the  mouth-piece  of  the  people? 

SALEXIENES. 

Forgiveness  of  the  queen,  my  sister's  wrongs  ; 
A  natural  love  unto  my  infant  nephews; 
Faith  to  the  kini;,  a  faith  he  may  need  shortly, 
In  more  than  words;   respect  for  Nimrod's  line; 
Also,  another  thing  thou  kriowest  not. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What  's  that? 

SALEMENES. 

To  thee  an  unknown  word. 

SaRDANAP  VLUS. 

Yet  speak  it, 
I  love  to  learn. 

SALEMENES. 

Virtue. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not  know  the  word! 
Vpvcr  was  worn  yet  rung  so  in  my  ears — 
Worse  th  m  the  rabble's  shout,  or  splitting  trumpet; 
I'vt  heard  thy  sister  talk  of  nothing  else. 


SALEMENES. 

To  change  the  irkson.e  theme,  then,  hear  of  vice. 

SARL»VX  APALUS. 

From  whom? 

SALEMENES. 

Even  from  the  winds,  if  thou  couldst  listen 
Unto  the  echoes  of  the  nation's  voice. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Come,  I'm  indul^zent  as  thou  knowest,  patient 

As  thou  hast  often  proved — s|ieak  out,  wliat  moves  thee 

SALEMENES. 

Thy  peril. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Say  on. 

SALEMENES. 

Thus,  then  :   all  the  nations, 
For  thev  are  manv,  whom  thy  father  left 
In  heritage,  are  loud  in  wrath  ugaiiisl  thee. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'Gainst  me  !  What  would  the  slaves  ? 

SALEMENES. 
SARDANAPALUS. 


A  king. 


And  whal 
Am  I  then? 

SALEMENES. 

In  their  eyes  a  nothing  ;    but 
In  mine  a  man  who  might  be  something  still. 

SAJIDANAPA  LUS. 

The  railing  drunkards!   why,  what  would  they  have? 
Have  they  not  peace  and  plenty  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Of  the  first, 
More  than  is  glorious  ;   of  the  last,  tar  less 
Than  the  king  recks  of. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Whose  then  is  the  crimCj 
But  the  false  satraps,  who  provide  no  better  / 

SALEMENES. 

And  somewhat  ".n  the  monarch  wlio  ne'er  iooks 
Bevond  his  pak.ce  walls,  or  if  he  stirs 
Bevond  them,  'tis  but  to  some  mountain  palace. 
Till  summer  heats  wear  down,     O  glorious  Baal' 
Who  built  up  this  vast  empire,  and  wert  made 
A  god,  or  at  the  least  slunest  like  a  god 
Through  the  long  ceiiUines  of  thy  renown, 
Tliis,  thv  [)resumed  descendant,  ne'er  beheld 
As  king  the  kingdoms  tlmu  didsl  leave  as  hero, 
Won  with  thy  blood,  and  toil,  ami  time,  and  peril' 
For  what?   to  furnish  him  imposts  tor  a  revel. 
Or  multiplied  extortions  for  a  nuiuon. 

SAKDANAPALL  S. 

I  understand  thee — thou  wouldsi  have  me  go 
Forth  as  a  coiKUieror.      By  all  the  stars 
Which  the  Chaldeans  read  I    the  restless  slaves 
Deserve  that  I  should  curse  them  with  their  wishes, 
And  lead  them  forth  to  glory. 

SALEMENES. 

Wherefore  !iot? 
Semiramis — a  woman  only — led 
These  our  Assyrians  to  tiie  solar  shores 
Of  Ganges. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'Tis  most  true.      And  how  return'd? 

SALEMENES. 

Why,  like  a  man — a  hero  ;   bafiled,  but 

Not  vanquish'd.     Wi'h  but  twenty  guards,  she  made 

Good  her  retreat  to  Bactria. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  how  many 
Left  she  behind  in  India  to  the  vultures? 


474 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


SALEMENES. 

Our  annais  say  not. 

SAF.PANAPALUP. 

Then  I  will  say  for  them — 
That  she  had  better  woven  within  her  palace 
Some  twenty  garments,  than  with  twenty  guards 
Have  fled  to  Bactria,  leaving  to  ihe  ravens, 
And  wolves,  and  men — the  fiercer  of  the  three, 
Her  myriads  of  fond  subjects.      Is  this  glory? 
Then  let  me  liv  „>  in  ignominy  ever. 

SALEMENES. 

All  warlike  spirits  have  not  the  same  fate. 
Semiramis,  the  gloridus  parent  of 
A  hundred  kmgs,  allhough  she  fail'd  m  India, 
Brought  Persia,  Media,  Bactria,  to  tb(;  realm 
Which  she  once  sway'd— and  thou  miglUst  sway. 

SAUDANAPALUS. 

I  sway  them — 
She  but  subdued  them. 

SALEMENES. 

It  mav  be  ere  long 
That  they  will  need  her  sword  more  than  your  sceptre. 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

There  was  a  certam  Bacchus,  was  there  not  ? 

I've  heard  my  Greek  girls  speak  of  such — they  say 

He  was  a  god,  that  is,  a  Grecian  god, 

An  idol  foreign  to  Assyria's  worship. 

Who  coiHjuer'd  this  same  golden  realm  of  Ind 

Thou  pratest  of,  where  Semiramis  was  vanquish'd. 

SALEMENES. 

I  have  heard  of  such  a  man  ;   and  thou  perceivest 
That  he  is  deem'd  a  god  for  what  he  did. 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

And  ill  his  godship  I  will  honour  him — 

Not  much  as  man.     What,  ho!   my  cupbearer! 

SALEMENES. 

What  means  the  king  ? 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

To  worshi[>  your  new  god 
And  ancient  contjueror.     Some  wine,  I  say. 
Enter  Cupbearer. 
SAKDANAPALUS  {(icldref^sing  the  Cupbearer). 
Bring  me  the  jjolden  goblet  thick  with  gems. 
Which  bears  the  name  of  Nimrod's  chalice.     Hence, 
Fill  full,  and  bear  it  quickly.  [Exit  Cupbearer. 

SALEMENES. 

Is  this  moment 
A  fitting  one  for  the  resumption  of 
Thy  yet  unslept-ofli'  revels? 

Re-enter  Cupbearer^  vnth  wine. 
SAKDANAPALUS  {taking  the  cup  from  him). 
Noble  kinsman, 
If  these  barbarian  Greeks  of  ♦he  far  shores 
And  skirts  of  tln-se  our  realms  lie  not,  this  Bacciiiis 
Conquer'd  the  whole  of  India,  did  he  not? 

SAI  EMENES. 

He  did,  and  tncnce  was  leem'd  a  deity. 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

Not  so: — of  all  his  coiwpiests  a  few  columns, 
Which  mav  be  his,  and  nn<;ht  be  mine,  if  I 
Thought  them  worth  purchase  and  convevance,  are 
The  landmarks  of  thi;  seas  of  gore  he  shed. 
The  realms  lie  wasted,  and  the  hearts  he  broke. 
But  here,  here  in  this  'goblet,  is  his  title 
T>  immortaiitv — ih^'  immortal  ".'rape 
From  which  he  first  express'd  the  soul,  and  gave 
i'o  gladden  that  of  man,  as  some  atoniMiient 
For  the  victorious  mischiefs  he  had  done. 
Uai  it  not  been  for  this,  he  would  have  been 


A  mortal  still  in  name  as  in  his  grave ; 
And,  like  my  ancestor  Semiramis, 
A  sort  of  semi-glorious  human  monster. 
Here  's  that  which  deified  him — let  it  now 
Humanize  thee ;   my  surly,  chiding  brother 
Pledge  me  to  the  Greek  god  ! 

SALEMENES. 

For  all  thy  reaims 
I  would  not  SO  blaspheme  our  country's  creed. 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

That  is  to  say,  thou  thinkest  him  a  hero, 

That  he  shed  blood  by  oceans  ;   and  no  god. 

Because  he  turn'd  a  fruit  to  an  enchantment, 

Which  cheers  the  sad,  revives  the  old,  inspires 

The  young,  makes  Weariness  forget  his  toil, 

And  Fear  her  danger  ;   opens  a  new  vvorld 

When  this,  the  present,  palls.   Well,  then  /  pledge  the<?, 

And  him  as  a  true  man,  who  did  his  utmost 

In  good  or  evil  to  surprise  mankind.  [Z)  inkh. 

SALEMENES. 

Wilt  thou  resume  a  revel  at  this  hour  ? 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

And  if  I  did,  't  were  better  than  a  trophy, 

I?eing  bought  without  a  tear.      But  that  is  not 

My  present  purpose :   since  thou  wilt  not  pledge  me, 

Continue  what  thou  pleasest. 

{To  the  Cupbearer).  Boy,  retire- 

[Eocit  Cupbearer. 

SALEMENES. 

I  would  but  have  recall'd  thee  from  thy  dream : 
Better  by  me  awaken'd  than  rebellion. 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

Who  should  rebel  ?   or  whv?   what  cause?  preto\:t? 

I  am  the  lawful  kini:,  d'-srended  from 

A  race  of  kings  who  knew  no  predecessors. 

Wliat  have  I  done  to  thee,  or  to  the  people, 

That  thou  shouldst  rail,  or  they  rise  up  agaipnst  me? 

SALEMENES. 

Of  what  thou  hast  done  to  mc,  I  speak  not. 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

But 
Thou  think'st  that  I  have  wrong'd  the  queen ;  is  't  not  so? 

SALEMENES. 

Thitik  !  Thou  hast  wrong'd  her  ! 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

Patience,  !)rince,  and  hear  lie. 
She  has  all  power  and  splendour  of  her  station, 
Respect,  the  tutelage  of  Assyria's  heirs. 
The  homage  and  the  appanage  of  sovereignty. 
I  married  her  as  monarrhs  wed — for  state. 
And  loved  her  as  m(jst   husbands  love  their  wives ; 
If  she  or  thou  su[)posedst  I  could  link  me 
Like  a  Chaldean  peasant  to  his  mate. 
Ye  knew  nor  me,  nor  mouarchs,  nor  mankind. 

SALEMENES. 

I  pray  thee,  change  tlie  theme  ;   my  blood  disdains 
Complaint,  and  Salemenes'  sister  seeks  not 
Reluctant  love  even  from  Assyr.a's  lord  ! 
Nor  would  she  deign  to  accent  divided  passion 
With  foreign  sinimiiets  and  Ionian  slaves. 
The  queen  is  silent. 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

And  whv  not  her  brother  ? 

SALEMENES. 

I  only  er.ho  thee  the  vo'ce  of  emi)ires, 

Which  he  who  long  neglects  not  long  will  govern. 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

The  ungrateful  and  uiiiiracious  slaves  !   they  miirmui 
Because  I  have  not  shed  their  blood,  nor  led  iheiii 


SARD  A  X  A  P  A  L  U  S. 


476 


To  dry  into  the  desert's  dust  by  myriad?, 

Or  whiten  with  tlieir  hones  the  banks  of  Gaiicres  ; 

Noi  decimated  them  with  savage  laws, 

Nor  sweated  ihem  to  build  up  pyramids, 

Or  Babylonian  walls. 

SALEME.VE.- 

Yet  those  are  tro|)hies 
More  worthy  of  a  people  and  their  prince 
Than  songs,  and  lutes,  aiici  feasts,  and  concubines, 
And  lavish'd  treasures,  and  contemned  virtues. 

SARDA>fAPAHjS. 

Or  for  my  trophies  I  have  founded  cities : 

There's  Tarsus  and  Anchialus,  both  built 

In  one  day — what  could  that  blood-loving  beldame, 

My  martial  grandam,  chaste  Semiramis, 

Do  more,  except  destroy  them  ? 

SALEMEXES. 

'T  is  most  true  ; 
I  own  thy  merit  in  those  founded  cities, 
Built  for  a  whim,  recorded  with  a  verse 
Which  shames  both  them  and  thee  to  coming  ages. 

S  VRDANAPALUS. 

Shame  me!   By  Raal,  the  cities,  though  well  built. 
Are  not  more  goodly  than  the  verse  !   Sav  what 
Thou  wilt  'gainst  me,  my  mode  of  life  or  rule. 
But  nothing  'gainst  the  truth  of  that  brief  record. 
Why,  those  f  w  lines  contain  the  history 
Of  all  ihinss  human  ;   hear — "  Sardanapalus 
The  king,  and  son  of  Anacvndaraxes, 
In  one  day  built  Anchialus  and  Tarsus. 
Eat,  drink,  and  love  ;   the  rest 's  not  worth  a  fillip." 

SALEM  ENES. 

i\  worthy  moral,  and  a  wise  inscription, 
FtT  a  king  to  put  up  before  his  subjects ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh,  thou  wouldst  have  me  doubtless  set  up  edicts — 
"'Obey  the  king — contribute  to  his  treasure — 
Recruit  his  phalanx — spiil  your  blood  at  bidding — 
Fall  down  and  worship,  or  get  up  and  toil." 
Or  t'ius — "  Sardanapalus  on  this  spot 
Slew  fifty  thousand  of  his  enemies. 
These  are  their  sepulchres,  and  this  iiis  trophy." 
I  leave  such  things  to  conquerors  ;   enough 
For  me,  if  I  can  make  my  subjects  feel 
Th.-i  v/eioht  of  human  misery  less,  and  glide 
Ungroanino  to  the  tomb  ;   I  take  no  license 
Which  I  deny  to  them.     We  all  are  men. 

SALE5IE.VES. 

Thy  sires  have  been  revered  as  gods 

SARDANAPALL'S. 

In  dust 
And  death,  where  they  are  neither  gods  nor  men. 
Talk  not  of  such  to  me  !   the  worms  are  gods ; 
At  least  they  banqueted  upon  your  aods. 
And  died  for  lack  of  farther  nutriment. 
Those  gods  were  merely  men  ;   looK  to  their  issue — 
I  feel  a  thousand  mortal  things  about  me, 
But  nothing  "odlike,  unless  it  may  be 
The  thing  which  you  condemn,  a  disposition 
To  love  and  to  be  mercifiil,  to  ))ardon 
The  follies  of  my  species,  and  (that's  human) 
To  be  indulgent  to  my  own. 

SALEMEVES. 

Alas ! 
The  doom  of  Nineveh  is  seal'd. — Woe — woe 
To  tne  \mrivali'd  city  ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What  dost  dread  ? 


SALEMENES. 

Thou  art  guarded  by  thy  foes  :    in  a  few  hours 
The  teuip(!st  may  break  out  which  overwhelms  ihet 
And  thine  and  mine;    and  in  another  day 
What  is  shall  be  the  past  of  Beliis'  race. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What  must  we  dread  ? 

SA  LEMENES. 

Ambitious  trea('liery, 
Which  has  environ'd  thee  with  smres  ;   hut  yet 
There  is  resource:   empower  me  with  tliy  signet 
To  quell  the  machinations,  and  I  lay 
The  heads  of  thy  chief  foes  before  thy  feet. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The  heads — how  many  ? 

SALEMENES. 

iMiist  I  stav  to  number 
When  even  thine  own  's  in  peri!  ?    Lei  me  go  ; 
Give  me  thy  signet — trust  me  with  the  rest. 

SARDANAPAI.rs. 

I  will  trust  no  man  with  unlimited  lives. 

When  we  take  those  from  others,  we   nor  know 

What  we  have  taken,  nor  the  thins  we  give. 

SALEMENES. 

Wouldst  thou  not  take  their  lives  who  seek  for  thirie  1 

SARDAN  APA  LI'S. 

That's  a  hard  question.  —  But,  I  answer  Yes. 
Cannot  the  thing  be  done  without  ?    Who  are  they 
Whom  thou  suspectest  ? — I.et  them  he.  arrested. 

SALEMENES. 

I  would  thou  wouldst  not  ask  me  ;    the  next  morricni 
Will  send   mv  answer  through  thy  hahhIinH  Iroop 
Of  paramours,  and  thence  fly  o'er  tlie   palace. 
Even  to  the  city,  and  so  baffle  all. — 
Trust  me. 

SARDANAPA  LUS. 

Thou  knowesl  1  have  done  so  ever; 
Take  thou  the  signet.  ( Gives  the  Signet, 

!» A  LEMENES. 

I  have  one  more  recjuest. — 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Name  it. 

SALEMENES. 

That  thou  this  niuni  forbear  the  banquet 
In  the  pavilion  over  the  Euphrates. 

SARDANAPA  LUS. 

Forbear  the  banipiet !    Not  for  all  the  plotters 
That  ever  shook  a  kingdom  !    Lei  them  come. 
And  do  their  worst:    I  shall  not  blench  for  them  ; 
Nor  rise  the  sooner  ;   nor  forbear  the  goblet; 
Nor  crown  me  with  a  single  ro<f  the  less  ; 
Nor  lose  one  joyous  hour. — I  fear  them  not. 

SALEMENES. 

But  thou  wouldst  arm  thee,  wouKist  thou  not,  if  needful; 

SARDANAPA  LUS, 

Perhaps.     I  have  the  goodliest  armf)ur,  and 

A  sword  of  such  a  temper;    and  a  bow 

And  javelin,  which  might  furnish  \imrod  forth : 

A  little  heavr,  but  yet  not  unwieldy. 

And  now  I  think  on 't,  't  is  long  since  I've  used  them, 

Even  in  the  chase.     HLSt  evei  seen  them,  brotliei  V 

SALEMENES. 

Is  this  a  time  for  such  fantastic  trifling  ?— 
If  need  be,  wilt  thou  wear  them  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Will  I  not  ?— 
Oh  !  if  it  must  be  so,  and  these  rash  slaves  \ 

Will  not  be  ruled  with  less,  I  '11  use  the  sword 
Till  they  shall  wish  it  turn'd  into  a  distaff. 


476 


BYRON'S    FOETICAL    WORKS. 


SAI.EMFIVKS. 

They  say,  t!jy  sceptre  's  turnM  to  that  already. 

SAHDANAPALUS. 

That's  false!  biK  let  them  say  so :   the  old  Greeks, 
Of  whom  our  captives  often  smjj,  related 
The  same  of  their  chief  hero,  Hercules, 
J3ecaiise  he  luvcd  a  Lydian  queen  :   thou  seest 
The  populace  of  all  the  nations  seize 
Each,calutnny  they  can  to  snik  their  sovereigns. 

SALEMENES. 

Tney  did  not  speak  thus  of  thy  fathers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No; 
They  dared  not.     They  were  kept  to  toil  and  combat, 
And  never  changed  their  chains  but  for  their  armour: 
Now  they  have  peace  and  pastune,  and  the  license 
To  revel  and  to  rail ;   it  irks  me  n()t. 
I  would  not  give  the  smile  of  one  fair  girl 
For  all  the  popular  breath  that  e'er  divided 
A  name  from  nf)thiriw.     What !   are  the  rank  tongues 
Of  this  vile  herd  grown  insolent  with  feeding, 
That  I  should  [)rize  their  noisy  praise,  or  dread 
Their  noisome  clamour  ? 

SALEMENES. 

You  have  said  they  are  men ; 
A?  such  their  hearts  are  something. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So  my  dogs'  are  . 
And  better,  as  more  faithfiil : — but,  proceed  ; 
Thou  hast  my  signet: — since  they  are  tumultuous, 
Let  them  be  ternper'd  ;    vet  not  roughlv,  till 
Necessity  enforce  it.      I  hate  all  pain, 
(jriven  or  received ;   we  have  enough  within  us. 
Til"  .Meanest  vassal  as  the  loftiest  monarch, 
y  >i  t     adi'',  to  each  other's  natural  burthen 
Of  mortal  nnsery,  l)iit  rather  lessen, 
Hy  niild  reci|)rocal  alhniation, 
The  fatal  penalties  imposed  on  life  ; 
Bu'  'his  they  know  not,  or  they  will  not  know. 
I  have,  by  Baal  !    tione  all  I  could  to  soothe  them : 
I  made  no  wars,  I  added  no  new  miposts, 
1  interiired  not  with  their  civic  lives, 
I  let  them  pass  their  days  as  best  might  suit  them, 
Passing  my  own  as  suited  me. 

SALE.MEN'ES. 

Thou  stopp'st 
Short  of  the  duties  of  a  king  ;   and  therei'bre 
They  say  thou  art  until  to  be  a  monarch. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They  lie.— Unhappily,  I  am  unfit 

To  be  aught  save  a  monarch  ;   else  for  me. 

The  meanest  Mede  might  be  the  king  instead. 

SALEMENES. 

There  is  one  Mede,  at  least,  who  seeks  to  be  so. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What  mean'st  thou  ?— 't  is  thy  secret ;   thou  desires! 

Few  questions,  and  I  'm  not  of  curious  nature. 

Take  the  fit  steps,  and  since  necessity 

Requires,  I  sanction  and  support  thee.     Ne'er 

Was  man  who  more  desired  to  rule  in  peace 

Die  f)eaceful  only  ;   it  tliev  rouse  mt;,  better 

They  had  conjured  up  stern  Nimrod  from  his  ashes, 

'  The  mighty  hunter."     I  will  turn  these  realms 

To  one  wide  desert  chase  of  l)nites,  who  irrrc 

But  would  no  more,  bv  tlunr  own  choice,  bf;  human. 

WhfU  they  have  found  me,  they  b(;iie  ;    lluit  uhicfi 

They  yet  may  find  me — shall  defv  their  wisli 

To  speak  it  worse ;   and  let  them  thank  themselves. 

KA  LEMENES. 

Then  thou  at  last  canst  feel '/ 


Ingratitude? 


SARDANAPALUS. 

Feel!    who  feels  not 


SALEMENES 

I  will  not  pause  to  answer 
W^ith  words,  but  deeds.    Keep  thou  awake  that  encrg>' 
Which  sleeps  at  times,  but  is  not  dead  within  thee. 
And  thou  mayst  vet  he  glorious  in  thy  reion, 
As  powerful  in  thy  realm.      Farewell ! 

[£!xit  Salemener, 

SARDANAPALUS     {solus). 

Farewell . 
Pie's  gone ;   and  on  his  finger  bears  my  signet, 
Which  is  to  him  a  sceptre.     He  is  stern 
As  I  am  heedless  ;   and  the  slaves  deserve 
To  feel  a  master.   What  may  be  the  danger,    - 
I  know  not: — he  hath  found  it,  let  him  quell  it. 
Must  I  consume  my  life — this  little  life — 
In  guarding  against  all  may  make  it  less? 
It  is  not  worth  so  much  !      It  were  to  die 
Before  my  hour,  to  live  in  dread  of  death, 
Tracing  revolts  :    suspecting  all  about  me, 
Because  thev  are  near;   and  a!!  who  are  remote. 
Because  they  are  afiir.      But  if  it  should  be  so — 
If  they  should  sweep  me  oif  from  earth  and  empire. 
Why,  vvhat  is  earth  or  empire  of  the  earth'' 
I  have  loved,  and  lived,  and  multiplied  my  image; 
To  die  is  no  less  natural  than  those — 
Acts  of  this  cU'v  !   'Tis  true  I  have  not  shed 
Blood,  as  I  might  have  done,  in  oceans,  till 
My  name  became  the  svnonvme  of  ueath — 
A  terror  and  a  trophy.      But  for  this 
I  feel  no  penitence  ;   my  life  is  love : 
If  I  must  shed  blood,  it  shall  be  by  force. 
Till  now  no  drop  t>om  an  Assyrian  vein 
Hath  flowed  lor  me,  nor  hath  the  smallest  com 
Of  Nineveh's  vast  treasures  e'er  been  lavisli-a 
On  objects  which  could  cost  her  sons  a  tear : 
If  then  they  hate  me,  'tis  because  I  hate  not; 
If  they  rebel,  it  is  because  I  oppress  not. 
Oh,  men  !   ye  must  be  ruled  with  scythes,  not  sceptres, 
And  mow'd  down  like  grass,  else  all  we  reap 
Is  rank  abundance,  and  a  rotten  harvest 
Of  discontents  infecting  the  fair  soil. 
Making  a  desert  of  fertilitv. — 

I'll  thirik  no  more. Within  there,  ho! 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Slave,  tell 
The  Ionian  Myrrha  we  would  crave  her  presence. 

ATTENDANT, 

King,  she  is  here. 

MvRRHA  enters. 
SARDANAPALUS    {upurt  to  Attendant). 
Away  I 
( Addreaaing  yivp.KHA.)      Beautiful  being! 
Thou  dost  almost  anticipate  mv  heart ; 
It  throbb'd  for  thee,  and  here  thou  comest ;   let  me 
Df'em  that  some  unknonn  influence,  some  sweet  oracle, 
Communi(;ates  between  us,  though  unseen. 
In  absence,  and  attracts  us  to  each  other. 

MVRRHA, 

There  doth. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  know  there  doth  ;   but  not  Hs  name ; 

What  IS  it  ? 

flIVRRHA. 

In  my  native  land  a  nod, 
And  in  my  heart  a  feeling  like  a  so<f's, 
Exalted  ;   yet  I  own  'tis  only  mortal, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Fot  what  I  feel  is  humble,  and  yet  happy — 

That  is,  it  would  be  happy :   but 

[MvRRHA  pauses. 

SARDANAI'ALITS. 

There  comes 
For  ever  something  between  us  and  what 
We  deem  our  ha[)iiiiiess  ;    let  nie  remove 
The  barrier  which  that  hesiiaruii{  accent 
Proclaims  to  thine,  and  mine  is  seal'd. 

.MVRKU  A.. 

My  lord  !— 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My  lord — my  kins — sire — sovereign  !   thus  it  is — 
For  ever  tiiiis,  ad<iress'd  with  awe.      I  ne'er 
Can  see  a  smile,  unless  in  some  broad  banquet's 
Inioxicating  ^lare,  when  tliiButlooiis 
Have  gorned  themselves  up  to  e(iuality, 
Or  I  have  (juatfM  me  down  to  their  abasement. 
iMvrrha,  I  can  hear  all  these  things,  these  names, 
Lord — kiiii.' — sire — monarch — nay,   time  was  I  prized 

them, 
That  is,  I  sutfer'd  them — from  slaves  and  nobles  ; 
But  when  they  falter  from  the  li[)s  I  love, 
The  lips  which  have  been  press'd  to  mine,  a  chill 
Comes  o'er  my  heart,  a  cold  sense  of  llie  falsehood 
Of  this  mv  station,  which  re])resses  feelincr 
In  tho<e  for  whom  I  have  feit  most,  and  makes  me 
Wish  that  I  could  lav  down  the  dull  tiara. 
And  share  a  cottage  on  the  Caucasus 
With  theo,  and  wear  no  crowns  but  those  of  flowers. 

MVRRHA. 

Would  that  we  could  ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  dost  thou  feel  this? — Why? 

MVRRHA. 

Then  thou  wouldst  know  what  thou  canst  never  know. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  that  is 

MVRRHA. 

The  true  value  of  a  heart ; 
At  least  a  woman's. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  liave  proved  a  thousand — 
A  thousand,  and  a  thousand. 

MVRRHA. 

Hearts  ? 

SA  RDANAPALUS. 

I  think  so. 

MVRRHA. 

Not  one  !   the  time  may  coma  thou  may'st. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

It  will. 
Hear,  Myrrha  ;   Salemcnes  has  declared — 
Or  why  or  how  lie  hath  divined  it,  Beius, 
Who  founded  our  great  realm,  knows  more  than  I— 
Bui  Sidemenes  hath  declared  my  throne 
In  peril. 

MYRRHA. 

He  did  well. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  sav'st  thou  so? 
Thou  whom  he  spurn'd  so  harshly,  and  now  dare 
Drive  from  our  presence  with  Ins  savage  jeers, 
And  made  thee  v.eep  and  hlusli  ? 

MVRRHA. 

I  should  do  both 
More  freciuentlv,  and  he  did  well  to  call  me 
Back  to  my  duty.      But  tiiou  spcak'st  <  f  peril— 
I'eri!  to  thee 

SARDANAPAI-US. 

Av,  from  dark  plots  and  snares 
Fr(»m  Medes — and  discontented  troops  and  nations. 


I  know  not  what — a  hibyriuth  of  thir>(:s — 

A  maze  of  mutter'd  threats  ami  iii>s!i  rirs  : 

Thou  know'st  the  man — it  i^  hi--  msim!  c.isiom. 

But  he  is  honest.      Come,  wi. 'U  tlmik  no  more  on't— 

But  of  the  midnight  festival. 

MVRKFA. 

'Tis  time 
To  think  of  aught  save  festivals.     Thou  hasi  not 
Spurn'd  his  sage  cautions? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What ! — and  dost  thou  fuar( 

MYRRHA. 

Fear! — I'm  a  Greek,  and  how  should  I  fear  death? 
A  slave,  and  wherefore  should  1  dnad  my  Ireeuomf 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then  wherefore  dost  thou  turn  so  pale? 

MVRRHA. 

I  lOVO. 
S  AR  DA  N  A  P.tfi.U".. 

And  do  not  I  ?   I  love  thee  fir — far  iU.iif 
Than  either  the  hnef  hie  or  the  \.K.r  realm. 
Which,  it  niav  he,  are  iiuMia-ed  :  -y(A  1  tdencn  not. 

MVRRHA. 

That  means  thou  lovest  nor  thyseli   nor  me  ; 
For  he  who  loves  another  lOves  himself, 
Even  for  thai  oth.-r's  sake.     This  is  too  rash  : 
Kingdoms  and  lives  are  ivA  to  be  so  lost. 

SARPANAP  \H"S. 

Lost! — whv,  who  is  the  aspirmg  cb.ief  who  dared 
Assume  to  win  them? 

M  \-  R  p.  H  A . 

Who  is  he  should  dread 
To  try  so  much?  When  he  who  is  their  ruler 
Forijets  himself^,  will  they  remember  him? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Myrrha  I 

MYRRHA. 

Frown  not  u[ion  me  :   you  have  smiled 
Too  often  on  me  not  to  make  those  frowns 
Bitterer  to  bear  than  anv  piinishnu  nt 
Which  they  may  augur. — King,  I  am  your  subjeot ! 
INIaster,  I  am  your  slave  !    V,  .r,  !  have  loved  you!— 
Loved  you,  I  know  not  by  what  t'atal  weakness, 
Although  a  Greek,  and  horn  a  fue  to  monarchs — 
A  slave,  and  hating  fetters — an  Ionian, 
And,  therefore,  when  I  love  a  str.m^er,  more 
Degraded  by  that  passion  than  by  chains  ! 
Still  I  have  loved  you.      If  that  love  were  strong 
Enough  to  overcome  all  former  nature. 
Shall  it  not  claim  the  privilege  to  save  you? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Save  me,  my  beaiitv!   Thou  art  very  fair. 
And  what  I  seek  of  thee  is  love — not  safety. 

MYRRHA. 

And  without  love  where  dwells  s.-cunty  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  speak  of  woman's  love. 

MYRRHA. 

The  very  first 
Of  human  life  must  spring  fron  woman's  l.r(  asl, 
Your  hrst  small  words  are  taught  voii  from  her  lips, 
Your  first  tears  quench'd  bv  her,  and  your  last  sight- 
Too  often  breathed  out  in  a  woman's  hearing. 
When  "men  have  shrunk  from  the  ignoble  care 
Of  watching  the  last  hour  of  him  who  led  them 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Mv  eloquent  Ionian!   thou  speak'st  music, 

The  very  chorus  of  the  tragic  song 

I  have  heard  thee  talk  of  as  the  favourite  pastime 

Of  thv  far  father-land.     Nay,  weep  not-  -ciim  ineo 


478 


BY  RON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


MVRRHA. 

I  weep  not  — But  I  pray  ihee,  do  not  speak 
Alj<jut  my  fathers  or  their  land. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yet  oft 
I'liou  speakest  of  them. 

MVKRHA. 

Xriie — true  : — constant  thought 
Will  overflow  in  words  unconsciously : 
Hi;t*whe!i  another  speaks  of  Greece,  it  wounds  me. 

SARDANA  I' ALUS. 

\Yel!,  then,  how  wouldst  thou  Auve  me,  as  thou  saiost? 

MVRUH  A. 

By  teaching  thee  to  save  thyself,  and  not 
Thyself  alone,  hut  these  vast  realms,  from  all 
The  rage  of  the  worst  war— the  war  of  brethren. 

SARDANAPAI.L-S. 

\Yhv,  child,  I  loathe  all  war,  and  warriors: 
I  live  in  |»eace  and  pleas*,  e:   what  can  man 
Do  more  ? 

MVRRHA. 

Alas!   my  lord,  with  common  men 
riiere  ne(>ds  too  oft  the  show  of  war  to  keep 
The  substance  of  sweet  'peace  ;    and  for  a  king, 
'T  is  sometimes  better  to  be  fear'd  than  loved. 

SAUDANAPALTJS. 

;\.nd  I  have  never  sought  hut  for  the  last. 

MVKRHA. 

And  now  art  neither. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Dost  thou  say  so,  Myrrha? 

MYR-RHA. 

I  speak  of  civic  popular  love,  .se/T-love, 

VVhicn  means  that  men  are  kept  in  awe  and  law, 

Y(  .  Tiot  oppress'd — at  least  they  must  not  think  so; 

Or  if  they  think  so,  deem  it  necessary 

To  ward  off  worse  op{)ression,  their  own  passions. 

A  kincT  of  feasts,  and  flowers,  and  wine,  and  revel, 

And  love,  and  mirth,  was  never  king  of  glory. 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

Glory  :   what 's  that  ? 

MVRRHA. 

Ask  of  the  gods  thy  fathers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They  cannot  answer ;   when  the  priests  speak  for  them, 
'T  is  for  some  small  addition  to  the  temple. 

MVRRHA. 

Look  to  the  annals  of  thme  <'m[)ire's  founders. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Tliey  are  so  blotted  o'er  with  blood,  I  cannot. 

But  what  wouldst  have?   th(!  empire  'im«  been  founded, 

I  cannot  go  on  multiplying  empires. 

MVRRHA. 

Preserve  thine  own. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

At  least  I  will  enjoy  it. 
Coiiie,  Myrrha,  let  us  on  to  the  Euphrates; 
Tlie   hour  invites,  the  galley  is  pre(>arcd, 
And  the  pavilion,  deekM  for  our  return, 
In  fit  adornment  for  the  evening  l)an(piet, 
SijiH  bla/.e  with  Ixauty  and  with  light,  unti 
I'  •  i-ems  unto  the  stars  which  ace  above  us 
li -elf  an  opposite  star;   and  we  will  sit 
C-rown'd  with  fresh  flowers  like 

M  V  R  R  H  A  . 

\'iclims. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  like  sovereigns, 
Tlie  shepherd  kings  of  patriarchnl  titn(  s, 
Who  knew  no  b-ightcr  g< ms  than  mii  .mi  r  \>re;i".s, 
\nd  none  but  tearless  Iriumphs.      Let  us  on. 


Enter  Pvnia. 

PANIA. 

May  the  king  live  for  ever ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not  ar  hour 
Longer  than  he  can  love.     Fow  my  soul  nates 
This  language,  which  makes  life  itself  a  lie, 
Flatterina  dust  with  eternity.     Well,  Pania! 
Be  brief.^ 

PANIA. 

I  am  charged  ])y  Salemenea  to 
Reiterate  his  prayer  unto  the  king. 
That  for  this  day,  at  least,  he  will  not  quit 
The  palace :   when  the  general  returns. 
He  will  adduce  such  reaso^as  will  warrant 
His  darin2,  and  perhaps  obrain  the  pardon 
Of  his  presumption. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What!   am  I  then  coop'd 
Already  captive?  can  I  not  even  breathe 
The  breath  of  heaven?  Tell  prince  Salemenes, 
Were  all  Assyria  raging  round  the  wails 
In  mutinous  myriads,  I  would  still  go  forth. 

PANIA. 

I  must  obey,  and  yet 

MVRRHA. 

Oh,  monarch,  listen.— 
How  many  a  day  and  moon  thou  hast  reclined 
Within  these  palace  walls  in  silken  dalliance, 
And  never  shown  thee  to  thy  people's  longing; 
Leavin"  thv  subjects'  eyes  ungratiHed, 
The  satraps  uncontroU'd,  the  gods  unworshipp'd, 
And  all  thuiL's  in  the  anarchy  of  sloth, 
Till  all,  save  evil,  slumberM   throuoh  the  realm! 
And    mU  ihon  not  nf>w  larrv  for  a  dav, 
A  day  which  may  redeem  thee  ?     Wilt  thou  not 
Yield  to  the  few  still  faithful  a  few  hours. 
For  them,  for  thee,  for  thy  past  fithers'  race, 
And  for  thy  sons'  inheritance? 

PANIA. 

'Tis  true! 
From  the  deep  urgency  with  which  the  prince 
Despatch'd  me  to  your  sacred  i)resence,  I 
Must  dare  to  add  my  feeble  voice  to  that 
Which  now  has  spoken. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  it  must  not  be. 

MVRRHA. 

For  the  sake  of  thy  realm? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Away! 

PANIA. 

For  that 
Of  all  thv  faithful  subjects,  who  will  rally 
Round  thee  and  thine. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

These  are  mere  phantasies; 
Ther(!  IS  no  peril :— 't  is  a  sullen  scheme 
Of  Salemenes,  to  afiprove  his  zeal. 
And  show  hinis(!!f  more  necessary  to  us. 

MVRRHA. 

By  all  that's  good  and  glorious,  take  this  counaol. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Business  to-morrow. 

MVRRHA. 

Av,  or  death  to-night. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Whv,  h't  It  come,  then,  unexpect.'dly, 
!      'Mi.Nt  |ov  an, I  -r.-titlen'^ss,  and  mirth  and  love; 
'      Sn  Ici  ni.'  fill  like  111.'  pliickM  rose !— far  better 
1     Tiius  than  be  wither'd. 


S  A  R  L  A.  X  A  P  A  L  U  S. 


479 


AIYRRH* 

TIk'h  thou  wilt  not  yield. 
Even  for  the  shkc  of  ;ill  that  t;\er  stirr'd 
A  monarch   into  action,  to  forcj^'o 
A  trifling  revel. 

SARD  ANAPA  LUS. 

No. 

MVRRIIA. 

Then  yiekl  for  mine  ; 
For  my  sake ! 

SAP  DA  NAPA  LUS. 

Thine,  my  Alyrrha  ? 

MVRKIIA. 

'T  is  the  first 
Bonn  which  I  e'er  ask'd  Assyria's  king. 

SARDANAPAI  US. 

That 's  true  ;   and,  wer  't  my  kinirdom,  must  he  granted. 
Well,  for  thy  sake,  I  yield  me.      Pania,  hence! 
Thou  hear'st  me. 

PANIA. 

And  ohcv.  [Exit  Pania. 

SARDANAPAT,US. 

I  tn;irvel  at  thee. 
What  is  thy  motive,  Mvrrha,  thus  to  urge  me  ? 

M\  KRHA. 

T!:V  safety  ;   and  the  certainty  that  nought 
(Joiild  urge  the  prince,  thv  kinsman,  to  require 
Thus  much  from  thee,  hut  some  impending  danger. 

SAIiDAN  APA  I.f'S. 

And  if  I  do  not  dread  .t,  wiiy  sh'iuldst  thou? 

M  \'  K  R  II  A  . 

r5ecavise  thou  dost  not  fear,  I  fear  for  thee. 

SAMOA  N  Al'A  t-C'S. 

To-morrow  thou  wilt  smile  nt  thopi^  vain  fancies. 

MVRRHA. 

if  the  worst   come,  1  shall  he  where  none  weep, 
And  that  is  hutter  than  the  power  to  smile. 
And  thou  / 

SARDANAPAl.rS. 

I  shall  be  king,  as  heretofore. 

MVRRHA. 

Where  ? 

SARD  ANAPA  LUS. 

With  Baal,  Ninirod,  and  Semiramis, 
Sole  in  Assyria,  or  with  them  elsewhere. 
Fate  made  me  what  I  am — may  make  me  nothing — 
But  either  that  or  notiiing  mrsl  I  be: 
I  will  not  live  degraded. 

MVP.  R  HA. 

Hadst  thou  felt 
Thus  always,  none  would  ever  dare  degrade  thee. 

SARDANAPAI.US. 

And  who  will  do  so  now  ? 

MVRRHA. 

Dost  thou  sus])ect  none  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Suspect! — that 's  a  spy's  office.     Oh  !   we  lose 

Ten  thousand  precious  moments  in  vain  words, 

And  vainer  fears.   Within  there  ! — Ye  slaves,  deck 

The  hall  of  Nimrod  for  the  evening  revel 

If  I  must  make  a  prison  of  our  palace, 

A    least  we  '11  wear  our  fetters  jocundly. 

If  (he  Emhrates  be  forbid  us,  and 

The  summer  dwelling  on  its  beauteous  border, 

Here  we  are  still  unmenaced.     Ho!   within  there! 

\Exit  SaRDANAPA  LUS. 
MYRRHA   {solua). 

Why  do  I  love  this  man?  My  country's  daughters 
Love  none  but  heroes.     Rut  I  have  no  country ! 


The  slave  hath  lost  all  save  her  bonds,     I  love  him  ; 

And  that 's  the  heaviest  link  of  the  long  chain — 

To  love  whom  v^e  esteem  not.      Be  it  so : 

The  liour  is  coming  when  he'li  need  all  love, 

And  tind  none.     To  fall  from  him  now  were  baser 

Than  to  have  stabb'd  him  on  his  throne  wheti  higl  efat 

Would  have  been  noble  in  my  country's  creed ; 

I  was  not  made  for  either.      Could  I  save  hini, 

I  should  not  love  hi;n  better,  but  myself; 

And  I  have  need  of  the  last,  for  I  have  'alien 

[n  my  own  ihouijhts,  by  loving  this  soft  strangor: 

And  vet  nif'thinks  I  love  him  mo.-e,  perceiving 

That  he  is  haled  of  his  own  barbarians, 

'I'he  natural  foes  of  all  the  blood  of  Greece. 

Could  I  b  !t  wake  a  single  thought  like  those 

Wiiich  even  the  Phrygians  felt,  when  battling  long 

'Twixt  Ili>n  and  the  sea,  within  his  heart. 

He  would  tread  down  the  barbarous  crowds,  anu  iriumph 

He  loves  me,  aid  I  love  him  ;   the  slave  loves 

H(!r  master,  and  would  free  him  from  his  vices. 

If  not,  I  have  a  means  of  freedom  still, 

And  if  I  cannot  teach  him  how  to  reign. 

May  show  him  how  alone  a  king  can  leave 

His  throne.     I  must  not  lose  him  from  my  sight. 

[Evit 

ACT  II. 

SCENE   I. 

The  Portal  of  the  savie  Hall  of  the  Palace. 

BKLESES    {solus). 

The  sun  goes  down  ;    methinks  he  sets  more  slowly, 

YakiuCT  his  last  look  of  Assvria's  empire. 

How  red  he  i.'Iares  amonsst  those  deepening  cloud:). 

Lik..>  the  blood  he  i.re.licts.      If  not  oi'vaoi. 

Thou  sun  that  sinkest,  and  ye  stars  which  rise, 

I  luive  outwatch'd  ye,  reading  ray  by  ray 

The  tviicts  of  your  orbs,  which  make  Time  tremol'j 

F>n-  what  he  brings  the  nations,  't  is  the  furthest 

Hour  of  Assyria's  years.      And  yet  how  calm  ' 

An  earih.;iiake  shoiild  aimouiH'e  so  great  a  fall — 

A  summer's  sun  discloses  it.      Yon  disk, 

To  the  star-read  Chaldean,  bears  upon 

Its  everlasting  |)age  the  end  of  what 

St'cm'd  eviriastiiio  ;    but  oh  !    thou  true  sun! 

The  iiurmiig  oracle  of  all  that  live, 

As  f)uniain  of  all  life,  and  symbol  of 

Hiiii  whi!  bestows  it,  whertiore  dost  thou  limit 

Thv  lore  unto  calamity?   Why  not 

Uiil'old  th.'  rise  of  davs  more  worthy  thine 

An-:.'lori(jus  burst  from  ocean  ?   why  not  dart 

A  lioam  of  hope  athwart  the  future's  years, 

As  of  wratii  to  its  days?   Hear  me !   oh!   hearnif  ' 

I  am  thy  worshipper,  thy  priest,  thy  servant — 

I  have  gazed  on  thee  at  thy  rise  and  fall, 

And  bow'd  my  head  beneath  thy  mid-day  beams, 

When  my  eye  dared  not  meet  thee.     I  have  watch'  i 

For  thee,  an  1  after  thee,  and  pray'd  to  thee. 

And  sacrificed  to  thee,  and  read,  and  fear'd  thee, 

And  ask'd  of  thee,  and  thou  hast  answer'd — but 

Only  to  thus  much :   while  I  speak,  he  sinks — 

Is  gone — and  leaves  his  beauty,  not  his  knowledge, 

To  the  deliijhted  west,  which  revels  in 

Its  hues  of  dying  glory.     Yet  what  is 

Death,  so  it  be  but  glorious?  'T  is  a  sunset. 

And  mortals  may  be  happy  to  resemble 

The  god^  but  in  decay. 

Enter  Arbaces,  by  an  inrw  door, 

ARBACES. 

Beleses,  why 
So  wrapt  m  thy  de'\onoiis  /    Dost  ihou  dtand 


480 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Gazing  to  trace  thy  disappearing  goa 
Into  some  realm  of  untJiscoverM  daj'  ? 
Our  business  is  with  "lisht — 'tis  come. 


But  not 


Gone. 


Let  it  roll  on- 


ARBACES. 

-we  are  ready. 

BELESES. 


Yes. 


Would 


ARRACES. 

Does  the  prophet  doubt, 
To  whom  the  very  §.tars  shine  victory? 

BELESES. 

I  do  not  doubt  of  victory — lint  the  victor. 

A  K  I?  ACES. 

Well,  let  thy  science  settle  fhat.     Meantim- , 
I  have  prepared  as  many  srlitterinir  spears 
As  will  out-sparkle  our  allies — your  platn-ts. 
There  is  no  more  to  thwart  us.      The  she-kmg, 
That  l<;ss  than  woman,  is  even  now  upon 
The  waters  with  his  female  mates.      The  order 
Js  issued  fur  the  feast  in  the  pavilion. 
The  first  cup  which  he  drains  will  be  the  last 
QuafFM  by  the  line  of  Nimrod. 

BEI.ESES. 

'T  was  a  brave  one. 

ARBACES. 

And  is  a  weak  one — 't  is  worn  out — we  '11  mend  it. 

BELESES, 

Art  sure  of  that? 

ARBACES. 

Tts  founder  was  a  hunter — 
I  am  a  soldier — what  is  there  to  fear  ? 

BELK.-KS. 

The  soldier. 

ARBACES. 

And  the  priest,  it  may  be  ;   but 
If  you  thought  thus,  or  think,  why  not  retain 
Your  king  of  concubines?   why  stir  me  up  ? 
Whv  spur  me  to  this  enterprise?  your  own 
No  less  than  mine  ? 

BELESES. 

Look  to  the  sky  ! 

ARBACES. 

I  look. 

BELESES. 

What  seest  thou? 

ARBACES. 

A  fair  summer's  twilight,  and 
riie  gathering  of  the  stars. 

BELESES. 

And  midst  them  mark 
V'on  earliest,  and  the  brightest,  which  so  quivers, 
As  it  would  quit  its  place  in  the  blue  eth«r. 

ARBACES. 

Well! 

BELESES. 

'T  is  thy  natal  ruler — thy  birth  planet. 
ARBACES  [tovching  his  scahhard), 
Mv  star  is  in  this  scabbard:   when  it  shines. 
It  shall  out-dazzle  comets.     Let  us  think 
Of  what  is  to  be  done  to  justify 
Thv  planets  and  their  portents.     When  we  conquer, 
They  shall  have  temples — ay,  and  priests — and  thou 
Shalt  be  the  pontitf  of — what  go<ls  thou  wilt  ; 
For  I  observes  that  thev  are  ever  just. 
Alio  oAii  the  bravrst  liir  the  most  devout. 

BKr.KSES. 

Av,  and  ihe  most  devout  for  brave — tboc  hast  not 
^cen  me  turn  b  ick  from  battle. 


ARBACES. 

No ;   I  own  thoe 

As  firm  in  fight  as  Babylonia's  captain, 
As  ski'.ful  in  Chaldea's  worship  ;   now, 
Will  it  but  please  thee  to  forget  the  priest, 
And  be  the  warrior  ? 

BELESES. 

Why  not  both? 

ARBACES. 

The  better} 
And  yet  it  almost  shames  me,  we  shall  have 
So  little  to  effect.     This  woman's  warfare 
Degrades  the  very  conqueror.     To  have  pluck'd 
A  bold  and  bloody  despot  from  his  throne. 
And  gra])pled  with  him,  clashing  steel  with  steel. 
That  were  heroic  or  to  win  or  fall ; 
But  to  u|)raise  my  sword  against  this  silkworm. 
And  hear  him  whine,  it  may  be 

BELESF.S. 

Do  not  deenr.  it , 
He  has  that  m  him  which  may  make  you  strife  yei ; 
And,  were  he  all  you  thuik,  his  guards  are  hardy. 
And  headed  by  the  cool,  stern  Salemenes. 

ARBACES. 

They  '11  not  resist. 

BELESES. 

Why  not  ?   they  are  sold.iers. 

ARBACES. 

True, 

And  therefore  need  a  solcuer  to  command  them. 

BELESES. 

That  Salemenes  is. 

ARBACES. 

But  not  their  king. 
Resides,  he  hates  the  effeminate  thins  that  ijoverna, 
For  the  queen's  sake,  his  sister.     Mark  you  not 
He  keeps  aloof  from  all  the  revels  ? 

BELESES. 

But 
Not  from  the  council — there  he  is  ever  constant. 

ARBACES. 

And  ever  thwarted  ;   what  w»uid  you  have  more 
To  make  a  rebel  out  of?   A  fool  reignino. 
His  blood  dishonour'd,  and  himself  disdaiii'd  ; 
Why,  it  IS  his  revenge  we  wurk  for. 

BELESES. 

Couid 
He  but  be  brought  to  think  so  :   this  I  doubt  of. 

ARBACES. 

What  if  we  sound  him  ? 

BELESES. 

Yes — if  the  time  served. 
Enter  Balea. 

BALEA. 

Satraps  !   the  king  commands  your  presence  at 
The  feast  to-night. 

BELESES. 

To  hear  is. to  obey. 
In  the  pavilion? 

BALEA. 

No  ;   here  in  the  palace. 

ARBACES. 

How  !   in  the  palace  ?   it  was  not  thus  order'd. 

BA  LEA. 

It  is  so  order'd  now. 

ARBACES. 

And  why  ? 

BALEA. 

I  know  nol. 
May  I  rtitire  ? 


SARDANAPALUS. 


481 


ARBACE8. 

Stay. 
SELESES  {to  Arbaces  aside). 

Hus*  '  let  him  go  his  way. 
[Altt^iiatdy  fo  Bai.ea 

Ves,  Balea,  thank  the  monarch,  kiss  the  hem 
Of  hi*  imperial  robe,  and  say,  his  slaves 
WiU  take  the  crumbs  he  deigns  to  scatter  from 
Ji^s  royal  table  at  the  hour — was 't  midnight? 

BALEA. 

L  was  ;   the  place,  the  Hall  of  Nimrod.     Lords, 

I  humble  me  before  you,  and  depart.       \^Exit  Balea. 

ARBACES. 

I  like  not  this  same  sudden  change  of  place — 

Tnere  is  some  mystery  ;  wherefore  should  he  change  it? 

BELESES. 

Doth  he  not  change  a  thousand  times  a-day? 

Sloth  is  of  all  things  the  most  fanciful — 

And  moves  more  parasaiigs  in  its  intents 

Than  generals  in  their  marches,  when  they  seek 

To  leave  their  foe  at  fault. — Why  dost  thou  muse  ? 

ARBACES. 

He  loved  that  gav  pavilion — it  was  ever 
His  summer  dotage. 

BELESES. 

And  he  loved  his  queen — 
And  thrice  a  thousand  harlotry  besides — 
And  he  has  loved  all  things  by  turns,  except 
Wisdom  and  glory. 

ARBACES. 

Still— I  like  it  not. 
if  he  has  changed — why  so  must  we  !  the  attack 
Were  easy  in  the  isolated  bower, 
Beset  with  drowsy  guards  and  drunken  courtiers, 
But  in  the  Hall  of  Nimrod 

BELESES. 

Is  it  so? 

Methought  the  haughty  soldier  fear'd  to  mount 
A  throne  too  easily  :   does  it  disappoint  thee 
To  rind  there  is  a  slipperier  step  or  two 
Than  what  was  counted  on  ? 

ARBACES. 

When  the  hour  comes, 
Thou  shalt  perceive  how  far  I  fear  or  no. 
Thou  hast  seen  my  life  at  stake — and  gaily  play'd  for: 
But  here  is  more  upon  the  die — a  kingdom. 

BELESES. 

I  have  foretold  already — thou  wih  win  it : 
Then  on,  and  prosper, 

ARBACES. 

Now,  were  I  a  soothsayer, 
I  would  have  boded  so  much  to  myself. 
But  be  the  stars  obey'd — I  cannot  quarrel 
With  them,  nor  their  interpreter.     Who  's  here  ? 
Enter  Salemenes. 


SALEMEXES. 

Satraps ! 

BELESES. 

My  prince ! 

SALEMEXES. 

Well  met — I  sought 
B  it  Cisewhere  than  the  palace. 

ye  both, 

ARBACES. 

Wherefore 

SO? 

1  is  not 

SALEMEXES. 

the  Hour. 

ARBACES. 

The  hour — what  hour 

? 

SAl-EMENES. 
31 

Of  midnight. 

BELESES. 

Midnight,  my  lord ! 

SALEMEXES 

What,  are  you  not  invited  t 

BELESES. 

Oh!  yes — we  had  forgotten. 

SALEMEXES. 

Is  it  usual 
Thus  to  forget  a  sovereign's  invitation  ? 

ARBACES. 

Why — we  but  now  received  it. 

•SALEMEXES. 

Then  why  here? 

ARBACES.       . 

On  duty. 

SALEMEXES, 

On  what  duty  ? 

BELESES. 

On  the  state's. 
We  have  the  privilege  to  approach  the  presence, 
But  found  the  monarch  absent. 

SALEMEXES. 

And  I  too 
Am  upon  duty. 

ARBACES. 

May  we  crave  its  purport  ? 

SALEME?,-ES. 

To  arrest  two  traitors.     Guards!   within  there  ! 
Enter  Guards. 


SALEMEXES   {continuing). 


Satraps 


Your  swords. 

BELESES  {delivering  his). 
INIy  lord,  behold  my  scim'.tar. 
ARBACES  {drawing  his  sword). 
Take  mine. 

SALEMEXES  {advancing). 
I  will.  *■ 

ARBACES. 

But  in  your  heart  the  blade — 
The  hilt  quits  not  this  hand. 

SALEMEXES  {drawing). 

How  !  dost  thou  brave  .ne  "^ 
'T  is  well — this  saves  a  trial  and  false  mercy. 
Soldiers,  hew  down  the  rebel ! 

ARBACES. 

Soldiers  !   Ay — 
Alone  you  dare  not. 

SALE>rEXES. 

Alone  !   foolish  slave — 
What  is  there  in  thee  that  a  prince  should  shrink  from 
Of  open  force  7   We  dread  thy  treason,  not 
Thy  strength  :   thv  tooth  is  nought  without  its  venom — 
The  serpent's  not  the  lion's.     Cut  him  down. 

BELESES  {mterposivg). 
Arbaces  !   are  von  nuid  ?   Have  1  not  render'd 
ISIy  sword  ?   Then  trust  like  me  our  sovereign's  justice. 

ARBACES. 

No^I  will  sooner  trust  the  stars  thou  prat'st  of, 
And  this  slight  arm,  and  die  a  king  at  leasst 
Of  mv  own  breath  and  body — so  far  that 
None  else  shall  chain  them. 

SALEMEXES  {to  the   Guards). 

You  hear  //rw,  and  mn 
Take  him  not — kill. 

[IVie  Guards  attack  Arbaces,  irho  defends  h\in- 
sidf  valiantly  and  dextennisly  till  they  waver, 

SALEMEXES. 

Is  It  even  so;  and  miuil 
I  do  the  hangman's  olTice  ?  Ri'creants!  see 
How  you  should  fell  a  traitor. 

[Salemexes  allucks  Arbaces. 


482 


EYROX'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


£nteT  Sardanapalus  aiid  Train. 

SARJJANAPALUS. 

Hold  your  hands — 
ITpon  your  lives,  I  say.     What,  deaf  or  drunken? 
My  sword  !   oh  fool,  I  wear  no  sword  :   her«,  fellow, 
Gi\e  me  thv  weapon.  \To  a  Gumd. 

fSARDANAPALU.s  suat'-hes  a  swo^ctfrom  one  of  the 
suMierSj  and  indkcs  between  the  combatants — thei^ 
separate. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

In  my  very  palace  ! 
What  hinders  me  from  cleaving  you  in  twain, 
Audacious  brawlers  ? 

BELESES. 

Sire,  your  justice. 

SALEMENES. 

Or— 
Vour  weakness. 

SARDANAPALUS  {raimig  the  sword). 
How  ? 

SAI.EMENES. 

Strike  !   so  the  blow  's  repeated 
(Jpon  yon  traitor — whom  you  spare  a  moment, 
I  trust,  for  torture — I  'm  content. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

W^hat— him ! 
Who  dares  assail  Arbaces  ? 

SALEMENES. 

I! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Indeed  ! 
I'rince,  you  forget  yourself.     Upon  what  warrant  ? 

SALEMENES  {showing  the  sigiiet). 
Thine. 

ARK  ACES  [confused). 
The  kms's  i 

SALEMENES. 

^  Yes  !   and  let  the  king  confirm  it. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  parted  not  from  this  for  such  a  purpose. 

SALEMENES. 

You  parted  with  it  for  your  safety — I 
Employ'd  it  for  the  best.      Pronounce  in  person. 
Here  I  am  but  your  slave — a  moment  past 
I  was  your  representative. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then  sheathe 
Your  swords. 

[Arbaces  and  Salemenes  return  their  swords  to 
the  scabt)ards. 

SALEMENES. 

Mine's  shenth'd:   I  pray  you  sheathe  not  yours; 
'Tis  the  sole  sceptre  left  you  now  with  safety. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

A  heavy  one  ;   the  hill,  too,  hurts  my  hand. 
To  a  Guard.)     Here,  fellow,  take  thy  weapon  back. 
Well,  sirs. 
What  doth  this  mean? 

BELESES 

The  prince  must  answer  that. 

SALEMENES. 

Truth  upon  my  part,  treason  upon  theirs. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Treason — Arbaces!   treachery  and  IJeleses  ! 
That  were  an  union  I  will  not  believe. 

liEI.KSES. 

Where  is  the  proof? 

S  A  LEMKNES. 

I'll  answer  that,  if  once 
The  kin<j  demands  your  fellow  traitor's  sword. 


ARKACES  {to  Salemenes). 
A  sword  which  hath  been  drawn  as  oft  as  ihinc 
Against  his  foes. 

SALEMENES. 

And  now  against  his  brother, 
And  in  an  hour  or  so  against  himself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That  is  not  possible :   he  dared  not ;   no — 
No — I  'II  not  hear  of  such  things.  These  vain  bickenr^g 
Are  spawn'd  in  courts  by  base  intrigues  and  baser 
Hirelings,  who  live  by  lies  on  good  men's  lives. 
You  must  have  been  deceived,  my  brother. 

SALEMENES. 

First 
Let  him  deliver  up  his  weapon,  and 
Proclaim  himself  your  subjec'  by  that  duty, 
And  I  will  answer  all. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why,  if  I  thoug^ht  so— 
Kut  no,  it  cannot  be  ;   the  Mede  Arbaces — 
The  trusty,  rough,  true  soldier — the  best  captain 

Of  all  who  discipline  our  nations No, 

I  '11  not  insult  him  thus,  to  bid  him  render 

The  scimitar  to  me  he  never  yielded 

tJnto  our  enemies.     Chief,  keep  your  weapon. 

SAi-EMENES  {delivering  back  the  sig?tet). 
Monarch,  take  back  your  signet. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  retain  it ; 
But  use  it  with  more  moderation. 

SALEMENES. 

Sire, 
I  used  it  for  your  honour,  and  restore  it 
Because  I  cannot  keep  it  w;lh  my  own. 
Bestow  it  on  Arbaces. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So  I  should : 
He  never  ask'd  it. 

SALEMENES. 

Doubt  not,  he  will  have  't 
Without  that  hollow  semblance  of  respect. 

BELESES. 

I  know  not  what  hath  prejudiced  the  prince 

So  strongly  'gainst  two  subjects,  than  whom  nonh 

Have  been  mere  zealous  f  )r  Assyria's  weal. 

SA  LEMENES. 

Peace,  factious  priest  and  faitliiess  soldier !   thou 
Unit'st  in  thy  own  person  the  worst  vices 
Of  the  most  dangerous  orders  of  mankind. 
K<;ep  thy  smooth  words  and  juggling  homilies 
For  those  who  know  thee  not.     Thy  ft'llow's  sin 
Is,  at  the  least,  a  bold  one,  and  not  teinper'd 
By  ihe  tricks  taught  thee  in  Clialdea. 

BELESES. 

Hear  him, 

My  liege — the  son  of  Belus !   he  blasphemes 
The  worship  of  the  land  which  bows  the  knee 
Before  you;  fathers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh!   for  that  I  pray  you 
Let  him  have  absolution.     I  dispense  with 
The  worship  of  dead  men ;   feeling  that  I 
Am  mortal,  and  believing  that  the  race 
From  whence  I  sprung  are — what  I  see  them — ttshcs 

BELESFS. 

King  !   do  not  deem  so :   thev  are  with  the  stars. 
And 

SAKDANAPA  LUS. 

You  sd.ill  join  them  there  ere  they  will  rise, 
If  you  prt^ach  furiluT. — VVhy,  thifi  is  rank  treason. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


483 


8ALEMENES. 

My  ori! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

To  school  me  in  the  worship  of 
Assyria's  idols!  Let  him  be  reler.sed — 
'Tive  him  his  sword. 

SALKME.NKS, 

I\Iy  lord,  and  king,  and  brother, 
1  pr.iy  ye,  pause. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes,  and  be  sermonized, 
And  dinn'd,  and  deaf<;n'd  whh  dead  men  and  Baal, 
And  all  Chaldea's  starry  mysteries. 

BELESES. 

Monarch !   respect  them. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh  !    for  that — I  love  them 
I  love  to  watch  them  in  the  deep  blue  vault, 
And  to  comf)are  them  with  my  Myrrha's  eyes : 
[  love  to  see  their  rays  redoubled  in 
The  tremulous  silver  of  Euphrates'  wave, 
As  the  liohi  breeze  of  midniaht  crisps  the  broad 
And  rolling  water,  sighing  throunh  the  sedges 
Which  fringe  his  banks:   but  whether  they  may  be 
Gvids,  as  some  say,  or  the  abodes  of  2ods, 
As  others  hold,  or  simply  Uuips  of  ni^ht, 
W.-irlds  or  the  iights  of  worlds,  I  know  nor  care  not. 
TlhTe  's  something  sweet  in  my  uncertainty 
1  would  not  change  for  your  Chaldean  lore; 
Besides,  I  know  of  these  all  clay  can  know 
Of  auiiht  above  it  or  below  it — nothing. 
I  se(>  their  brilliancy  and  feel  their  beautv — 
When  they  shine  on  my  grave,  1  shall  know  neither. 

BELESES. 

For  netther,  sire,  say  better. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  will  wait. 
If  it  so  please  you,  pontiff,  for  that  knowledge. 
[n  the  meantime  receive  your  sword,  and  know 
That  I  prefer  your  service  militant 
Unto  your  ministry — not  loving  either. 

SALEMENES    (ttside). 

His  lusts  have  made  him  mad.     Then  must  I  save  him 
Spite  ot  himself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Please  vou  to  hear  me.  Satraps ! 
And  chiefly  thou,  my  priest,  Ixjcause  I  doubt  thee 
More  than  the  soldier,  and  would  doubt  thee  all 
Wert  th(»u  not  half  a  warrior:    let  us  i)art 
Fn  peace — I  '11  not  say  piirdon — which  must  be 
Earn'd  by  the  giiilfy  ;   this  I  'II  not  ])ronounce  ye, 
Although  upon  this  breath  of  mine  depends 
Your  own  ;    and,  d(\ad!ier  for  ye,  on  my  fears. 
But  fear  not — for  that  I  am  soft,  not  tearful — 
And  so  live  on.      Were  I  the  thing  some  think  me, 
Your  heads  would  now  be  dri|)piiig  the  last  drops 
Of  their  attainted  sore  from  the  hi^h  gates 
Of  this  our  p;ilace  into  the  dry  dust, 
riieir  only  portion  of  the  coveted  kingdom 
rhev  would  be  crown'd  to  reiiin  o'er— let  that  pass. 
4s  I  have  said,  I  will  not  fhrot  ye  guilty, 
Nor  ilnom  ye  guiltless.      Albeit,  better  men 
Than  ve  or  I  stand  ready  to  arraisrn  you  ] 
And  should  I  leave  your  fate  to  sterner  judges. 
And  proofs  of  all  kinds,  I  might  sacrifice 
Two  men,  who,  whatsoe'er  tlu^y  now  are,  were 
Once  honest.     Ye  are  free,  sirs. 

AKBACES. 

Sire,  this  clemency 


BELESES  [interrupting  him). 
Is  worthy  of  yourself ;   and,  although  innocent, 
We  thank 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Priest!   keep  your  thanksgiving  ibr  Belue; 
His  offspring  needs  none. 

BELESES. 

But,  bemg  innocent 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Be  silent — Guilt  is  loud.     If  ye  are  loyal, 

Ye  are  injured  men,  and  should  be  sad,  not  grateful. 

BELESES. 

So  we  should  be,  were  justice  always  done 
Bv  earthly  power  omnipotent ;   but  innocence 
JMust  oft  receive  her  right  as  a  mere  favour. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That 's  a  good  sentence  for  a  homily, 
Though  not  for  this  occasion.     Prithee  keep  it 
To  plead  thy  sovereign's  cause  before  his  people. 

BELESKS. 

I  trust  there  is  no  cause. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No  cause,  perhaps  , 
But  many  causers: — If  ye  meet  with  such 
In  the  exercise  of  your  inquisitive  function 
On  earth,  or  should  you  read  of  it  in  heaven 
In  some  mysterious  twinkle  of  the  stars, 
Which  are  your  chronicles,  I  pray  you  note, 
Thr.t  there  are  worse  things  betwixt  earth  and  heaven 
That  iiiin  who  ruletli  manv  and  slays  none ; 
And,  hating  not  himself,  yet  loves  his  fellows 
Enough  to  spare  even  those  who  would  not  spare  him, 
Were  thev  once  masters — but  that 's  doubtful.   Satrape! 
Your  swords  and  persons  are  at  liberty 
To  use  them  as  ye  will— but  from  this  hour 
I  have  no  call  for  either.     Salemenes ! 
Follow  me. 

[Ex-iUnt  SARDANAPALUS,    SaLEMENES,  OTld  tht 

Ij'uin,  etc.,  leaving 


AR] 


;-  Arbaces 

ACES. 


ind  Beleses. 


Beleses! 


BELESES. 

Now,  what  think  you  ? 

ARBACES. 


That  we  are  lost. 


BELESES. 

That  we  have  won  the  kingdom. 

AFvBACES. 

What !   thus  suspected — with  the  sword  slung  o'er  us 
But  by  a  single  hair,  and  that  still  wavering 
To  be  blown  down  by  his  imperious  breath. 
Which  spared  us — why,  I  know  not. 

BELESES. 

Seek  not  why ; 
But  let  us  profit  by  the  interval. 
The  hour  is  still  our  own — our  power  (he  same — 
The  ni^ht  the  same  we  destined.     He  hath  changed 
Nothing,  except  our  ignorance  of  all 
Suspicion  into  such  a  certainty 
As  must  make  madness  of  delay. 

ARBACES. 

And  yet 

BELESIS. 

What,  doubting  still ! 

ARBACES. 

He  spared  our  5ves — nay,  Tion 
Saved  them  from  Salemenes. 

BELESES. 

And  h..w  long 
Will  he  so  spare  ?  till  the  first  drimken  irj'.uto. 


484 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


ARBACES. 

Or  sober,  rather.     Yet  he  did  it  nobly ; 
Gave  royally  what  we  had  forfeited 
Basely 

SELESES. 

Say,  bravely. 

ARBACES. 

Somewhat  of  both,  perhaps. 
B'St  It  has  touch'd  me,  and,  whate'er  betide, 
1  will  no  further  on. 

BELESES. 

And  lose  the  world  ? 

ARBACES. 

Lose  any  thing,  except  my  own  esteem. 

BELESES. 

I  blush  that  we  should  owe  our  lives  to  such 
A  king  of  distaffs  ! 

ARBACES. 

But  no  less  we  owe  them  ; 
And  I  should  blush  far  more  to  take  the  granter's ! 

EELESES. 

Thou  may'st  endure  whate'er  thou  wilt,  tlie  stars 
Have  written  otherwise. 

ARBACES. 

Though  they  came  down, 
And  marshall'd  me  the  way  in  all  their  brightness, 
I  would  not  follow. 

BELESES. 

This  is  weakness — worse 
Tiian  a  scared  beldam's  dreaming  of  the  dead, 
\nd  waking  in  the  dark. — Go  to — go  to. 

ARBACES. 

Mcthought  he  look'd  like  Nimrod  as  he  spoke, 
Even  as  the  proud  imperial  statue  stands, 
Looking  the  monarch  of  the  kings  around  it, 
And  swa\s,  while  they  but  ornamtiit,  the  temple. 

BELESES. 

1  told  you  that  you  had  too  much  despised  him, 
And  that  there  was  some  royalty  within  him. 
What  then  ?  he  is  the  nobler  foe. 

ARBACES. 

But  we 

The  meaner : — would  he  had  not  spared  us ! 

BELESES. 

So— 
Wouldst  thou  be  sacrificed  thus  readily? 

ARBACES. 

No — but  it  had  been  better  to  have  died 
Than  live  ungrateful. 

BELESES. 

Oh,  the  souls  of  some  men ! 
Thou  wouldst  digest  what  some  call  treason,  and 
Fools  treachery — and,  behold,  upon  the  sudden. 
Because,  for  something  or  for  nothing,  this 
Rash  reveller  steps,  ostentatiously, 
'Twixt  thee  and  Salemenes,  thou  art  turn'd 
Into — what  shall  I  say? — Sardanapalus  ! 
I  know  no  name  more  iiriiomuiioiis. 

All  BACKS. 

But 

An  hour  ag  >,  who  darr-d  to  term  me  such 
Had  h.ad  his  life  bui  H^rhily— as  it  is, 
I  must  f(>rgive  you,  evfu  ;is  Iw.  for^^ave  us — 
Semiramis  liersclf  woiiid  nor  Imvc  ddtic  ii. 

riK.i.Ksj.s. 
No  -tlie  ijueeri  liked  no  shar.rs  o!  tliu  kingdom, 
Not  evoii  a  husband, 

ahf:.\i  Ks. 

I  must  serve  him  truly 

BELESES. 

And  humbly? 


ARBACES. 

No,  sir,  proudly — being  honest. 
I  shall  be  nearer  thrones  than  you  to  heaven ; 
And  if  not  quite  so  haughty,  yet  more  lofty. 
You  may  do  your  own  deeming — you  have  codt'J^ 
And  mysteries,  and  corollaries  of 
Right  and  wrong,  which  I  lack  for  my  direction. 
And  must  pursue  but  what  a  jlain  heart  teaches. 
And  now  you  know  me. 

BELESES. 

Have  you  finish'd  ? 

ARBACES. 


With 


you. 


BELESES. 

And  would,  perhaps,  betray -as  well 
As  quit  me  ? 

ARBACES. 

That's  a  sacerdotal  thought, 
And  not  a  soldier's. 

BELESES. 

Be  it  what  you  will — 
Truce  with  these  wranglings,  and  but  hear  me. 

ARBACES. 

There  is  more  peril  in  your  subtle  spirit 
Than  in  a  phalanx. 

BELESES. 

If  it  must  be  so — 
1  '11  on  alone. 

ARBACES. 

Alone ! 

BELESES. 

Tlirones  hold  but  one. 

ARBACES. 

But  this  is  fill'd. 

BELESES. 

With  worse  than  vacancy — 
A  despised  monarch.     Look  to  it,  Arbaces : 
I  have  still  aided,  cherish'd,  loved,  and  urged  yo> 
Was  willing  even  to  serve  you,  in  the  hope 
To  serve  and  save  Assyria.     Heaven  itself 
Seem'd  to  consent,  and  all  events  were  friendly, 
Even  to  the  last,  till  that  your  spirit  shrunk 
Into  a  shallow  softness  ;   but  now,  rather 
Than  see  my  country  languish,  I  will  be 
Her  saviour  or  the  victim  of  her  tyrant, 
Of  one  or  both,  for  sometimes  both  are  one : 
And  if  I  win,  Arbaces  is  my  servant. 

ARBACES. 

Your  servant ! 

EELESES. 

Why  not  ?  better  than  be  sia^  h. 
The  pardmi'd  slave  of  she  Sardanapalus. 
Knter  Pama. 

PANIA. 

My  lords,  I  bear  an  order  from  the  king. 

ARBACES. 

It  is  obey'd  ere  spoken. 

BELESES. 

Notwithstanding, 
Let 's  hear  it. 

PANIA. 

Forthwith,  on  this  very  night, 
Repair  to  your  resjiective  satrapies 
Of  Babylon  and  Media. 

BELESES. 

With  our  troops'/ 

PANIA. 

My  order  is  unto  the  satra])s  and 
Their  liousehoid  train. 


No-, 


SARDANAPALUS 


485 


ARE  ACES. 
But 

BELESES. 

It  must  be  obey'd ; 
Sav    we  tiej  art. 

PANIA. 

My  order  is  to  see  you 
De[»art,  and  not  to  bear  your  answer. 
BELESES    (^fisiile). 

Ay! 
Well,  sjr,  we  will  accompany  you  hetice. 

PANIA. 

)  will  retire  to  marshal  forth  the  guard 

Of  honour  which  betils  your  rank,  and  wait 

Your  leisure,  so  that  it  the  hour  exceeds  not. 

[Exit  Pania 

BELESES. 

A^oic  then  obey ! 

ARBACES. 

Doubtless. 

BELESES. 

Yes,  to  the  gates 
That  grate  the  palace,  which  is  now  our  prison — 
No  further. 

ARBACES. 

Thou  hast  harp'd  the  truth  mdeed ! 
The  realm  itself,  in  all  its  wide  extension, 
Yawns  dungeons  at  each  step  for  thee  and  me. 

BELESES. 

Graves ! 

ARBACES. 

If  I  thousht  so,  this  good  swot'd  should  dig 
One  more  than  mine. 

BELESES. 

It  shall  have  work  enough : 
Let  me  hojte  better  than  thou  augurest: 
At  present  let  us  hence  as  best  we  may. 
Th~)U  dost  agree  with  me  m  understanding 
This  order  as  a  sentence  ? 

ARBACES. 

Why,  what  other 
Interpretation  should  it  bear  ?  it  is 
The  very  policy  of  orient  monarchs — 
Pardon  and  poison — favours  and  a  sword— 
A  distant  voyage,  and  an  eternal  sleep. 
How  many  satraps  in  his  father's  time — 
For  he  I  osvn  is,  or  at  least  was,  bloodless — 

BELESES. 

But  wUl  not,  can  not  be  so  now. 

ARBACES. 

I  doubt  iU 
How  manv  satraps  have  I  seen  set  out 
In  his  sire's  day  for  mighty  vice-royalties, 
Whose  tombs  are  on  their  path !   I  know  not  how, 
But  they  all  sicken'd  by  the  way,  it  was 
So  long  and  heavy. 

BELESES. 

Let  us  but  regain 
The  free  air  of  llie  city,  and  we'll  shorten 
The  journey. 

ARBACES. 

'T  will  be  shorten'd  at  the  gates, 
It  may  be. 

BELESES. 

No:  they  hardly  will  risk  that. 
They  mean  us  to  die  privately,  but  not 
Within  the  palace  or  the  city  walls, 
Where  we  are  known  and  may  have  partisans: 
If  tney  had  meant  to  slay  us  here,  we  were 
No  longer  with  th«  'ivmg      Let  us  hence. 


ARBACES. 

If  I  but  thought  he  did  not  mean  my  life 

BELESES. 

Fool !  hence — what  else  should  despotism  alarm'd 
Mean  ?     Let  us  but  rejoin  our  troops,  and  march. 

ARBACES. 

Towards  our  provinces  ? 

SELESES. 

No  ;  towards  your  kmgdom. 
There  's  time,  there 's  heart  and  hope,  and  power,  and 

means 
Which  their  half  measures  leave  us  in  full  scope.— 
Away ! 

ARBACES. 

And  I,  even  yet  repenting,  must 
Relapse  to  guilt ! 

BELESES. 

Self-defence  is  a  virtue, 
Sole  bulwark  of  all  right.     Away  !   I  say  ! 
Let 's  leave  this  place,  the  air  grows  thick  and  choking. 
And  the  walls  have  a  scent  of  night-shade — hence ! 
Let  us  not  leave  them  time  for  further  council. 
Our  quick  departure  proves  our  civic  zeal ; 
Our  quick  departure  hinders  our  good  escort, 
The  worthy  Pania,  from  anticipating 
The  orders  of  some  parasangs  from  hence , 

Nay,  there's  no  other  choice  but hence,  I  say. 

[Exit  with  Akbaces,  who  follows  reluctantly 

Enter  Sardanapalus  and  Salemenes. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Well,  all  is  remedied,  and  without  bloodshed, 
That  worst  of  mockeries  of  a  remedy ; 
We  are  now  secure  by  these  men's  exile. 


SALEMENES. 


Yes, 


As  he  who  treads  on  flowers  is  from  the  adder 
Twined  round  their  roots. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

W^hy,  what  wouldst  have  me  dc 

SALEMENES. 

Undo  what  you  have  done. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Revoke  my  pardon  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Replace  the  crown,  now  tottering  on  your  temples. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That  were  tyrannical. 

SALEMENES. 

But  sure. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

We  are  so. 

What  danger  can  they  work  upon  the  frontier  1 

SALEMENES. 

They  are  not  there  yet — never  should  they  be  sci, 
Were  I  well  listen'd  to. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Nay,  I  have  listen'd 
Impartially  to  thee — why  not  to  them? 

SALEMENES. 

You  mav  know  that  hereafter ;   as  it  is, 
I  take  my  leave,  to  order  forth  the  guard. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  you  will  join  us  at  the  bancjuet "? 

SALEMENES. 

Sire, 
Dispense  with  me — I  am  no  wassailer : 
Command  me  in  all  service  save  the  Bacchan^'a. 


486 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


SARDANAPALITS. 

Nay,  but 't  is  fit  to  revel  now  and  then. 

SALEMENES. 

Ana  fit  that  some  should  vvatch  tor  those  who  revel 
Too  oft.     Am  I  permitted  to  depart? 

SARDANAPALITS. 

i'es Stay  a  moment,  my  good  Salemenes 

My  brother,  my  best  subject,  better  prince 

Than  I  am  king.     You  should  have  been  the  monarch, 

\i!d  I — I  know  not  what,  and  care  not ;   but 

Think  not  I  am  insensible  to  all 

Thine  honest  wisdom,  and  thy  rough,  yet  kind, 

Though  oft-reproving,  sufferance  ot  my  follies. 

If  I  have  spared  these  men  against  thy  counsel, 

That  is,  their  lives — it  is  not  that  I  doubt 

The  advice  was  sound  ;   but,  let  them  live :   we  will  not 

Cavil  about  their  lives — so  let  them  mend  them. 

Their  banishment  will  leave  me  still  sound  sleep, 

Which  their  death  had  not  left  me. 

SALEMENES. 

Thus  you  run 
The  risk  to  sleep  for  ever,  to  save  traitors — 
A  moment's  pang  now  changed  for  years  of  crime. 
Still  let  them  be  made  quiet. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Tempt  me  not: 
My  word  is  past. 

SALEMENES. 

But  it  may  be  recall'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  is  royal. 

SALEMENES. 

And  should  therefore  be  dr,cisive. 
This  half  indulgence  of  an  exile  serves 
But  to  provoke — a  pardon  should  be  full, 
Ur  it  is  none. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  who  persuaded  me 
After  I  had  repeal'd  them,  or  at  least 
Only  dismiss'd  them  from  our  presence,  who 
Urged  me  to  send  them  to  their  satrapies  ? 

SALEMENES. 

True  ;   that  I  had  forgotten  ;   that  is,  sire, 

If  they  e'er  reach  their  satrapies — why,  then, 

Reprove  nie  more  for  my  advice. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  if 
They  do  not  reach  them — look  to  it ! — in  safety, 
In  safety,  mark  me — and  security — 
Look  to  thine  own. 

SALEMENES. 

Permit  me  to  depart ; 
Their  safety  shall  be  cared  for. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Get  thee  hence,  then ; 
And,  prithee,  think  more  gently  of  thy  brother. 

SALEMENES. 

Sire,  I  shall  ever  duly  serve  my  sovereign. 

[Exit  Salemenes. 

SARDANAPALUS   (solus). 

That  man  is  of  a  tem])er  too  severe : 

Hard  but  as  lofty  as  the  rook,  and  free 

From  all  the  taints  of  common  earth — while  I 

4m  softer  clay,  impregnated  with  flowers. 

But  as  our  mould  is,  must  the  i)roduce  be. 

If  I  have  err'd  this  time,  't  is  on  the  side 

VVhere  error  sits  most  lightly  on  that  sense, 

I  know  not  what  to  call  it ;   but  it  reckons 

With  me  oft-times  for  pain,  and  sometimes  pleasure ; 

A  spirit  wliich  seems  placed  about  my  heart 

To  court  its  tiufobs,  not  (juicken  them,  and  ask 


Questions  which  mortal  never  dartd  to  ask  nity 

Nor  Baal,  though  an  oracular  deity — 

Albeit  his  marble  face  majestical 

Frowns  as  the  shadows  of  the  evening  dim 

His  brow?  to  changed  expression,  till  at  timca 

I  think  the  statue  looks  in  act  to  speak. 

Away  with  these  vain  thoughts,  I  wi  1  be  joyouti  • 

And  here  comes  Joy's  true  herald. 

Enter  Myrrh  A 

MYRRH  A. 

King  !   the  sk  j 
Is  overcast,  and  musters  muttering  thunder. 
In  clouds  that  seem  approaching  fast,  and  show 
In  forked  hashes  a  commanding  tempest. 
Will  you  then  quit  the  palace? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Tempest,  say'st  thou? 

MYRRHA. 

Ay,  my  good  lord. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

For  my  own  part,  I  should  be 
Not  ill  content  to  vary  the  smooth  scene. 
And  watch  the  warring  elements  ;   but  this 
Would  little  suit  the  silken  garments  and 
Smooth  faces  of  our  festive  friends.     Say,  Myrrha, 
Art  thou  of  those  who  dread  the  roar  of  clouds? 

MYRRHA. 

In  my  own  country  vve  respect  their  voices 
As  auguries  of  Jove. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Jove — ay,  your  Baal — 
Ours  also  has  a  property  in  thunder. 
And  ever  and  anon  some  falling  bolt 
Proves  his  divinity,  and  yet  sometimes 
Strikes  his  own  altars. 

MYRRHA. 

That  were  a  dread  omen. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes — for  the  priests.     Well,  we  will  not  go  forth 
Beyond  the  palace  walls  to-night,  but  make 
Our  feast  within. 

MYRRHA. 

Now,  Jove  be  praised  !   that  he 
Hath  heard  the  prayer  thou  wouldst  not  hear.   The  god 
Are  kinder  to  thee  than  thou  to  thyseff. 
And  flash  this  storm  between  thee  and  thy  foes, 
To  shield  ihee  from  them. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Child,  if  there  be  peril, 
Methinks  it  is  the  same  within  these  walls 
As  on  the  river's  brink. 

MYRRHA. 

Not  so;  these  walls 
Are  high  and  strong,  and  guarded.     Treason  has 
To  penetrate  through  many  a  winding  wav. 
And  massy  portal !   but  in  the  pavilion 
There  is  no  bulwark. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  nor  in  the  palace, 
Nor  in  the  fortress,  nor  upon  the  top 
Of  cloud-fenced  Caucasus,  where  the  eagle  sits 
Nested  in  pathless  clefis,  if  treachery  be : 
Even  as  the  arrow  finds  the  airy  king. 
The  steel  will  reach  the  earthly.      But  be  calm  -. 
The  men,  or  innocent  or  guilty,  are 
Banish'd,  and  far  upon  their  way. 

MYRRHA. 

They  live,  tdcn  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So  sanguinary  ?    Tliuu  ! 


SARDANAPALUS. 


487 


MYRRHA. 

I  woulii  not  shrink 
Fn>in  just  infliction  of  due  puiushinent 
On  those  who  seek  your  hie  :    wer't  otherwise 
I  should  not  merit  mine.     Besides,  you  heard 
The  princely  Saletnenos. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

This  IS  strange ; 
The  gentle  and  the  austere  are  both  against  me, 
A.nd  urge  me  to  revenge. 

MYRRHA. 

'T  IS  a  Greek  virtue. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

But  not  a  kingly  one — I  'II  none  oii't ;  or, 
If  ever  I  nidulge  in 't,  it  shall  be 
With  kings — my  equals. 

MYRRHA. 

These  men  sought  to  be  so. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Myrrha,  this  is  toe  feminine,  and  springs 
From  fear —  - 

MYRRHA. 

For  you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No  matter — still  'tis  fear. 
I  have  observed  your  sex,  once  roused  to  wrath, 
Are  timidly  vindictive  to  a  pitch 
Of  perseverance,  which  I  would  not  copy. 
I  thought  you  were  exempt  from  this,  as  from 
The  childish  heli»lessness  of  Asian  women. 

MYRRHA. 

My  lord,  I  am  no  boaster  of  my  love. 

Nor  of  my  attributes;   I  have  shared  your  splendour, 

And  will  [)artake  your  fortunes.     You  may  live 

To  find  one  slave  mort^  true  than  subject  myriads; 

But  this  the  gods  avert !      i  am  content 

1  o  be  beloved  on  trust  for  what  I  feel. 

Rather  than  prove  it  to  you  in  your  griefs, 

Which  might  not  yield  to  any  cares  of  mine. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Griefs  cannot  come  where  perfect  love  exists. 
Except  to  heighten  it,  and  vanish  from 
That  which  it  could  not  scare  away..     Let 's  in — 
The  hour  approaches,  and  we  must  prepare 
To  meet  tlie  invited  guests,  who  grace  our  feast. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  TIL 

SCENE  I. 

The  Hall  of  the  Palace  iUuviinated.— Sard \yAPA.hVS 
and  hut  GueHs  at  Table.— A  storm  without,  and 
Thunder  occasionally  heard  during  tlie  Banquet. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Y:A  full !     Why  this  is  as  it  should  be  :   here 
[s  my  true  realm,  amidst  bright  eyes  and  faces 
Happy  as  fair !   Here  sorrow  cannot  reach. 

Z.AMF.S. 

Nor  elsevrhere — where  the  king  is,  pleasure  sjjarkles. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

la  not  this  better  now  than  Nimrod's  huntings. 

Or  my  wild  grandani's  chase  in  search  of  kingdoms 

She  could  not  keep  when  conquer'd  ? 

ALTADA. 

Mighty  though 
They  were,  as  all  thy  royal  line  have  been. 
Yet  none  of  those  who  went  before  have  reach'd 
The  acme  of  Sardanapalus,  who 
Has  placed  his  joy  in  peace— the  sole  true  glory. 


SARDANAPALUS. 

And  pleasure,  good  Altada,  to  which  glory 
Is  but  the  path.    Wnat  is  it  that  we  seek '/ 
Enjoyment !   We  have  cut  the  way  short  to  it. 
And  not  gone  tracking  it  througn  human  ashes, 
Making  a  grave  with  every  footstep. 

ZAMES. 

No; 
All  hearts  are  happy,  ind  all  voices  bless 
The  king  of  peace,  who  holds  a  world  in  jubilee. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Art  sure  of  that?   1  have  heard  otherwise 
Some  say  that  there  be  traitors. 

ZAMES. 

Traitors  they 
Who  dare  to  say  so! — 'Tis  impossible. 
AVhat  cause? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What  cause  ?   true, — fill  the  goblet  up  , 
We  will  not  think  of  them :   there  are  none  such, 
Or  if  there  be,  they  are  gone.' 

ALTADA. 

Guests,  to  my  pledge! 
Down  on  your  knees,  and  drink  a  measure  to 
The  safety  of  the  king — the  monarch,  say  I ! 
The  god  Sardanapalus ! 

[Zames  and  the  Guests  kneel,  and  exdiiin- 
Mightier  than 
His  father  Baal,  tne  god  Sardana|)alus ! 

[//  thunders  as  they  kneel;  some  start  up  ir, 
confusion. 

ZAMES. 

Why  do  ve  rise,  my  friends  ?   In  that  t;tion<.  peai 
His  father  gods  consented. 

MYRRHA. 

Menaced,  rather. 
King,  wilt  thou  bear  this  mad  impiety  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Impiety  ! — nay,  if  the  sires  who  reign'd 
Before  me  can  be  gods,  I  Ml  not  disgrace 
Their  lineage.      Bui  arise,  my  pious  friends, 
Hoard  vour  devotion  for  the  thunderer  there : 
I  seek  but  to  bo  loved,  not  worshipp'd. 

ALTADA. 

Both 

Both  you  must  ever  be  by  all  true  subjects. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Methinks  the  thunders  still  increase :  it  is 
An  awful  night 

MYRRHA. 

Oh  yes,  for  those  who  have 
No  palace  to  protect  their  worshippers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That 's  true,  my  Myrrha ;  and  could  I  convert 
Mv  realm  to  one  wide  shelter  for  the  wretched, 
I  'd  do  it. 

MYRRHA. 

Thou  'rt  no  god,  then,  not  to  be 
Able  to  work  a  will  so  good  and  general, 
As  thy  wish  would  imply. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  your  gods,  then. 
Who  can,  and  do  not  ? 

MYRRHA. 

Do  not  speak  of  that. 
Lest  we  provoke  them. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

True,  they  love  not  censure 
iletler  than  mortals.   Friends,  a  liiought  has  struck  xwt 


188 


BYEON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Were  there  no  temples,  wouM  there,  think  ye,  be 
Alt-worshippers — that  is,  when  it  is  angry. 
And  pelting  as  even  now  ? 


Upon  his  m  untain. 


MVKRHA. 

The  Persian  prays 


SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes,  wlien  the  sun  shines. 

MVRKHA. 

\n(i  I  would  ask  if  this  your  palace  were 
(Jnroof 'd  and  desolate,  hosv  many  flatterers 
Would  lick  the  dust  in  which  the  king  lay  lew  ? 

ALTADA. 

The  fair  Ionian  is  too  sarcastic 

Upon  a  nation  whom  she  knows  not  well ; 

The  Assyrians  know  no  pleasure  but  their  king's, 

Ar>d  homage  is  their  pride. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Nay,  pardon,  guests, 
The  fair  Greek's  readiness  of  speech. 

ALTADA. 

Pardon!  sire: 
We  honour  her  of  all  things  next  to  thee. 
Hark  !   what  was  that  ? 

ZAMES. 

That  ?  nothing  but  the  jar 
Of  distant  portals  shaken  b}'  the  wina. 

ALTADA. 

It  sounded  like  the  clash  of— hark  again  ! 

ZAMES. 

The  big  rain  pattering  on  the  roof. 

SARD  VNAPALUS. 

No  more. 
Myrrha,  my  love,  hast  thou  thy  shell  in  order ! 
Sing  me  a  song  of  Sap[)ho,  her,  thou  know'st. 
Who  in  thy  country  threw 

Enter  Pania,  with  his  Sword  and  Garments  bloody,  and 

disordered.     The  guests  rise  in  confusion. 

Pania  (to  the  guards). 

Look  to  the  portals ; 
And  with  your  best  speed  to  the  watl  without. 
Your  arms!  To  arms  !  The  king's  in  danger.  Monarch! 
Excuse  this  haste, — 't  is  faith. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Speak  on. 
pania. 

It  is 

As  Salemenes  fear'd  :   the  faithless  satraps 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You  are  wounded — give  some  wine.  Take  breath,  good 
Pania. 

PANIA. 

'T  is  nothing — a  mere  flesh  wound.     I  am  worn 
More  with  my  speed  to  warn  my  sovereign. 
Than  hurt  in  his  defence. 

MYRRHA. 

Well,  sir,  the  rebels  ? 

PANIA, 

Soon  as  Arbaces  and  Beleses  reach'd 

Their  stations  in  the  city,  they  refused 

To  march  :   and  on  my  attempt  to  use  the  power 

Which  I  was  delegated  with,  they  call'd 

Upon  their  troops,  who  rose  in  fierce  defiance. 

MVKRHA. 

All? 

PANI  \. 

Too  many. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Spare  not  of  tliy  free  speech 
Tc  s})are  mine  ears,  the  truth. 


PANIA. 

My  own  slignt  guarj 
Were  faithful — and  what 's  left  of  it  is  still  so. 

MYRRHA. 

And  are  these  all  the  force  still  faithful  .* 

PANIA. 

No- 

The  Bactrians,  now  led  on  by  Salemenes, 
Who  even  then  was  on  his  way,  still  urged 
By  strong  suspicion  of  the  Median  chiefs, 
Are  numerous,  and  make  strong  head  against 
The  rebels,  fighting  inch  by  inch,  and  forming 
An  orb  around  the  palace,  where  they  mean 
To  centre  all  their  force,  and  save  the  iing. 
{He  liesitates).     I  am  charged  to 

MYRRHA. 

'T  is  no  time  for  hesitatiojii 

PANIA. 

Prince  Salamenes  doth  implore  the  king 
To  arm  himself,  although  but  for  a  moment, 
And  show  himself  unto  the  soldiers :   his 
Sole  presence  in  this  instant  might  do  more 
Than  hosts  can  do  in  his  behalf. 

SARDAN  \PALUS, 

What,  ho! 
My  armour  there. 

MYRKHA. 

And  wilt  thou  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Will  I  not? 
Ho,  there  ! — But  seek  not  for  the  buckler  ;   'tis 
Too  heavy : — a  light  cuirass  and  my  sword. 
Where  are  the  rebels  ? 

PANIA. 

Scarce  a  furl()ni;'s  length 
From  the  outward  wall,  the  fiercest  conflict  ragca. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then  I  may  charge  on  horseback,     Sfero,  ho! 
Order  my  horse  out — There  is  space  enough 
Even  in  our  courts,  and  by  the  outer  gate. 
To  marshal  half  the  horsemen  of  Arabia. 

[Exit  SvEiiofor  the  armour 

MYRRHA. 

How  I  do  love  thee ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  ne'er  doubted  it, 

MYRRHA. 

But  now  I  know  thee. 

SARDANAPALUS  (to  kis  attendant). 

Bring  down  my  spear,  too. 
W^here  's  Salemenes  ? 

PANIA. 

Where  a  soldier  should  be^ 
In  the  thick  of  the  fight. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Tiien  hasten  to  him Is 

The  path  still  open,  and  communication 
Left  'twixt  the  palace  and  the  phalanx  ? 

PANIA. 

'T  was 

When  I  late  left  him,  and  I  have  no  fear : 

Our  troops  were  steady,  and  the  plialaiix  form'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Tell  him  to  spare  his  person  for  the  present. 
And  that  I  will  not  spare  my  own — and  say, 
I  come. 

PANIA. 

There's  victory  in  the  veiy  word. 

[Exit  1*1NJA- 
SARDANAPALUS. 

Altada — Zames — forth  and  arm  ye!  There 
Is  all  in  readiness  in  the  armory. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


489 


Ser  (hat  the  women  a;c  bestow'd  in  safety 
In  the  remote  apartments :   let  a  guard 
Be  set  before  them,  with  strict  cliarge  to  quit 
The  post  but  with  their  hves — conmiand  it,  Zames. 
Ahada,  arm  yourself,  and  return  here ; 
Your  post  is  near  our  person. 
[Exeu?it  Zames,  Altada,  and  all  save  Mvkrha. 

Enter  Sfero  and  otherx,  mtk  the  Al/ig-'s  amis^  etc. 

SFEKO. 

King !  your  armour. 
SARDAXAi'ALUs  {arming  himself). 
Give  me  the  cuirass — so  :   my  baldric  ;   now 
IMv  sword:    I  had  forgot  the  helm,  wh(,Te  is  it? 
That 's  well — no,  't  is  too  heavy  :   you  nnstake,  too— 
It  was  not  tills  I  meant,  but  that  which  bears 
A  diadem  around  it. 

SFERO. 

Sire,  I  deem'd 
That  too  conspicuous  from  the  precious  stones 
To  risk  your  sacred  brow  beneath — and,  trust  me, 
This  is  of  better  metal,  though  less  rich. 

SARDA-VAPALCS. 

You  deem'd  !   Are  you  too  taru'd  a  rebel  ?  Fellow ! 
Your  part  is  to  obev  :   return,  and — no — 
It  >s  too  late — I  will  go  forth  witiiout  it. 

SFERO. 

At  least  wear  this. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Wear  Caucasus  !   why, 't  is 
A  mountain  on  my  temples. 

SFERO. 

Sire,  the  meanest 
Soldier  goes  not  forth  thus  e.\[)osed  tc  battle. 
Ah  men  will  recognise  you — for  the  storm 
Has  ceased,  and  the  moon  breaks  forth  in  her  brightness. 

SAKDA-NAl"  ALL'S. 

I  go  forth  to  be  recogniseii,  and  tnus 

Shall  he  so  sooner.      Now — mv  s|>eur  !    I'm  arm'd. 

[In  going  fttojix  .thurt,  and  turns  to  Sfero. 
Sfero — I  had  forgotten — bring  the  mirror.' 

SFERO. 

The  mirror,  sire  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes,  sir,  of  polish'd  brass. 
Brought  from  the  spoils  of  India — but  be  speedy. 

[Exit  Sfero. 
Myrrha,  retire  unto  a  place  of  safety. 
Why  went  you  not  forth  with  the  other  damsels? 

MYRRHA. 

Because  my  place  is  here. 

SARDAN  VPALUS. 

And  when  I  am  gone 


MYRRHA. 


I  follow. 


SARDANAPALUS. 

You  !  to  battle  ? 

MYRRHA, 

If  It  were  so, 
T  were  not  the  first  Greek  girl  had  trod  the  path. 
I  will  await  here  your  return. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The  i)lace 
Is  spacious,  and  the  first  to  be  sought  out, 
If  they  prevail ;   and,  if  it  should  be  so, 
Anil  I  return  not 


'*  Such  the  mirror  Otho  held 

In  the.  lii'-'iaii  field." — See  Juvenal. 


MYRRHA. 

Still,  we  meet  again. 

SA  «D  VNAPALUS. 

How  ? 

MYRRHA. 

In  the  spot  where  all  must  meet  at  last- 
In  Hades  !   if  there  be,  as  I  believe, 
A  shore  beyond  the  Styx ;   and  if  there  be  not, 
In  ashes. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Dar'st  thou  so  much  7 

MYRRHA. 

I  dare  all  things, 
Except  survive  what  I  have  loved,  to  be 
A  rebel's  booty  :   forth,  and  do  your  bravest. 
Re-enter  Sfero  icith  the  mirror. 

SARDANAPALUS  (lonking  at  himself). 
This  cuirass  fits  me  well,  the  baldric  better. 
And  the  helm  not  at  all.     Methinks,  I  seem 

[Flings  away  the  helmet,  after  trying  it  agum. 
Passing  well  in  these  tovs  ;  and  now  to  prove  them. 
Altada!   Where's  Altada? 

SFERO. 

Waiting,  sire, 
Without:  he  has  your  shield  in  readiness. 

SARDAN  A  P  A  L  U  S. 

True :   I  forgot  he  is  my  shield-bearer 
By  right  of  blood,  derived  from  age  to  age. 
INIyrrha,  embrace  me ;   yet  once  more — once  more- 
Love  me,  whate'er  betide.     My  chiefest  glory 
Shall  be  to  make  me  worthier  of  your  love. 

MVRRHA, 

Go  forth,  and  conquer  ! 

[Exit   SARDANAPALUS  und  SfEUO 

Now,  I  am  alone. 
411  are  gone  forth,  and  of  that  all  how  few 
Perhaps  return.     Let  him  but  vanijuish,  and 
Me  peri.-h !    If  he  vanquish  not,  I  perish; 
For  I  will  not  "outlive  him.      He  has  wound 
About  my  heart,  I  know  not  now  nor  why. 
Nol  fur  that  he  is  king;    for  now  hi»  kingdom 
Rocks  underneath  his  throne,  and  the  earth  yawn 
To  yield  him  no  more  of  it  than  a  grave ; 
And  yet  I  love  him  more.     Oh,  mighty  Jove  ! 
Forgive  this  monstrous  love  for  a  barbarian. 
Who  knows  not  of  Olympus  :   yes,  I  love  him 

Now,  now,  far  more  than Hark — to  the  war  shout! 

Methinks  it  nears  me.     If  it  should  be  so, 

[She  draws  forth  a  small  vial. 
This  cunning  Colchian  poison,  which  my  father 
Lcarn'd  to  compound  on  Euxine  shores,  and  taught  me 
How  to  preserve,  shall  free  me !    It  had  freed  me 
Long  ere  this  hour,  but  that  I  loved,  until 
I  half  forgot  I  was  a  slave : — where  all 
Are  slaves  save  one,  and  proud  of  servitude. 
So  they  are  served  in  turn  by  something  lower 
In  the  degree  of  bondage,  we  forget 
That  shackles  worn  like  ornaments  no  less 
Are  chains.     Again  that  shout !   and  now  the  clash 
Of  arms — and  now — and  now — 

Enter  Altada. 

ALTADA. 

Ho,  Sfero,  ho ! 

AfYRRHA. 

He  is  not  here ;   what  wouldst  thou  with  him  ?  How 
Goes  on  the  conflict  ? 

ALTADA. 

Dubiously  and  fiercely. 

MYRRHA. 

And  the  king  ? 


490 


BYRON'S    POETTCAL    WORKS. 


ALTADA. 

Likt  a  king.     I  must  find  Sfero, 
And  bring  him  a  new  spear  and  h.»  own  helmet, 
He  fights  till  now  bareheaded,  and  by  tar 
Too  much  exposed.     The  soldiers  knew  his  face, 
And  the  foe  too ;    and  in  the  moon's  broad  light, 
flis  silk  liara  and  his  flowing  hair 
Make  him  a  mark  too  royal.      Every  arrow 
Is  pointed  at  the.  fair  hair  and  fair  features, 
nd  the  broad  fillet  which  crowns  both. 

MVRKIIA. 

Ye  sods, 
Who  fulmine  o'er  my  fathers'  land,  protect  him! 
Were  you  sent  by  the  king  ? 

ALTADA. 

By  Salomenes, 
Who  sent  me  privily  upon  this  charge, 
Without  the  knowledge  of  the  careless  sovereign. 
The  kini;!   the  king  fights  as  he  revels  !    ho! 
What,  Sfero !   I  will  seek  the  armory — 
He  must  be  there.  ^JSant  Alt  a  da. 

MVRRHA. 

'T  is  no  dishonour — no— 
'T  is  no  dishonour  to  have  loved  this  man. 
[  almost  wish  now,  what  I  never  wish'd 
Before,  that  he  were  Grecian.      If  Alcides 
Were  shamed  in  wearing  Lvdian  Om|)hale's 
She-garb,  and  wielding  her  vile  distaff;  surely 
Ho,  who  spriniis  up  a  Flercules  at  once. 
Nursed  in  effeminate  arts  from  youth  to  manhood, 
And  rushes  from  the  banquet  to  the  battle, 
As  though  it  were  a  bed  of  love,  deserves 
That  a  Greek  uirl  stiould  be  his  f)aramour. 
And  a  Greek  bard  his  minstrel,  a  Greek  tomb 
H.-s  monument.      How  ijoes  the  strife,  sir? 
Enter  an  Officer. 

OFFICER. 

,   Lost, 
Lost  almost  past  recovery.     Zames  !  Where 
Is  Zames? 

MVRRHA. 

Posted  with  the  guard,  appointed 
To  watch  before  the  apartment  of  the  women. 

[Exit  Officer. 
MVRRHA  {sobix). 
He's  gone;   and  told  no  more  ihan  that  all's  lost! 
What  need  have  I  to  know  more  ?   In  those  words, 
Those  little  words,  a  kingdom  and  a  king, 
A  line  of  thirteen  ages,  and  the  lives 
Of  thousands,  and  the  fortune  of  all  lefl 
With  life,  all  merged :   and  I,  too,  with  the  great, 
Like  a  small  bubble  breaking  with  the  wave 
Which  bore  it,  shall  be  nothing.      At  the  least 
My  fate  is  in  my  keeping;   no  proud  victor 
Shall  count  me  with  his  spoils. 

Enter  Pania. 

PANIA. 

Away  with  me, 
Myrrha,  without  delay  ;   we  must  not  lose 
A  moment — all  that 's  left  us  now. 

MVRKHA. 

The  king  ? 

PANIA. 

Sent  me  here  to  conduct  you  hence,  beyond 
The  river,  by  a  secret  passage. 

MVRHHA. 

Then 
He  lives— — 


PANIA. 

And  charged  me  to  secuie  yourlile, 
And  beg  you  to  live  on  fur  his  sake,  till 
He  can  rejoin  you. 

MVRRHA. 

Will  he  then  give  way? 

PANIA. 

Not  till  the  last.      Still,  still  he  does  whate'er 
Despair  can  do ,   and  step  by  step  disputes 
The  very  palace. 

MVRRHA. 

They  are  here,  then  : — ay, 
Their  shouts  come  ringing  through  the  ancient  halla 
Never  profaned  by  rebel  echoes  till 
This  fatal  night.      Farewell,  Assyria's  line! 
Farewell  to  all  of  Nimrod  !   Even  the  name 
Is  now  no  niore. 

PANIA. 

Away  with  me — away ! 

MVRRHA. 

No  ;  I  '11  die  here  ! — Away,  and  tell  your  king 
I  loved  him  to  the  last. 

[Enter  Sakdanapalus  and  Salemenes,  wifJi 
Soldiers.  Pa  ma  quits  Mvrkh  a,  a7id  ran^e* 
himself  wilh  them. 

sardanapalus. 
Since  it  is  thus. 
We  '11  die  where  we  were  born — in  our  own  halls. 
Serry  your  ranks— stand  firm.     I  have  despatch'd 
A  trusty  satrap  for  the  guard  of  Zames, 
All  fresh  and  faithful ;   they  'II  be  here  anon. 
All  is  not  over. — Pania,  look  to  Myrrha. 

[Pania  returns  towards  Mvrrha. 
sai.emenes. 
We  have  breathing  time:   yet  one  more   charge,  my 

friends — 
One  for  Assyria  ! 

sardanapal  JS. 
Rather  say,  for  Bactria! 
My  faithful  Bactrians,  I  will  henceforth  be 
King  of  your  nation,  and  we  'II  hold  together 
This  realm  as  province. 

salfmenes. 

Hark  !   they  come — they  come. 

Enter  Beleses  anr^  Arbaces  with  the  Rebels, 

ARBACES. 

Set  on,  we  have  them  in  the  toil.     Charge  !   Charge  J 

beleses. 
On!   on  ! — Heaven  fights  for  us  and  with  us — On! 

[Thefi  charge  the  King  and  Sai-EMENES  with 
their  Troops.^  who  defend  thertifclves  till  the 
Arrival  of  Zames  iiith  the  Guard  btfure 
mentioned.  The  Rebels  are  then  driven  ';//", 
and  pursued  by  Salemenes,  etc.  As  the 
King  is  going  to  join  the  pursuit,  Beleses 
crosses  him. 

BELESES. 

Ho !   tyrant — I  will  end  this  war. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Even  so. 
My  warlike  jiriest,  and  precious  prof  bet,  and 
Gratiiful  and  trusty  subject: — yield,  I  pray  thee. 
I  would  reserve  thee  for  a  fitter  doom. 
Rather  than  dip  my  hands  in  holy  blood. 

BELESES. 

Thine  hour  is  come. 

SARPANAPALITS. 

No,  thine. — I  've  lately  read, 
Though  but  a  young  aslrolo!.'er,  the  stars; 
And  ranging  round  the  zodiac,  found  thy  fate 
III  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion,  which  proclsNnio 
That  thou  wilt  ii'jsv  be  crush'd. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


491 


[Tlwy  Jght . 
armed. 


BETESKS.  , 

But  not  by  thee.  I 

Beleses  i'i  wounded  and  dis-  ] 


Sardanapalus   {rai.nn<^   Jtis  <!Word  to  despatch  him, 

ej.(ittt)ns) — • 
Now  call  upon  thy  phuit  ts  ;    will  they  shoot 
From  the  sky,  to  prtscrve  their  sc'er  and  credit? 

[A  pnrti/  of  liehcls!  enter  and  rescue  Beleses. 
I^hey   (i-'^sdil    the    King,    who,    in    turn,    i.? 
rei^ctted   bij    a   jxirti^    of   his    Soldiers,    who 
drive  the  kehets  ojr. 
The  villain  was  a  prophet  after  all. 
Upon  them — ho  !   there — victory  is  ours. 

\^Ej:it  in  pursuit. 
MVRRHA    {to  Panij^). 
Pursue  !  Why  stand's',  thou  here,  and  icav'st  the  ranks 
Of  fellow-soldiers  conquering  without  thee  ? 

pama. 
The  king's  command  was  not  to  quit  thee. 

MVRKHA. 

Me ! 
Think  not  of  me — a  single  soldier's  arm 
Must  not  be  wanting  now.     I  ask  no  guard, 
I  need  no  guard :   what,  with  a  world  at  stake, 
Keep  watch  upon  a  woman  ?   Hence,  I  say, 
Ot  thou  an  shamed  !   Nay,  then,  /  will  go  forth, 
A  feeble  female,  'midst  their  desperate  strife. 
And  bid  thee  guard  me  there — wliere  thou  shouldst  shield 
Thy  sovereign.  [Exit  Mvrrha. 

PANIA. 

Yet  stay,  damsel !   She  is  gone. 
If  ausht  of  ill  betide  her,  better  I 
Had  lost  my  life.      Sardanapalus  holds  her 
Far  dearer  than  his  kingdom,  yet  he  fights 
For  that  too;   and  t^pn  I  do  less  than  him, 
Who  never  flash'd  a  scimitar  till  now  ? 
Mvrrha,  return,  and  I  obey  you,  though 
In  disobedience  to  the  monarch.  [Exit  Pania. 

Enter  Altada  and  Sfero,  by  an  opposite  door, 
altada. 

Myrrha ! 
What,  gone !   yet  she  was  here  when  the  fight  raged, 
And  Pama  also.     Can  aught  have  befallen  them? 

SFERO. 

I  saw  both  safe,  when  late  the  rebels  fled ; 
They  probably  are  but  retired  to  make 
Their  way  back  to  the  harem. 
altada. 

If  the  king 
Prove  victor,  as  it  seems  even  now  he  must, 
And  miss  his  own  Ionian,  we  are  doom'd 
To  worse  than  captive  rebels. 

6FERO. 

Let  us  trace  them  ; 
She  cannot  be  fled  far ;   and,  found,  she  makes 
A  richer  prize  to  our  soft  sovereign 
Than  his  recover'd  kingdom. 

altada. 

Baal  himself 
Ne'ei  fought  more  fiercely  to  win  empire,  than 
His  silken  son  to  save  it  :   he  defies 
AH  augurv  of  foes  or  friends  ;   and  like 
The  close  and  sultry  summer's  day,  which  bodes 
A  twilight  tempest,  bursts  tbrth  in  such  thunder 
As  sweeps  the  air  and  deluges  the  earth. 
The  man  's  mscrutable. 

SFERO. 

Not  more  than  others. 
AH  ore  the  sons  of  circumstance :   away — 
Lot  '8  seek  the  slave  out,  or  prepare  to  be 


Tortured  for  his  mfatuation,  and 

Condemii'd  wiihoul  a  crime.  [Exeunt 

Enter  Salemenes  and  SuLiiers,  etc. 

SALEME.NES. 

Tlie  trium[)n  is 
F"'lattering  :  they  are  beati-n  backward  from  the  palace, 
And  we  have  open'd  regular  access 
To  the  troops  station'd  on  the  other  side 
Eu[)hrates,  who  may  still  be  true;   nay,  must  be, 
Wiien  they  hear  of  our  victory.      But  where 
Is  the  chief  victor  ?  where  's  the  king  ? 
Enter  Sardanapalus,  cum  suis,  etc,  and  Mv  rrii a. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Here,  brothei 

SALEMEXES. 

Unhurt,  I  hope. 

SARDANAPALUS.  | 

Not  quite  ;   but  let  it  pass. 
We  've  clear'd  the  palace 

SALEMENES. 

And,  I  trust,  the  city 
Our  numbers  gather  ;   and  I  have  order'd  onward 
A  cloud  of  Parlhians,  hitherto  reserved. 
All  fresh  and  fiery,  to  be  pour'd  upon  them 
In  their  retreat,  which  soon  will  be  a  flight. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

It  is  already,  or  at  least  they  march'd 

Faster  than  I  could  follow  with  my  Bactrians, 

Who  spared  no  speed.     I  am  spent ;  give  me  a  seat. 

SALEMENES. 

There  stands  the  throne,  sire. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  IS  no  place  to  rest  on, 
For  mind  nor  body:   let  me  have  a  coui-h, 

[  Thei/  ])lace  a  seat, 
A  peasant's  stool,  I  care  not  what : — so — now 
I  breathe  more  freely-. 

SALEMENES. 

This  great  hour  has  proved 
The  brightest  and  most  ^ioriosis  of  your  hie. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  the  most  tiresome.   U  nere  's  my  cup-bearer? 
Bring  me  some  water. 

SALEMENES    -{siniliug). 

'Tis  the  first  time  he 
Ever  had  such  an  order :   even  I, 
Your  most  austere  of  counsellors,  would  now 
Suggest  a  purpler  beverage. 

SARDANAI  ALUS. 

Blood — doubtless. 
But  there  's  enough  of  that  shed  ;   as  for  wine, 
I  have  learn'd  to-night  the  price  of  the  pure  element: 
Thrice  have  I  drank  of  it,  and  thrice  renew'd, 
With  greater  strength  than  the  gra|te  ever  gave  me, 
Mv  charge  upon  the  rebels.   Where  's  the  soldier 
Who  gave  me  water  in  his  hemlet  ? 

ONE    OF    THE    GUARDS. 

Slain,  Sire ! 
An  arrow  pierced  his  brain,  while,  scattering 
The  last  drops  from  his  helm,  he  stood  in  ai:t 
To  place  it  on  his  brows. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Slain!  unrewarded  ! 
And  slain  to  serve  my  thirst:   that 's  hard,  poor  s'^ve! 
Had  he  but  lived,  I  would  have  gorged  him  with 
Gold  :  all  the  gold  of  earth  could  ne'er  repay 
The  pleasure  of  that  draught ;   for  I  was  parch'd 
As  I  am  now.  [Theij  bring  water— he  d'^rutx 

1  live  again — from  henceforth 


492 


BV  RON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


T!ie  goblet  I  reserve  for  hours  of  love, 
But  war  on  \va«er. 

SALEMENES. 

And  that  bandiige,  sire, 
Which  girds  your  arm? 

SAKDA  NAP  ALUS. 

A  scratch  from  brave  Beleses. 

MYKHHA. 

Oil !  he  is  wounded  ! 

SARDA.NAPALITS 

Not  too  much  of  that ; 
And  yet  it  feels  a  little  stiff  and  painful. 
Now  I  am  cooler. 

MYRRH  A^. 

You  have  bound  it  with 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The  fillet  of  my  diadem  :   the  first  time 
That  ornament  was  ever  aught  to  me 
Save  an  encumbrance. 

MYRRH  A    {to  the  attendants). 
Summon  speedily 
A  leech  of  the  most  skilful :    pray,  retire  ; 
I  will  unbind  your  wound  and  tend  it. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Do  so, 

F'or  now  it  throbs  sufficiently :   but  what 
Know'st  thou  of  wounds?  yet  wherefore  do  I  ask? 
Know'st  thou,  my  brother,  where  I  lighted  on 
This  minion  ? 

SALE.MENEh. 

Herding  with  the  other  females. 
Like  frighten'd  antelope.-;. 

SARDANAPALUS, 

No  :   like  the  dam 
Of  the  youni;  lion,  femininely  raging 
(Aiid  femininely  meaneth  furiously, 
Because  all  passions  in  excess  are  female), 
.^gainst  the  hunter  flying  with  her  cub, 
She  urged  on  with  her  voice  and  gesture,  and 
!ler  floating  hair  and  flashing  eyes,  the  soldiers 
In  the  pursuit. 

SALEMENES, 

Indeed ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You  see,  this  night 
Made  warriors  of  more  than  me.     I  paused 
To  look  upon  her,  and  her  kindled  cheek  ; 
Her  large  black  eyes,  that  tfash'd  through  her  long  hair 
As  It  stream'd  o'er  her  ;   her  blue  veins  that  rose 
Along  her  most  transparent  brow  ;   her  nostril 
Dilated  from  its  symmetry  ;    her  lijis 
Apart ;   her  voice  that  clove  through  all  the  din, 
As  a  lute's  piercetb  through  the  cymbal's  clash, 
Jarr'd  b*it  not  drown'd  by  the  loud  braltling ;    her 
Waved  arms,  more  dazzling  with  their  own  born  white- 
ness 
Than  the  steel  her  hand  held,  which  she  caught  up 
From  a  dead  soldier's  grasp  ;   all  these  things  made 
Her  seem  unto  the  troops  a  prophetess 
Of  victory,  or  Victory  herself, 
Come  down  to  hail  us  hers. 

SALE  M  I .  N  E  S     (  Uftifle  ) . 

Tins  IS  too  much  ; 
Again  the  l<ive-nt's  oti  lum,  and  all's  lost. 
Unless  we  turn  his  iliougiiis, 

(Alimil)    Hut,  jir  ly  thee,  sire, 
Think  of  your  wound — y<>ii  said  fven  now  'twas  painful. 

^A  KDA.WI'Al.US. 

That's  true,  too;    uul  1  niu-;t  ikiI  lliiiik  of  it. 

S  ALK.MKNKS. 

Tliave  look'il  to  all  tilings  in'c'dful,  and  will  riow 
Keceive  renorts  of  progress  made  m  such 


Orders  as  I  had  given,  and  then  returr 
To  hear  your  further  pleasure. 

SARDANAPALUS 

Be  it  so, 

s.\LEMENES   (m  retiring). 
Myrrha !  * 

MYRRHA. 

Prince. 

SALEMENES. 

You  have  shown  a  soul  to- nighty 

\Vhich,  were  he  not  my  sister's  lord But  now 

I  have  no  time  :   thou  lov'st  the  king  ? 

MYRRHA. 

I  love 
Sardanapalus. 

SALEMENES. 

But^vouldst  have  him  king  still? 

MYRRHA. 

I  would  not  have  him  less  than  what  he  should  be. 

SALEMENES. 

Well,  then,  to  have  him  king,  and  yours,  and  all 
He  should,  or  should  not  be  ;  to  have  him  live, 
Let  him  not  sink  back  into  lu.xury. 
You  have  more  power  upon  his  spirit  than 
Wisdom  within  these  walls,  or  fierce  rebellion 
Raging  without :   look  well  that  he  relapse  not. 

MVRRHA. 

There  needed  not  the  voice  of  Salemenes 
To  urge  me  on  to  this  ;   1  will  not  fail. 
All  that  a  womati's  weakness  can 

SALEMENES. 

Is  power 

Omnipotent  o'er  such  a  heart  as  his  ; 

E.xert  it  wisely.  _       [Exit  Sxleme-hus 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Mvrrha!   what,  at  whispers 
With  my  stern  brother  ?   I  shall  soon  be  jealous. 

MYRRHA    {smiling). 
You  have  cause,  sire  ;  for  on  the  earth  there  breathes  not 
A  man  more  worthy  of  a  woman's  love — 
A  soldier's  trust — a  subject's  reverence — 
A  king's  esteem — the  whole  world's  admiration! 

SARDA.XAPALUS. 

Praise  him,  but  not  so  warmly.     I  must  not 
Hear  those  sweet  lips  grow  eloquent  in  aught 
That  throws  me  into  shade ;  yet  you  speak  truth. 

MYRRHA. 

And  now  retire,  to  have  your  wound  look'd  to. 
Pray  lean  on  me. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes,  love  !   but  not  from  pain. 

[Exeunt  omnea. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

Sardanapalus  discovered  sleeping  upon  a  couch,  am' 
oc.rusionally  disturbed  in  his  slumbers,  with  Myrrha 
watching. 

MYRRHA   {sola,  gazing). 
I  have  stolen  upon  his  rest,  if  rest  it  be, 
Which  thus  convulses  slumber:   shall  I  wake  him? 
No,  he  seems  calmer.     Oh,  thou  God  of  Quiet! 
Whose  reign  is  o'er  seal'd  eyelids  and  soft  dreams, 
Or  d(;ep,  deep  sleep,  so  as  to  be  iiniathom'd. 
Look  like  thy  brother.  Death — so  still — so  stirless — 
For  then  we  are  happiest,  as  it  may  be,  we 
Are  ha|)piest  of  all  within  the  realm 
Of  thy  stern,  silent,  and  una  wakening  twin. 
Again  he  moves — again  the  play  of  pain 
Shoots  o'er  his  features,  as  the  sudden  gust 
Crisps  the  reluctant  lake  that  lay  so  calna 


SARDANAPALUS. 


403 


Heneutn  the  niounta\n  sh.idow  ;   or  the  blast 
Ruffles  the  uutuinn  leaves,  that  drooping  cling 
Faintly  and  motionless  to  their  loved  boughs. 
I  must  awake  him — yet  not  yet :   who  knows 
r  ••.111  what  I  rouse  him?     It  seems  pain;    hut  if 
'  oui.  kt-n  him  to  he;-.v:er  ])aiii  ?     The  fever 
0>    .nis  tuinuitKous  nii;ht,  the  cjrief  too  of 
His  wound,  thodsh  slioht,  may  cause  all  this,  and  shake 
Me  more  to  see  than  him  to  suffer.     No: 
iji'\  Nature  \ise  her  own  maternal   means, — 
\iid  I  await  to  second   not  disturb  her. 

SARD  A  N  A  I'  A  I,  V  s  ( iiv>akeni>ig) . 
Not  «o — although  ye  multii)!ied  the  stars, 
And  gave  them  to  me  as  a  realm  to  share 
From  you  and  with  you  !      1  would  not  so  purchase 
'J'lie  empire  of  eternity. — Hence — hence — 
Old  hunter  of  the  earliest  brutes !    and  ve, 
Who  huntcii  fellow-creatures  as  if  brutes. 
Once  bloody  mortals — and  now  bloodier  idols, 
If  your  priests  lie  not !     And  thou,  ghastly  beldame  ! 
Dripping  with  dusky  gore,  and  trampling  on 
The  carcasses  of  Inde — away  !   away  ! 
U'here  am  I  ?  Where  the  spectres  ?   Where — No — that 
Is  no  false  phantom:    I  should  know  it  'midst 
Ail  that  the  dead  dare  jrloomily  raise  up 
From  their  black  gulf  to  daunt  the  living.     Myrrha ! 

MYRRH  A. 

Alas !   thou  art  pale,  and  on  thy  brow  the  drops 
Gather  like  nii;ht-dew.     IMy  beloved,  hush — 
Calm  thee.     Thy  speech  seems  of  another  world. 
And  thou  art  loved  of  this.      Be  of  good  cheer  ; 
A. I  will  go  well. 

SARDANAPA  MTS. 

Thy  hmvl — so — 't  is  thy  hand  ; 
'Tis  flesh;  grasp — clasp — yet  closer,  till  I  feel 
Myself  that  which  I  was. 

MVRKHA. 

At  least  know  me 
Poi  what  I  am,  and  ever  must  be — thine. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  know  it  now.     I  know  this  life  again. 

All,  Myrrha  !   I  have  been  where  we  shall  be. 


My  lord : 


MVRRHA. 


SARDAXAPALUS. 

'  the  grave — where  worms  are  lords, 


I've  been 

And  kings  are But  1  did  not  deem  it  so; 

I  thought  'twas  nothing. 

MVRRHA. 

So  it  is  ;   except 
Unto  the  timid,  wlio  anticipate 
That  which  may  never  be. 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

Oh,  .Myrrha !   if 
Sleep  shows  such  things,  what  may  not  death  disclose  1 

MVRRHA. 

know  no  evil  death  can  show,  which  life 
lias  not  already  shown  to  those  who  live 
Embodied  longest.     If  there  be  indeed 
A  shore,  where  mind  survives,  'twill  be  as  mind. 
Ail  unincorporate:   or  if  there  fbts 
A  sliadow  of  this  cumbrous  clog  of  clay, 
Which  stalks,  methinks,  betwee>n  our  souls  and  heaven, 
And  fetters  us  to  earth — at  least  the  phantom, 
Whate'er  it  have  to  fear,  will  not  fear  death. 

SARDANAPA  I,US. 

I  fear  it  not  ;   but  I  have  felt — have  seen — 
A  legion  of  the  dead. 

MVRRHA. 

And  so  have  I. 
The  dust  we  tread  unon  was  once  alive. 


And  wretched.      But  proceed:    what  has    ihou  seen  / 
Speak  It,  't  wii:  lighten  thv  diiimi'ti  n.iiui. 

SAliDA.XA  I'ALL'S. 

Methought-  — 

MVRRHA. 

Yet  pause,  thou  art  tirt;.i— m  piii.'i — exhaust e.i  ;    al' 
Which  can  impair  i)oth  strength  and  spirit:   seek 
Rather  to  sleep  again. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not  iiuu — 1  would  not 
Dream  ;  though  I  know  it  now  to  he  a  dream 
W  hat  I  have  dreamt : — :uid  canst  thou  bear  to  hear  IJ 

MVRRHA. 

I  can  bear  all  things,  drcuiiis  of  life  or  death, 
Which  I  participate  uiih  you,  in  si;mblance 
Or  full  reality. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  this  look'ii  real, 
I  tell  you :   after  that  these  eves  were  open, 
I  saw  them  m  their  tliulii — for  then  they  tied. 

MVRKHA. 

Say  on. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  saw,  ihat  ;s,  I  dream'd  myself 
Here — here — even  win-re  we  are,  gu.jsts  as  we  were. 
Myself  a  liost  that  deem'd  himself  but  guest, 
Willing  to  efjiial  all  ui  social  fi-eedom  ; 
But,  on  my  -ight  hand  and  my  left,  instead 
Of  thee  and  Zames,  and  our  accustom'd  meeting, 
Was  ranged  on  my  left  hand  a  haughty,  dark, 
And  deadly  face — I  could  m>\  recognise  it. 
Yet  I  had  seen  it,  thoiisih  I  knew  not  where; 
The  features  were  a  giant's,  and  the  eye 
Was  still,  yet  lighted ;   his  long  locks  cnri'd  down 
Oil  his  vast  bust,  whence  a  huge  quiver  rose 
With  shaft-heads  feather'd  from  the  eagle's  win^, 
That  peep'd  i%p  bristling  through  his  serpent  bair. 
I  invited  him  to  till  the  cup  which  stood 
Between  us,  but  h<i  answer'd  not — 1  hii'd  .t— 
He  took  it  not — bu.  stared  upon  me,  till 
I  trembled  at  the  ti.x'd  glare  of  his  eye ; 
I  frovvn'd  upon  him  as  a  king  >;i,..ii,i  tiown — 
He  frown'd  not  in  his  turn,  but  Inok'd  upon  me 
With  the  same  aspect,  which  appall'd  me  more, 
Because  it  changed  not,  and  i  turn'd  for  refuge 
To  milder  guests,  and  sought  th. m  on  ihe  right, 

Wnere  thou  werl  wont  to  be.     But 

[  He  pauseti 

MVRRHA. 

What  insteaiO 

SARDANAPALUS. 

In  thy  own  chair — thy  own  place  in  the  banquet— 
I  sought  thy  sweet  face  in  the  circle — but 
Instead — a  gray-hair'd,  wither'd,  hloody-eyed. 
And  bloody-handed,  ghastly,  gh(;stlv  thing, 
Female  in  garb,  and  crown'd  uj)on  the  brow, 
Fiirrow'd  with  years,  yet  sneering  with  the  passion 
Of  vengeance,  leering  too  with  that  of  lust. 
Sate  ; — my  veins  curdled. 

MVRRHA. 

Is  this  all  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Upon 
Her  right  hand — her  lank,  bird-like  right  hand—  gtootf 
A  goblet,  bubbling  o'er  with  blood  ;   and  on 
Her  left  another,  fill'd  with — what  I  saw  noi, 
But  turn'd  t"rom  it  and  her.      But  all  aiong 
The  tai)le  sate  a  range  of  crowned   vreiches, 
Of  k-arious  aspects,  but  of  one  expression. 

MYRRHA. 

And  felt  you  not  this  a  mere  vision  ? 


494 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


iARDAXAI'AI  US. 


No; 


t  was  so  palpable,  I  could  ha.v :  touch'd  them. 
I  turii'd  from  one  face  to  another,  in 
The  ho|)e  to  find  at  last  one  v  liich  I  knew 
Ere  I  saw  theirs;   hut  no — all  turn'd  upon  me, 
And  stared,  but  neither  ate  nor  drank,  but  stared, 
ni!  I  grew  stone,  as  they  seeni'd  half  to  be, 
YcX  breathuiiT  stone,  for  I  felt  lift;  in  them, 
And  life  in  me  :    there  was  a  horrid  kind 
Of  sympathy  between  us,  as  if  tliey 
(lad  lost  a  i»art  of  death  to  come  to  me, 
And  1  the  half  of  life  to  sit  by  them. 
vVe  were  in  an  e\isi(>nce  all  apart 

Fnim  iie'av(?n  or  earth And  rather  let  nie  see 

Death  all  than  such  a  being ! 

MYliKHA. 

And  the  end? 

SAKDAXAPAI.US. 

At  last  I  sate  marble  as  tliey,  when  rose 
riie  huntt;r  and  the  crew  ;    and  smiling  on  me — 
Ves,  the  enlarged  but  noble  aspect  of 
I'he  hunter  smiled  upon  mi; — I  should  say. 
His  lips,  for  his  eyes  moved  not — and  the  woman's 
Thin  li[)s  relaxM  to  something  like  a  smile. 
}>((ih  rose,  and  the  crown'd  figures  on  each  hand 
Rose  also,  as  if  aping  their  chief  shades — 
Mere  mimics  even  in  death — but  I  sate  still  : 
A  des[)erate  courage  crept  through  every  limb, 
And  at  the  last  I  fear'd  them  not,  but  lauah'd 
Full  in  iheir  phantom  faces.      Hut  then — then 
The  hunter  laid  liis  hand  on  mine  :   I  took  it, 
And.  irrasp'd  it — but  it  melted  from  my  own, 
Willie  he  too  vanish'd,  and  left  nothing  but 
The  'iiemory  of  a  hero,  fir  lie  look'd  so. 

MYRRHA. 

AiK,  was ;   the  ancestors  of  heroes,  too, 
And  thine  no  less. 

SAHDANAPALUS. 

Ay,  Myrrha,  but  the  woman, 
f'he  female  who  remain'd,  she  Hew  upon  me, 
And  burnt  my  lips  up  with  her  noisome  kisses, 
And,  flinging  down  the  goblets  on  each  hand, 
Meihoughl  their  poisons  flow'd  around  us,  till 
Each  form'd  a  hideous  river.      Still  she  clung: 
The  other  phantoms,  like  a  row  of  statues. 
Stood  dull  as  in  our  temples,  but  she  still 
Embraced  me,  while  I  slirunk  from  her,  as  if, 
111  lieu  of  her  remote  descendant,  I 
U^ti  been  the  son  who  slew  her  for  her  incest. 
Then — 'lu'n — a  chaos  of  all  loathsome  things 
Throng'd  thick  and  shajioless  :  I  was  dead,  yet  feeling- 
H'.ined,  and  raised  again — consumed  by  worms, 
Piir(:ed  by  the  fiatnes,  and  wilher'd  in  the  air  ! 
I  can  ii\  tiolhiti;.'  further  of  my  thoughts, 
S;ive  that  I  lorig'd  for  th.je,  and  soui.dit  for  thee. 
In  aM  lh(;se  agonies,  and  woke  and  found  tiiee. 

MVKKUA. 

So  shalt  thou  find  me  ever  at  tliv  side, 

I 'ere  and  hcTeaftcr,  if  the  last  may  \m. 

Hiit  think  nut  of  these  things — the  ni're  creations 

()t    iate  events  acting  upon  a  liame 

roused  to  toil,  yet  overwniiight  by  toil. 

Such  as  might  try  the  sternest. 

SARPAN  \l'  ALL'S. 

Now  that  I  see  thee  once  more,  what  was  seen 
Seems  nolliing. 

KhUr  Sa  LKMi:\Ks. 

SAI.K.MKNKS. 

Is  tlic  king  so  soon  awake  7 


SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes,  brother,  and  I  would  I  had  not  slept , 
For  all  the  predecessors  of  our  line 
Rose  up,  methought,  to  drag  me  down  to  them. 
My  father  was  amongst  them,  too ;   but  he, 
I  know  not  why,  kept  from  me,  leaving  m« 
Between  the  hunter  founder  of  our  race 
And  her,  the  homicide  and  husband-killer, 
Whom  you  call  glorious. 

SALEMENES. 

So  I  term  you  also, 
Now  yon  have  shown  a  sjiirit  like  to  hers. 
By  day-break  I  propose  thai  we  set  forth,  , 

And  charge  once  more  the  rebel  crew,  who  still 
Keep  gathering  head,  repulsed,  but  nof  quite  quel  C: 

SARDANAPALUS. 

How  wears  the  night  ? 

SALEMENES. 

There  yet  remain  some  houre 
Of  darkness :   use  them  for  your  further  rest. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  not  to-night,  if  't  is  not  gone :   methought 
I  pass'd  hours  in  that  vision. 

MYRRHA. 

Scarcely  onfi : 
I  watch'd  by  you  :   it  was  a  heavy  hour. 
But  an  hour  only. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Let  us  then  hold  council ; 
To-morrow  we  set  forth. 

SALEMENES. 

But  ere  that  time, 
I  had  a  grace  to  seek. 

SARDANAPALITS. 

'T  is  granted. 

SALEMENES. 

Hear  it, 

Ere  you  reply  too  readily  ;   and  't  is 
For  your  ear  only. 

MYRRHA. 

Prince,  I  take  my  leave. 

[Exit  ]>|\'RRHA 
SALEMENES. 

That  slave  deserves  her  freedom. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Freedom  only  ! 
That  slave  deserves  to  share  a  throne. 

SALEMENES. 

Your  patience- 
'T  is  not  yet  vacant,  and  't  is  of  its  partner 
I  come  to  speak  with  you. 

SARDANAPALU!?. 

How  !   of  the  queen? 

SALEMENES. 

Even  so.      I  judged  it  fitting  for  their  safety, 
That,  ere  the  dawn,  she  sets  forth  with  her  children 
For  Paphlagoiiia,  where  our  kinsman  Cotta 
Governs  ;   and  there  at  all  events  secure 
My  nepiiews  and  your  sons  their  lives,  and  with  f^em 
Thtiir  just  pretensions  to  the  ';rown,  in  case 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  perish — as  is  jirobahle  :    well  thought — 
Let  them  set  forth  with  a  sure  escort. 

SA  LEMENES. 

That 

Is  all  ]irovided,  and  the  i^alley  ready 

To  drop  down  the  fiu|iiu-ates ;   but  ere  they 

Depart,  will  you  not  set; 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My  sons  ?  It  may 
Un;iian  mv  heart,  and  the  jioor  boys  will  weep; 


SARDA  NAP  ALUS. 


495 


\nn  v.ha  can  I  reply  to  comfort  them, 

Save  With  some  hollosv  hoyes,  and  ill-worn  smiles  ? 

Sfou  knr  A  I  cannot  feit^n. 

SALF.MENES. 

But  vou  can  feel ; 
At  least,  I  'just  f,o:   in  a  word,  the  queen 
Re(iuests  to-  see  you  ere  you  part — for  ever. 

SARDVNAPALUS. 

Unto  wbi.i.  eid?  wha't  purpose?    I  will  grant 
Aught— a'l  that  she  can  asK — but  such  a  meeting. 

SAI.KMENES. 

You  know^  c  ought  to  know,  enough  of  women, 
Siftce  you  *-a  e  studied  them  so  steadily, 
That  wbU  (hey  ask  m  aught  that  touches  on 
The  hear^  is  dearer  to  their  feelings  or 
Their  fauuy  than  the  whole  external  world. 
I  think  as  you  do  of  my  sister's  wish ; 
But  't  was  her  wish — she  is  my  sister — you 
Her  husband — will  you  grant  it  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'Twill  be  useless  • 
But  let  her  come. 

SALEMENES. 

I  go.  [Exit  Salemenes. 

SARDANAPALUs. 

We  have  lived  asunder 
Too  lono  to  meet  again — and  nnw  to  meet ! 
Have  I  not  cares  enow,  and  pangs  enow, 
To  bear  alone,  that  we  must  mingle  sorrows. 
Who  have  ceased  to  ininu'e  love? 

Re-enter  Sai.e.menks  uri'l  Zakina. 
SA  i.e.menes. 

^Iv  sister!  courage: 
Shame  not  our  YAood  with  trpinblinu,  but  remember 
From  whence  we  sprung.     The  ([ueesi  is  pre>''ul,  sire 

ZAKINA. 

1  Dtay  thee,  brother,  leave  me, 

SALE.ME.NES. 

Since  you  ask  it. 

[Exit  Salemenes. 

ZAKINA. 

Alone  with  him!     How  many  a  year  has  past, 
Thoui'h  we  are  still  so  young,  since  we  have  met. 
Which  I  have  worn  in  widowhooii  of  heart. 
FI'^  lov<>d  me  not  :   vet  he  seems  little  clianCTed — 
Chaii<:e(l  to  me  only — would  the  change  wt-re  mutual! 
He  speaks  not — scarce  rc'janis  nie — not  a  wurd — 
Nor  lo.jk — yet  he  wis  soft  of  voice  and  aspect, 
IndiMl-rent,  not  austere.      My  l<>.-d  ! 

SARDANAPAl.US. 

Zarina  ! 

ZARIXA. 

No,  not  Zarina — do  not  say  Zarina, 

That  tone — that  word — ;ininhilate  long  years, 

And  things  which  make  them  lonser. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  is  too  late 
To  think  of  these  past  dreams.     Let 's  not  I'eproach — 
That  is,  reproach  me  not — for  the  last  time 

ZARINA. 

And  Ji^si      I  ne'er  reproach'd  you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  is  most  true  ; 
Ana  that  reproof  comes  heavier  on  my  heart 
Than But  our  hearts  are  not  in  our  own  power.    • 

ZARINA. 

Nor  hands  ;   but  I  gave  both. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Your  brother  said, 
It  was  your  will  to  see  me,  ere  you  went 
From  Nineveh  with [He  heaiUites). 


ZARINA. 

Our  children :  it  is  truo» 
I  wish'd  to  thank  you  that  you  have  not  divided 
My  heart  from  ail  that's  left  it  now  to  love — 
Those  who  are  yours  and  mine,  who  .ook  like  vou, 
And  look  upon  me  as  you  look'd  upon  me 
Once But  th(  y  have  not  changed. 


Nor  ever  will. 


SARDAN.4  PALUS. 

I  fain  would  have  them  dutiful. 

ZARINA. 

i  cherish 
Those  nifinis,  not  alone  from  the  blind  love 
Ot"  a  fond  mother,  but  as  a  (bnd  woman. 
Thev  arc  now  the  only  tie  between  us. 

SARDANAPALtJS. 

Deem  not 

I  have  not  done  you  justice  :   rather  make  them 
Resemble  your  >nvn  line,  than  their  own  sire. 
I  trust  them  with  you — to  you:   fit  them  for 

A  throne,  or,  if  that  be  denied You  have  heard 

Of  this  night's  tumults? 

ZARINA. 

I  had  half  forgotten. 
And  could  have  welcomed  any  grief,  save  yours, 
Which  aave  me  to  behold  your  fice  again. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The  throne — I  say  it  not  in  fear — but  'tis 
In  peril ;   thev  perhaps  may  never  mount  it: 
But  let  them  not  for  thiS  lo«e  sight  of  it. 
I  will  dare  all  thinss  to  be(|ueath  it  them  ; 
But  if  I  fill,  then  they  must  win  it  back 
Bravely — and,  won,  wear  it  wisely,  not  as  I 
Have  wasted  down  my  royalty. 

ZARINA. 

Thev  ne'er 
Shall  know  from  me  of  aught  but  what  may  honou? 
Their  latner's  inemorv. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Rather  let  them  hear 
i    The  truth  from  you  than  from  a  trampling  world. 
If  thev  be  in  adversity,  ihey  'II  learn 
Too  soon  the  scorn  of  crowds  for  crownless  princes, 
An.!  fiMt  tlsal  all  their  father's  sins  are  theirs. 
My  bovs!— 1  could  have  borne  it  were  1  childless. 

ZARINA. 

Oil!    do  !)<t  sav  so — do  not  poison  all 
Mv  oeac<-  lel't,  bv  unwishino  tnal  thou  wert 
A  father.      If  diou  con(juerest,  they  shall  reign. 
All  i  honour  him  who  saved  the  realm  for  them, 
So  little  c  ired  for  as  his  own  ;   and  if 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'Tis  lost,  all  earth  will  cry  out,  thank  your  father! 
And  thev  will  swell  the  echo  with  a  curse. 

ZARINA. 

That  they  shall  never  do ;   but  rather  honour 
The  name  of  him,  who,  dying  like  a  king. 
In  his  last  hours  did  more  for  his  own  memory, 
Than  many  monarchs  in  a  length  of  days. 
Which  date  the  flight  of  time,  but  make  no  annula 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Our  annals  draw  perchance  unto  their  close; 
But  at  the  least,  whate'er  the  past,  their  end 
Shall  be  like  their  beginning — memorable. 

ZARINA. 

Yet,  be  not  rash — be  careful  of  your  life. 
Live  but  for  those  who  love. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  who  are  they'^ 

A  slave,  who  loves  from  passion — I '!!  not  ^i  v 


496 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    AVORKS. 


Ambition — she  has  seen  thrones  shake,  and  loves; 

A  few  friends,  who  have  revoil'd  till  we  are 

As  one,  for  they  are  nothing  if  I  fall  ; 

A  brother  I  have  injured — children  whom 

I  have  neglected,  and  a  spouse 

ZAHINA. 

Who  loves. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  pardons? 

ZARINA. 

I  have  never  thought  of  this, 
And  cannot  pardon  till  i  have  condemn'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My  wife ! 

ZARINA. 

Now  blessings  on  thee  for  that  word! 
I  never  thought  to  hear  it  more — from  thee. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh  !   thou  wilt  hear  it  from  my  subjects.     Yes — 
The  slaves,  whom  1  have  nurtureu,  pam[)er'd,  fed, 
And  swoln  with  peace,  and  gorged  with  plenty,  till 
They   rei^n   themselves — all   monarchs   in   their  man- 
sions— 
Now  swarm  forth  in  rebellion,  and  demand 
His  death,  who  m.ade  their  lives  a  jubilee  : 
While  the  few  u|)on  whom  1  have  no  claim 
Are  faithful.     This  is  true,  yet  monstrous. 

ZARINA. 

'Tis 

Perhaps  too  natural ;  for  benefits 
Turn  poison  in  bad  minds. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  good  ones  make 
Good  out  of  evil.     Happier  than  the  bee, 
Which  hives  not  but  from  wholesome  flowers. 

ZARINA. 

Then  reap 
The  honey,  nor  inquire  whence  'tis  derived. 
lie  satisfied — you  are  not  all  abandon'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My  life  insures  me  that.     How  long,  bethink  you, 

Were  not  I  yet  a  king,  should  I  be  mortal '! 

That  is,  where  mortals  are,  not  where  they  must  be  ? 

ZARINA. 

I  know  not.     But  yet  live  for  my — that  is, 
Your  children's  sake  ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My  gentle,  wrong'd  Zarina ! 
I  am  the  very  slave  of  circumstance 
And  impulse — borne  away  with  every  breath ! 
Misplaced  upon  the  throne — misplaced  in  life. 
I  know  not  what  I  could  have  been,  but  feel 
I  am  not  what  I  should  be — let  it  end. 
But  take  this  with  thee :   if  I  was  not  form'd 
To  prize  a  love  like  thine,  a  mind  like  thine. 
Nor  dote  even  on  thy  beauty — as  I  've  doted 
On  lesser  charms,  f  jr  no  cause  save  that  such 
Devotion  was  a  duty,  and  I  hated 
All  that  look'd  like  a  chain  for  me  or  others 
(This  even  rebellion  must  avouch);   yet  hear 
Tiiese  words,  perhaps  among  my  last — that  none 
Ere  valued  more  tliy  virtues,  though  he  knew  not 
To  [)rotit  l)V  thf-m — as  the  miner  li<.'hi9 
I'pon  a  vein  of  vir<:m  ore,  discovering 
Tlial  wnich  avails  him  nothing  ;   he  hath  found  it, 
fjut  'tis  no*,  his — but  some  superior's,  who 
Placed  hiin  to  diji,  l)Ut  not  divide  the  wealth 
Wliii-h  sparkles  at  his  feet;   nor  dare  he  lift 
Nor  poise  it,  hut  must  grovel  on  upturning 
Tile  sullen  earth. 


ZARINA. 

Oh !  if  thou  hast  at  length 
Discover'd  that  my  love  is  worth  esteem, 
I  ask  no  more — but  let  us  hence  together, 
And  / — let  me  say  u)e — shall  yet  be  happy. 
Assyria  is  not  all  the  earth — we  '11  tind 
A  world  out  of  our  own — and  be  more  blest 
Than  I  have  ever  been,  or  thou,  with  all 
An  eini)ire  to  indulge  ihee. 

E)tter  Sai.emenes. 

SALEMENES. 

I  must  part  ye — 
The  moments,  which  must  not  be  lost,  are  passinp 

ZARINA. 

Inhuman  brother  !   wilt  thou  thus  weigli  out 
Instants  so  high  and  blest  / 

SALEMENES. 

Blest! 

ZARINA. 

He  hath  been 
So  gentle  with  me,  that  I  cannot  think 
Of  quitting. 

SAI.EMENKS. 

So — this  feminine  farewell 
Ends  as  such  partings  end,  in  no  departure. 
i  tliouglit  as  mu<;h,  and  vielded  against  all 
My  better  bodings.     Put  it  must  not  be. 

ZARINA. 

Not  be  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Remain,  and  perish 

ZARINA. 

W"ith  my  hushanrt- 

SALFMENES. 

And  children. 


ZARINA. 


Alas: 


SALEMENES. 

Hear  me,  sister,  like 
DIi/  sister  : — all 's  prepared  to  make  your  safety 
Certain,  and  of  the  boys  too,  our  last  hopes. 
' T  is  not  a  single  question  of  mere  feeling. 
Though  that  were  much — but  't  is  a  point  of  state : 
The  rebels  would  do  more  to  seize  upon 
T!ie  olfspring  of  their  sovereign,  and  so  crush 

ZARINA. 

Ah  !  do  not  name  it. 

SALEMENES. 

W^ell,  then,  mark  me  :   when 
They  are  safe  beyond  the  Median's  grasp,  the  rebel 
Have  miss'd  their  chief  aim — the  extinction  of 
The  line  of  Nimrod.     Though  the  present  king 
Fall,  his  sons  live  for  victory  and  vengeance. 

ZARINA. 

But  could  not  I  remain,  alone  ? 

SALEMENES. 

What !   leave 
Your  children,  with  two  parents  and  yet  orphans— 
In  a  strange  land — so  young,  so  distant  ? 

ZARINA. 

No— 
My  heart  will  break. 

SALEMENES. 

Now  you  know  all — decide. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Zarina,  he  hath  spoken  well,  and  we 
Must  yield  awhile  to  this  necessity. 
Remaining  here,  you  may  lose  all ;   departing, 
You  save  the  better  part  of  what  is  left 
To  both  of  us,  and  to  such  loyal  hearts 
As  yet  beat  in  these  kingdoms. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


497 


8ALEMENES. 

The  time  presses. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Go,  then.     If  e'er  we  meet  again,  perhaps 
(  may  be  worthier  of  you — and,  if  not, 
Ki^membe    that  my  foiilts,  though  not  atoned  for, 
Are  ended.     Yet,  I  dread  thy  nature  will 
<jrieve  more  above  the  bligiued  name  and  ashes 

Which  once  were  mightiest  in  Assyria — than 

But  I  grow  womanish  again,  and  must  not ; 
I  must  learn  sternness  now.     My  sins  have  all 
Been  of  the  softer  order — Indf  thy  tears — 
[  do  not  bid  thee  nnt  to  shed  them — 't  were 
Easier  to  stop  Euphrates  at  its  source 
Than  one  tear  of  a  true  and  tender  heart — 
But  let  me  not  behold  them;   they  unman  me 
Here  when  I  had  remann'd  myseF.     My  brother, 
I^ead  her  away. 

ZARINA. 

Oh,  God  !   I  never  shall 
Behold  him  more ! 

SALEMEXES  {striiing  to  conduct  her). 

Nay,  sister,  I  must  be  obey'd. 

ZARINA. 

I  mu'^t  remain — away !   you  shall  not  hold  me. 
What,  shall  he  die  alone? — I  live  alone  ' 

SALEMENES. 

He  shall  not  die  alone  ;  but  lonely  you 
Have  lived  for  years. 

7.  AKIN- A. 

That 's  false  !   I  knew  he  lived, 
And  lived  upon  his  imaiie — let  me  go ! 

SALEMF.NEs  [ronducting  hrr  off  the  stage). 
iVay,  then,  I  must  u-e  some  ti-aternal  torce, 
WMch  you  will  pardon. 

ZARIN'A. 

Never.     Help  me  !     Oh  ! 
Sardanapalus,  wilt  thou  thus  behold  me 
Torn  from  thee  ? 

SALEMEXES. 

Nay — then  all  is  lost  again, 
li'  that  this  moment  is  not  gain'd. 

ZARINA. 

My  brain  turns — 
My  eyes  fail — where  is  he?  [She faints, 

SARDANAPALUS  {advancing). 

No — set  her  down — 
She  's  dead — and  you  have  slain  her. 

SALEMENES. 

'T  is  the  mere 
Faintness  of  o'er-wrousht  passion :   in  the  air 
She  will  recover.     Pray,  keep  back. — [Aside.]   I  must 
Avail  myself  of  this  sole  moment  to 
Bear  her  to  where  her  children  are  embark'd, 
I'  the  royal  galley  on  the  river. 

[Salemenes  hears  her  off, 

SARDANAPALUS    {solus). 

This  too — 
And  this  too  must  I  suffer — I,  who  never 
Inflicted  pur[)Osely  on  human  hearts 
A  voluntary  pang!    But  that  is  false — 
She  loved  me,  and  1  !ov<-d  her.     Fatal  passion  ! 
Whv  dost  thou  not  expire  at  once  in  hearts 
Which  thou  hast  lighted  up  at  once  ?   Zarina  ! 
I  must  pay  dearly  for  the  desolation 
Now  brouijht  upon  thee.      Had  I  never  loved 
But  thee,  I  should  nave  been  an  uno[)posed 
Monarch  of  honouring  nations.     To  what  gulfs 
A  single  deviation  from  th.:  track 
Of  human  duties,  leads  even  those  who  claim 
32 


The  homage  of  mankind  as  their  born  lAie, 
And  find  it,  till  they  forfeit  it  themselves  ! 
Enter  Mvrrha. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Vou  here  !   Who  call'd  you  ? 

MVRRHA. 

No  one — but  I  heard 
Far  off  a  voice  of  wail  and  lamentation, 
And  thought - 

SARDANAPALUS. 

It  forms  no  portion  of  your  duties 
sought  for. 


To  enter  here 


MYRRHA. 

Though  I  might. 
Perhaps,  recall  some  softer  words  of  yours 
(Although  they  too  were  chiding),  which  reproved  me 
Because  I  ever  dreaded  to  intrude  ; 
Resisting  my  own  wish  and  your  injunction 
To  heed  no  time  nor  presence,  but  approach  you 
Uncail'd  tor  :   I  retire. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yet,  stay — being  here. 
I  pray  you  pardon  me :   events  have  sour'd  me 
Till  I  wax  peevish — heed  it  not :   I  shall 
Soon  be  myself  again. 

MYRRHA. 

I  wait  with  patience. 
What  I  shall  see  with  pleasure. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

vScarce  a  monien! 
Before  your  entrance  in  this  hall,  Zarina, 
Queen  of  Assyria,  departed  h>?nce. 

MYRRHA. 

Ah! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Wherefore  do  you  start? 

MYRRHA. 

Did  I  do  so  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  was  well  you  enter'd  by  another  portal, 

Else  you  had  met.     That  pang  at  least  is  spared  he' 

MVRRHA. 

I  know  to  feel  for  her. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Tiiat  is  too  much, 
And  beyond  nature — 't  is  nor  mvitual. 
Nor  possible.      You  cannot  pity  her. 
Nor  she  aught  but 

MVRRHA. 

Despise  the  favourite  slave  7 
Not  more  than  I  have  ever  sconi'd  myself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

ScornM  !   what,  to  be  the  tmvy  of  your  sex. 
And  lord  it  o'er  the  heart  of  the  world's  lord  ? 

MYRRHA.   . 

^Vere  you  the  lord  of  twice  ten  thousand  worlds- 
As  vou  are  like  to  lose  the  one  you  sway'd — 
I  did  abase  mvself  as  much  in  being 
Your  paramour,  as  though  you  were  a  peasant — 
Nay,  more,  if  that  the  peasant  were  a  Greek. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You  talk  it  well 

MYRRHA. 

And  truly. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

In  the  nour 
Of  man's  adversity,  all  things  irrow  daring 
Auimst  the  falling  ;   but  as  I  am  not 
Quite  fallen,  nor  now  disposed  to  bear  reproaclieo 


498 


BYPvON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Perhaps  because  I  merit  them  too  often, 

Let  us  tlien  part  while  peace  is  still  between  us. 

MYRRHA. 

Part 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Have  not  all  past  human  beings  parted, 
And  must  not  all  the  present  one  day  part  ? 

MVRRHA. 

Why? 

SARDANAPALUS.    * 

For  your  safely,  which  I  will  have  look'd  to, 
With  a  strong  escort  to  your  native  land  ; 
And  such  gifts  as,  if  you  have  not  been  all 
A  queen,  shall  make  your  dowry  worth  a  kingdom. 

MYRRHA. 

pray  you  talk  not  thus. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The  queen  is  gone  : 
You  need  not  shame  to  follow.  I  would  fall 
Alone — I  seek  no  partners  but  in  pleasure. 

MYRRHA. 

And  I  no  pleasure  but  in  parting  not. 
Yoa  shall  not  force  me  from  you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Think  well  of  it — 
It  soon  may  be  too  late. 

MYRRHA. 

So  let  it  be  ; 
h  or  then  you  cannot  separate  me  from  you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  will  not;   but  I  thought  you  wish'd  it. 

MYRE.HA. 

I? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Y<iu  spoke  of  your  abasement. 

MYRRHA. 

And  I  feel  it 
Deeplv — more  deeply  than  all  things  but  love. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then  fly  from  it. 

MYRRHA. 

'T  will  not  recall  the  past — 
''1  will  not  restore  my  honour,  nor  my  heart. 
^,'o — here  I  stand  or  fall.      If  that  you  conquer, 
J  live  to  joy  hi  your  great  triiimph  ;   should 
Your  lot  be  different,  I  '11  not  weep,  but  share  it. 
You  did  not  doubt  me  a  few  hours  ago. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Your  courage  never — nor  your  love  till  now  ; 
And  none  could  make  me  doubt  it,  save  yourself. 
Those  words 

MYRRHA. 

Were  words.     I  pray  you,  let  the  proofs 
Be  in  the  past  acts  you  were  pleased  to  [iraise 
This  very  night,  and  in  my  further  bearing, 
lieside,  wherever  you  are  borne  by  fate. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  am  content ;   and,  trusting  in  my  cause, 

riiirik  we  iii;iy  yel  be  victors,  and  return 

To  peaet; — the  only  victory  I  covet. 

To  me  war  is  no  glory — c,oii(|u<!st  no 

ll(!nown.     To  be  forced  thus  to  uphold  my  right, 

Sits  heavier  on  my  heart  itiati  all  the  wronjjs 

'J'hese  men  would  liow  me  down  with.     Never,  never 

Can  I  forge.t  this  ni^ht,  even  should  I  live 

To  add  It  to  the  memory  of  others. 

I  t!!f)u;^ht  to  have  made  n-iiie  nioU'erisive  rule 

An  era  of  sweet  peaee  'und^t  bloody  annals, 

A  yreen  s|)Ot  amidst  desert  (•enliiries. 

On  which  the  tuture  would  turn  back  and  smile, 


And  cultivate,  or  sigh  when  it  could  not 
Recall  Sardanapalus'  golden  reign. 
I  thought  to  have  made  my  realm  a  paradise, 
And  every  moon  an  epoch  of  new  pleasures. 
I  took  the  rabble's  shouts  for  love — the  breath 
Of  friends  for  truth— the  lips  of  woman  for 
Mv  only  guerdon— so  they  are,  my  Myrrha ; 

[Helcissrsher 

Kiss  me.     Now  let  them  take  my  realm  and  life ' 
They  shall  have  both,  but  never  thee  ' 

MYRRHA. 

No,  neviT  ! 
Man  may  despoil  his  brother  man  of  all 
That 's  great  or  glittering  :  kingdoms  fall  —hosts  yield- 
Friends  fail— slaves  tly— and  all  betray  -  -and,  more 
Than  all,  the  most  indebted— but  a  heart 
That  loves  without  self-love  !   'T  is  here— now  prove  il. 

Enter  Salemenes. 

SALEMENES. 

I  sought  you. — How  !   she  here  again  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Retu/n  noi 

Now  to  reproof:   methinks  your  aspect  speaks 
Of  higher  matter  than  a  woman's  presence. 

SALEMENES. 

The  only  woman  whom  it  much  im[>orts  me 
At  such  a  moment  now  is  safe  in  abs*»nce — 
The  queen 's  embark'd, 

sardanapalt:^. 

And  well?   say  that  mnd-u 

SALEMENES. 

at  If^ast, 


Yrs. 


Her  transient  weakness  has  past  o'er  : 

It  settled  into  tearless  silence  :    her 

Pale  face  and  ghttenniT  eye,  after  a  glance 

Upon  her  sleeping  children,  wert;  still  iix'd 

Upon  the  palace  towers,  as  the  swill  galley 

Stole  down  the  hurrymg  stream  beneath  the  starhgh; ; 

Bui  she  said  nothiiig. 


I  DANAPALUS. 

Would  I  full  no  more 


Than  she  has  said. 


SAt-EMENES, 

'T  is  now  too  late  to  teel! 
Your  feelings  camiot  cancel  a  sole  pang: 
To  change  them,  my  advices  bring  sur(j  tidings 
That  the  rebellious  Medes  and  Chaldees,  marshaH'J 
By  their  two  leaders,  are  already  up 
In  arms  again  ;   and,  serrying  their  ranks, 
Prepare  to  attack  :    they  have  apparently 
Been  join'd  by  other  satra{)S. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What!   more  rebels*' 
Let  us  be  first,  then. 

SALEMENES. 

That  were  hardly  prudent 
Now,  though  It  was  our  lirst  mtention.     If 
By  noon  to-morrow  we  are  join'd  by  those 
I've  sent  for  by  sure  messenL;ers,  we  shall  be 
In  strength  enough  to  venture  an  attack, 
Ay,  .md  pursuit  too:   but,  till  then,  my  voice 
Is  to  await  the  onset. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

1  det.-st 
That  waiting  ;   though  it  seems  so  safe  to  figh* 
Behind   hii:h  walls,  and  hurl  down  foes  into 
Deep  foss(!s,  or  behold  them  sprawl  on  spikes 
Strew'd  to  receive  tluMU,  slill  1  like  it  not — 
Mv  soul  seems  bdscwavm  ;    but  when  I  set  on  !he5n. 


S  AR  DAN  AP  ALUS. 


49'J 


Though  they  were  piled  on  moiintains,  1  would  have 
A.  pluck  at  tlieni,  or  uurish  in  hot  blood  !  — 
Let  me  then  charge  ! 

SVLEMKNES.  • 

Voii  talk  like  a  young  soldier. 

SARDANAP.VLUS. 

I  am  no  soldier,  but  a  man :   sfieak  not 
Of  soldiership — I  loathe  the  word,  and  those 
Who  pride  themselves  upon  it;   but  direct  me 
Where  I  may  pour  upon  them. 

SALKMKNES. 

You  must  spare 
To  expose  your  life  too  hastily  ;   't  is  not 
Like  mine  or  any  other  subject's  breath : 
The  whole  war  turns  upon  it — with  it ;   this 
Alone  creates  it,  kindles,  and  may  quench  it- 
Prolong  it — end  it. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then  let  us  end  both  ! 
'T  were  better  thus,  perhaps,  than  prolong  either ; 
I  'ni  sick  of  one,  perchance  of  both. 

\A  trumpet  sounds  without. 


SALEMENES. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Hark! 


Let 


Reply,  not  listen. 

SALEMENES. 

And  your  wound  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  is  bound— 
*T  is  heal'd — I  had  forgotten  it.     Away  ! 
A  leech's  lancet  would  have  scralch'd  me  deeper: 
The  slave  that  gave  it  might  be  well  ashamed 
Fc  have  struck  so  weaklv. 

SALEMENES. 

Now  may^one  this  hour 
Strike  with  a  better  aim  ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Ay,  if  we  conquer ; 
But  if  not,  they  will  only  leave  to  me 
A  task  they  might  have  spared  their  king.  Upon  them  ! 
[Trumpet  sounds  again. 

SALEMENES. 

I  am  with  you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Ho,  my  arms  !   again,  my  arms  ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

The  same  Hall  of  the  Palace. 
INlvRiiHA  and  Balea. 
MYRRHA  [at  a  window). 
The  day  at  last  has  broken.      What  a  night 
Hath  usher'd  it !      How  beautiful  in  heaven! 
Though  varied  with  a  transitory  storm, 
More  beautiful  in  that  variety  ! 
How  hideous  u|)on  earth  !   wiiere  peace  and  hope. 
And  love  and  revel,  in  an  hour  weri;  trampled 
By  human  passions  to  a  human  chaos, 
Not  yet  resolved  to  separate  elements. — 
'T  IS  warring  stiil !      And  can  the  sun  so  rise, 
So  bright,  so  rolliriL'  back  the  clouds  into 
Va|iours  more  lovely  t'lt.ui  the  unclouded  sky, 
With  golden  puiuacles,  and  snowy  rnoutilains, 
And  billows  purpler  than  the  ocean's,  making 
(n  heaven  a  glorious  mockery  of  the  earth, 


So  like,  we  almost  deem  it  permanent ; 

So  Heetiiig,  we  can  scarcely  call  it  aught 

Beyond  a  vision,  'tis  so  transiently 

Scatter'd  along  the  eternal  vault:   and  yet 

It  dwells  upon  the  soul,  and  soothes  the  soul, 

And  blends  itself  into  the  soul,  until 

Sunrise  and  sunset  fonn  the  haunted  epoch 

Of  sorrow  and  of  love  ;   which  they  wlio  mark  no. 

Know  not  the  realnu  where  those  twin  genii 

(Who  chasten  and  who  purify  our  hearts. 

So  that  we  would  not  change  their  sweet  rebuKea 

For  all  the  boisterous  jovs  that  ever  sliook 

The  air  with  clamour)  build  the  palaces 

Where  their  fond  votaries  rejiose  and  breathe 

Brietly  ; — but  in  that  brief  cool  calm  inhale 

Enough  of  heaven  to  enable  them  to  bear 

The  rest  of  common,  heavy,  human  liours. 

And  dream  them  through  in  placid  sutferance  , 

Though  seemingly  employ'd  like  all  the  rest 

Of  toiling  breathers  in  allotted  tasks 

Of  pain  or  pleasure,  two  names  for  one  feeling. 

Which  our  internal,  restless  agony 

Would  vary  m  the  sound,  although  the  sense 

Escapes  our  highest  efforts  to  be  happy. 

BALEA. 

You  muse  right  calmly :   and  can  you  so  watch 
The  sunrise  which  may  be  our  last  ? 

MVRRHA. 

It  is 
Therefore  that  I  so  watch  it,  and  reproach 
Those  eves,  which  never  may  behold  it  more, 
For  having  look'd  upon  it  oft,  too  oft. 
Without  the  reverence  and  the  rapture  due 
To  that  which  keeps  all  earth  from  being  as  fragile 
As  I  am  in  this  form.      Come,  look  upon  it. 
The  Chaldee's  god,  which,  when  I  gaze  upon, 
I  grow  almost  a  convert  to  your  Baal. 

BALEA. 

As  now  he  reigns  in  heaven,  so  once  on  earth 
He  sway'd. 

MYRRHA. 

He  sways  it  now  far  more,  then ;   neve/ 
Had  earthly  monarch  half  the  peace  and  glory 
Which  centres  in  a  single  ray  of  his. 

BALEA. 

Surely  he  is  a  god  ! 

MYRRHA. 

So  we  Gre-aks  deem  too  ; 
And  yet  I  sometimes  think  that  gorgeous  orb 
Must  rather  be  the  abode  of  gods  than  one 
Of  the  immortal  sovereigns.     Now  he  breaks 
Through  all  the  clouds,  and  fills  my  eyes  with  light 
That  shuts  the  world  out.     I  can  look  no  more. 

BALEA. 

Hark  !   heard  you  not  a  sound  ? 

MVRRHA. 

No,  't  was  mere  fancy 
They  battle  it  beyond  the  wall,  and  not 
As  in  late  midnight  conflict  in  the  verv 
Chambers  ;   the  j)alace  has  become  a  fortress 
Since  that  insidious  hour;   and  here  wittiin 
The  very  centre,  girded  by  vast  courts 
And  regal  halls  of  pyramid  j)ro[)ortions, 
W^hich  must  be  carried  one  by  one  befiore 
They  penetrate  to  u  here  they  then  arrivea, 
We  are  as  much  shut  in  even  from  the  sound 
Of  peril  as  fi-om  glory. 

BALEA. 

But  they  reach'd 
Thus  far  before. 


500 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


MYRRHA. 

Yes,  by  surprise,  and  were 
Beat  back  by  valour ;  now  at  once  we  have 
Courage  and  vigilance  to  guard  us. 

BALEA. 

May  they 
Prosper ! 

MYRRHA. 

That  is  the  prayer  of  many,  and 
llie  fiiead  of  more :   it  is  an  anxious  hour ; 
I  strive  to  keep  it  from  my  thoughts.     Alas ! 
ow  vainly ! 

BALEA. 

It  is  said  the  king's  demeanour 
In  the  late  action  scarcely  more  appall'd 
The  rebels  than  astonish'd  his  true  subjects. 

MYRRHA. 

*Tis  easy  to  astonish  or  appal 

The  vulgar  mass  whicii  moulds  a  horde  of  slaves : 

But  he  did  bravely. 

BALEA. 

Slew  he  not  Beleses  ? 
I  heard  the  soldiers  say  he  struck  him  down. 

MYRRHA. 

The  wretch  was  overthrown,  but  rescued  to 
Triumph,  perhaps,  o'er  one  who  vanquish'd  him 
In  fight,  as  he  had  s[)ared  him  in  his  peril, 
And  by  that  heedless  pity  nsk'd  a  crown. 

BALEA. 

Hark! 

MYRRHA. 

You  are  right ;   some  steps  approach,  but  slowiv- 
Enter  s'dclicrs,  hearing  in  Salemenes  wounde>t.  mith 
a  b)  <)he».  Javelin  in  Im  Side  :   tltei/  seat  him  upon  <m^ 
of  the  lUmchts  which  furnifih  the  Apartmnit. 
MYRRHA. 

Oh,  Jove ! 

BALEA. 

Then  all  is  over. 

SALEMENES. 

That  is  false. 
Hew  down  the  slave  who  says  so,  if  a  soldier. 

MYRRHA. 

Spare  him — he  s  none  :   a  mere  court  butterfly, 
That  flutters  in  the  Dageant  of  a  monarch. 

SALEMENES. 

Let  him  live  on,  then. 

MYRRHA. 

So  wilt  thou,  I  trust. 

SALEMENES. 

I  fain  would  live  this  hour  out,  and  the  event, 
But  doubt  it.    Wherefore  did  ye  bear  me  here? 

SOLDIER. 

By  the  king's  order.    When  the  javelin  struck  you, 
You  fell  and  fainted  ;  't  was  his  strict  command 
To  bear  you  to  this  hall. 

SALEMENES. 

'T  was  not  ill  done : 
For,  seeming  slain  in  that  cold  dizzy  trance. 
The  sight  might  shake  our  soldiers — but — 'tis  vain. 
I  feel  it  ebbmg ! 

MYHKHA. 

Let  me  s(  e  the  wound  ; 
I  an  not  quite  skiiless  :    in  my  native  land 


'Tis  })arl  of  our  instruct 


Wiir  be 


We  are  nerved  to  look  on  such  tlni 

SOLDI  KU. 

The  javelm. 

MYRRHA. 

Hold  !  no,  no,  it  cannot  be. 


Best  extract 


SAI,EMEWES. 

I  am  sped,  then  ! 

MYRRHA. 

With  the  blood  that  fast  must  folk  *• 
The  extracted  weapon,  I  do  fear  thy  life. 

SALEMENES. 

And  I  not  death.    Where  was  the  king  when  you 
Convey'd  me  from  the  spot  where  I  was  stricken  i 

SOLDIER. 

Upon  the  same  groimd,  and  encouraging 
With  voice  and  gestui'e  the  dispirited  troops 
Who  had  seen  you  fall,  and  falter'd  back. 

SALEMENES. 

Whom  heard  y( 
Named  next  to  the  command? 

SOLDIER. 

I  did  not  hear. 

SALEMENES. 

Fly,  then,  and  tell  him,  't  was  my  last  request 
That  Zames  take  my  post  until  the  junction. 
So  hoped  for,  yet  delay'd,  of  Ofratanes, 
Satrap  of  Susa.     Leave  me  here :  our  troops 
Are  not  so  numerous  as  to  spare  your  absence. 

SOLDIER. 

But,  prince 

SALEMENES. 

Hence,  I  say !   Here  's  a  courtier  and 
A  woman,  the  best  chamber  company. 
As  you  would  not  permit  me  to  expire 
Upon  the  field,  I  '11  have  no  idle  soldiers 
About  my  sick  couch.     Hence  !   and  do  my  bidding  ? 
[Exeunt  the  S^ildieis, 

MYRRHA. 

Gallant  and  glorious  spirit !  must  the  earth 
So  soon  resign  thee  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Gentle  Myrrha,  'tis 
The  end  I  would  have  chosen,  had  I  saved 
The  monaroh  or  the  monarchy  by  this ; 
As  't  is,  I  have  not  outlived  them. 

MYRRHA. 

You  wax  paler. 

SALEMENES. 

Your  hand  ;  this  broken  weapon  but  prolongs 
My  pangs,  without  sustaining  life  enough 
To  make  me  useful :   I  would  draw  it  forth. 
And  my  life  with  it,  could  I  but  hear  how 
The  fight  goes. 

Enter  Sardanapalus  and  Soldiers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My  best  brother ! 

SALEMENES. 

And  the  battle 
Is  lost? 

SARDANAPALUS   [dcspondingly). 
You  see  me  here. 

SALEMENES. 

I  'd  rather  see  you  thus  ' 
[He  draws  out  the  iveaponfrum  the  wound,  and  dict 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  thus  I  will  be  soon,  unle.5S  the  succour, 
The  last  frail  reed  of  our  beleaguer'd  ho[)eL 
Arrive  with  Ofratanes. 

MYRKHA. 

Did  you  mt 
Receive  a  token  from  your  dying  bi-other, 
Appointing  Zames  chief? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  did. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


5(V1 


Dead. 


Where  's  Zames? 

SARDANAPALUS. 


MVRRHA. 


And  Altada  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Dying. 

MVRRHA. 

Pania?   Sfero? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Panid  yet  lives  ;  bat  Stero  's  fled,  or  captive, 
am  aloiic. 

MYRRH  A. 

And  is  all  lost? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Our  walls, 
Though  thinly  mann'd,  may  still  hold  out  against 
Tlieir  present  force,  or  aught  save  treachery  : 
But  r  the  field 

MYRRHA. 

I  thought  'twas  the  intent 
Of  Salemenes  not  to  risk  a  sally 
Til!  ye  were  strengthen'd  by  the  expected  succours. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  overruled  him. 

MYRRHA. 

Well,  the  fault 's  a  brave  one. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Biit  fatal.     Oh,  my  brother !   I  would  give 
These  realms,  of  which  thou  wert  the  ornament. 
The  sword  and  shield,  the  sole  redeeming  honour, 

To  call  back But  I  will  not  weep  for  thee  ; 

Thou  shalt  be  mourn'd  for  as  thou  wouldst  be  mourn'd. 

It  srieves  me  most  that  thou  couldst  quit  thi  ?  life 

B«ilievin^  that  I  could  survive  what  thou 

Hast  died  for — our  long  royalty  of  race. 

If  I  redeem  it,  I  will  give  thee  blood 

Of  thovisands,  tears  of  millions,  for  atonement 

(The  tears  of  all  die  good  are  thine  already). 

If  not,  we  meet  again  soon,  if  the  spirit 

Within  us  lives  beyond  : — thou  readest  mine, 

And  dost  me  justice  now.     Let  me  once  clasp 

That  yet  warm  hand,  and  fold  that  throbless  heart 

[Embraces  the  body. 
To  this  which  beats  so  bitterly.     Now,  bear 
The  body  hence. 

SOLDIER. 

Where  / 

SARDANAPALUS. 

To  my  proper  chamber. 
Place  it  beneath  my  canopy,  as  though 
The  king  lay  there ;  when  this  is  done,  we  will 
Speak  further  of  the  rites  due  to  such  ashes. 

[Exeunt  Soldiers  tvith  tlw  body  of  Salemenes. 
Enter  Pania. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Well,  Pania!   you  have  placed  the  guards,  and  issued 
The  orders  fix'd  on  ? 

PANIA. 

Sire,  I  have  obey'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  do  the  so'diers  keep  their  hearts  up  ? 

PANIA. 

Sire? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'm  answer'd :  When  a  king  asks  twice,  and  has 
A  question  as  an  answer  to  fas  question. 
It  is  a  portent.   What,  they  are  dishearten'd ? 

PANIA. 

The  death  ol  Salemenes.  and  the  shouts 


Of  the  exulting  rebels  on  his  fall, 
Have  made  tiiem 

SARDANA.PALUS. 

Ruge — not  droop — it  should  ha\e  been 
We  '11  find  the  means  to  rouse  them, 

PANIA. 

Such  a  ioss 
Might  sadden  even  a  victory. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Alas! 
Who  can  so  feel  it  as  I  feel  ?  but  yet. 
Though  coop'd  within  these  walls,  they  are  strong,  and  we 
Have  those  without  will  break  their  way  through  Intsti^ 
To  make  their  sovereign's  dwelling  what  it  was — 
A  palace — not  a  prison  nor  a  fortress. 
Enter  an  q/Ucer  hastily. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thy  face  seems  ominous.     Speak ! 

OFFICER. 

I  dare  not. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Dare  not  I 
While  millions  dare  revolt  with  sword  in  hand ! 
That 's  strange.     I  pray  thee  break  that  loyal  silence 
Which  loathes  to  shock  its  sovereign  ;  we  can  hear 
Worse  than  thou  hast  to  tell, 

PANIA. 

Proceed,  thou  heareet. 

OFFICER. 

The  wall  which  skirted  near  the  river's  brink 
Is  thrown  down  by  the  sudden  inundation 
Of  the  Euphrates,  which  now  rolling,  swolii 
From  the  enormous  mountains  where  it  rises, 
By  the  late  rains  of  that  tempestuous  region, 
O'erfloods  its  banks,  and  hath  destroy'd  the  bulwark. 

PANIA. 

That 's  a  black  augury  !   It  has  been  said 
For  ages,  "That  the  city  ne'er  should  yield 
To  man,  until  the  river  grew  its  foe." 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  can  forgive  the  omen,  not  the  ravage. 
How  much  is  swept  down  of  the  wall  ? 

OFFICER. 

About 
Some  twenty  stadii. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  all  this  13  left 
Pervious  to  the  assailants  ? 

OFFICER. 

For  the  present 
The  river's  fury  must  impede  the  assault ; 
But  when  he  shrinks  into  his  wonted  channel, 
And  may  be  cross'd  b}'  the  accustom'd  barks. 
The  palace  is  their  own. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That  shall  be  never. 
Though  men,  and  gods,  and  elements,  and  omens. 
Have  risen  up  'gainst  one  who  ne'er  provoked  metn, 
My  tlithers'  house  shall  never  be  a  cave 
For  wolves  to  hoard  and  howl  in. 

PANIA. 

With  your  sanction 
I  will  proceed  to  the  spot,  and  take  such  measures 
For  the  assurance  of  the  vacant  space 
As  time  and  means  permit. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

About  it  straight. 
And  bring  me  back,  as  speedily  as  full 
And  fair  investigation  may  permit, 
Report  of  the  true  state  of  this  irruption 
Of  waters.  [Exeunt  Pania  and  the  Officer 


502 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


MVRRHA. 

Thus  the  very  waves  risp  »ip 
Against  you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They  are  not  n)y  subjects,  girl, 
And  may  be  pardon'd,  since  they  can't  be  punish'd. 

MVRRHA. 

I  joy  to  see  this  portent  shakes  you  not. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  am  past  the  fear  of  portents  :  they  can  tell  me 
Nothing  I  have  not  told  myself  since  midnight : 
Despair  anticij)ates  such  tihngs. 

MVRRHA. 

Despair ! 

SARPAPfAPALUS. 

No,  not  despair  precisely.   When  we  know 

Ai!  that  can  come,  and  how  to  meet  it,  our 

Resolves,  if  firm,  may  merit  a  more  noble 

Word  than  this  is  to  give  it  utterance. 

But  what  are  words  to  us  ?  we  have  well  nigh  done 

With  them  and  all  things. 

MYRRHA. 

Save  one  deed — the  last 
And  greatest  to  all  mortals  ;   crowning  act 
Of  all  that  was — or  is — or  is  to  be — 
The  only  thing  common  to  all  mankind. 
So  different  in  their  births,  tongues,  sexes,  natures, 
Hjes,  features,  chmes,  times,  feelings,  intellects, 
Without  one  point  of  union,  save  in  this. 
To  which  we  tend,  for  which  we  're  born,  and  thread 
The  labyrinth  of  mystery  call'd  life. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Our  clew  being  well  nigh  wound  out,  let's  be  cheerful. 
They  who  have  nothing  more  to  fear  may  well 
Induiiie  a  smile  at  that  which  once  appall'd ; 
.\s  ciiiidren  at  discover'd  bugbears. 
Re-enter  Pania. 

PANIA. 

'Tis 

As  was  rep<}rtod :   I  have  order'd  there 
A  double  guard,  withdrawing  from  the  wall 
Where  it  was  strongest  the  required  addition 
To  watch  the  breach  occasion'd  by  the  waters. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You  have  done  your  duty  faithfully,  and  as 
Mv  worthy  Paiiial  further  ties  between  us 
Draw  near  a  close.     I  pray  you  take  this  key : 

[Gives  a  key. 
It  opens  to  a  secret  chamber,  placed 
Bchuid  the  couch  in  my  own  chamber.      (Now 
Press'd  by  a  nobler  weight  than  e'er  it  bore — 
Though  a  long  line  of  sovereigns  have  lain  down 
Along  its  golden  frame — as  bearing  for 
A  time  what  late  was  Salemenes).     Search 
The  secret  covert  to  which  this  will  lead  you 
'T  is  full  of  treasure  ;   take  it  f  >r  yourself 
And  your  companions  :   there's  enough  to  load  ye, 
Thou<.'h  ve  be  many.      Let  the  slaves  be  freed,  too, 
And  all  the  inmates  of  the  palace,  of 
Wha1ev<>r  sex,  now  (juit  it  in  an  hour. 
Thence  launch  the  regal  barks,  once  form'd  for  pleasure, 
And  now  to  serve  for  safetv,  and  embark. 
The  river  's  broad  and  swoln,  and  uncommanded 
(More  potent  than  a  king)  by  these  besiegers. 
Fly  '   and  be  happy! 

PANIA. 

Und(!r  your  protection  ! 
So  y(<a  accompany  your  faithful  guard. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  Pania  ;   tnat  must  not  be  j   get  thee  hence, 
Ar.d  leave  me  to  my  fate. 


PANIA. 

'T  is  the  first  time 
I  ever  disobey'd :  but  now 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So  all  men 
Dare  beard  me  now,  and  Insolence  within 
Apes  Treason  from  without.     Question  no  further; 
'T  is  my  command,  my  last  command.     Will  ^hou 
Oppose  it  ?  thou  1 

PANIA. 

But  yet — not  yet. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Well,  then. 
Swear  that  you  will  obey  when  I  shall  give 
The  signal. 

PANIA. 

With  a  heavy  but  true  heart, 
I  promise. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  is  enough.     Now  order  here 
Fagots,  pine-nuts,  and  wither'd  leaves,  a<id  such 
Things  as  catch  fire  and  blaze  with  one  sole  spark; 
Bring  cedar,  too,  and  precious  drugs,  and  spices. 
And  mighty  planks,  to  nourish  a  tall  pile  ; 
Bring  frankincense  and  myrrh,  too,  for  it  is 
For  a  great  sacrifice  I  build  the  pyre ; 
And  heap  them  round  yon  throne. 

PANIA. 

My  lord ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  have  said  h 
And  you  have  sworn. 

PANIA. 

And  could  keep  my  faith 
Without  a  vow.  \Exit  Pania 

MVRRHA. 

What  mean  yo^j  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yoli  shall  know 
Anon — what  the  whole  earth  shall  ne'er  forget. 

Pania,  returning  with  a  Herald. 

PANIA. 

My  king,  in  going  forth  upon  my  duty. 

This  herald  has  been  brought  before  me,  craving 

An  audience. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Let  him  speak. 

HERALD. 

The  King  Arbaces— 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What,  crown'd  already  ? — But,  proceed. 

HERALD. 

Beleses, 
The  anointed  high  priest 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Of  what  god,  or  demon 
With  new  kings  rise  new  altars.     But,  proceed  ; 
You  are  sent  to  prate  your  master's  will,  and  not 
Reply  to  mine. 

HERALD. 

And  Satrap  Ofratanes 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why,  he  is  ours. 

HERALD  (showing  a  ring). 
Be  sure  that  he  is  now 
In  the  camp  of  the  conquerors  ;   behold 
His  signet  ring. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  is  his.     A  worthy  triad  I 
Poor  Salemenes !  inou  hast  died  in  time 


SARDAXAPALUS. 


50.- 


r<-  see  one  freachery  the  less:   this  n.an 

VVas  thy  true  friend  and  my  most  trusted  subjoct. 

Proceed. 

HEKALD. 

Tliey  oiTer  thee  tliy  hte,  and  freedom 
Of  choice  to  single  out  a  resideuce 
In  any  of  the  further  provinces, 
Guarded  and  uatch'd,  but  not  confined  in  person, 
Where  thou  shalt  pass  thy  days  in  peace;   but  on 
Condition  that  the  three  young  princes  are 
Given  up  as  iiostagt'S. 

SARD  AX  A  P  ALUS  ( ironicallij). 

The  generous  victors ! 

HKRALD. 

wait  the  answer. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Answer,  slave  !     How  long 
Have  slaves  decided  on  the  doom  of  kings  ? 

HERALD. 

Since  they  were  free. 

SARDAN'APALl^S. 

Mouth-piece  of  mutiny! 
Thou  at  the  least  shalt  learn  tiie  penalty 
Of  treason,  thou^^h  its  proxy  only.     Pania ! 
Let  his  head  be  thrown  from  our  walls  within 
The  rebels'  hties,  his  carcass  down  the  river. 
Away  with  him ! 

[Paxia  and  the  Guards  seizing  him, 

PANIA. 

I  never  yet  obpy'd 
Your  orders  with  more  pleasure  than  the  present. 
Hence  with  hitn,  soldiers  I    do  not  soil  this  hall 
Of  rovalty  with  treasonable  gore  ; 
Put  him  to  rest  without. 

HERALD. 

A  single  word  : 
M}"  office,  king,  is  sacred. 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

And  what 's  mine  ? 
That  thou  shoukist  come  and  dare  to  ask  of  me 
To  lay  It  down  1 

HERALD. 

I  but  obey'd  my  orders, 
At  the  same  peril,  if  refused,  as  now 
Incurr'd  by  my  obedience. 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

So,  there  are 
New  monarchs  of  an  hour's  growth  as  despotic 
As  sovereigns  swathed  in  purple,  and  enthroned 
From  birth  to  manhood  ! 

HERALD. 

■Nly  life  waits  your  breath. 
Yours  (I  speak  humbly) — but  it  may  be — yours 
May  also  be  in  dauijer  scarce  less  imminent: 
Would  It  then  suit  the  last  hours  of  a  line 
Such  as  is  that  of  Nimrod,  to  destroy 
A  peaceful  herald,  unarm'd,  in  his  office; 
And  violate  not  only  all  that  man 
Holds  sacred  between  man  and  man — but  that 
More  iioly  tic  which  links  us  with  the  gods  ? 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

He  's  right. — Let  nim  go  free. — My  life's  last  act 
Shall  not  be  one  of  wrath.      Here,  fellow,  take 

[Gives  him  a  goblen  cup  from  a  table  near 
Th.3  golden  goblet;  let  it  hold  your  wine, 
And  think  of  me  ;   or  melt  it  into  ingots. 
And  thmk  of  nothing  but  their  weight  and  value. 

HERALD. 

I  thank  you  doubly  fi»-  my  life,  and  this 


Most  gorgeous  gift,  whicn  renders  it 
But  must  I  bear 


more  [irecious. 


no  answ(!r  / 


;  SARDAXAPALUS. 

I  Yes, — I  ask 

An  hour's  truce  to  consider. 

HERALD. 

But  an  hour's? 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

An  hour's:   if  at  the  expiration  of 
That  time  your  masters  hear  no  further  from  me, 
They  are  to  deem  that  I  reject  their  terms. 
And  act  behttmgly. 

HERALD. 

I  shall  not  fail 
To  be  a  faithful  legate  of  your  pleasure. 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

And,  hark  !   a  word  more. 

HERALD. 

I  shall  not  forget  it, 
Whate'er  it  be. 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

Commend  me  to  Beleses  ; 
And  tell  him,  ere  a  year  expire,  I  summon 
Him  hence  to  meet  me, 

HERALD. 

Where  ? 

SARDAXA  PALUS. 

At  Babylon. 
At  least  from  thence  he  will  depait  to  meet  me. 

H  E  R  A  L  D. 

I  shall  obey  you  to  the  letter.  \Exit  Herald 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

Pania ! — 
Now,  my  good  Pania! — (piick  !   with  what  I  order'd. 

PAXIA. 

My  lord, — the  soldiers  are  already  charged. 
And,  see  !   ihev  enter. 

[Soldiers  enter^  and  form  a  Pile  about  ih* 
Throne,  etc. 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

Higher,  my  good  soldiers, 
And  thicker  vet ;   and  see  that  the  foundation 
Be  such  as  will  not  speedily  exhaust 
Its  own  too  subtle  flame  ;    nor  _\et  be  quench'd 
With  aught  officious  aid  would  bring  to  quell  it. 
Let  the  throne  form  the  core  of  it ;   I  would  not 
Leave  that,  save  fraugltt  with  tire  unquenchable. 
To  the  new  comers.      Frame  the  whole  as  if 
'T  were  to  enkindle  the  strong  tower  of  our 
Inveterate  enemies.     Now  it  bears  an  aspect ! 
How  say  you,  Pania,  will  this  pile  suffice 
For  a  king's  obsequies  ? 

PAXIA. 

Ay,  for  a  kingdom's. 
I  understand  you  now. 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

And  blame  me  ? 

PAXIA. 

No- 
Lei  me  but  fire  the  pile  and  share  it  with  vou 

MVRRHA. 

That  duty  's  mine. 

PAXIA. 

A  woman's  ! 

MVRRHA. 

'T  is  the  so'dierH 
P.irt  to  die  for  his  sovereign,  and  why  not 
The  woman's  w  ith  her  lover  ? 

PAXIA. 

'T  is  most  strange  ' 


50'i 


BYRON'S  POETICAL  WORKS 


MYRRHA. 

iiul  not  SO  rare,  my  Pania,  as  thou  think'st  it. 
In  the  meantime,  live  thou. — Farewell !   the  pile 
Is  ready. 

PANIA. 

I  should  shame  to  leave  mv  sovereign 
With  but  a  single  female  to  partake 
His  death. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Too  many  far  have  heralded 
Me  to  the  dust  already.     Get  thee  hence  ; 
Enrich  thee. 

PAXIA. 

And  live  wretched ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Think  upon 
Thy  vow  ; — 't  is  sacred  and  irrevocable. 

PANIA. 

Since  it  is  so,  farewell. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Search  well  my  chamber, 
Feel  no  remorse  at  bearing  off  the  gold  ; 
Remember,  what  you  leave  you  leave  the  slaves 
Who  slew  me  :   and  when  you  have  borne  away 
All  safe  off  to  your  boats,  blow  one  long  blast 
Upon  the  trumpet  as  you  quit  the  palace. 
The  river's  brink  is  too  remote,  its  stream 
Too  loud  at  present  to  permit  the  echo 
To  reach  distinctly  from  its  banks.     Then  fly, — 
And  as  you  sail,  turn  back ;   but  still  keep  on 
Your  way  along  the  Euphrates:   if  you  reach 
The  land  of  Paphlagonia,  where  the  queen 
Is  safe  with  my  three  sons  in  Cotta's  court, 
Say  what  you  miv  at  parting,  and  request 
That  she  remember  what  I  said  at  one 
Parting  more  mournful  still, 

pa:?ia. 

That  royal  hand  ! 
L.et  me  then  once  more  press  it  to  my  li[)S  ; 
And  these  poor  soldiers  who  throng  round  you,  and 
Would  fain  die  with  you  ? 

[The  Soldiers  and  Pania  throng  round  him, 
kissing'  his  hand  and  the  liein  of  his  robe. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My  best !   my  last  friends  ! 
Let,  's  not  unman  each  other — part  at  once  : 
All  farewells  should  be  sudden,  when  for  ever, 
Else  they  make  an  eternity  of  moments. 
And  clog  the  last  sad  sands  of  life  with  tears. 
Hence,  and  be  happy :   trust  me,  I  am  not 
Now  to  be  pitied,  or  far  more  for  what 
Is  past  than  [iresent ; — for  the  future,  'tis 
In  the  hands  of  the  deities,  if  such 
There  be  :   I  shall  know  soon.     Farewell — farewell. 

Exeunt  Panja  and  the  Soldiers. 
MYRRHA. 

These  men  wore  honest :  it  is  comfort  still 
That  our  lust  looks  shall  be  on  loving  facea. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  lovely  ones,  my  beautiful!— but  hear  mo! 
It' at  tiiis  nioincut,  for  we  now  are  on 
The  brink,  thou  feel'st  an  inward  shrinking  from 
This  leap  through  lianio  into  the  future,  say  it: 
I  shall  not  lovo  tlico  less;  nay,  perhaps  more, 
For  yielding  to  tliy  nature:  and  there  'a  time 
Yot  for  theo  to  escape  Ikjucc. 

MYIUIUA. 

Shall  I  light 
One  of  the  torches  which  Ho  heap'd  beneath 
The  ever-burning  lamp  that  burns  without, 
iJefore  liaal'tt  shrine,  in  the  adjoining  hall? 


SARDAWAPALITS. 

Do  so.     Is  that  thy  answer  ? 

MYRRHA. 

Thou  shah  see. 

[Exit  Myruha. 

SARDANAPALUS   {sollts). 

She  's  firm.     My  fathers  !   whom  I  will  rejoin, 

It  may  be,  purified  by  death  from  some 

Of  the  gross  stains  of  too  material  being, 

I  would  not  leave  your  ancient  first  abode 

To  the  defilement  of  usurping  bondmen ; 

If  I  have  not  kept  your  inheritance 

As  ye  bequeath'd  it,  this  bright  part  of  it. 

Your  treasure,  your  abode,  your  sacred  relics 

Of  arms,  and  records,  monuments,  and  spoils, 

In  which  they  would  have  revell'd,  I  bear  with  me 

To  you  in  that  absorbing  element. 

Which  most  personifies  the  soul,  as  leaving 

The  least  of  matter  unconsumed  before 

Its  fiery  working : — and  the  light  of  this 

Most  royal  of  funereal  pyres  shall  be 

Not  a  mere  pillar  form'd  of  cloud  and  flame, 

A  beacon  in  the  horizon  for  a  day. 

And  then  a  mount  of  ashes,  but  a  light 

To  lesson  ages,  rebel  nations,  and 

Voluptuous  princes.     Time  shall  quench  full  many 

A  people's  records,  and  a  hero's  acts  ; 

Swee|)  empire  after  empire,  like  this  first 

Of  empires,  into  nothing  ;   but  even  then 

Shall  spare  this  deed  of  mine,  and  hold  it  up 

A  problem  few  dare  imitate,  and  none 

Despise — but,  it  may  be,  avoid  the  life 

Which  led  to  such  a  consummation. 

MyPvRHA  returns  with  a  lighted  Torch  in  one  Hand, 
and  a  Cup  in  the  other. 

MYRRHA. 

Lo! 
I  've  lit  the  lamp  which  lights  us  to  the  stars. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  the  cup  ? 

MYRRHA. 

'T  is  my  country's  custom  to 
Make  a  libation  to  the  gods. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  mine 
To  make  libations  amongst  men.     I  've  not 
Forgot  the  custom;   and,  although  alone. 
Will  drain  one  draught  in  memory  of  many 
A  joyous  banquet  past. 

[SARDANAPALUS  takcs  the  ci/p,  and  after  drink 
ing  and  tinkling  the  reversed  cup,  as  a  dro} 
J  alls  J  exclaims — 

And  this  libation 
Is  for  the  excellent  Beleses. 

MYRRHA. 

Why 
Dwells  thy  mind  rather  upon  that  man's  name 
Than  on  his  mate's  in  villany  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The  one 
Is  a  mere  soldier,  a  mere  tool,  a  kind 
Of  human  sword  in  a  fiend's  hand ;   tlie  other 
Is  master-mover  of  his  warlike  puppet ; 
But  I  dismiss  them  from  my  mind. — Yet  pause, 
My  Myrrha !   dost  thou  truly  follow  me, 
Freely  and  fearlessly  ? 

MYRRHA. 

And  dost  thou  think 
A  Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love  that  which 


SARDANAPALUS. 


505 


All  Indian  widow  braves  for  custom? 

SARCANAPALUS. 

Then 
We  but  await  .he  signal. 

MYllRHA. 

It  IS  long 
In  sounding. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Now,  farewell ;  one  last  embrace  ! 

MVRKHA. 

Embrace,  but  not  the  last;   there  is  one  more. 

SARDAXAI'ALUS. 

True,  the  commingling  lire  will  mix  our  ashes. 

MVURHA. 

And  pure  as  is  my  love  to  thee,  shall  ihcv, 

Purged  from  the  dross  of  earth,  and  earthly  passion. 

Mix  pale  with  thme.     A  single  thought  yet  irks  me. 

iARDANAI'ALUS. 

Say  it. 

MYRRHA. 

It  is  that  no  kind  hand  will  gather 
The  dust  of  both  into  one  urn. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The  better! 
Rather  let  them  be  borne  abroad  upon 
The  winds  of  heaven,  and  scatter'd  into  air, 
Than  be  polluted  more  by  human  hands 
Of  slaves  and  traitors  ;   in  this  hlazuig  j)alace, 
And  its  enormous  walls  of  reeking  ruin. 
We  lea'-e  a  nobler  monum<^nt  tiian  Egvpt 
Hath  piled  in  her  brick  m<iiintains  o'er  dead  kings, 
Or  kine,  for  none  know  wJuther  those  proud  piles 
Be  fur  their  monarch,  or  liieir  ox-god  Apis: 
So  much  for  monuments  tiiat  have  fonrolten 
Their  very  record  ! 

MVRRHA. 

Tlien  farewell,  thou  earth! 
And  loveliest  si)ot  of  earth  !    farewell,  Ionia  ! 
Be  thou  still  free  and  beautiful,  and  far 
Aloof  from  desolation  !    My  last  prayer 
Was  fjr  thee,  my  last  thoughts,  save  one,  were  of  thee! 


Ant'  that  ? 


lARDAXAPALUS. 


MVRRHA. 


Is  yours. 

[3Vie  trumpet  of  Pania  soun/Lt  vAtfiout. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Hark  ! 

MVRRHA. 

Now ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Adieu,  Assyria! 
I  loved  thee  well,  my  own,  my  father's  land, 
And  better  as  my  country  than  my  khigdom. 
I  satiated  thee  with  peace  and  joys  ;   and  this 
Is  my  reward  I   and  now  I  owe  thee  nothing. 
Not  C'/en  a  grave.  [He  mounts  the  pile. 

Now,  Myrrha  ! 

MYRRHA. 

Art  thou  ready  ? 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

As  *.''.e  torch  in  thy  grasp. 

[MvRRHA  Jires  the  pile, 

MVRRHA. 

'T  is  fired  !   I  come. 
[^s  MvRRHA  uprin^a  forwmd  to  throw  he  self 
inli  th..  fames    tlu  Curtain  falls. 


NOTES. 


Note  I. 
And  thou,  my  own  Ionian  Mfrrha. 
"  The  Ionian  name  had  been  siil!  more  comprehen- 
sive, having  included  the  Achaians  and  the  Boeotians, 
who,  together  with  those  to  whom  it  was  afterwards 
confined,  would  make  nearly  the  whole  of  the  Greek 
nation,  and  among  the  orientals  it  was  always  the  gen- 
eral name  for  the  Greeks." — Mitfurd^s  Greece,  vol.  i. 
p.  199. 

Note  2. 


Sardanapa'us, 


Tlu;  kin!4,  and  son  of  Aiiucyndarnxos, 

In  Olio  (iiiy  built  Anchialus  and  'I'.irsus. 

Eat,  drink  and  love  ;  the  rest 's  not  worth  a  fillip." 

"  For  this  expedition,  he  took  not  only  a  small  chosen 
body  of  the  phalanx,  but  all  his  light  troops.  In  the 
first  day's  march  he  reached  Anchiahis,  a  town  said  to 
have  been  I'bunded  by  the  king  of  As.-yria,  Sardanapalus, 
The  fortifications,  in  their  niagmtude  and  extent,  still 
in  Arrian's  time,  bore  the  character  of  greatness,  which 
the  Assyrians  appear  singularly  to  have  affected  in  work* 
of  the  kind.  A  monument,  representing  Sardanapalus, 
was  found  there,  warranted  bvan  inscription  in  Assyrian 
characters,  of  course  in  the  old  Assyrian  language,  which 
the  Greeks,  whether  well  or  ill,  interpreted  thus :  "  Sar- 
danapalus, son  of  Anacyndaraxes,  in  one  day  foundej 
Anchialus  and  Tarsus.  Eat,  drink,  play :  all  other 
human  joys  are  not  worth  a  fillip."  Supposing  this 
version  nearly  exact  (for  Arrian  savs  it  w  as  not  quite  so), 
whether  the  purpose  has  not  been  to  invite  io  civil  ordet 
a  people  disposed  to  turbulence,  rather  tiian  to  recom- 
mend immoderate  luxury,  may  perhaps  reasonably  be 
questioned.  What,  indeed,  could  be  the  object  of  a 
king  of  Assyria  in  founding  such  Towns  in  a  country  so 
distant  from  his  capital,  and  so  divided  from  it  by  an 
immense  extent  of  sandy  deserts  and  lofiy  mountains, 
and,  still  more,  how  the  inhabitants  could  be  at  once  in 
circumstances  to  abandon  themselves  to  the  intemperate 
joys  which  their  prince  has  been  supposed  to  have  reconi- 
mended,  is  not  obvious  ;  but  it  may  deserve  observation 
that,  in  that  line  of  coast,  the  southern  of  Lesser  Asia, 
ruins  of  cities,  evidently  of  an  age  after  Alexander,  yet 
barely  named  in  history,  at  this  day  astonish  the  adven- 
turous traveller  by  their  magnificence  and  elegance. 
Amid  the  desolation  which,  under  a  singularly  barbarian 
government,  has,  for  so  many  centuries,  been  daily 
spreading  in  the  finest  countries  of  the  globe,  whether 
more  from  soil  and  climate,  or  from  opportunities  for 
commerce,  extraordinary  means  must  have  been  found 
for  communities  to  flourish  there,  whence  it  may  seem 
that  the  measures  of  Sardanapalus  were  directed  bvjuster 
views  than  have  been  commonly  ascribed  to  him  ;  but 
that  monarch  having  been  the  last  of  a  dynastv,  ended 
by  a  revolution,  obloquy  on  his  memory  would  foUow 
of  course  from  the  policy  of  his  successors  and  thou 
partisans. 

"The  inconsistency  of  traditions  concerning  Saida 
napalus  is  striking  in  Diodorus's  account  of  him." - 
MUforiTs  Greece,  vol.  ix.  pp.  311,  r3l2,  and  313. 


508 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


A  DRAMATIC  POEM. 


''There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy." 


DRAMATiS 

Manfrkd. 

Chamois  IIunthr. 

Abbot  of  St.  Maueice. 

Maxuel. 

Her-max. 


PERSON.E. 

"Witch  of  the  Alps. 
Arimaxes. 

Nemesis. 

The  Destixies. 

Spirits,  etc. 


The  Scene  of  the  Drama  is  amongst  the  Higher  Alps 
—partly  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred,  and  partly  in  the 
Mountains. 


ACT  I. 


n 


SCENE  I. 
A  Chthic  Gallery.— Time,  Midyiight. 
Maxfred  (alnne). 
The  lamp  must  be  replenish'd,  but  even  then 
It  will  not  burn  so  long  as  I  must  watch : 
My  slumbers — if  I  slumber — are  not  sleep, 
But  a  continuance  of  enduring  thought, 
Which  then  I  can  resist  not :  in  my  heart 
There  is  a  vigil,  and  these  eyes  but  close 
To  look  within  :  and  yet  I  live,  and  bear 
The  aspect  and  the  form  of  breathing  men. 
But  grief  should  be  the  instructor  of  the  wise: 
Sorrow  is  knowledge  :  they  who  know  the  most 
Must  mourn  the  deepest  o'er  the  fatal  truth. 
The  tree  of  knowledge  is  not  that  of  life. 
Philosophy  and  science,  and  the  springs 
Of  wonder,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world, 
I  have  essay'd,  and  in  my  mind  there  is 
A  power  to  make  these  subje("t  to  itself — 
But  they  avail  not :  I  have  done  men  good. 
And  I  have  met  with  good  even  among  men— 
But  this  avail'd  not :  I  have  had  my  foes. 
And  none  have  baffled,  many  fallen  before  me — 
But  this  avaird  not : — good  or  evil,  life, 
Powers,  passions,  all  I  see  in  other  beings, 
Have  been  fr.  n.t.  !ig  min  nntr^  thp  sar^(ia, 
Since  that  all-nameless  hour.     I  have  no  dread, 
And  feel  the  curse  to  have  no  natural  fear. 
Nor  fluttering  throb,  that  beats  with  hopes  or  wishes, 
Or  lurking  love  of  something  on  the  earth. — 
Now  to  my  task. — 

Mysterious  Agency  I 
Yf  spirits  of  the  unbounded  universe! 
Whom  I  have  sought  in  darkness  and  in  lights 
Ye,  who  do  compass  earth  about,  and  dwell 
In  subtler  essence — ye,  to  whom  the  tops 
Of  mountains  inaccessible  are  haunts. 
And  earth's  and  ocean's  caves  familiar  things — 
I  call  upon  ye  by  the  written  charm 
Which  gives  me  power  upon  you — Rise  !  appear! 

[A  pause. 
They  come  not  yet. — Now  by  the  voice  of  him 
Who  is  the  first  among  you — by  this  sign. 
Which  makes  you  tremble — by  the  claims  of  him 
Who  ifl  undying, — rise!  appear! — Appear! 


If  it  be  so.— Spirits  of  earth  and  air, 
Ye  shall  not  thus  elude  me  :  by  a  pow(!r, 
l)e<'per  than  all  yet  urged,  a  tyrant-spc-ll. 
Which  had  its  birth-place  in  a  star  condemn'd, 
The  burning  wreck  of  a  demolishd  world, 
A  wandering  hell  in  the  eternal  space; 


[A  pause. 


By  the  strong  curse  which  is  upon  my  eoul. 
The  thought  which  is  within  me  and  around  me, 
I  do  compel  ye  to  my  will. — Appear! 

[A  star  is  ste.n  at  the  darker  end  of  Ihe  gah 
lery  :  it  is  stationary ;  and  a  voice  is  luxLrd 
singing.} 

FIRST   SPIRIT. 

Mortal !  to  thy  bidding  bow'd, 
From  my  mansion  in  the  cloud, 
Which  the  breath  of  twilight  builds, 
And  the  summer's  sunset  gilds 
With  the  azure  and  vermilion. 
Which  is  mix'd  for  my  pavilion ; 
Though  thy  quest  may  be  forbidden, 
On  a  star-beam  I  have  ridden; 
To  thine  adjuration  bow'd, 
Mortal — be  thy  wish  avow'd  I 

Voice  of  the  Secoxd  Spirit. 
Mont-Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains, 

They  crown'd  him  long  ago 
On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds, 

With  a  diadem  of  snow. 
Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced, 

The  avalanche  in  his  hand; 
But  ere  it  fall,  the  thundering  ball 

Must  pause  for  my  command. 
The  glacier's  cold  and  restless  mass 

Moves  onward  day  by  day; 
But  I  am  he  who  bids  it  pass, 

Or  with  its  ice  delay. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Could  make  the  mountain  bow 
And  quiver  to  his  caverud  base — 

And  what  with  me  wouldst  thou? 
Voice  of  the  Third  Spirit. 
In  the  blue  depth  of  the  waters. 

Where  the  wave  hath  no  strife, 
Where  the  wind  is  a  stranger. 

And  the  sea-snake  hath  life, 
Where  the  mermaid  is  decking 

Her  green  hair  with  shells; 
Like  the  storm  on  the  surface 

Came  the  sound  of  thy  spells ; 
O'er  my  calm  hall  of  coral 

The  deep  echo  roll'd — 
To  the  Spirit  of  Ocean 

Thy  wishes  unfold! 

FOaRTH   spirit. 

W'here  the  slumbering  earthquake 

Lies  pillow"d  on  fire. 
And  the  lakes  of  bitumen 

Rise  boilingly  higher; 
Where  the  roots  of  the  Andes 

Strike  deep  in  the  earth. 
As  their  summits  to  heaven 

Shoot  soaringly  forth ; 
I  have  quitted  my  birth-place, 

Thy  bidding  to  bide — 
Thy  spell  hath  subdued  me, 
*  Thy  will  be  my  guide! 

fifth  spirit. 
I'm  the  rider  of  the  wind. 

The  stirrer  of  the  storm ; 
The  hurricane  I  left  behind 

Is  yet  with  lightning  warm; 
To  speed  to  thee,  o'er  shore  and  sea 

I  swept  upon  the  blast : 
The  lleet  I  met  sail'd  well,  and  yet 

'T  will  sink  ere  night  be  past. 
sixth  spirit. 
My  dwelling  is  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
Why  doth  thy  magic  torture  me  with  light? 

sevexth  spirit. 
The  star  which  rules  thy  destiny. 
Was  ruled,  ere  earth  began,  by  me ; 


M  A  N  F  R  E  D. 


507 


It  wa.<  a  WO)  Id  as  fresfi  ana  lair 

As  e'er  revolved  rourid  suii  in  air ; 

Its  course  was  free  and  loguhi;-, 

Space  bosom'd  not  a  lovelier  star- 

The  hour  arrived — and  it  became 

A  wandering  mass  of  shapeless  flame, 

A  i)athless  comet,  and  a  curse, 

The  menace  of  the  universe  ; 

Still  rolling  on  with  innate  force, 

Without  a  sphere,  without  a  course, 

A  blight  defoimifv  on  high, 

The  monster  of  the  upper  sky ! 

And  thou  !   beneath  its  influence  born-  - 

Thou,  worm !   whom  I  obey  and  scorn  - 

Forced  bv  a  p  iwer  (which  is  not  thine^ 

And  lent  thee  but  to  make  thee  mine) 

For  this  brief  moment  to  descend, 

Where  these  weak  spirits  round  thee  bend, 

And  partly  with  a  thing  like  thee — 

W^hat  wouldst  thou,  child  of  clay,  with  me? 

THE     SEVEN     SF'IRITS. 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  night,  mountains,  winds,  thy  star. 
Are  at  thy  beck  and  bidding,  child  of  clay ! 

Before  thee,  at  thy  (]uest,  their  spirits  are — 
What  wouldst  thou  with  us,  son  of  mortals — say? 

,- -***""-K^        MANFRED. 

Forgetfu.ness -J 

.— — -'"'''''^    FIRST  SPIRIT. 

Of  what — of  whom — and  why? 

MANFRED. 

Of  that  which  is  within  me  ;   read  it  there — 
.  c  know  it,  and  I  cannot  utter  it. 

SPIRIT. 

We  can  but  sive  thee  that  which  we  possess: 
Ask  of  us  stibiecfs,  sovereiijntv,  the  power 
O'er  earth,  the  whole,  or  portion,  or  a  sign 
Which  shall  coniroithe  elements,  whereof 
We  are  the  dommators — each  and  all. 
These  shall  be  thine. 

MANFRED. 

Oblivion^  self7i).UixiQii — 
Can  ye  not  wring  from  oiiifTTre'hid.ien  realijis 
Ye"ofler  so  profusely  what  I  ask?, 

SPIRIT. 

It  is  not  in  our  essence,  in  our  skill ; 
iJut — thou  niay'st  die. 

MANFRED. 

Will  death  bestow  it  on  me  ? 

SPIRIT. 

We  are  immortal,  and  do  not  forget : 
We  are  eternal ;  and  to  us  the  past 
Is,  as  the  future,  present.     Art  thou  aiiswer'd  ? 

MANFRED. 

Ye  mock  mo — but  the  power  which  brought  ye  here 

Hath  made  you  mine.     Slaves,  scoff  not  at  my  will ! 

The  mind,  the  spirit,  the  Promethean  spark. 

The  lightning  of  my  being,  is  as  bright, 

pervading,  and  far  darting  as  your  own, 

And  shal.  not  yield  to  yours,  thoush  coop'd  in  clay! 

Answer,  or  I  will  teach  you  what  I  am. 

SPIRIT. 

We  answer  as  we  answer'd  ;  our  reply 
Is  even  in  thine  own  wo;  (l3. 

MANFRED. 

Why  say  ye  so  ? 

SPIRIT. 

If,  as  tnou  say'st,  thine  essence  be  as  ours, 
We  have  replied  in  telling  thee,  the  thing 
Mortals  call  death  hat>>  nought  tc  do  with  us. 


MANFRKD. 

I  then  have  call'd  ye  from  your  realms  in  vam ; 
Ye  cannot'  or  ye  will  not,  aid  iiie. 

SPIRIT. 

•        Say; 
What  we  possess  we  offer ;   it  is  thine  : 
Bethink  ere  thou  disimss  us,  ask  again — 
Kiiu'dom,  and  sway,  and  strength,  and  length  of  da  ^-3- 

:MANFl(Kn. 

Accursed!   what  have;  I  to  do  with  days? 
They  are  too  long  already.  — Hence — begone! 

SPIRIT. 

Yet  pause  :   being  here,  our  w  ill  would  do  thee  service ; 

Bethink  thee,  is  there  then  no  other  gift 

Which  we  can  make  not  worthless  in  thine  eyes? 

MANFRED. 

No,  none  :   yet  stay — one  moment,  ere  we  part — 
I  would  behold  ye  face  to  face.     I   hear 
Your  voices,  sweet  and  melanclioly  sounds, 
As  music  on  the  waters  ;   and  I   see 
The  steady  aspect  of  a  clear  lar<.'e  star ; 
But  nothing  more.     Approach  luc  as  ye  are, 
Or  one,  or  all,  in  your  acfustonrd  forms. 

SPIRIT. 

We  have  no  forms  beyond  the  elements 
Of  which  we  are  the  mmd  and  i)nnciple  : 
But  choose  a  form— in  that  we  will  appear. 

MANFRED. 

I  have  no  choice  ;   there  is  no  form  on  earth 
H'deous  or  beautiful  to  me.     Lt!l  nini. 
Who  is  most  powerful  of  ye,  take  such  aspect 
As  unto  him  may  seem  most  iittuiH— Come ! 

SEVENTH     SPIRIT. 

(Appearing  in  the  skupe  of  a  beautiful  female  /i^we) 

Behold! 

MANFRED. 

Oh  God  !   if  it  be  thus,  and  tkou 

Art  not  a  madness  and  a  mockery, 

I  yet  might  be  most  happy. — I  will  clasy)  thee, 

And  we'again  will  be [  The  fgvre  vanishea. 

My  h.sart  is  crush'd  : 

[Manfred  falls  s-nse'.'-sn. 
(A  voice  la  heard  in  the  Inaintation  which foUotii ), 
When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave, 

And  the   alow- worm  in  the  grass. 
And  the  meteor  on  the  grave. 

And  the  wisp  on  the  morass; 
When  the  failing  stars  are  shooting. 
And  the  answer'd  owls  are  hooting, 
And  the  silent  leaves  are  still 
In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 
Shall  my  soul  be  upon  thine, 
W^ith  a  power  and  with  a  sign. 

Though  thy  slumber  may  be  deep. 

Yet  thy  spirit  shall  not  sleep  ; 

There  are  shades  which  will  not  vanisll, 

There  are  thoughts  thou  canst  not  banish, 

By  a  power  to  thee  unknown. 

Thou  canst  never  be  alone  ; 

Thou  art  wrapt  as  with  a  shroud, 

Thou  art  gather'd  in  a  cloud  ; 

And  for  ever  shalt  thou  dwell 

In  the  spirit  of  this  spell. 

Though  thou  seest  me  not  pass  bj-, 
Thou  shalt  feel  me  with  thine  eye 
As  a  thing  that,  though  unseen 
Must  be  near  thee,  and  hath  been; 
And  when  in  that  secret  dread 
I^Imxx  hast  lurn'd  arc  und  thy  head ; 


COS 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Thoi  shall  marvel  I  am  not 

As  tliy  shadow  on  the  spot, 

And  the  power  which  thou  dost  feel         *' 

Shall  be  what  thou  must  conceal. 

And  a  magic  voice  and  verse 

Hath  bajttizea  thee  with  a  curse ; 

And  a  spirit  of  the  air 

Hath  begirt  thee  with  a  snare  ; 

In  the  wind  there  is  a  voice 

Shall  forbid  thee  to  rejo'ce  ; 

And  to  thee  shall  Night  deny 

All  the  quiet  of  her  sky  ; 

And  the  day  shall  have  a  sun, 

Which  shall  make  thee  wish  it  done. 

!    From  thy  false  tears  I  did  distil 
i  An  essence  which  hath  strength  to  kill ; 
\  From  thv  own  heart  I  then  did  wring 
"The  black  blood  in  its  blackest  spring  ; 
J  From  thy  own  smile  1  snatch'd  the  snake, 
Y    For  there  it  coil'd  as  in  a  brake  ; 

From  thv  own  lip  I  drew  the  charm 
:    Which  gave  al!  these  their  chiefest  harm ; 
;    In  proving  every  poison  known, 
'    I  found  the  strongest  was  thine  own. 

Bv  thy  cold  breast  and  serp(!nt  smile, 

By  thy  unfathom'd  gulfs  of  gune, 

Bv  that  most  seeming  virtue  us  eye. — 

By  thv  shut  soul's  hvpocrisy  ; 

Bv  the  perfection  of  thine  art, 

Which  pass'd  for  human  thine  own  heart; 

Bv  thy  delight  in  others'  pain, 

And  by  thy  brotherhood  of  Cain, 

I  cal.  upon  thee!   and  compel 

Thyself  to  be  thy  proper  heh  ! 

And  on  thy  head  I  [)our  the  vial 

Which  doth  devote  thee  to  this  trial ; 

Nor  to  slumber,  nor  to  die, 

Shall  be  m  thy  destiny  ; 

Though  thy  death  shall  stiil  seem  near 

To  thy  v.ish,  but  as  a  fear  ; 

Lo  !   the  spell  now  works  around  thee, 

And  the  clankless  chain  hath  bound  thee ; 

O'er  thy  heart  and  brain  together 

Hath  the  word  been  pass'd — now  wither  ! 


SCENE  II. 

The  Moxintain  of  the  Jungfrau. — Time,  Morning. — 
INI  AN  FK  ED  (done  ufjon  the  Cliffs. 

MANFRED. 

The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me — 

The  spells  which  I  have  studied  batHe  me — 

The  remedv  J  reck'd  of  torturc^d  me; 

I  i(san  no  more  on  su[)er-hurnan  aid. 

It  hath  no  power  upon  the  jjast,  and  for 

The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulf'd  in  darkness. 

It  is  not  of  my  s(  ar(;h. — .My  mother  earth! 

And  thou,  fresh  breaking  day,  and  you,  ye  mountains, 

Why  are  ye  beauliful  ?   I  cannot  love  ye. 

And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe, 

That  opencst  over  all,  and  unto  all 

Art  a  delight — thou  shinest  tK)t  on  my  heart. 

And  you,  ve  crags,  upon  whose  <;xtreme  edge 

I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink  l)enealh 

Behold  the  tali  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 

In  dizziness  of  distance;    when  a  leap, 

A  s'ir,  a  motion,  even  a  br«-atb,  would  bring 

Mv  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 

To  rest  for  fiver — wF.<  refore  do  I  pause? 

I  feel  the  impulse— yet  I^do  not  plunge  ; 


I  see  the  j'eril — yet  do  not  recede^ 

/tfTrl~rrrr+)raiTTT(!e]s^^and  y*et  my  foot  is  firni . 

TlTeYe  is  a  power  upon  me  which  witTiholds 

AiiTt  niakes  it  my  fatality  to  live  ; 

If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 

This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 

iNIy  own  soul's  sepulchre,  for  I  have  ceased     ~"*- 

To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself — 

The  last  infirmity  of  evil.     Ay, 

Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minister, 

[An  eagle  p-is-i^. 
Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven. 
Well  may'sl  thou  swoo})  so  near  me — I  should  be 
Thv  prev,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets ;   thou  art  gone 
Where  the  eve  cannot  follow  thee  ;   but  thine 
Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  ab^-e. 
With  a  pervading  vision.-\ Beautiful ! 
How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world ! 
How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself! 
But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  soveTeians,  ^vgj 
rtal!  dust,  halPdeity,  alike  iirigt 
To  sink  or  soar, "with  our  inix'd  essence  niake 
A  conflict  of  Its  elements,  ami  breathe 
The  breath  of  degradation  ajid.-of-.iaoJe, 
Corttending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will 
TiUjiuLJBiafJAliu^friiiiaiuuiiU^^ 
And  men  are — what  they  iiamje  not  tojhejjUiijgliS^ 
And  trusi  not  to^each  other.     Hark  !   the  note, 

[The  shepherfPs  jiiue  in  the  clifnance  is  heaid. 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed — 
For  here  the  patriarchal  ilays  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable — pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mix'd  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  herd; 
INIy  soul  would  drink  those  echoes. — Oh,  that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 
A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  bodiless  enjoyment — born  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me  ! 

Enter  from  heloiv  a  Chamois  Hunteu. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTEJl. 

Even  so, 
Tiiis  way  the  chamois  leajjt:   her  nimble  feet 
Have  batlled  me  ;   my  gams  to-day  will  scarce 
Re[)ay  my  break-neck  travail. — What  is  here? 
Who  seems  not  of  my  trader,  and  yet  hath  reach'd 
A  height  which  none  even  of  our  mountaineers, 
Save  our  best  hunters,  may  attain  :   his  garb 
Is  goodly,  his  mien  manly,  and  his  air 
Proud  as  a  free-oorn  peasant's,  at  this  distance. — 
I  will  approach  him  nearer. 

MANFRED   [not  perceiving  the  other). 
To  be  thus — 
Gray-hair'd  with  anguish,  like  these  blasted  jiines, 
Wrecks  of  a  single  winter,  barkless,  branchless, 
A  blighted  trunk  jAUgim.  riir^'d  root. 
Which  but  supplies  a  feelincr^tculccai' — 
And  to  be  thus^4;tvjria.Hv.l^t  thus, 
Having  been  other\vi:5(; !   Now  tiirrow'd  o'er 
With  wrinkles,  plough'd  by  moments,  not  by  years; 
And  hours — all  tortured  into  ages — hours 
Which  I  outlive! — Ye  toppling  crags  of  ice! 
Yg  av;ilanches,  whom  a  breath  draws  down 
In  mountainous  o'erw helming,  come  and  crusV  me! 
I  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath, 
Crash  with  a  freqi'ent  conflici, ;  but  ye  pass. 
And  only  fall  on  tilings  that  still  would  live ; 
On  the  young  floun<hing  forest,  or  the  hut 
And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

The  mists  begin  to  rise  from  up  the  valley; 


MANFRED. 


509 


I'll  warii  him  to  Jesceiul,  or  ht  may  rhaiice 
To  lose  at  once  his  way  diid  lite  toj^ether. 

MANKKED. 

The  mists  boil  up  around  tlie  glaciers  ;   clouds 
Rise  curling  last  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury, 
l.ikc  foam  troin  tin;  roused  ocean  of  ileep  hell, 
Whoso  every  wave  brtai<s  on  a  living  shore, 
Heap'd  with  the  danui'd  like  pehblis. — I  am  giddy. 

CHAMOIS    HL'NTKK. 

1  must  api)roach  him  cautiously  ;   if  near, 
A  sudden  stei)  will  startle  him,  and  lie 
Seems  tottering  already. 

MANFRKD. 

Mountains  have  fallen, 
Ijcavuig  a  gap  hi  the  clouds,  and  with  the  shock 
Rocking  their  Alpine  brethren  ;   filling  up 
The  ripe  green  valleys  with  destruction's  splinters, 
Da'mning  the  rivers  with  a  sudden  dash, 
Which  crush'd  the  waters  into  mist,  and  made 
Their  fountains  find  another  channel — thus. 
Thus,  in  Its  old  age,  did  Mount  Rosenburg— 
Why  stood  I  not  beneath  it? 

CHAMOIS   HUNTER. 

Friend !   have  a  care, 
Vour  next  step  may  be  fatal  I — for  the  love 
Of  him  who  made  you,  stand  not  on  that  brink  ! 

MANFRED  {not  hc'inng  him). 
Such  wou.d  have  been  for  me  a  fitting  tom.b ; 
Mv  liones  had  then  been  quiet  in  their  depth ; 
Thev  had  not  then  been  strewn  ui)on  the  tocks 
For  the  wind's  pastime — as  thus — thus  they  shall  be — 
In  this  one  plunge. — Farewell,  ye  opening  heavens! 
Look  not  upon  me  thus  reproachfully — 
Y'"  were  not  meant  for  me — Earth  !   take  thefee  atoms ! 
[-^^s  Manfred  is  in  art.  to  sjiiin^'  from  the.  rlijf, 
the  Chamois  HunteFx  sdzts  and  kUohs  him 
with  a  s-iidflen  grasj),] 

CHAMOIS  HUNTER. 

Hold,  ma.imar  't— though  aweary  of  thy  life. 
Stain  not  our  pure  va.es  with  thy  guilty  blood. — 
Away  with  me 1  will  not  quit  my  hold. 

MANFRED. 

I  am  most  sick  at  heart — nay,  grasp  me  not — 

I  am  all  feebleness — the  mountains  whirl 

Spinning  arour.d  me — I  grow  blind. — What  art  thou  ? 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

I  '11  answer  that  anon.— Away  w  ilh  me — 

The  clouds  gfow  thicker — there — now  lean  on  me — 

Place  your  foot  here — here,  take  this  staff,  and  cling 

A  moment  to  that  shrub — now  give  me  your  hand, 

And  hold  fast  by  my  girdle — softly — well — 

The  Chalet  will  be  gain'd  within  an  hour — 

Come  on,  we'll  quickly  find  a  surer  footing, 

And  sometliing  like  a  pathway,  which  the  torrent 

Hath  wash'd  since  winter. — Come,  'tis  bravely  done  — 

Vou  should  have  been  a  hunter. — Follow  me. 

\As  they  deacend  the  rocks  v:ith  difficulty,  th* 
scene  closes.^ 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 
A  Cottage  amongst  the  Bernese  Alps. 
Manfred  and  the  Chamois  Hunter 

CHAMOIS     HUNTER. 

No,  no— yet  pause — tnou  must  not  yet  go  forth 
Thy  mina  and  body  are  alike  unfit 
To  trust  each  other,  for  some  hours,  at  least ; 
Wh(;n  thou  art  better,  I  will  be  thy  guide — 
But  whither? 

MANFRED. 

It  imports  not :  I  do  know 


My  route  full  well,  and  need  no  further  Guidance, 

CHAMOIS     HUNTER. 

Thy  garb  and  gait  bespeak  thee  of  liign  lineapO — 
One  of  the  many  chiefs,  whose  castled  crags 
Look  o'er  the  lower  valleys — which  of  these 
May  call  thee  lord?   I  only  know  their  [)orta!s ; 
My  way  of  life  leads  me  but  rarely  down 
To  bask  by  the  huge  hearths  of  those  old  halls, 
Carousing  with  the  vassals;   but  the  paths, 
Which  step  'rom  out  our  mouniaiiis  to  their  doors, 
Unosv  from  childhood — which  of  these  is  tliine  ? 

MANFRED. 

No  matter. 

CHAMOIS     HUNTER. 

Well,  sir,  pardon  me  the  question, 
And  be  of  better  cheer.     Come,  taste  my  wine; 
'T  is  of  an  ancient  vintage  ;    many  a  day 
'T  has  thaw'd  my  veins  among  our  glaciers,  now 
Let  it  do  thus  for  thuie — Come,  pledge  me  fairly. 

MANFRED. 

Awav,  away!   there's  blood  u[)()n  the  brim! 
Will  it  then  never — never  sink  in  the  earth  ? 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

What  dost  thou  mean  ?   thy  senses  wan  ler  from  thee. 

MANFRED. 

I  say  'tis  blood — my  blood  !    the  pure  warm  stream 
Which  ran  in  the  veins  of  my  fathers,  aiid  in  ours 
When  we  were  in  our  youth,  and  had  one  heart, 
And  loved  each  other  as  we  should  not  love, 
And  this  .vas  shed  :   but  still  it  rises  up, 
Colouring  the  clouds,  that  sKut  me  out  from  heavm, 
Where  thou  art  not — and  I  shall  never  be. 

CMAMOIS    HUNTER. 

Man  of  strange  words,  and  some  half-maddei.lng  sif,, 
Which  makes  thee  people  vacancy,  whate'er 
Thy  dread  and  sufferance  be,    here's  comfort  yet — 
The  aid  of  holy  men,  and  heavenly  patience 

MANFRED. 

Patience,  and  patience  !    Hence — that  word  was  m&d< 
For  brutes  of  burthen,  nor  for  birds  of  prey  ; 
Preach  it  to  mortals  of  a  dust  like  thine — 
I  am  not  of  thine  order. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

Tlianks  xo  Heaven  ! 
T  would  not  be  of  thine  for  the  frt;e  fame 
Of  William  Tell ;    but  whatsoe'er  thine  ill, 
It  must  be  borne,  and  these  wild  starts  are  useless. 


Do  I  not  bear  it  ?- 


MANFRED. 

-Look  on  me — I  live. 


CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

This  is  convulsion,  and  no  healthful  life. 

MANFRED. 

I  tell  thee,  man  !  I  have  lived  many  years, 

Many  hmg  years,  but  they  are  nothing  now 

To  those  which  I  must  number  ;   ages — ages— 

Sj)ace  and  eternity — and  consciousness, 

With  the  fierce  thirst  of  death — and  still  unslaked ' 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

Why,  on  thy  brow  the  seal  of  middle  age 
Hath  scarce  been  set;  I  am  thine  eider  far. 

MANFRED. 

Think'st  thou  existence  doth  dependon  time  ? 
It  doth  :  bTirttrtioTiytn^  oTtrenocihs  :_mi.ty3 
Tlave  made  my  days  and  nights  impel  shable, 
Endless,  and  all  alike  as  sands  on  the  shore, 
t7rmimf?rw^te«tmTlg7  STld'ohe  desert. 
Barren  and  cold,  on  which  the  wild  waves. -biajaH 
But  nothing  rests,  save  carcasses  and  i\xecks, 
Rocks,  and  the  salt-surf  weeds  of  bitterness^ 


610 


BYPtON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


CHAMOIfi    HUNTER. 

Alas  f  he 's  mad — but  yet  I  must  not  leave  him. 

MANFRED. 

t  would  I  were — for  then  the  things  I  see 
'Vould  be  but  a  disteinper'd  dream. 

CHAiMOIS    HUNTER. 

What  IS  it 
That  thou  dost  see,  or  think  thou  look'st  upon? 

MANFRED. 

Myself  and  thee — a  peasant  of  the  Alps — 

Thy  humble  virtues,  hospitable  home. 

And  spirit  patient,  pious,  proud  and  free ; 

Thy  self-res})ect,  grafted  on  innocent  thoughts ; 

Thy  days  of  health,  and  nights  of  sleep  ;   thy  toils, 

By  danger  dignilied,  yet  guiltless  :   hopes 

Of  cheerfu'  old  age  and  a  ouiet  grave, 

Willi  cross  and  garland  over  its  green  turf^ 

And  thv  grandchildren's  love  for  epitaph  : 

This  do  I  see — and  then  I  look  within — 

(t  matters  not — my  soui  was  scorcli'd  already  • 

CHAMOIS     HUNTER. 

Ar.d  wouldst  tliou  then  exchange  thy  lot  for  mine? 

MANFRED. 

No,  frieml !   I  would  not  wrong  thee,  nor  exchange 
M\  lot  with  living  being  :  I  can  bear — 
However  wretchedly,  'tis  still  to  bear — 
h\  life  what  others  could  not  brook  to  dream, 
But  perish  in  their  slumber. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

And  with  this — 
Triis  cautious  feeling  for  another's  pain, 
Canst  thou  be  black  with  evil? — say  not  so. 
Can  one  of  gentle  thoughts  have  wroak'd  revenge 
L"[)on  his  enemies? 

MANFRED. 

Oh  !   no,  no,  no ! 
INIv  iniurics  came  down  on  those  who  loved  m^ — 
I'nnTKrse^vlioiirX'beitlBy^J:,  I  never  queil'd 
An  enemy,  save  in  my  just  defence — 
Butniyj^inbrace  was  fatal. 

CHAMOIS     HUNTER. 

Heaven  give  thee  rest ! 
Ann  ppnitcnce  restore  thee  to  thyself ; 
My  prayers  shal'  b^  for  thee. 

MANFRED. 

I  need  them  not, 
'.iu\  can  endure  riiy  pity      I  de[)art  — 
T  \<  time — farewtii !   Here 's  gold,  and  thanks  for  thee- 
N'o  words — it  is  thy  due.  — Follow  me  not — 
{  kiio'v  my  ipath — the  mountain  peril's  past:— 
\nd  once  again,  I  charge  thee,  follow  nol! 

[Exit  Manfred. 


SCENE  II. 

A  I'lvcr  Valley  in  the  Alps— A  Cataract. 
Eiiirr  Manfred. 
It  is  not  noon — the  sunhow's  rays'  still  arch 
'I  (,(•  Tortenl  with  the  many  hues  of  heaven, 
And  roll  the  slujeted  silver's  waving  column 
O'er  the  crag's  headlong  perpendicular, 
And  fling  its  lines  of  foaming  light  along, 
\nd  to  and  fro,  like  th(!  pale  courser's  tail, 
T!ie  giant  steed,  to  be  bestrode  by  Death, 
As  toil!  in  ttie  Apocalypse.     No  eyes 
Put  iimie  now  drink  this  sight  of  loveliness; 
I  snouhl  be  sole  in  this  sweei  solitude. 


And  with  the  spirit  of  the  place  divide 

The  homage  of  these  waters. — I  will  call  tier. 

[Manfred  taken  some  of  the  water  into  tht 
palm  of  hi<i  hand,  and  Jlings  it  in  he  %ir 
muttering  the  adjuration.  After  a  pause, 
the  Witch  of  the  Alps  rise?  beneath  On 
arch  of  the  sunbeam  of  the  torrent 

IMANFRED. 

Beautiful  sjiirit !   with  thy  hair  of  light, 

And  dazzling  eyes  of  glory,  in  whose  form 

The  charms  of  earth's  least-mortal  daughters  grow 

To  an  unearthly  stature,  in  an  essence 

Of  purer  elements  ;   while  the  hues  of  youth, — 

Carnation'd  like  a  sleeping  infant's  cheek, 

Rock'd  by  the  beating  of  her  mother's  heart, 

Or  the  rose  tints,  which  summer's  twilight  leaves 

Upon  the  lofty  glacier's  virgin  snow. 

The  blush  of  earth  embracing  with  her  heaven, — 

Tin<re  thy  celestial  aspect,  and  make  tame 

The  beauties  of  the  sunbow  which  bends  o'er  thee. 

Beautiful  spirit !   in  thy  calm  clear  brow, 

Wherein  is  glass'd  serenity  of  soul, 

Which  of  itself  shows  immortality, 

I  read  that  thou  wilt  pardon  to  a  son 

Of  earth,  whom  the  ahstruser  powers  permit 

At  times  to  commune  with  them — if  that  he 

Avail  him  of  his  spells — to  call  thee  thus. 

And  gaze  on  thee  a  moment. 

witch. 

Son  of  earth ! 
I  know  thee,  and  the  powers  which  give  thee  power, 
I  know  vhee  for  a  man  of  jna^.y  thoughts, 

A  r^x■?^^g^7£^?^n(^Jrnd  jji^  fi,>i.rn»iG.ii)  .bftt"? 

rafafajicTfated  in  thy  sufferings. 

I  have  expected  this — what  wouldst  thou  witn  me? 

MANFRED. 

To  look  upon  thy  beauty — nothing  further. 
The  face  (jf  the  earth  hath  madden'd  me,  and  I 
Take  refuge  m  her  mysteries,  and  pierce 
To  the  abodes  of  those  who  govern  her — 
But  they  can  nothing  aid  me.     I  have  sought 
From  them  what  they  could  not  bestow,  and  now 
I  search  no  further. 

witch. 
What  could  be  the  quest 
Which  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  most  powerful. 
The  rulers  of  the  invisible  ? 

MANFRED. 

A  boon  ; 
But  why  should  I  repeat  it  ?   't  were  in  vain- 

witch. 
1  know  not  that;  let  thy  lips  utter  it. 

MANFRED. 

Well,  though  it  torture  me,  't  is  hut  the  same ; 

My  pang  shall  find  a  voice,   ^rom  .niy  youth  upwards 

My  spirit  vvalk'd  not  vvitli  the  sonls  of- men, 

^TonooW  upon  the  earth  with  jiuman  ejes, 

Tlie^tTTTirsTof  their  ambition  was  not  nnne, 

The  aim  of  their  existence  was  not  mine ; 

My  joys,  my  griefs,  my  passions,  and  my  powers, 

Made  me  a  sljranger ;  thougii  I  wore,  iie  form, 

r  had  no  sympathy  with  breathing  flesh. 

Nor  'midst  the  creatures  of  clay  that  girded  ine 

Was  there  butone  who but  of  her  anon. 

I  said,  with  men,  and  with  the  thoughts  of  men, 
I  held  but  slight  communion  :  but  instead, 
Mv  joy  was  in  the  wilderness,  to  breathe 
The  didiculf  air  of  the  iced  mountain's  lop. 
Where  the  birds  dare  not  nuild,  nor  insect's  w^^ 
Flit  o'er  th(!  herbless  granite ;  or  to  phmge 


MANFRED. 


51] 


Inif  the  torrent,  and  to  roll  along 

Oil  I  he  s\\itl  v.liirl  of  live  new-Urtaking  wave 

Ot  river- St,  earn,  or  ocean,  in  tlien-  tluw. 

In  tiiese  n)y  early  strength  exulted  ;   or 

To  lollow  through  the  night  the  moving  moon, 

The  s.ars  and  their  develoj)en\ent  ;   or  catch 

Tiie  dazzling  lightnings  till  niv  eyes  grew  dim ; 

Or  to  look,  hst'iinig,  on  tlie  scatier'd  leaves, 

U  hile  aiUnnm  winds  were  at  their  evening  song 

These  were  my  pastimes,  and  to  be  alone  ; 

FrTTTfTtrc^tWr^,  of  whom  I  was  oncj^ 

iTTiting  to  he  so, — cross'd  ir.e  in  mv  path, 

I V: it  ill y s e I tTl e g r a tte'd  S acirio " 1 1 1 e n i^  '' 

And  was  all  clay  a^raiii J  Aiffi  tiifil  t  diU'd, . 

lllTllit  llliiL  u aVutrrmg^Tto  the  caves  pF^rtcikUi, 

Searching  its  cause  in  its  ertect ;   and  drew 

FSrmi  w+UM»r.Ul  iK>fle?,-TmrH!WiItsl|^'an«',  heap'd-up  dust. 

Conclusions  most  forhidilen.     Tlien  I  [)ass'd 

Tiie  nights  ot'  years  in  scienceG  untaught. 

Save  in  the  old  time;    and  with  tiiue  and  toil, 

Aiiti  tt^rrible  orvleal,  and  such  penance 

As  in  itself  hath  jiower  upon  the  air, 

And  sj)irits  that  do  compass  air  and  earth, 

Space,  and  the  peopled  infinite,  I  made 

Mine  eyes  familiar  witli  eternity. 

Such  as,  bef)re  me,  did  the  Magi,  and 

He  who  from  out  their  fountain  dwellings  raised 

Eros  and  Anteros,-  at  Gadara, 

As  I  do  tnee  ; — and  with  mv  knowledge  grew 

The  tliirst  of  knowledge,  and  the  power  and  joy 

Oi   this  most  bright  intelligence,  until 

WITCH. 

Proce(?d. 

MANFKF.D. 

Oh  !   I  but  thus  [)ro!on<z'd  mv  words, 
IkiPting  tlipsc  idle  alinhntes,  bcrinisc 
As  I  approach  the  core  of  my  heart's  grief — 
But  to  my  tr.sk.     I  have  not  named  to  thee 
Father  or  ninther,  mistress,  friend,  or  being, 
Willi  whom  I  wore  the  cliain  of  human  ties  ; 
If  I  had  such,  they  seeufd  not  such  to  me — 
Yet  there  was  one 

WITCH. 

Spare  not  thyself — proceed. 

MANFRED.  ■ 

She  was  like  me  in  lineaments — her  eves. 

Her  hair,  her  leatures,  all,  to  the  veTy  tone 

Even  o''  her  voice,  they  Siiid,  were  like  to  mine  ; 

Hut  soften'd  ;ill,  and  temper'd  into  beauty  ; 

She  had  tiie  same  lone  tlioughts  and  wanderings, 

The  quest  of  hTddeTnTncwIecIgvT^and  a  imncT* 

rnTtTfnpi-ehend  the  universe  :   nor  tiiese 

A-l<»ne,  but  with  them  i:''iid.T  powers  than  minjg, 

Pify,  aiui  -iinif;:^.  an!  tiMrs — which  I  had  notj 

And  tenderness — but  that  I  had  for  her; 

HumJhty-T-and  that  T  never  had. 

Iler  faiTl!? "^rpFCTiTi'ne — her  virtues  were  her  own — 

I  toved  her,  and  destroy'd  her! 

""'  WITCH. 

With  thy  hand? 

MANFREIJ. 

Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart — which  broke  her  heart — 
It  gazed  (m  mine,  and  wither'd.     I  have  shed 
Blood,  but  not  hers — and  vet  her  blood  was  shed — 
'  saw — and  could  not  stanch  it. 

Wli  CH. 

And  for  this — 
A  b(,'in(T  of  the  race  thou  d')st  despise, 
The  order  which  thine  own  would  rise  above, 
iNIitigliiig  with  us  and  ours,  thou  dost  forego 
The  gifts  of  oi.r  great  knowledge,  and  shrink'st  back 
To    ecreant  mortality Away  ! 


f  MA.VFKED. 

i  Daughter  o    Air!   I  tell  thee,  since  that  hottr — 
I  But  words  are  breath — look  on  me  in  my  sleep 
Or  watch  my  watchings — Come  and  sit  by  me 
I  My  solitude  is  solitude  no  more, 
iBut  peo])!ed  with  the  Furies. — I  have  gnash 
iMv  teeth  in  darkness  till  reluming  morn, 
Then  cursed  myself  till  sunset ; — I  have  pray'd 
;For  madness  as  a  blessing — 't  is  denied  me. 
,1  have  aiironted  death — but  in  the  war 
jOf  elements  the  waters  shrunk  from  me, 
And  fatal  tilings  pass'd  harmless — the  cold  hand 
,()f  an  ari-|)iti!ess  demon  held  me  back, 
Hack  bv  a  single  hair,  which  would  not  break. 
In  phantasy,  imagination,  all 
Tile  afllui-nce  of  my  soul — which  one  day  was 
A  Cra;su~;   in  creation — I  plunged  deep, 
'  But,  like  a!)  clibing  wave,  it  dash'd  me  back 
'  Into  the  gulf  of  mv  unfathom'd  thought. 
,1  plunged  amidst  mankind — Forgetfulness 
!  I  sought  in  all,  save  where  't  is  to  be  found, 
•  And  that  I  have  to  learn — my  sciences, 
'  My  long-pursued  and  super-human  art, 
,   Is  mortal  here — I  ilwell  in  my  despair — 
And  live — and  live  for  ever. 


WITCH. 

It  mav  be 


That  I  can  aid  thee. 


MANFRED. 

To  do  fliis  thy  power 
Must  wake  the  dead,  or  lay  me  low  with  them. 
Do  so — in  any  shape — in  any  hour — 
With  any  torture — so  it  be  the  last. 

WITCH. 

That  is  not  in  my  province ;  but  if  thou 
Wilt  swear  obedience  to  m}'  will,  and  do 
My  bidding,  it  may  help  thee  to  thy  wishes. 

MANFRED. 

I  will  not  swear. — Obey!   and  whom?  the  spiriJs 
Whose  presence  I  command,  and  be  the  slave 
Of  those  who  served  nie — Never  ! 

WITCH. 

Is  this  all  ? 
Hast  thou  no  gentler  answer  ? — Yet  bethink  theo. 
Anil  pau^e  ere  thou  rejectest. 

MANFRED. 

I  have  said  it. 

WITCH. 

Enough! — I  may  retire  then — say! 

MANFRED. 

Retire  ! 
[The  Witch  disaypean 

MANFRED   [alonc). 

We  are  the  fools  of  time  and  terror:  days 
Steal  oTlTIg"7irTd"sfeal  flom  us  j  yet  >ve  live, 
Loathing  our  life,  and  dreading  still  to  die. 
In  all  'the  (Inys  of  this  detested  yoke — 
This  vital  weight  upon  the  struggling  heart, 
Which  sftk^:  with  sorrow,' or  beats  quick  with  psun, 
Or  joy  that  ends  in  agony  or  faintness — 

"nrnttlhi'  days  of  pust  aii3  future,  toi 
Trntt^hcrrtsTiraf-preseril,  we  can  riumber 
How  few — Iiowless  than  few — wherein  the  soul 
Forliears  to  pant  for  death,  and  yet  draws  ba<;k 
As  from  a  stream  in  winter,  though  the  chill 
Be  btlT  atnoment'sr"  I  have  one  resource 

~5rril  m  triy  «tf1l3n«e— 1  can  call  the  dead, 
And  ask  them  wha*      Ls  we  dread  to  De: 


612 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


The  sternest  answer  can  but  be  the  Grave, 
And  that  is  nothing — if  they  answer  not — 
The  buried  Prophet  answer'd  to  the  Hag 
Of  Endor  ;   and  the  Spartan  Monarch  drew 
From  the  Byzantine  maid's  unsleeping  spirit 
An  answer  and  his  destiny — he  slew 
That  which  he  loved,  unknowing  what  he  slew, 
And  died  unpardoned — thouiih  he  call'd  in  aid 
The  Phyxian  Jove,  and  in  Piiigalia  roused 
The  Arcadian  Evocators  to  compel 
The  indignant  shadow  to  depose  her  wrath. 
Or  fix  her  term  of  veiiL^eance — she  replied 
In  words  of  dubious  import,  but  fulfill'd.' 
If  [  had  never  lived,  that  which  I  love 
Had  still  been  living ;   had  I  never  loved, 
That  which  I  love  would  still  he  beautiful — 
Happy  and  giving  happiness.     What  is  she? 
What  is  she  now'/— a  suiTerer  for  my  sins — 
A  thing  I  dare  not  think  upon — or  nothing. 
Within  few  hours  I  shall  not  call  in  vain — 
^et  in  this  hour  I  dread  the  thing  I  dare  : 
Until  this  hour  I  never  shrunk  to  gaze 
On  s[)irit,  good  or  evil — now  I  u-emble, 
And  te.o.\  a  strange  cold  thaw  upon  my  heart; 
But  I  can  act  even  what  I  most  abhor, 
And  cham-iion  human  fears.— The  night  approaches. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  III. 

The  Summit  of  the  Jurigfiau  Mountain. 
Enter  FiiisT   Destiny. 
The  moon  is  rising  broad,  and  round,  ;ind  bright; 
And  here  on  snows,  where  never  human  foot 
Of  common  mortal  tmd.  we  nightly  tread, 
And  leave  no  traces;  o'er  the  savage  sea, 
The  glassy  ocean  of  the  mountain  ice, 
W^e  skim  its  rugged  breakers,  which  put  on 
The  aspect  of  a  tumbling  tempest's  foam, 
FVozen  in  a  moment— a  dead  whirlpool's  image  ; 
And  this  most  steep  fantastic  pinnacle, 
The  fretwork  of  some  earthijuake — where  the  clouds 
Pause  to  repose  themselves  in  passing  by — 
Is  sacred  to  our  revels,  or  our  vigils  ; 
Here  do  I  wait  my  sisters,  on  our  way 
To  the  Hall  of  Arimanes,  for  to-night 
Is  our  great  festival — 'l  is  strange  they  come  not. 
A  voice  without,  singing. 
The  Captive  Usurper, 

Hurl'd  down  from  the  throne, 
Lay  buried  in  torpor. 

Forgotten  and  lone ; 
I  broke  through  his  slumbers, 

I  shiver'd  his  chain, 
I  leagued  him  with  numbers — 
He  's  tyrant  again  ! 
With  the  blood  of  a  million  he  '11  answer  my  care, 
VVith  a  nation's  destruction — his  flight  and  despair. 

Ser.'ind  Voice,  without. 
The  ship  sail'd  on,  the  ship  sail'd  fast. 
But  I  left  not  a  sail,  and  I  left  not  a  mast , 
Tliere  is  not  a  plank  of  the  hull  or  the  deck. 
And  there  is  not  a  wretch  to  lament  o'er  his  wreck; 
Save  one,  whom  I  held,  as  he  swam,  by  the  hair, 
And  lie  was  a  subject  well  worthy  my  care ; 
A  traitor  on  land,  and  a  pirate  at  sea — 
But  I  saved  him  to  wreak  further  havoc  for  me ! 
FiKST  Destiny,  answering. 
The  city  lies  sleeping  ; 
The  morn,  to  deplore  it, 


May  dawn  on  it  weeping : 

Sulleiih'.^  slowly. 
The  black  plague  flew  o'er  it^ — 

Thousands  lie  lo\\  ly  ; 
Tens  of  thousands  shall  perish— 

The  living  shall  fly  from 
The  sick  tliey  should  cherish  j 

But  nothing  can  vanquish 
The  touch  ihii*  they  die  from. 

Sorrow  and  anguish. 
And  evil  and  dread. 

Envelop  a  nation — 
The  blest  are  the  dead. 
Who  see  not  the  sight 

Of  their  own  desolation. — 
This  work  of  a  night, 
This  wreck  of  a  reahn — this  deed  of  my  doing- 
For  ages  I  've  done,  and  shall  still  be  renewing ! 
Enter  the  Second  and  Third  Destixies., 
The  Three. 
Our  hands  contain  the  hearts  of  men. 

Our  footsteps  are  their  graves  ; 
We  only  give  to  take  again 
The  spirits  of  our  slaves  ! 

FIRST    DESTINY. 

Welcome  ! — V^here  's  Nemesis  ? 

SECOND    DESTINY. 

At  some  great  worK  ; 
But  what  I  know  not,  for  my  hands  were  fiill. 

THIRD  DESTINY. 

Behold  she  cometh. 

Enl'-r  Nemesis. 

FIRST    DESTINY. 

Sav,  where  hast  thou  betTl^ 
My  sis'ers  and  thvself  are  slo\v  to-night. 

NEMESIS. 

I  was  detain'd  repairing  shatter'd  thrones, 

Marrying  fools,  restoring  dynasties. 

Avenging  men  upon  their  enemies, 

And  making  them  repent  their  own  revenge ; 

Goading  the  wise  to  madness  ;   from  the  dull 

Shaping  out  oracles  to  rule  the  world 

Afresh,  for  they  were  waxmg  out  of  date. 

And  mortals  dared  to  ponder  for  themselves. 

To  weigh  kings  m  the  balance,  and  to  speak 

Of  freedom,  the  forbidden  fruit. — Away! 

We  have  outstaid  the  hour — mount  we  our  clouds ! 

[Ext'unt 

SCENE  IV. 

'Hie  Hall  of  Arimanes — A-'maues   on  his  Throne,   a 

Globe  of  Fire,  surrotrntlejl  l\y  the  Spirits, 
Hijmn  of  the  Spirits. 
Hail  to  our  master  ! — Prince  of  earth  and  air! — 

Who  walks  the  clouds  and  waters — in  his  hand 
The  sceptre  of  the  elements,  which  tear 

Themselves  to  ciiaos  at,  his  high  command  I 
He  breatheth — and  a  tempest  shakes  the  sea ; 

He  speaketh — and  the  clouds  reply  in  thunder  ] 
He  gazeth — from  his  glance  the  sunbeams  flee ; 

He  moveth — earthquakes  rend  the  world  asundc*. 
Beneath  his  footsteps  the  volcanoes  rise  ; 

His' shadow  is  the  pestilence  ;   Ids  path 
The  comets  herald  ihroush  *he  crackling  skirs, 

And  planets  turn  to  ashes  at  his  wrath. 
To  him  war  offers  daily  sacrifice  ; 

To  him  death  pays  his  tribute ;  hfe  iB  hiO; 
With  all  its  infinite  of  agonies — 

And  his  the  spirit  of  whatever  is 


MANFRED. 


513 


£nter  the  Destinies  and  Nemesis. 

FIRST   DESTINY. 

Grory  to  Arimanes!   on  the  earth 

His  power  lucreaseiii — ooth  my  sisters  did 

His  bKlding,  noi  did  I  nei^lect  my  duty! 

SECOND    DESTINV. 

Glory  *o  Arimanes  I    we  who  how 

riie  necks  of  men,  l)ow  down  before  his  throne! 

THIRD    DESTINV. 

Glory  to  Arimanes  ! — we  await  iiis  nod  ! 

NEMESIS. 

fSovereiirn  of  sovereiijr-.s  !    we  are  thine, 
And  all  that  livelh,  more  or  less,  is  ours, 
And  most  thiiiirs  wholly  so;   still  to  increase 
Our  power,  increasing  thine,  demands  onr  care, 
And  we  are  vii:ilant — Thy  late  commands 
Have  been  fullilled  to  the  utmost. 

Enter  Manfred. 

A  SMKIT. 

What  is  here  ? 
A  mortal ! — Thou  most  rash  and  fatal  wretch, 
Kow  down  and  worship  ! 

SECOND   SPIRIT. 

I  do  know  the  man — 
A  Magian  of  great  power,  and  fearful  skill ! 

THIRD   SPIRIT. 

Row  down  and  worsliij),  slave  I — 

What,  know^'st  thou  not 
Thine  and  our  sovereign? — Tremble,  and  obey! 

ALL   THE    SPIRITS. 

Prostrate  thyself,  an<l  thy  condemned  clay, 
Chi'.d  '.f  'he  Earth!   or  (h-ead  the  uorst. 

MANFRED. 

I  know  it ; 
And  J  I    ye  see  I  kneel  not. 

FOURTH   SPIRIT. 

'T  will  be  taught  thee. 

MANFRED. 

'Tis  taught  ilready ; — m;«)y  a  night  on  the  earth, 
Un  the  bare  ground,  have  I  bow'd  down  my  face. 
And  strew'd  my  head  with  ashes;  I  have  known 
Tiie  fulness  of  humiliation,  for  ' 

T^nkjESSlOSj" '^''•^ n  (](;.spair,  afl^j  kflS^t 
To  my  own  desolation. 

"^FIFTH  SPIRIT. 

Dost  thou  dare 
Refuse  to  Arimanes  on  his  throne 
What  the  whole  earth  accords,  beholding  not 
The  terror  of  his  glory  ? — Crouch  !   I  say. 

MANFRED. 

Bid  him  bow  down  to  that  which  is  above  him, — 
The  overruling  Infinite — the  Maker 
Who  made  liim  not  for  worshi]j — let  him  kneel. 
And  we  will  kneel  together. 

THE   SPIRITS. 

Crush  the  worm ! 
Fear  him  in  pieces! — 

FIRST   DESTINY. 

Hence'   Avaunt !   he's  mine, 
Prin(  c  of  the  powers  invisible  !   this  man 
V  of  no  common  order,  as  his  port 
And  presence  here  denote:   his  sufFerings 
Have  been  of  an  immortal  nature,  like 
Our  own ;  his  knowledge  and  his  power  and  will, 
.■\s  far  as  is  compatible  with  clay, 
Which  closs  the  ethereal  essence,  have  been  such 
As  clay  hath  seldom  borne  ;   his  aspirations 
Have  been  berond  the  dwellers  of  the  earth, 
And  they  have  onl\  tauizht  him  wliat  .ve  know — 


That  knowledge  is  not  happiness,  and  stncnco  ■ 

hut  an'evchange  of  ignorance  for  that 

Which  is  another  kind  of  ijinoranrt;. 

Tiiis  is  not  all — the  passions,  attributes 

Of  earth  and  heaven,  from  which  no  power,  nor  oeirm 

Nor  breath,  from  the  worm  upwards,  is  exempt, 

Have  pierced  his  heart ;   and  in  their  conseuuencc 

Made  him  a  thing  which  I,  who  pity  not. 

Yet  panlon  those  who  pity.      He  is  mine, 

And  thine,  it  niav  be — be  it  so,  or  not. 

No  other  spirit  in  <his  region  hath 

A  soul  like  hi^ — or  power  upon  his  soul. 

NEAIESfS. 

W  hat  doth  he  here  then  ? 

FIRST   DESTINY. 

Let  him  answer  that. 

MANFRED. 

Ye  know  what  I  have  known  ;   and  without  power 
I  could  not  be  amongst  ye  :   but  there  are 
Powers  deeper  still  beyond — I  come  in  quest 
Of  such,  to  answer  unto  what  I  seek. 

NEMESIS. 

What  wouldst  thou? 

MANFRED. 

Thou  canst  not  reply  to  me. 
Call  up  the  dead — my  question  is  for  them. 

NFMESIS. 

Great  Arimanes,  doth  thy  will  avouch 
The  Wishes  of  this  mortal  ? 

AKIMANES. 

Yea. 

NEMESIS. 


Uncharnel? 


Astarte. 


Whom  wouldst  fhoii 


MANFRED. 

One  without  a  tomb — c 


up 


NEMESIS. 

Shadow  !   or  Spirit ! 

Whatever  thou  art. 
Which  still  doth  inherit 

The  whole  or  a  part 
Of  the  form  of  thy  birth. 

Of  the  mould  of  thv  clay, 
Which  return'd  to  the  earth, — 

Reappear  to  the  day  ! 
Bear  what  thou  borest, 

The  heart  aiut  the  form, 
Ano  the  aspect  thou  worest 

Redeem  from  the  '.vorm. 
Appear ! — appear  ! — ajjpear ! 
Who  sent  thee  there  requires  thee  here! 

\T he  phantom  of  Astarte  rises  and 
stands  in  the  midst. 

MANFRED. 

Can  this  be  death?  there's  bloom  upon  her  cheek  ! 
But  now  I  see  it  is  no  living  hue, 
But  a  strange  hectic — like  the  unnatural  red 
Which  Autumn  plants  upon  the  perish'd  leaf. 
It  is  the  same  !   Oh  God  !   tha    I  si  ouli  dread 
To  look  u[)on  the  same — Astarte  ! — Xo, 
I  cannot  speak  to  her — but  bid  her  speaK — 
Forgive  me  or  condemn  me. 

NEMESIS. 

By  the  power  which  hath  broken 
The  grave  which  enthrall'd  thee, 

Speak  to  him  who  hath  spoken. 
Or  those  who  have  cali'd  thee ! 


514 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


MANFRED. 

She  is  silent, 
And  ir  '!iat  silence  I  am  more  than  answer'd. 

NEMESIS. 

ISIy  po<'-er  extends  no  further.     Prince  of  air ! 
!l  --esfs  With  thee  alone — command  her  voice. 

AHl.MANES. 

Spirit  i   obey  this  sceptre  ! 

NEMESIS. 

Silent  still . 
She  IS  not  of  our  order,  but  belongs 
To  the  other  powers.     INIorial !   thy  quest  is  vain, 
Ana  we  are  bafiled  also. 

MANFRE71. 

Hear  me,  hear  me — 
\9tarte  !  my  beloved  !   speak  to  me  : 
I  have  so  much  endured — so  much  endure — 
t^ooiTon  mc !   the  grave  hath  not  changed  thee  more 
'than  I  am  changed  for  ihte..     Thou  lovedst  me 
Too  much,  as  1  loved  thee :   we  were  not  made 
To_t(H:t_i^i_r ej|. v.s _each  ot \\er^ , thoy gh  it  were 
the  deadliest  sin  to  love  as^  w,e  have  loved. 
Say  tliat'tho'u 'loat'hesi  me  not — that  I  do  bear 
This  punishment  for  both— that  thou  wilt  be 
Omionhe_.Wesjs.eu— and  tJiat  I  shall  die ; 
For  hitherto  all  hateful  ihmgs  conspire 
fo'biiid  me  in  exisTence — ui  a  hie 
Wliicli  makes  me  shrink  from  immortality — 
A  firiu.-e''i)'ke  "the  past.     I  cannot  rest- 
nmQ\V'-nD7'Uli;ur  ask  nor  what  I  seek: 
f  feel  but  what  thou  art— and  what  1  am; 
And  I  would  hear  yet  once  before  I  perish 
The  voice  wlilch  was  my  music — Speak  to  me ! 
For  I  have  call'd  on  thee  in  the  still  night, 
Star  led  tin;  slumbering  birds  from  the  hush'd  boughs, 
And  woke  the  mountain  wolves,  and  made  the  caveo 
Ac<jimnited  with  thy  vainly-echoed  name, 
Which  answer'(3  me— many  things  answer'd  me.-r- 
Spirits  and  men — but  thou  wert  silent  alL 
Yet  speak  to  me!  J  liave  outwatch'dibe  §.tars, 
And  i,ni7.ed  o'er  heaven  in  vain  in  search  of  thee. 
Hp»Jat(.  to 'met  I  have  wander'd  o'er  the  earth 
And  never  found  tiiy  likeness — Speak  to  nrte ! 
Look" oii'the  liends'around— they  feel  tor  me  : 
I  fear  tlu;m  not,  and  feel  for.  thee  alone — 
Sp*^ik7()  UK!  I   though  it  be  in  wrath ;— but  say — 
Il-ec!;  !H>t  what — but  let  me  hear  thee  once — 
This  once-  once  more  I 

PHANTOM    OF    ASTARTE. 

Manfred ! 

MANFRED. 

Say  on,  say  on — 
I  live  but  in  the  sound — it  is  thy  voice ! 

PHANTOM. 

Mantred  !   lo-moriow  ends  ihinc  earthly  ills. 
Farewell ! 

MANFRED. 

Yet  one  word  more — am  I  forgiven  ? 

PHANTOM. 

{•'arewell ! 

MANFRED. 

Say,  shall  we  meet  again? 

PHANTOM. 

Farewell ! 

MANFRED. 

ihvi  word  for  mercy !   say,  thou  lovest  mo. 

PHANTOM. 

Manfred ! 

[The  Spirit  of  Astarte  disappears. 

NEMKSIS. 

She's  gone,  and  will  not  be  rticall'd  ; 
Hci  words  wdl  ">e  fulfiU'd.     Return  to  the  eoth. 


A    SPIRIT. 

He  is  convulsed. — This  is  to  be  a  mortan 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mnrtrihTT.'* 

ANOTHER     SPIRIT. 

Yet,  see,  he  mastereth  himself,  and  makes 
His  torture  tributary  to  his  will. 
Had  he  been  one  of  us,  he  would  have  made 
An  awfid  spirit. 

NEMESIS. 

Hast  thou  further  question 
Of  our  great  sovereign,  or  his  worshippers? 

MANFREO 

None. 

jNEMESIS. 

Then  for  a  time  fixrevvell. 

MANFRED. 

We  meet  then  !   Where?   On  the  earth? — 
Even  as  thou  wilt :   and  for  the  grace  accordea 
I  now  depart  a  debtor.     Fare  ye  well ! 

[Exit  Manj-rk 
( Scene  dose-':. ) 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  L 

A  Hall  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred. 

Manfred  and  He  km  an. 

MANFRED. 

What  is  the  hour  ? 

HERMAN. 

It  wants  but  one  till  srnsc*, 
And  promises  a  lovely  twilight. 

MANFRED. 

Sa,y, 
Are  all  things  so  disposed  of  in  the  tower 
As  I  directed  ? 

HERMAN. 

x\.l!,  my  lord,  are  ready  ; 
Here  is  the  key  and  cask(;t. 

MANFRED. 

It  is  well : 
Tliou  may'st  retire.  {Exit  Herm  5Eo 

MANFHED     [(llone). 

There  is  a  calm  ujion  me — 
Inexplicable  stillness!    which  till  now 
Did  not  helon;;  to  what  I  knew  of  life. 
If  t.liat  I  did  not  kuoNv  .ph_i!.i>jl9i'hx 
To.be.Qf  all  our  vanities  the  inotliest^ 
The  merest  word  dud  ever  fool'ti  the  ear 
From  out  thestjhoolmai+'-s-JaciWU,  Iliiauiide*™ 
The  golden  secret,  the  sou^lit  '_'  Kalon,_^founcl, 
And  seated  in  my  soul.    _||_\^'ji'~  '"Jt  last, 
Hut  it  is  well  to  Riive irnoTvn  it, TRorTgFbut  once: 
It  hath  enlarged  my  thoughts  with  a  new  sense,  "" 
And  I  within  my  tahlcts  would  note  down 
That  there  is  such  a  fe<!li!igV  AVho  is  there? 
Re-enter  Herman. 

HERMAN. 

My  lord,  the  abbot  of  St.  Maurice  craves 
To  greet  your  pr<-sen(M\ 

Enter  the  Abuot  of   St.  Maurice. 
ABi5or. 
Peace  be  with  Coont  ManfrctJ. 

MANFRED. 

Thanks,  holy  fiither!   welcome  to  these  wall?, 
Thy  presence  honours  them,  and  blesscth  those 
Who  dwell  within  them. 

ABBOT. 

W^ould  it  were  so.  Count  !— 
Hut  I  would  Hiin  confer  with  thee  alone. 

M  ANFRF.  1). 

H— -man.  retire.    Wlnvt  wouUl  inv  '•everend  Kursl . 


M  A  N  F  E  E  D. 


515 


ABBOT. 

Tl.n-,  wifli  )iit  preluiio: — A^e  and  zeal,  my  office, 
Aiiil  oowd  ititciu,  must  plei*a(l  my  privilefje  ; 
Our  ii<.';ir    tliou>:li  not  acqiiairitcd  iieiurlihourhood, 
Mav  also  lie  my  lierulil.      Rumours  strange, 
All,!  of  uiihoiy  nature,  are  abroad, 
And  Imsv  with  tin  name  ;    a  noble  name 
For  ct  iiluries  ;    may  he  who  bears  it  now 
Transmit  it  unnnpaird  ! 


MANFREO. 

Proceed, 


-I  listen. 


ABBOT. 

'Tis  said  thou  boldest  converse  with  the  things 
Which  are  forbidden  to  the  search  of  man  ; 
That  with  the  dwellers  of  the  dark  abodes, 
The  many  evil  and  unheavenly  spirits 
Which  walk  the  valley  of  the  shade  of  death, 
Thou  communest.   I  know  that  with  mankind, 
Thy  fellows  in  creation,  thou  dost  rarely 
Exchange  thy  thoughts,  and  that  ?Jiy  solitude 
Is  as  an  anchorite's,  were  it  but  holy. 

MANFRED 

And  what  are  they  who  do  avouch  these  things? 

ABBOT. 

My  pious  brethren — the  scared  peasantry — 
Even  thy  own  vassals — who  do  look  on  thee 
W^ith  most  unquiet  eyes.   Thy  life's  in  peril. 

MANFRED. 

Take  it. 

ABBOT. 

I  come  to  save,  and  not  desLroy — 
I  would  not  pry  into  thy  secret  soul ; 
But  if  these  things  be  somh,  there  still  is  time 
For  penitence  and  [)itv:    reconcile  thee 
With  the  true  church,  and  through  the  church  to  HeavcMi 

MANFRED. 

I  hear  thee.   This  is  my  reijly  ;  whate'er 
I  may  have  been,  or  am,  (Toflii  rest  between 
HdavcnTuid  myself.— I  shall  not  choose  a  mortajl 

Against  j'our  ordutances?  provg.  and  punish  ! 

ABBOT. 

My  son  !   I  did  not  speak  of  punishment. 

But  penitence  and  pardon  ; — with  thyself 

The  clioice  of  such  remains — and  for  the  last, 

Our  institutions  and  our  strong  belief 

Have  given  me  power  to  smooth  the  path  from  sin 

To  higiier  hope  and  b(!tter  thoughts  ;  the  first 

I  leave  to  He'aven — "Vengeance  is  mine  alone!" 

So  saith  the  Lord,  and  with  all  humbleness 

His  servant  echoes  back  the  awful  word. 


MA  M'UED. 

1  Old  man  !    th(!re  is  no  power  in  holy  men, 
1  Nor  charm  in  prayer — nor  iiurifying  form 
Of  {(enitence — nor  outward  look — nor  fast — 
rsor  agony — nor,  greater  than  all  these. 
The  innate  tortures  of  that  (!ee[)  de.-pair 
Whicli  is  remorse  without  the  fear  of  hell. 
Hut  all  in  all  sufficient  to  itself 
Would  make  a  ht.-ll  of  heaven — can  exorcise 
From  out  the  unboiinded  s|)irit,  the  (jiiick  sense 
Oi'  Its  own  suis,  wrongs,  su'ferance,  and  revenge 
Upon  itself;   there  is  no  future  pang 
Can  deal  thi";  justice  on  the  self-condemn'd 
He  deals  on  his  own  soul. 

ABBOT. 

All  this  is  wpI!  , 
For  fnis  will  pass  away,  and  be  succeeded 
Bv  an  auspicious  hope,  which  shall  look  up 
With  calm  assurance  to  that  blessed  place, 


Which  all  who  s<;ek  may  win,  whatever  be 

Their  earthly  ernjrs,  so  they  be  atoned: 

And  the  commencement  of  atonement  is 

The  sense  of  its  nec(;ssity. — Say  on — 

And  all  our  church  can  teach  thee  shall  be  taught, 

And  all  we  can  absolve  thee  shall  be  pardon'd. 

MANFRED. 

When  Rome's  sixth  Emperor  was  i  ear  his  last 
The  victim  of  a  self-inHicted  wound, 
To  shun  the  torments  of  a  public  death 
From  senates  once  his  slaves,  a  certain  soldier, 
With  show  of  loyal  [lity,  would  have  stanch'd 
The  gushing  throat  with  his  offi'-ious  robe  ; 
The  dying  Roman  thrust  him  back  and  said — 
Some  empire  still  in  his  expiring  glance, 
"It  is  too  late — is  this  fidelity?" 

ABBOT. 

And  what  of  this  ? 

MANFRED. 

I  answer  with  the  Roman— 
"It  is  too  late!" 

ABBOT. 

It  never  can  be  so. 
To  reconcile  thyself  with  thy  own  soul, 
And  thv  own  soul  with  Heaven.   Hast  thou  no  hope  "^ 
'Tis  strange — even  those  who  do  despair  above. 
Yet  shape  themselves  some  phantasy  on  earth. 
To  which  frail  twig  they  cling,  like  drowning  men. 

/  MANFRED. 

Ay — father!   I  have  had  those  earthly  visions 
And  noble  aspirations  in  my  youth. 
To  make  my  own  the  mind  of  other  men,  ^ 

The  enlightener  of  nations  ;   and  to  rise 
I  knew 'not  whither — it  might  be  to  fall; 
But  niil,  even  as  the  mountain  cataract, 
Which  having  leapt  from  its  more  dazzHng  height, 
Even  in  the  foaming  strength  of  its  abyss 
(Which  casts  up  misty  columns  that  become 
Clouds,  raining  from  the  reascended  skies), 
Lies  low  but  mighty  still. — But  this  is  past, 
My  thoughts  mistook  themselves. 

ABBOT.  ^ 

And  wherefore  so? 

MANFRED. 

I  could  not  tame  my  nature  down  j  for  he      ^^, 

ist  sefve^ITo  fam  won  13  sway — and  soothe — andsuo- 
ch'  alt-  time— -and  [Vry  int^rUtT  ptace— 
.  ififfbe  a  riving'li'e — who  would  become 
J  ,  mighty  thing  amonijst  The  mean,  and  such 
''.  'he  mass  are  :   I  disduin'd  to  mingle  witU 
J    herd,  though  to  be  leader— and  of  walyQjg,. 
''.  'he  lion  IS  alone,  and  so  am  1. 

AJiBOT. 

And  why  not  live  and  act  with  other  men? 

/  MANFRED. 

R-ectnTBe  my  nature  was  averse  from  life ; 
And  yet  not  cruel ;   for  I  would  not  make, 
Bjit  find  a  desolation  : — hke  the  wiiid, 
riie  red-hot  breath  oC  the  most  lone  Simoom, 
Which  dwells  biitiTlThe'desert,  and  sv>'eeps  o'ef 
The  barren  sands  which  bear  ic  shrubs  to  bi^sJ. 
\nd  revels  o'er  their  wild  and  arid  waves, 
Vnd  seeketh  not,  so  that  it  is  not  sought, 
?iit  being  met  is  deadly  ;   such  hath  been 
The  course  of  my  existence  ;   but  there  came 
Things  in  my  path  wliich  are  no  more. 

ABB(/T. 

Ala3 
'gin  to  fear  that  thoii  art  past  all  aid 
'rom  me  and  from  my  caliing  ;  yet  so  young, 
still  would 


516 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


MANFRED. 

Look  on  me  !  there  is  an  order 
Of  mortals  ryn  tbe~eartT»,' vvt)0  do'Tjeoome 
Old  in  thei;  youth  and  die  ere  middle  age, 
Without  the  \nolence  of  warlike  death  ; 
Some  perishing  of  pleasure — some  of  study — 
Some  worn  with  toil — some  of  mere  weariness — 
Some  of  disease — and  some  insanity — 
And  some  of  wither'd  or  of  broken  h.earts  ; 
For  this  last  is  a  malady  which  slays 
More  than  are  numbcr'd  in  the  lists  of  Fate, 
Taking  all  shapes,  and  bearing  many  names, 
Look  upon  me !   for  even  of  all  these  things, 
Have  I  partaken  ;   and  of  all  these  things,  j 

One  were  enough  :   then  wonder  not  that  I  } 

Am  what  1  am,  but  that  I  ever  was, 
;    Or,  having  been,  that  I  am  still  on  earth.  ; 

ABBOT.  i 

MTet,  hear  me  still < 

MANFKED.  ( 

Old  man  !   I  do  respect  I 

Tiiine  order,  and  revere  thy  years  ;   I  deem 
Thy  purpose  pious,  but  it  is  in  vain  : 
fhink  me  not  churlish  ;   I  would  sj)are  thyself, 
Far  more  than  me,  in  shunning  at  this  time 
All  further  colloquy — and  so — farewell. 

[Exit  Manfred 

ABBOT. 

TTiis  should  have  been  a  noble  creature :   he 

Hath  all  the  energy  which  would  have  made 

A  "oodlv  frame  of  glorious  elements, 

/"  .    "        .  .    . 

Had  they  been  wiselv  mingled ;   as  it  is^ 

It  IS  an  awful  chaos — liL'ht  and  darkness — 

And  mind  and  dust — and  passions  and  pure  thoughts,  \ 

Mix'd  and  contt^nding  without  end  or  order,  ', 

All  dtirmant  or  destructive  :   he  will  perish,  [ 

And  yet  he  must  not, ;   1  wnl  try  once  more,  \ 

For  such  are  worth  redem|)tion  ;   and  my  duty  '. 

Is  to  dare  all  things  for  a  righteous  end.  \ 

I'll  ibliow  him — but  cautiously,  though  surely. 

{Exit  Abbot. 

SCENE  II. 

Another  Chdinher. 
Manfred  and  Herman. 

HERMAN. 

My  Lord,  you  bade  me  wait  on  you  at  sunset: 
He  sinks  behind  the  mountain. 

MANFRED. 

Doth  he  so? 
i  will  look  on  him. 

[Manfred  ndx:anc.ef>  to  the  anndow  af  the  Hall. 
Glorious  orb!   the  idol 
Of  early  nature,  and  the  vigorous  race 
Of  uiidiseased  mankind,  the  ijiant  sons'* 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a  sex 
More  beautiful  than  thev.  which  did  draw  down 
Th(!  erring  spirits  who  ran  ne'(;r  return — 
Most  gloriofs  orb!    that  wer'  a  worship,  ere 
The  mystf-ry  of  thy  tnakini,'  was   reveaPd  ! 
Thou  earliest  minister  of"  the  Ahnitditv, 
V^'hirh  (.'ladden'd,  on  their  moiitit:ii.n  to[)s,  the  hearts 
O.   the  C!ia..lcan  sl),.,,||,.rds,  ti'.l  thry  poiir'd 
Thems.'lvev  m  orisons  !    th<.ii  miil.riiil  ^od  ! 
And  n  i.nvscnialivc  of   the  I'likrinwii — 
U  hr)  rhos.'  th.;e  for  hi-  slni.low  !    'I'hou  cliief  star! 
(.'•■ntre  of  rii;iny  stars  !    wfiu  h  inak'st  our  earth 
F.ndiirabh!,  ;irid  fem|)erest  tin-  hues 
Aitd  he  irts  of  all  who  walk  within  )hv  niys 
Sa  (■  of  the  seasons  '    Monarch  of  the  clinrs. 


And  those  who  dwell  in  them  !   fo     var  o»  f«r, 

Our  inborn  spirits  have  a  tint  of  thee. 

Even  as  our  outward  aspects  ; — thou  dost  nse, 

And  shine,  and  set  in  glory.    Fare  thee  well ' 

I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more.   As  my  first  glaa- 

Of  love  and  wonder  was  lor  tliee,  then  take 

IVIy  latest  look:   thou  wilt  not  beam  on  <>ne 

To  whom  the  gifts  of  life  and  warmth  have  beeii 

Of  a  more  fatal  nature.  He  is  gone : 

I  follow.  [Exit  Mani  «e|!> 


SCENE  m. 

The  Mountains — The  Castle  of  Manfred  at  some  din 
tance — A  Terrace  before  a  Tower. — Time,  Twili^lit 

Herman,  Manuel,   and  other  dependants  of 
Manfred. 

HERMAN. 

Tis  strange  enough-  night  after  night,  for  years, 

He  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower. 

Without  a  witness.     I  have  been  within  it, — 

So  have  we  all  been  ott-times  :  but  from  it, 

Or  its  contents,  it  were  mipossible 

To  draw  conclusions  absolute,  of  aught 

His  studies  tend  to.     To  be  sure,  there  is 

One  chamber  where  nono  en'er ;   I  would  give 

The  fee  of  what  I  have  to  come  these  three  years. 

To  pore  upon  its  mvsteries. 

MANUEL. 

'T  were  dangerous ; 
Content  thyself  with  what  thou  knov/'st  already. 

HERMAN. 

Ah  !   Manuel !   thou  art  elderly  and  wise, 

And  couldst  say  much;  thouhastdwell  within  the  cas  lie— 

How  many  j'ears  is  't? 

MANUEL. 

Ere  Count  Manfred's  birth, 
I  served  his  father,  whom  he  nought  resembles. 

HERMAN. 

There  be  more  sons  in  like  predicament. 
But  wherein  do  they  differ?  ^ 

MANUEL. 

I  speak  not 
Of  features  or  of  form,  but  mind  and  habits : 
Count  Sigismund  was  proud, — but  gay  and  free, — 
A  warrior  and  a  reveller;   he  dwelt  not 
With  books  and  solitude,  nor  made  the  night 
A  gloomy  vigil,  but  a  festal  time. 
Merrier  than  day  ;   he  did  not  walk  the  rocks 
And  forests  hke  a  wolf,  nor  turn  aside 
From  men  and  their  deliijhts. 

H£5RMAN. 

Beshrew  the  hour, 
Rut  those  were  jocund  times  !   I  would  that  such 
Would  visit  the  old  walls  again  ;   tliey  look 
As  if  they  had  forgotten  them. 

MANUEL. 

These  wai..> 
Must  change  their  chieftain  first.   Oh  !   I  have  seen 
Some  strange  things  in  them,  Herman. 

HERMAN. 

Come,  be  fneniCy; 
Relate  me  some  to  while  away  our  watcfi . 
I  've  heard  thee  darkly  speak  of  an  event 
Which  happen'd  hereabouts,  by  this  same  tower. 

mani;k.l. 
That  was  a  night  indeed  ;    I  do  rfniicmbei 
'Twas  twilight  as  it  may  be  now,  and  sucn 
Another  evening: — yon  red  cloud,  which  resbJ 
On  Eigher's  pinnacle,  go  rested  then, — 


MANFRED. 


5r 


!?    like  thai  it  might  oe  trie  same  :   tlie  wind 
Was  faint  and  gii>.ty,  ami  the  mountain  snows 
Bri;an  to  glitter  with  the  chnibing  moon  ; 
("^nuiit  Manfrtid  was,  as  now,  within  his  tower, — 
Ilnw  occu|iie(i,  w«^  knew  not,  but  with  him 
Tlie  sole  companion  of  his  wanderings 
Ai'd  watchings; — her,  wliom  of  all  earthly  things 
That  lived,  the  only  thing  he  seem'd  to  love, — 
As  he,  indeed,  by  blood  was  bound  to  do, 

Tlie  lady  Astarte,  Ins 

Hush  !   who  comes  here  ? 
Enter  t/ic  Abbot. 

ABBOT. 

Wliere  is  your  master  ? 

HERMAN. 

Yonder,  m  the  tower. 

ABBOT. 

I  musi  speak  with  him. 

Manuel. 
'Tis  impossible; 
He  is  most  private,  and  must  not  be  thus 
Intruded  on. 

ARBOT. 

Upon  myself  I  take 
The  forfeit  of  my  fault,  if  fault  there  be — 
But  I  must  see  hinr.. 

HERMAN. 

Thou  hast  seen  him  oiice 
This  eve  already. 

ABBOT. 

Herman  !  I  command  thee, 
Knock,  and  apprize  the  Count  of  my  approach. 

HERMAN. 

We  dare  not. 

ABBOT. 

Then  it  seems  I  must  be  herald 
Of  my  own  purpose. 

MANUEL. 

Reverend  father,  stop — 
I  pray  you  pause. 

ABBOT. 

Why  so  ? 

MANUEL. 

But  Step  this  way, 
And  I  will  tell  you  further. 


[Exeunt, 


SCENE  IV. 

Interior  of  the  Tower. 
INIanfred,  a!one. 

MANFRED. 

The  -<tars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
0{  the  snow-shining  mountains. — Beautiful! 
I  hnger  yet  with  Nature,  foL  tjienjorht 
flaih  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  facg 
THan  that  of  man ;   and  in  her  starry  shade 
(TTcHin  and  solitary  loveliness, 
i  learn'd  the  language  of  another  world. 
I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 
When  I  WIS  wandering, — uDon  such  a  night 
I  stood  within  the  Coliseujirs  wall 
'Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome  ; 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rentr  of  ruin  ;  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber  ;   and 
More  near  fron'.  out  the  Cjcsar's  palace  came 
The  owl's  .on^  :rv,  an  <    interruptedly, 


Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 

Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 

Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 

Appear'd  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 

Within  a  bow-shot — where  the  Caesars  dwelt, 

AikI  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 

A  grove  which  springs  through  levell'd  battlement*, 

And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths, 

Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth; — 

iiut  the  gladiator's  bloody  Circus  stands, 

A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection! 

While  Caisar'g  cliamtiers,  and  the  Augustan  halls, 

Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. — 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 

All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 

^Vhich  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 

Of  rugged  desolation,  and  til  I'd  up, 

As  'twere  anew,  the  gaf)s  of  centuries: 

Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so. 

And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 

Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 

With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old  ! — 

The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 

Our  spirits  from  their  urns. — 

'T  was  such  a  night 
'T  is  strange  that  I  recall  it  at  this  time  ; 
But  I  have  found  our  thoughts  lake  wildest  flight 
Even  at  the  moment  when  they  should  array 
Themselves  in  pensive  order. 

Enter  the  Abbot. 

ABBOT. 

My  good  lord  • 
1  crave  a  second  grace  for  this  approach  ; 
But  yet  let  not  my  humble  zeal  offend 
By  its  abruptness — all  it  hath  of  ill 
Recoils  on  me  ;  its  good  in  the  eifect 
May  light  upon  your  head — could  I  say  heart — 
Could  I  touch  that,  with  words  or  prayers,  I  shoula 
Recall  a  noble  spirit  which  hath  wander'd  ; 
But  is  not  yet  all  lost. 

MANFRED. 

Thou  know'st  me  not : 
My  days  are  number'd,  and  my  deeds  recorded . 
Retire,  or  't  will  be  dangerous — Away  ! 

ABBOT. 

Thou  dost  not  laean  to  menace  mc  ? 

MANFRED. 

0  Not  I ; 

1  simply  tell  thee  peril  is  at  hand, 
And  would  preserve  thee. 

ABBOT. 

What  dost  mean  ? 

MANFRED. 

Look  there 
What  dost  thou  see  ? 

ABBOT. 

Nothing. 

MANFRED. 

Look  there,  I  cay, 
And  stedfasdy  ; — now  tell  me  what  thou  seest  ? 

ABBOT. 

That  which  should  shake  me, — b«t  I  fear  it  ncrt— 

I  see  a  dusk  and  asvful  figure  rise 

Like  an  infernal  god  from  out  the  earth  ; 

His  face  wra[)t  in  a  mantle,  and  his  form 

Robed  as  with  angry  clouds  ;   he  stands  between 

Thyself  and  me— but  I  do  fear  him  not. 

MANFRED. 

Thou  hast  no  cause — he  shall  not  harm  thee — but 
His  sight  may  shock  thine  old  limbs  into  palsy, 
I  say  to  thee — Retire ! 


618 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


ABBOT. 

And  I  reply — 
tics  ar — till  I  nave  battled  with  this  fiend — 
VVhat  doth  he  here  "^ 

MANFRKD. 

Why — ay — what  doth  he  here  ? 
I  did  not  send  for  him, — he  is  unbidden. 

ABBOT. 

Alas}   lost  mortal'   what  with  guests  like  these 
Hasi  thou  to  do?  I  tremble  for  thy  sake. 
Wliy  doth  he  gaze  on  thee,  and  thou  on  him? 
Ah  !   he  unveils  his  aspect ;   on  his  brow 
The  thunder-scars  are  graven  ;   from  his  eye 
Glares  forth  the  immortality  of  hell — 
A vaunt ! 

MANFRKD. 

Pronounce — what  is  thy  mission  ? 

SPIRIT. 

Come! 

ABBOT. 

What  art  thou,  unknown  being  ?  answer  ' — speak  ! 

SPIRIT. 

The  genius  of  this  mortal. — Come  !  'tis  time. 

MANFRED. 

I  am  prepared  for  all  things,  but  deny 

The  power  which  summons  me.    Who  sent  thee  here? 

SPIRIT. 

Thou  'It  know  anon — Come  !  come  ! 

MANFRED. 

i  have  commanded 
Thmjzs  of  an  essence  greater  far  than  thine. 
And  striven  with  thy  masters.     Get  thee  hence ! 

SPIRIT. 

Mortal  \  thine  hour  is  come — Away !  I  say. 

MANFRED. 

1  knew,  and  know  my  hour  is  come,  but  not 
To  render  up  my  soul  to  such  as  thee : 
Away!  I'll  die  as  I  have  lived— alone. 

SPIRIT. 

Then  I  must  summon  up  my  brethren. — Rise ! 

[  Other  Spirits  rise  up, 

ABBOT. 

Avaunt !  ye  evil  ones  ! — A  vaunt !  I  say, — 
Ve  have  no  power  where  piety  hath  power, 
And  I  do  charge  ye  in  the  name 

SPIRIT. 

Old  man ! 
We  know  ourselves,  our  mission,  and  thine  order ;        * 
Waste  not  thy  holy  words  on  idle  uses, 
It  were  in  vain ;  this  man  is  forfeited. 
Once  more  I  summon  him — Away  !  away  ! 

MANFRED. 

I  do  defv  ye, — though  I  fee!  my  soul 

Is  ebbing  from  me,  yet  I  do  defy  ye ; 

Nor  will  I  hence,  while  I  have  earthlv  breath 

To  breathe  my  scorn  upon  ye — earthly  strength 

To  wrestle,  though  whh  spirits  ;   what  ye  take 

Shall  be  ta'en  limb  by  limb. 

SPIRIT. 

Reluctant  mortal ! 
Is  tnis  the  Masrian  who  would  so  pervade 
The  worWl  invisible,  and  make  himself 
Almost  our  equal? — Can  it  ha  that  thou 
Art  thus  in  love  with  life?  the  veryJife 
Which  made  thee  wretched! 

MANFIiED. 

Thou  filse  fiend,  thon  liest! 
My  life  is  in  its  last  Iioit, — that  I  know. 
Nor  would  red(!em  a  moment  of  that  hour , 


I  do  not  combat  against  death,  but  thee 

And  thy  surrounding  angels :   my  pasi  power 

Was  purchased  by  no  compact- with  thy  crew, 

But  by  superior  science — penance — daring — 

And  length  of  watching — strength  of  mind — aix!  eksll 

In  knowledge  of  our  fathers — when  the  earth 

Saw  men  and  spirits  walking  side  by  side, 

And  gave  ye  no  su[)ren)acy  :   I  stand 

Upon  my  strength — I  do  defy — deny —       .     _.' 

Spurn  back,  and  scorn  ye  ! — 

SPIRIT. 

But  thy  many  crimes 
Have  made  thee 

MANFRED. 

What  arc  they  to  such  as  theo  i 
Must  crimes  be  punish'd  but  by  other  crimes, 
And  greater  criminals  ? — Back  to  thy  hell ! 
Thou  hast  no  {>ower  upon  me,  that  I  feel ; 
Thou  never  shalt  possess  me,  that  I  know : 
What  I  nave  done  is  done  ;   I  bear  within 
A  torture  which  could  nothing  gain  from  thine : 
The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  or  evil  thoughts — 
Is  its  own  origin  of  ill  and  end-r- 
And  its  own  place  and  time — its  innate  sense, 
When  stripp'd  of  this  mortality,  derives 
No  colour  from  the  fleeting  things  without ; 
But  is  absorb'd  in  stifTerance  or  in  joy, 
Born  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert. 
Thou  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couldst  n  )t  tempt  n'Ms; 
I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prey — 
But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 
My  own  hereafter.— Back,  ye  batHed  fiends' 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  me — but  not  yours  ! 

[The  Demons  disajpjir.iti' . 

ABBOT. 

Alas !   how  pale  thou  art — thy  lips  are  wliite — 
And  thy  breast  heaves — and  in  thy  gasping  throat 
The  accents  rattle. — Give  thy  prayers  to  Heavei>— 
Pray — albeit  but  in  thought, — but  die  not  thus. 

MANFRED. 

'T  is  over — my  dull  eyes  can  fix  thee  not ; 
But  all  things  swim  around  me,  and  the  earth 
Heaves  as  it  were  beneath  me.     Fare  thee  well- 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

ABBOT. 

Cold — cold — even  to  the  heart- 
But  yet  one  prayer — alas  !   how  fares  it  with  thee  ? — 

MANFRED. 

Old  man !  't  is  not  so  difficult  to  die. 

[Manfred  erptrei 

ABBOT. 

He  's  gone — his  soul  hath  ta'en  its  ear'.hless  flight- 
Whither  ?  I  dread  to  think — but  he  is  gone. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


510 


NOTES. 


Note  I .  Page  20,  lines  22  and  23. 

lu'  suiiliovv's  rajs  siill  arrh 

The  torrt-iit  with  the  many  linos  ofheiiven. 

This  Iris  is  formed  by  llie  rays  of  the  sun  over  the 
tjwer  pan  of  fhe  Alpine  torrents:  it  is  exactly  like  a 
raiiilxtw,  come  down  to  pay  a  visit,  and  so  close  thai 
yiru  may  walk  into  it: — this  effect  lasts  till  noon. 

Note  2.   Page  23,  hnes  27  and  28. 
Ho  wilt)  fidm  out  lii.'ir  tbuntain  dwellings  raised 
Eros  ucid  Atttcnis,  at  Oadara. 

The  philosopher  Iamblic>is.  The  story  of  the  raising 
o.  Eros  and  Anteros  may  be  found  in  his  life,  by 
Eunapius.      It  is  well  told. 

Note  3.   Pasc  27,  linos  12  and  13. 


Ill  words  ofddliioiis  imijorl.  but  fulfill'd. 
The  story  of  Pausanias,  king  of  Sparta,  (who  com- 
manded the  Greeks  at  the  battle  of  Platea,  and  after- 
wiirds  perished  for  an  attempt  to  betrav  the  Lacede- 
monians), and  Cleonice,  is  told  in  Plu(  arch's  life  of  • 
CuDon  ;  and  in  the  Laconics  of  Pausanias  the  Sophist, 
in  his  desciiption  of  Greece. 

Note  4.   Page  44,  lines  19  and  20. 

-th. 


or  tho  etnlirace  of  anii'ils. 

"  That  the  Sous  nf  God  saw  the  daughters  of  men, 
that  they  were  fair,"  etc. 

'•There  svere  giar.ts  in  the  earth  in  those  days;  ana 
also  after  that,  when  the  Siina  of  God  came  in  unto 
th<j  daughters  of  men,  and  they  bare  children  to  them, 
•he  same  became  mighty  men  which  were  of  old,  men 
of  renown."— -Cre«<;sis,  ch.  vi.  verses  2  and  4. 


DOGE  OF  VENICE ; 

A    HISTORICAL    TRAGEDY. 


PREFACE. 


The  conspiracy  of  the  Doge  Marino  Faliero  is  one  oi 
the  most  remarkable  events  in  the  annals  of  the  most 
singular  g.)vernment,  city,  and  people  of  modern  his- 
tory. It  occurred  in  the  year  135-5.  Every  thing  about 
V'^nice  is,  or  was,  extraordinary — her  aspect  is  like  a 
dream,  and  her  history  is  hke  a  romance.  The  story 
of  this  Doge  is  -  be  found  in  all  her  Chronicles,  and 
particularly  detailed  in  the  "  Lives  of  the  Doges,"  by 
Mann  Sanuto,  which  is  given  in  the  Appendix.  It  is 
sitnplv  and  clearly  related,  and  is,  perhaps,  more  dra- 
matic in  itself  than  any  scenes  which  can  be  founded 
upon  the  subject. 

Marino  Faliero  ^.ppears  to  have  been  a  man  of  tal- 
ents and  of  courage.  1  find  him  commander-in-chief 
of  the  land  forces  at  the  siege  of  Zara,  where  he  beat 
the  Kins  of  Hungary  and  his  army  of  eighty  thousand 
men,  killing  eight  thousand  men,  and  keeping  the  be- 
sieged at  the  same  time  in  check,  an  exploit  to  which 
I  know  none  similar  in  history,  except  that  of  Caisar 
at  Elesia,  and  of  Prince  Eugene  at  Belgrade.  He  was 
afterwards  commander  of  the  fleet  in  the  same  war. 
He  took  Capo  d'Istria.  He  was  ambassador  at  Genoa 
and  Rome,  at  which  last  he  received  the  news  of  his 


election  to  the  dukedom ;  his  absence  being  a  proof 
that  he  sought  it  by  no  intrigue,  since  he  »as  apjirizeo 
of  his  predecessor's  death  and  his  own  succession  a' 
the  same  moment.  But  he  appears  to  have  been  of 
an  ungovernable  temper.  A  story  is  told  by  Sanuto, 
of  his  having,  many  years  before,  when  podesta  and 
'.aptain  at  Treviso,  boxed  the  ears  of  the  bishop,  who 
was  somewhat  tardy  in  bringing  the  Host.  For  this 
honest  Sanuto  "saddles  him  uith  a  judgment,"  a;-' 
Thwackum  did  Square  ;  b:it  he  does  not  tell  us  whether 
he  was  punished  or  rebuked  by  the  senate  for  this 
outrage  at  the  time  of  its  commission.  He  seems,  in- 
deed, to  have  been  afterwards  at  peace  with  the  church, 
for  we  find  him  ambassador  at  Rome,  and  invested 
with  the  fief  of  Val  di  Marino,  in  the  March  of  Tre- 
viso, and  with  the  title  of  Count,  by  Lorenzo  Count- 
Bishop  of  Ceneda.  For  these  facts  my  authorities  are, 
Sanuto,  \'etlor  Sandi,  Andrea  Navagero,  and  th<-'  account 
of  the  siege  of  Zara,  first  published  by  the  indefatigable 
Abl)ate  IVIorelli,  in  his  "  Monumenti  V'eneziani  di  varia 
letteratura,"  printed  in  1796,  all  of  which  I  have  looked 
over  in  the  original  language.  The  moderns,  Daru, 
Sismondi,  and  Laugier,  nearly  agree  with  the  ancient 
chroniclers.  Sismondi  attributes  the  cons|)iracy  to  his 
jectlow^y ;  but  I  find  this  nowhere  asserted  by  the  na- 
tional historians.   Veltor  Sandi,  indeed,  says,  that  "  Altri 

scrissero  che dalla  gelosa  suspizion  di  esso  Doge 

siasifatto  (Michel  Steno)staccar  con  violenza,"  etc., etc.; 
but  this  appears  to  have  been  by  no  meaiiS  the  genera! 
opinion,  nor  is  it  alluded  to  by  Sanuto  or  by  Nava- 
gero ;  and  Sandi  himself  adds,  a  moment  after,  tha 
"  [)er  aitre  \'eneziane  inemorie  traspiri,  che  non  il  sola 
dcsiderio  di  vendetta  lo  dispose  alia  congiura  ma  anche 
la  inuata  abiluale  ambizion  sua,  per  cui  anelava  a  tarsi 
principe  independente."  The  first  motive  appears  to 
have  been  excited  by  the  gross  atfront  of  the  words 
written  by  Michel  Steno  on  the  ducal  chair,  and  by 
the  light  and  inadequate  sentence  of  the  Forty  on  the 
offender,  who  was  one  of  their  "  tre  capi."  The  at- 
tentions of  Steno  himself  appear  to  have  been  directed 
towards  one  of  her  damsels,  and  not  lo  the  "  Doga- 
ressa"  herself,  against  whose  fame  not  the  slightest 
insinuation  appears,  while  she  is  praised  for  her  beauty, 
and  remarked  for  her  youth.  Neither  do  I  find  it 
asserted  (unless  the  hint  of  Sandi  be  an  assertion)  that 
the  Doge  was  actuated  by  jealousy  of  his  wife ;  but 
rather  by  respect  for  her,  and  for  his  own  honour, 
warranted  by  his  past  services  and  present  dignity. 

I  know  not  that  the  historical  facts  are  alluded  tc 
in  English,  unless  bj'  Dr.  Mr>ore  in  his  view  of  Italy. 
His  account  is  false  and  flippant,  full  of  stale  jests 
about  old  men  and  young  wives,  and  wondering  at  sc 
great  an  effect  from  so  slight  a  cause.  How  so  acute 
and  severe  an  obscver  of  mankind  as  the  author  of 
Zeliico  could  wonder  at  this  is  inconceivable.  He  knew 
that  a  basin  of  water  s[»ilt  on  Mrs.  Masham's  gown  de- 
prived the  Duke  of  iNIarlborough  of  his  comtnand,  and 
led  to  the  inglorious  peace  of  Utrecht — that  Louis  XIV. 
was  [)lunged  into  the  most  desolating  wars  because 
his  minister  was  nettled  at  his  finding  fault  with  a 
window,  and  wished  to  give  him  another  occupation — 
that  Helen  lost  Troy — that  Lucretia  expelled  the  Tar- 
(piins  from  Rome — and  that  Cava  brought  the  Moors  to 
Spain — that  an  insulted  husband  led  the  Gauls  to  Clu 
sium,  and  thence  to  Rome — that  a  single  verse  of  Fred- 
eric II.  of  Prussia,  on  the  Abbe  de  Bernis,  and  a  jes< 
on  Madame  de  Pompadour,  led  to  the  battle  of  Ros- 
bac.h — that  the  elopement  of  Dearbhnrgil  with  Mac 
Murchad,  conducted  the  English  to  the  slavery  of  Ire- 
land— that  a  personal  i)i(iue  between  Marie  Antoinette 
ai;  1  the  Duke  of  Orleans  precinitated  the  first  expulsion 


620 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


of  the  Bourbons — and,  not  to  multiply  instances,  thai 
Cominodus,  Dornitian,  and  Caligula  fell  victims,  not  to 
Jieir  public  tyranny,  but  to  private  ver  geance — anri  that 
an  order  to  make  Cromwell  disembark  from  the  ship  in 
which  he  woiid  have  sailed  to  America,  destroyed  both 
kmg  and  conmionwealth.  After  these  instances,  on  the 
least  reflection,  it  is  indeed  extraordinary  in  Dr.  Moore 
fo  seem  surprised  tliat  a  man,  used  to  command,  who 
had  s'Tved  and  swayed  in  the  most  ini])ortant  offices, 
shou!  1  fiercely  resent,  m  a  fierce  age,  an  unpunished 
affront,  the  grossest  that  can  be  offered  to  a  man,  be  he 
prince  or  |)easant.  The  age  of  Faliero  is  little  to  the 
purpose,  unless  to  fovour  it. 

"  The  younir  man's  wriitli  is  like  straw  on  fire, 
But  like  red-hut  stctl  is  the  „lil  i,ian\<  ire." 
"  Youiijr  inen^oon  jrive  luui  soon  forgiit  ail'ionts, 
Oid  age  is  slow  at  both." 

Laugier's  reflections  are  more  philosophical : — "  Tale 
fu  il  fine  ignominioso  di  un  uomo,  die  la  sua  nascita, 
fa  sua  eta,  il  suo  carattere  dovevano  tener  lontano  dalle 
passioni  produttrici  di  grandi  delitti.  I  suoi  tnlenti  per 
lungo  tempo  esercitati  ne'  maggion  impieghi,  la  sua 
capacita  sperimentata  ne'  governi  e  iielle  ainbasciate, 
gli  avevano  acquistato  la  stiina  e  la  fiducia  de'  cittadini, 
ed  avevano  uniti  i  suffragi  per  collocarlo  alia  testa  della 
ri'[)ublica.  Innalzato  ad  un  grado  che  terminava  glo- 
nosamenta  la  sua  vita,  il  risentimento  di  un'  ingiuria 
Icggiera  insinu^  nel  suo  cuore  tal  veleno  che  basto  a 
c<<rrompere  le  antiche  sue  qualita,  e  a  condnlo  al  ter- 
mine  dei  scellerati ;  serio  esempio,  che  ]irova  non  es- 
iriDi  eta.,  in  eui  la  prudenza  umana  aia  sicura  e  che  iielP 
».  //no  reMano  sempre  passioni  capaci  a  disonorarlo,  quan- 
ilu  non  invigili  sopra  se  s^e.sso." — L.vugier,  Italian 
translation^  vol.  iv.  pp.  SO,  31. 

Where  did  Dr.  Moore  find  that  Marino  Faliero  begged 
lis  life?  I  have  searched  the  chroniclers,  and  find 
nothing  of  the  kind  ;  it  is  true  that  he  avov/ed  all. 
He  was  conducted  to  the  place  of  torture,  but  there  is 
no  mention  made  of  any  aitplication  for  mercy  or  his 
fiart ;  and  the  very  circumstance  of  thej-  having  taken 
him  to  the  rack,  seems  to  argue  any  thing  but  his  hav- 
ing shown  a  want  of  firn'ness,  which  would  doubtless 
have  been  also  mentioned  by  those  minute  historians 
who  by  no  means  favour  him ;  such,  indeed,  would  be 
contrary  to  his  character  as  a  soldier,  to  the  age  in 
Ahich  he  lived,  and  at  which  he  died,  as  it  is  to  the 
truth  of  history.  I  know  no  justification  at  any  distance 
of  time  for  calumniating  a  historical  character  ;  surely 
truth  belongs  to  the  dead  and  to  tlie  unfortunate,  and 
tiicy  who  have  died  ujion  a  scaffold  have  generally  had 
faults  erioU!.'h  of  their  own,  without  attributing  to  them 
that  which  ihe  very  incurring  of  the  perils  which  con- 
ducved  them  to  their  violent  death  renders,  of  all  others, 
the  most  improbable.  The  black  veil  which  is  painted 
over  the  place  of  Marino  Faliero  amongst  the  doges, 
and  tlie  Giant's  Staircase,  where  he  was  crowned,  and 
discrowiKul,  and  decapitated,  struck  forcibly  upon  my 
ituHguiMtion,  as  did  his  fiery  character  and  strange  story. 
(  v/cnt  in  1R19,  in  search  of  his  tomb,  more  than  once, 
U)  the  <;hurch  of  San  Giovanni  e  San  Paolo;  and,  as  I 
was  standirij;  b(;fo.'e  the  monument  of  another  family, 
a  pnest  came  up  to  me  and  said,  "  I  can  show  you 
finer  moninnents  tlian  that."  I  told  him  tliat  I  was  in 
'jearch  of  that  of  the  Faliero  family,  and  jiarticularly  of 
the  I^oge  JVIarino's.  "Oh,"  said  he,  "I  will  show  it 
you;"  and,  '-onductiiig  me  l-o  tin;  outside,  pointed  out 
a  sarco[)hagus  in  ih*-  wall,  with  an  ill<!<jible  inscri])lion. 
He  said  that  it  liad  b"«!n  in  a  convent  adjoining,  but 
Wiis  removed  after  the  French  came,  and  placed  in  its 
uresent  situation  ;  (hat  he  bad  scc'ii  the;  tombojuiued  at 
■•."•re  uovai,   'here  were  still  some  lioiies  lemaining,  bu 


no  positive  vestige  of  the  decapitation.  The  eque'^triar 
statue,  of  which  I  have  made  mention  in  the  third  aol 
as  before  that  church,  is  not,  however,  of  a  Faliero. 
but  of  some  other  now  obsolete  warrior,  although  of  a 
later  date.  There  were  two  other  Doges  of  this  family 
prior  to  Marino  :  Orde  tifo,  who  fell  in  battle  at  Zara, 
in  1117  (where  his  descendant  afterwards  conquercti 
the  Huns),  and  Vital  Faliero,  who  reigncKl  in  108£. 
The  family,  originally  from  Fano,  was  of  the  most  i". 
liistrious  in  blood  and  wealth  in  the  city  of  once  lh3 
most  wealthy,  and  still  the  most  ancient  families  in  Eu- 
rope. The  length  I  have  gone  into  on  this  subject,  will 
show  the  interest  I  have  taken  m  it.  Whether  I  have 
succeeded  or  not  in  the  tragedy,  I  have  at  least  trans- 
ferred into  our  language  a  historical  fact  worthy  i/ 
commemoration. 

Il  is  now  four  years  that  I  have  meditated  this  work, 
and,  before  I  had  sufficiently  examined  the  records,  I 
was  rather  disposed  to  have  made  it  turn  on  a  jealousy 
in  Faliero.  But  peiceiving  no  foundation  for  this  in 
historical  truth,  and  aware  that  jealousy  is  an  exhausted 
passion  in  the  drama,  I  have  given  it  a  more  historical 
'form.  I  was,  besides,  well  advised  by  the  late  Matthew 
Lewis  on  that  point,  in  talking  with  him  of  my  inten- 
tion, at  Venice,  in  1817.  "  If  you  make  him  jealous," 
said  he,  "  recollect  that  you  have  to  contend  with  es- 
tablished writers,  to  say  nothing  of  Shakspeare,  and  an 
exhausted  subject; — stick  to  the  old  fiery  Doge's  natu- 
ral   character,   which    will   bear    you   out,   if    properly 

drawn  ;   and  make  your  plot  as  regular  as  you  can." 

Sir  William  Drummond  gave  me  nearly  the  sama 
counsel.  How  far  I  have  followed  these  instnctions, 
or  whether  they  have  availed  me,  is  not  for  me  to  de 
cide.  I  have  had  no  view  to  the  sta^e  ;  in  its  piescji., 
state  it  is,  perhaps,  not  a  very  exalted  object  of  nrnhi- 
tion ;  besides,  I  have  been  too  much  behind  the  scer.os 
to  have  thought  it  so  at  any  time.  And  I  cannot  coi>- 
ceive  any  man  of  irritable  feeling  putting  hiinseif  a. 
the  nicrcies  of  an  audience: — the  sneering  reader,  and 
the  loud  critic,  and  the  tart  review,  are  scattereti  and 
distant  calamities;  but  the  trampling  of  an  intelligent 
or  of  an  ignorant  audience,  on  a  ])roduction  which,  be 
it  good  or  bad,  has  b(!en  a  mental  labour  to  the  writer, 
is  a  palpable  and  immediate  grievance,  heightened  by 
a  man's  doubt  of  their  competency  to  judge,  and  his 
certainty  of  his  own  imprudence  in  electing  them  his 
judges.  Were  I  capable  of  writing  a  play  which  could 
be  deemed  stage- worthy,  success  would  give  me  no 
pleasure,  and  failure  great  pain.  It  is  for  this  reason 
that,  even  during  the  time  of  being  one  of  the  com- 
mittee of  one  of  the  theatres,  I  never  made  the  attempt, 
and  never  will.'     But  surely  there  is  dramatic  power 

1  "  While  I  was  in  the  suh-coinniittee  of  Drury-Lane  The 
atte,  I  can  vouch  for  my  coUeiiinies,  and  1  hope  for  myself, 
tliat  we  did  our  best  U)  biiiisr  back  the  lefritimiiU^  drama.  1 
tried  what  I  could  to  get  "  Dr  IMoiitfort "  revived,  but  in  vain, 
and  eciually  in  vain  in  favour  of  Sotlieby's  "  Uan,"  whi<;h 
was  thought  an  aclinj:  play;  and  I  luidt^avoured  also  to  wak« 
Mr.  Coleridge  lo  wrile  a  trasody.  'J'hose  who  art;  nol  in  ihc 
secret,  will  hardly  believe  that  the  "School  for  Hcaiidal  "  in 
the  play  which  litis  brought  lin.-^t  inimni.  averagim:  the  niun 
ocr  of  times  it  has  bwn  acted  since  its  production;  so  Mana 
ger  Dibdin  a.-;sured  me.  Of  what  has  occurred  since  Matu 
fin's  "  Beilrain,"  i  am  notawave  ;  bo  that  I  may  bet  adiiciii;T 
through  ignoraiu;e  some  excellent  new  wiiiers  :  if  .«),  I  be? 
tlunr  pardon.  1  have  botin  absont  from  I'jiigland  nearly  five 
years,  and,  till  last  yiMir,  I  never  read  an  F'.niilish  lu^wspapoi 
sinc(i  my  deparnin;,  and-am  now  only  aware  of  thiatriciil 
matters  through  the  medium  of  the  Parisian  FMiirlish  <Jazelt>: 
of  <;;iligiiani,  and  only  for  the  last  twelve  nnniths  Let  me 
then  d(!pri!caUi  all  otfenco  to  tragic  or  comic  writers,  to  whom 
I  wish  well,  and  of  whom  I  know  nothing.  'I'lu!  long  com- 
plaints of  the  actual  state;  (<f  the  drama  arise,  however,  from 
no  fault  of  the  performers.  I  can  conc(!iv(!  nothing  better 
llian  Koiublo,  ('ooke,  and  Koan  in  Uieir  very  ditVeront  inao 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


521 


somewherfi, — ^vhure  Joanna  BailHc,  and  jMilman,  and 
John  Wilson  exist.  The  "Cliyofthe  Plague"  and 
thf;  "  Fall  nf  Jerus;dem,"  are  full  of  the  best  vitiUrid 
f  »r  t-ai^tid}-  that  has  bt;eii  seen  since  Hr)iace  Walpole, 
except  passaijes  of  "  Ethwald"'  and  "  De  iNlontfort." — 
it  IS  t!ie  fashion  to  underrate  Iloiaee  Waljx)!!',  iirstly, 
b  •cause  he  was  a  nobleman,  and  secondly,  because  he 
was  a  ;^entlen)an  ;  but,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ctmi'iosi- 
Lion  oi"  his  nicouiparabU;  "  Leiters,"  and  of  the  "  Castle 
'ji  Otranto,"  fie  is  the  "  Ultiinus  Ronianoruni,"  the 
iu:hor  of  the  "  .Mysterious  Mother,"  a  tragedy  of  the 
highest  ordeT,  and  not  a  puliiii,'  love-jjlay.  lie  is  the 
laiher  of  tlie  tirsl  romance,  and  of  t!ie  last  tragedy  m 
our  lan<:uage,  and  smely  worthy  of  a  higher  place  than 
auv  living  writer,  be  lit;  who  he  may. 

In  sueaking  of  the  drama  of  Marino  Fal'.ero,  I  f  irgot 
ro  mention  that  the  desire  of  [)res<;rving,  though  stiii  too 
remote,  a  nearer  ap|)roacli  to  unity  th..n  the  irregulari- 
ty, which  IS  the  reproach  of  the  English  theatrical  com- 
positions, iiermits,  has  indiic(;d  me  to  represent  the 
conspiracv  as  already  formed,  and  the  Dogo  acceding 
to  it,  whereas,  in  fact,  it  was  of  his  own  preparation 
and  that  of  Israel  Hertuc(;io.  The  other  characters 
(except  that  of  the  duchess),  incidents,  and  almost  the 
time,  which  was  wonderfully  short  tor  such  a  design  in 
real  life,  are  strictly  historical,  except  that  all  the  con- 
sultations took  place  in  the  palace.  Had  I  followed 
this,  the  unity  would  have  been  b(;tter  preserved  ;  but 
I  wished  to  produce  the  Dit^re  in  the  full  assembly  of 
the  conspirators,  instead  of  monoloriouslv  placing  him 
always  in  dialoijue  with  the  same  individuals.  For  the 
real  facts,  I  refer  to  tlie  extracts  given  in  the  Appendix 
ui  the  Italian,  witii  a  translation. 


DRAMATIS  PERSON.E. 


MEN. 

Marino   Falieko,  D-ige.  of  Venire. 
Bektuccio  Falieko,  Nephew  of  the  Doge. 
Lioxi,  a  Patrician  and  Senator. 
Bexixtexde,  Chief  of  the  Council  of  Ten. 
ISIiciiEL  Steno,  ont  of  the  three- Cujn  (f  the  Forty. 
Israel  Hektuccio,  Chiif  of  the  Arsenal. 
Philip  Calendaho,    ) 


Dagolixo, 
Bektkand, 

Signor  of  the  Night, 


>  Conspirators. 

Signore  di  Nolle, ''''  one  of  the 
O/IicfTS  hiioiiging  to  the  Re- 
puidic. 


First  Citizen. 
Second  Citizen. 
IVdrd  Citizen. 

ViNCEX/.O,      1 

PiExe.o,         \  Offirers  hdonging  to  the  Ducal  Palace, 
Baitista,    ) 

Secretnry  of  the  CoundL  of  Ten. 

Guards.  Conspirators,  Citizens,  the  Council  of  Ten,  the 
Cfiunta,  etc.,  etc. 


nors.  or  than  Ellistoii  in  ff 
piirts  of  tratrciiy.  Miss  O 
and  kept  a  (l(t<;rniin;Ui()n  t 
or  disturb  my  recollection  < 
were,  the  id' ul  of  Iraaric  ac 
resuiiibliiiir  tiifiii,  evL'ii  in 
nmer  see  atraiii  Coriolan 
blamed  for  want  ofdiunit 
a  fjrace  and  not  an  art,  aiK 
ail  lint  .-uprriiatiirnl  parts 
ft;cts  beloiiK.  or  si^em  tu  be 
Bppt-ar  trui^r  to  nature?.  W 
reierencc!  to  his  actinL',  whi 
Maniiiis  of  Mdntrosf,  "tl 
euw  who  reminded  bin  of 


nif.l.em all's  comedy  and  in  somo 
"Nfi!!  I  never  saw,  havinfi  mado 
II  ant:  nothitii;  which  should  divide 
ofSiddoiis.  Sidduns  and  Kemble 
tint) ;  I  never  saw  any  thin^  at  all 
ptrsdii  :  for  this  r(;asoii  we  shall 
us  or  Macl)eth.  When  Kean  is 
y,  W(!  .'ihonid  renn'mher  that  it  is 
:i  not  to  be  attaiiKid  l)y  stu(iy.  In 
,  In;  is  perfect  ;  (;ven  his  very  de- 
loiu,  to  the  part.s  themselves,  and 
bii  il  IvtMuble'  we  may  say,  wilh 
ittbeCardie.alde  Retz  said  of  the 
lat  lie  was  tlie  only  man  he  ever 
the  heroes  of  Plutarch." 


!  WOMFN. 

I    Anoiolina,   I  Fife  to  the  Doge. 
M  V  lu  A  N.\  \,  lier  Fi  icnd. 
Female  AVendants,  etc, 

I  Scene,  Venic  e — in  the  year  1355. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

An  Anterliamher  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 
PiETKO  spiaks,  in  entering,  to  Battista, 

I'lETKO, 

Is  not  the  messenger  returii'd  ? 

B.\TTISTA. 

Not  yet  ; 
I  have  se'-t  frequently,  as  you  commanded 
But  still  the  sigiiory  is  deep  in  council 
Anil  long  debate  on  St(;iio's  accusation. 

PIETRO. 

Too  long — at  least  so  thinks  the  Doge. 

BATTISTA. 

How  bears  ho 
These  moments  of  suspense? 

riETIU). 

With  struiriTlin^i;  patience 
Placed  at  the  ducal  table,  cover  d  o'er 
With  all  the  apparel  of  the  state  ;    petitions, 
Despatches,  jiid;rments,  acts,  reprieve's,  reports, 
He  sits  as  ra[>t   in  duty,    but  wnene'er 
He  hears  the  jarrintj  of  a  distant  dogr. 
Or  aught  that  intimates  a  conmiij  step, 
Or  murnnir  of  a  voice,  his  (]!!ick  eve  wanders, 
And  he  will  start  up  from  his  chair,  then  pause, 
And  seat  himself  again,  and  fix  his  iraze 
Upon  some  edict ;   but  I  have  observed 
For  the  last  hour  he  has  not  turu'd  a  leaf. 

B  ATT  LSI' A. 

'Tis  said  he  is  much  moved,  and  doubtless  'twas 
Foul  scorn  in  Sieno  to  olfend  so  grossly. 

PIETKO. 

Ay,  if  a  poor  man:   Steno's  a  patrician, 
Young,  galliard,  gay,  and  haughty. 

BATTISTA. 

Then  you  think 
He  will  not  be  judged  hardly. 

PIETKO. 

'T  were  enough 
Ho  be  judged  justly  ;   but  'tis  not  for  us 
To  anticipate  the  sentence  of  the  Forty. 

P,ATTISTA. 

And  here  it  comes. — What  news,  Vincenzo? 
Enter  Vi.vcenzo. 

VIVCENZO. 

'Tis 
Decided;  but  as  yet  his  doom's  unknown: 
I  saw  the  president  in  act  to  seal 
The  parchment  which  will  bear  the  Forty's  judgment 
Unto  the  Doge,  and  hasten  to  inform  mm. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Ducal  Chamber. 

Marino  Falieko,  Doge;  am!  his  nephew,  Bertuccxo 

Falieko. 

BERTLrcCIO     FALIERO, 

It  cannot  be  but  they  will  do  vou  justice. 

DOOE. 

Ay,  such  as  the  Avogadori  did, 

VVho  sent  up  my  afipeal  r.ntc  the  Forty 

To  try  him  by  his  peers,  his  own  tribunaL 


522 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

His  peers  will  scarce  protect  him ;   such  an  act 
Would  Dring  contempt  on  all  authority. 

DOGE. 

Know  you  not  Venice  ?  know  you  not  the  Forty  ? 
But  we  shall  see  anon. 
Bertuccio  Faliero    {iirhlresf^ing-  Vincex/.o,  tht.n 
entering). 

How  now — what  tidings  ? 

VINCEN/.O. 

r  am  charaed  to  tell  h's  highness  that  the  court 

Has  passM  its  resoknion,  and  that,  soon 

As  the  due  forms  of  judgment  are  gone  through, 

The  sentence  will  be  sent  up  to  the  Doge: 

In  the  mean  time  the  Forty  doth  salute 

The  prince  of  the  repu!)lic,  and  entreat 

His  acceptation  of  their  d;ity. 

DOGE. 

Yes — 

They  are  wondrous  dutiful,  and  ever  humble. 
Sentence  is  past,  you  say  ? 

VINCEXZO. 

It  is,  your  highness: 
The  president  was  sealing  it,  when  I 
Wd?  caird  in,  that  no  moment  might  be  lost 
In  forwarding  the  intimation  due. 
Not  only  to  the  chief  of  the  republic. 
But  the  complainant,  both  in  one  united. 

l!F.l;  I  '   CCIO    FALIERO. 

Are  you  aware,  from  aught  you  have  perceived, 
Of  their  decision  ? 

VIN'CEjrZO, 

No,  mv  lord  ;   you  know 
The  secret  customs  of  the  courts  in  Venice. 

BERTUCCIO     FALIERO. 

True ;  but  there  still  is  somethmg  given  to  guess, 

Which  a  shrewd  gleaner  and  (juick  eye  would  catch  at ; 

A  whisper,  or  a  murmur,  or  an  air 

More  or  less  solemn  sitread  o'er  the  tribunal. 

The  Forty  are  but  men — most  worthy  men. 

And  wise,  and  just,  and  cautious — this  I  grant — 

And  secret  as  the  grave  to  which  they  doom 

Tlie  guilty  ;   but  with  all  this,  in  their  aspects — 

At  least  in  some,  the  juniors  of  the  number — 

A  searching  eve,  an  eye  like  yours,  Vincenzo, 

Would  read  the  sentence  ere  it  was  pronounced. 

VIXCEXZO. 

My  lord,  I  came  away  upon  the  moment. 

And  had  no  leisure  to  take  note  of  that 

Which  pass'd  among  \  le  judges,  even  in  seeming ; 

My  station  near  the  a(  cused  too,  Michael  Steno, 

Made  me 

dogjC    (ahruptlij). 
And  how  look'd  fie  ?  deliver  that. 

VINCENZO. 

Calm,  but  not  overcast,  he  stood  resign'd 
To  the  decree,  whate'er  it  were  ; — but  lo! 
It  comes,  for  the  perusal  of  his  highness. 

Enter  the  Secretakv  of  the  Forty. 

SECI'.KTARV. 

The  high  tribunal  of  the  Forty  sends 
Heahh  and  respect  lo  the  Doge  Faliero, 
Chi'if  magistrate  of  Veni(!e,  and  rccpiests 
His  hi;:hness  to  jteruse  and  to  approve 
The  sentence  |)ass'd  on  Miclnsl  Steno,  bom 
Patrician,  and  arraignM  upon  the  charge 
Contain'd,  together  with  its  penalty, 
V\  ithin  the  rescriut  which  I  now  present. 


DOGC.  • 

Retire,  and  wait  without.—Take  thou  this  paper: 

[Ex-eunt  Secretary  and  Vince»-/.o 
The  misty  letters  vanish  from  my  eyes  ; 
I  cannot  fix  them. 

^ERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

Patience,  my  dear  uncle  : 
Why  do  you  tremble  thus  ? — nay,  doubt  not,  all 
Will  be  as  could  be  vvish'd. 

DOGE. 

Say  on. 
BERTUCCIO   FALIERO    {rending). 

"  Decreed 
In  council,  without  one  dissenting  voice. 
That  Michel  Steno,  by  his  own  confession, 
Gu.lty  on  the  last  night  of  carnival 
Of  having  graven  on  the  ducal  throne 
The  following  words " 

DOGE. 

Wouldst  thou  repeal  them? 
Wouldst  iJmu  repeat  them — thou,  a  Faliero, 
Harp  on  the  deep  dishonour  of  our  house, 
Dishoncur'd  in  its  chief— that  chief  the  prince 
Of  Venice,  first  of  cities? — To  the  sentence. 

BERTUCCIO     FALIERO. 

Forgive  me,  my  good  lord  ;   I  will  ob(;y — 
{Reads)   "  That  Michel  Steno  be  detain'd  a  month 
In  close  arrest." 

DOGE. 

Proceed. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

My  lord,  'tisfinish'd. 

DOGE. 

How,  say  you  ? — finish'd  !    Do  I  dream?— 'T  is  false- 
Give  me  the  paper— [Snatrhfs  the   paper,  and.  rearU] 

"  'Tis  decreed  in  council 
That  Michel  Steno" Nephew,  thine  arm! 

BERTUCCIO     FALIERO. 

Nay, 
Cheer  up,  be  calm  ;  this  transport  is  uncall'd  for — 
Let  me  seek  some  assistance. 

DOGE. 

Stop,  sir — stir  not- 
'Tis  past. 

BERTUCCIO     FALIERO. 

I  cannot  but  aures  with  you 
The  sentence  is  too  sliglit  for  the  offence: 
It  is  not  honourable  in  the  Forty 
To  affix  so  slii;ht  a  penalty  to  that 
Which  was  a  foul  affront  to  you,  and  even 
To  them,  as  being  your  subjects  ;   but  'tis  not 
Yet  without  remedy  ;   you  can  apfieai 
To  them  once  more,  or  to  the  Avogadori, 
Who,  seeing  that  true  justice  is  withheld, 
Will  now  take  uj)  the  cause  they  once  declined. 
And  do  you  right  upon  th(;  bold  delinquent. 
Think  vou  not  thus,  good  uncle?   why  do  you  stand 
So  fix'd  ?  you  heed  me  not: — I  pray  you,  hear  me 
DOGE   {dashing  down  the  dvml  bonnet,  and  ojf'ering 
to  trample  n])on  it,  exclaims,  as  '.e.  \a  uitl 
held  /;(/  his  nephew). 
Oh,  that  the  Saracen  w(>re  in  Saint  Mark's! 
Thus  would  I  do  him  homage. 

BERTUCCIO     FALIERO. 

For  the  sake 
Of  heaven  and  all  its  saints,  my  lord 

DOGE. 

Away ! 

Oh,  tliat  the  Genoese  were  in  the  jjort ! 

Oh  that  the  Huns  whom  I  o'orthrew  at  Zara 

Were  ranijed  around  the  palace ' 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


623 


UERTUCCIO     TALIEKO. 

'T  is  not  well 
[n  \  enico'  Duke  to  say  so. 

DOGE. 

\'eiiice'  Duke! 
Who  now  is  Duke  in  Venice  /  let  nie  see  him, 
Tha^  he  may  do  me  ri^ht. 

BAKTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

If  von  forget 
if  our  office,  and  its  dignity  and  duty, 
Remember  that  of  man,  and  curb  this  passion. 

The  Duke  of  \'enice 

DOGE    [intern/ /itirtn-  him). 

There  is  no  such  thing — 
II  is  a  word — nay,  worse — a  worthless  by-word: 
The  most  despised,  wroiiii'd,  outraged,  helpless  wretch, 
Who  be^s  his  bread,  if  't  is  refused  by  one, 
May  win  it  from  another  kinder  heart ; 
But  he  who  is  denied  his  right  by  those 
Whose  place  it  is  to  do  no  wrong,  is  poorer 
Than  the  rejected  beiriiar— he  "s  a  slave — 
And  that  am  I,  and  thou,  and  all  our  house. 
Even  from  this  hour  ;   the  meanest  artisan 
Will  point  the  finger,  and  the  haughty  noble 
May  s})it  upon  us  :   where  is  our  redress  ? 

BERTUCCIO     FALIERO. 

The  law,  my  prince 

DOGE    {interriiptin:^  him). 

You  see  what  it  has  done* 
[  ask'd  no  remedy  but  from  the  law —   • 
I  sought  no  vengeance  but  redress  by  law — 
I  ".aird  no  judges  but  those  named  by  law — 
/Hs  sovereign,  I  appeal'd  unto  my  subjects, 
'I  he  very  subjects  who  had  made  me  sovereign, 
And  gave  me  thus  a  double  ri^ht  to  be  so. 
The  rights  of  place  and  choice,  of  birth  and  service, 
Honours  and  years,  these  scars,  these  hoary  hairs, 
The  travel,  toil,  the  perils,  the  fatigues, 
The  blood  and  sweat  of  almost  eighty  years. 
Were  weigh'd  i   the  balance,  'gainst  the  foulest  stain, 
The  grossest  insult,  most  contemptuous  crime 
Of  a  rank,  rash  patrician — and  found  wanting  ! 
And  this  is  to  be  borne  / 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

I  say  not  that : 
In  case  your  fresh  appeal  should  be  rejected, 
We  will  find  other  means  to  make  all  even. 

DOGE. 

Appeal  again!   art  thou  my  brother's  son? 

A  scion  of  the  house  of  Faliero  ? 

The  nephew  of  a  Doge  ?  and  of  that  blood 

Which  hath  already  given  three  dukes  to  Venice  ? 

But  thou  say'st  well — we  must  be  humble  now. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

My  princely  uncle  !   you  are  too  much  moved  : — 

I  grant  it  w  as  a  gross  offence  ;   and  grossly 

Lfft  without  fitting  punishment :   but  still 

This  fury  doth  exceed  the  provocation. 

Or  any  provocation :   if  we  are  wrong'd, 

We  will  ask  justice  ;   if  it  be  denied. 

We'll  take  it ;  but  may  do  all  this  in  calmness — 

Drep  vengeance  is  the  daughter  of  deep  silence. 

I  have  vet  scarce  a  third  part  of  your  years, 

I  love  our  house,  I  honour  you,  its  chief, 

The  guard.an  of  my  youth,  and  its  instructor— 

But  though  I  understand  your  grief,  and  enter 

In  part  of  your  disdain,  it  doth  appal  me 

To  see  your  anger,  like  our  Adrian  waves, 

O  ersweep  all  boundi   and  foam  itself  to  air. 


[  t(,|i  ihco—mtixt  I  toll  lho<' — what  thy  fatlier 
Would  have  rtMiuired  no  uords  t(.  compreliend  .' 
Hast  thou  no  feeling  save  the  external  sense 
Of  torture  from  the  touch?   hast  thou  no  soul — 
>'o  pride— no  passion— no  deep  sense  of  honour'' 

BKIirrCCIO     FALlEKO. 

'T  is  the  firsst  time  that  honour  has  been  doubted, 
And  were  the  last,  from  any  other  sceptic. 

•DOftK. 

Vou  know  the  full  offence  of  this  born  villain. 
This  creeping,  coward,  rank,  acquitted  felon. 
Who  threw  his  sting  into  a  poisonous  libel, 
And  on  the  honour  of— Oh,  God !— my  wife, 
The  nearest,  dearest  part  of  all  men's  honour. 
Left  a  base  slur  to  pass  from  moutii  to  mouth 
Of  loose  mechanics,  with  all  coarse  foul  comments 
And  villanous  jests,  and  blasphemies  obscene  ; 
While  sneering  nobles,  in  more  i.olish'd  guise, 
Whisper'd  the  tale,  and  smiled  upon  the  lie 
Which  made  me  look  like  them— a  courteous  witta, 
Patient — av,  proud,  it  may  be,  of  dishonour. 

EERTfCCIO     FALIERO. 

But  still  it  was  a  lie— you  knew  it  fiilse. 
And  SO  did  all  men. 

DOGE. 

Nephew,  the  high  Roman 
Said  "  Cresar's  wife  must  not  evcji  be  suspected," 
And  put  her  from  him. 

BERTUCCIO     FALIERO. 

True — but  in  those  days-*— 

DOGE. 

What  is  it  that  a  Roman  wool. I  not  suffer. 
That  a  Venetian  prince  mwst  ln-:ir  '   Old  Dandolo 
Refused  the  diadem  of  all  the  Ciesars, 
And  wore  the  ducal  cap  I  trample  on, 
Because  't  is  now  degraded. 

BERTUCCIO     FALIERO. 

'T  is  even  so. 

DOGE. 

It  is — It  is  : — \  did  not  visit  on 
The  innocent  creature,  thus  most  vilely  slandtrM 
Because  she  took  an  old  man  for  her  lord, 
For  that  he  had  been  long  her  ^'ather's  friend 
And  patron  of  her  house,  as  if  there  were 
No  love  in  woman's  heart  but  lust  of  youth 
And  beardless  faces  ; — I  did  not  for  this 
Visit  the  villain's  infamy  on  her. 
But  craved  my  country's  justice  on  his  head, 
The  juvtice  due  unto  the  humblest  being 
Who  hath  a  wife  whose  faith  is  sweet  to  him, 
Who  hath  a  home  whose  hearth  is  dear  to  him, 
Who  hath  a  name  whose  honour 's  all  to  him. 
When  these  are  tainted  by  the  accursing  breath 
Of  calumny  and  scorn. 

BERTUCCIO     FALIERO. 

And  what  redress 
Did  you  expect  as  his  fit  punishment  7 

DOGE. 

Death!  Was  I  not  the  sovereign  of  the  stato— 
Insulted  on  his  very  throne,  and  made 
A  mockerv  to  the  men  who  should  obey  me  ? 
Was  I  not  injured  as  a  husband  ?  scorn'd 
As  man?  reviled,  degraded,  as  a  prince? 
Was  not  offence  like  his  a  complication 
Of  insult  and  of  treason  ?  and  he  lives  ! 
Had  he,  instead  of  on  the  Doge's  throne, 
Stamp'd  the  same  brand  upon  a  peasant's  sUx)!, 


524 


BYT!  OX'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


His  blood  had  gilt  the  threshold,  for  the  car.e 
i^aJ  stabb'd  him  nri  the  instant. 

BEUTUCCIO    KALIERO. 

Do  not  doubt  it : 
He  shall  not  live  til'  sunset — leave  to  me 
The  means,  atid  '^alm  yourself. 

DOGE. 

Hold,  ne})hew  !   this 
Woiik'  have  sufficed  but  yesterday  :   at  present 
I  have  no  further  \vrath  against  this  man. 

BKRTt'CCIO     EALIEKO. 

VVhar  nn-an  you  /   is  not  the  otliiiire  redor.liled 
Ky  'his  most  rank — I  will  not  say — acquittal, 
For  u  is  worse,  beinii  full  acknowle'igment 
Of  the  offence,  and  leaving  it  unpunish'd? 

DOGE. 

It  is  le'lt'iihled,  but  not  now  bv  him: 

The  Fortv  hath  decreed  a  month's  arrest — 

We  must  obey  the  Forty. 

BEKTUCCIO     KALIERO. 

Obey  the/n  ! 
Who  nave  forgot  their  duty  lo  the  sovereign? 

DOGE. 

Whv.  ves  : — boy,  you  perceive  it  then  at  last; 

Whether  as  fellow-citizen  who  sues 

For  justice,  or  as  sovereiijn  who  cotnmaiufs  it, 

They  iiave  defrauded  me  of  botli  mv  rights 

(For  here  the  soverei<zn  is  a  ciliziMi); 

Hui.  notwi'hsI;uiiiir;i;,  harm  not  thou  a  hair 

Of  Stf-no's  head — he  shall  not  wear  it  long. 

15EK  ri'CClO     FA  I.IEI'.O. 

Sot  twelve  hour^  lonoer,  had  \-ou  left  to  me 

Tlie  mode  and  inenns;    if  von  had  calnilj'  lieard  me, 

I  never  meant  this  miscreant  should  escape, 

Hut  wish'd  you  lo  rejiress  such  gusts  of  [sassion, 

That  we  more  surely  migtit  devise  together 

His  taking  olf. 

DOGE. 

No,  nephew,  h(;  iniis»  live; 
Ai  least,  just  now — a  h'c  so  vile  as  h;-; 
\Vere  nothing  at  this  hour  ;    m  th'  olden  time 
Some  sacrifices  ask'd  a  single  victim; 
Great  expiations  hail  a  hecatomb. 

BERIL'CCIO     FAI.IEKO. 

Vour  wishes  are  my  law ;  and  yet  I  f lin 
Would  prove  to  you  how  near  unto  m\  heart 
riie  honour  of  our  house  must  ever  be. 

DOGE. 

Fear  not ;   you  shall  have  time  and  [ilace  of  jiroof: 
But  be  not  thou  Ux)  rash,  as  I  have  been. 
I  am  ashamed  of  mv  own  anger  now  ; 
I  [)ray  you,  pardon  me. 

BERTUCCIO     FAMERO. 

Why,  that 's  my  uncle  ! 
The  leadiT,  and  the  statesman,  and  the  cliief 

f  eommonweallhs,  and  sovereign  of  himself! 

wonder'd  to  perceive  voii  so  forget 
Ail  prudence  in  your  fury,  at  these  years, 
Altliougli  the  cause 

DOCK. 

Ay,  tliink  upon  the  cause — 
Foigel  it  not  : — when  you  lie  dnwn  to  rist, 
Li;t  it  be  black  ainon<;  your  dre.ims  ;    and  wh(;n 
T!i     morn  returns,  so  let  it  stand  between 
The  sun  and  vou,  as  an  ill-omeuM  d.,ud 
IJjKHi  a  summer-day  of  festival  : 
So  will  It  stand  to  me, — but  speak  no,,  stir  not, — 
i^i'ave  all  to  me  ;  —  we  shall   liavt;  much  to  do, 
And  vou  shall  have  a  part. — l{iit  now  retire, 
T  is  fit  1  were  alone. 


BERTUCCIO    FAMERO. 

{Taking  up  and  placing  the.  diiad  bonnet  on  ilie  talilf) 

Ere  I  de[)art, 
I  jiray  you  to  resume  what  you  have  spurn'd, 
Till  you  can  change  it  haply  for  a  crown. 
And  now  I  take  my  leave,  imploring  you 
In  all  things  to  rely  upon  my  duty 
As  doth  become  your  near  and  faithful  kinsman, 
And  not  less  loyal  citizen  and  tjubjeci. 

[Erit  Bert'jccio  Falier/I 

DOGE     {solllf:). 

Adieu,  my  worthy  nephew. — Hollow  bauble! 

['I'akiiig  up  the  itucui  c:ip 
Beset  with  all  the  thorns  that  line  a  crown, 
Withour  investing  the  insulted  brow 
With  the  all-swaying  majesty  of  kings ; 
Thou  idle,  gilded,  and  degraded  tov, 
Let  me  rt-sume  thee  as  I  would  a  vizor.        [Puts  it  on 
r?ow  my  brain  aches  beneath  thee!    and  my  temples 
Tiirob  feverish  under  thy  dishonest  weight. 
Could  I  not  turn  thee  to  a  diadem? 
Co'ild  I  not  shatter  the  liriarean  sceptre 
\Vhich  in  tins  hundted-handed  senate  rn.es, 
.Makinij  the  peo'ile  nothii;g,  and  the  prince 
A  pageant  ?   In  my  life  I  have  achieved 
Tasks  not  less  difficult — achieved  for  them 
Who  thus  repay  me  ! — Can  I  not  recpf.te  them? 
Oh,  for  one  year  !    Oil,  but  for  even  a  dav 
Of  my  full  youth,  while  yet  my  bodv  served 
iMy  soul,  as  s(,Tves  the  <;enerous  steed  his  lord! 
I  would  hav(;  dash'd  amongst  ♦hem,  askins  few 
In  aid  to  overthrow  these  swcjhi  fiatricians; 
Hut  now  I  must  look  round  for  other  hands 
To  serve  this  hoary  hea  1  ;    but  it  shall  plan 
In  such  a  sort  as  will  not  leave  the  task 
Hercalean,  though  as  yet  'tis  but  a  chaos 
Of  darkly-brooding  thoughts:    my  fancy  is 
In  her  iirst  work,  more  nearly  to  the  liglit 
Holdnig  the  sleeping  images  of  thuii;s, 
For  the  selection  of   the  pausing  judgment — 

The  troops  are  iisw  m 

Enter  V i  ;v c  e  .v z o . 

There  is  one  without 
Craves  audience  of  your  highness. 

DOGE. 

1  'rn  uinvell — 
I  can  see  no  one,  not  even  a  patrician — 
Let  him  refer  his  business  to  the  council. 

VIXCENZO. 

My  lord,  I  will  deliver  your  reply ; 

It  cannot  much  import — he's  a  plebeian. 

The  master  of  a  galley,  I  believe. 

DOGE. 

How  !  did  you  say  the  patron  of  a  gailev? 
That  is — I  mean — a  servant  of  the  state  : 
Admit  him,  he  may  be  on  public  service. 

[Exit  ViNCE.NZO. 
DOGE   {aohlft). 

This  patron  maybe  sounded  ;   I  will  try  nim. 

I  know  the  people  to  be  discontented  ; 

They  l-.avi;  cause,  since  Sapienza's  adverse  day, 

When  Genoa  (;oiiipier"d  :    'liev  have  further  cause, 

Since  tluw  are  noriiiui.'  in  the  state,  and  in 

The  city  worsts  than  nothing — mere  machines, 

To  serve  the  nobles'  most  patrician  |)l<;asure. 

The  troops  have  long  arrears  of  pay,  oft  promised, 

And  murmur  deeply — any  lioj)e  of  change 

Will  draw  them  forward  :   they  shall  pay  themselves 

With  plunder: — but  the  priests — I  doubt  the  priesthood 

Will  not  be  with  us  ;   thtty  have  hated  me 


MARINO    FALIEKO 


526 


Since  that  rash  hour,  when,  nnddcn'tl  with  the  drone, 

I  sniole  the  tardy  bishop  at  Trtvi^o,' 

Qnickening  his  holy  march:   yet,  iie'ertholess, 

Thev  may  be  won,  at  least  their  chief  at  Rome, 

By  some  well-timod  concessions  ;   but,  above 

All  things,  I  must  be  speedy  ;   at  my  hour 

Of  twilight,  little  lii;ht  of  lite  remains. 

Could  I  free  Venice,  and  ;iv,'n<ie  my  wrongs, 

I  had  lived  too  loii^,  and  wiilliiirly  would  sleep 

Next  moment  uith  my  sin>s  ;    and,  wanting  this, 

Ht.tter  that  sixty  of  my  fourscore  years 

Had  been  already  where — how  soon,  I  care  not — 

The  whole  must  be  exlinguish'd  ; — better  that 

Thev  ne'er  had  been,  than  drag  me  on  to  be 

The  thine;  these  arch  oppressors  fain  would  make  me. 

Let  me  consider — of  efficient  troo|is 

There  are  three  thousand  posted  at 

Enter  Vixcf.x/.o  and  Israkl  Bkrtuccio. 

VJNCENZO. 

INIay  it  please 
Your  highness,  the  same  patron  whom  I  spake  of 
Is  iJcre  to  crave  your  patience. 

DOGE. 

Leave  the  chamber, 
Vincenzo. — 

[Exit  Vincenzo. 
Sir,  you  may  advance — what  would  you  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Redress. 

DOGE. 

Of  whom  ? 

ISRAEL    EERTUCCIO. 

Of  God  and  of  the  Doge. 

DOGE. 

A.las  !  my  fnend,  you  seek  it  of  the  twain 
Of  least  respect  and  interest  in  Venice. 
Vou  mas';  address  the  council. 

I-RAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

'T  were  in  vain  ; 
h  or  he  who  injured  me  is  one  of  them. 

DOGE. 

There  's  blood  upon  thy  face — how  came  it  there  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

'T  is  mine,  and  not  the  first  I  've  shed  for  Venice, 
But  the  first  shed  by  a  Venetian  hand : 
A  noble  smote  rne. 

DOGE. 

Doth  he  live  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Not  long — 
But  for  the  hope  I  had  and  have,  that  you. 
My  prince   yourself  a  soldier,  will  redress 
Him,  whom  the  laws  of  discipline  and  Venice 
Permit  not  to  protect  himself;  if  not — 
I  say  no  more. 

DOGE. 

But  something  you  would  do— 
If  ii  not  so  "^ 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

I  am  a  man,  my  lord. 

DOGE. 

WTiT,  so  is  he  who  smote  you. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

*  He  IS  call'd  so  ; 

Nav,  more,  a  noble  one — at  least,  m  Venice : 
But  since  he  hath  forgotten  that  I  am  one, 
And  treats  me  like  a  brute,  the  brute  may  turn— 
*Tis  said  the  worm  will. 

DOGE. 

Say  his  name  and  lineage  7 


ISM AF.i.   nF.irna^cio. 
Barbaro. 

nOGE. 

What  was  the  cause,  or  the  preiext? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

I  am  the  chief  of  the  arsenal,  emjdoy'd 
At  present  in  repairing  certain  galleys 
But  roughly  used  by  tin;  Gi 


This  morning  comes  the  nobli 


•se  last  year. 
Harbaro 


Full  of  re|)roof,  because  our  artisans 

Had  left  some  frivolous  order  of  his  house, 

To  execute  the  state's  decree  :    I  dared 

To  justify  the  men — he  raist.'d  his  hand  ; — 

liehold  my  blood  !   the  first  time  it  e'er  flow'd 

Dishonourably. 

DOGE. 

Have  you  long  time  served  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

So  lona  as  to  remember  Zara's  siege. 

And  fight  beneath  the  chief  who  beat  the  Huns  tliert 

Sometime  my  general,  now  the  Doge  Faliero. — 

DOGE. 

How  !    are  we  comrades  ? — the  state  s  d.,cal  robch 
Sit  newly  on  me,  and  you  were  ajipointed 
Chief  of  the  arsenal  ere  I  came  from  Home  : 
So  that  I  recogmsed  you  not.    Who  [)laced  you? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

The  late  Doge  ;  keepiuij  still  my  old  command 
As  patron  of  a  galley :   my  new  oft'ice 
Was  oiven  as  tht;  reward  of  certain  scars 
(So  was  vour  predecessor  pleased  to  say): 
I  little  thought  his  bounty  would  conduct  me 
To  his  successor  as  a  helpless  plaintiff, 
At  least,  in  such  a  cause. 

DOGE. 

Are  yoii  much  hurt? 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Irreparably  in  my  self-esteem. 

DOGE. 

Speak  out;  fear  nothing:   beinir  "tung  at  heart. 
What  would  you  do  to  be  rev.i,o,  d  on  this  man? 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

That  which  I  dare  not  name,  and  yet  will  do. 

DOGE. 

Then  wherefore  came  you  here  ? 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

I  come  for  justice, 
Because  mv  general  is  Doge,  and  will  not 
See  his  old  soldier  trampled  on.    Had  any. 
Save  Faliero,  fiU'd  the  ducal  throne, 
This  blood  had  been  wash'd  out  in  other  blood. 

DOGE. 

You  come  to  me  for  justice — unto  me  ! 
The  Doge  of  Venice,  and  I  cannot  give  it ; 
I  cannot  even  obtain  it — 'twas  denied 
To  me  most  solemnly  an  hour  auo. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

How  says  your  highness  ? 

DOGE. 

Steno  is  condemn'd 
I'o  a  month's  confinement. 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

What !  the  same  whc  darcc 
To  stain  the  ducal  throne  with  those  foul  words. 
That  have  cried  shame  to  every  ear  in  Venice  / 

DOGE. 

Ay,  doubtless  they  hav,e  echo'd  o'er  the  arsenal, 
Keeping  due  time  with  every  hammer's  clii:k. 
As  a  good  jest  to  jolly  artisans  ; 


526 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Or  making  chorus  to  the  creaking  oar, 
In  the  vile  tune  of  (ivery  galley  slave, 
Who,  as  he  sung  the  merry  stave,  exuhed 
He  was  not  a  shamed  dotard,  like  the  Doge. 

ISKAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

's  it  possible  ?  a  month's  imprisonment ! 
No  more  for  Steno  ? 

DOGE. 

You  have  heard  the  offence, 
And  now  you  Know  his  punishment ;   and  then 
You  ask  redress  of  me  !  Go  to  the  Forty, 
Who  pass'd  the  sentence  upon  jNIichel  Sleno ; 
They  '11  do  as  much  by  Barbaro,  no  doubt. 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

Ah  !   dared  I  speak  my  feelings  ! 

DOGE. 

Give  them  breath. 
iMine  have  no  further  outrage  to  endure. 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

Then,  in  a  word,  it  rests  but  on  your  word 
To  piuiish  and  avenge — I  will  not  say 
Ml/  petty  wrong,  for  what  is  a  mere  blow, 
However  vile,  lo  such  a  thing  as  I  am  ? — 
But  'he  base  insult  done  your  state  and  person. 

DOGE. 

You  overrate  my  power,  \\hich  is  a  pageant. 
This  cap  is  not  the  monarch's  crown  ;  these  robes 
Might  move  compassion,  like  a  beggar's  rags  ; 
Nav,  more,  a  beggar's  are  his  own,  and  these 
But  lent  to  the  |)()or  puppet,  who  must  play 
Its  part  with  all  its  empire  in  this  ermine. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Wouldst  thou  be  kmg  ? 

DOGE. 

Yes — of  a  hapi)y  people. 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

Wou.dst  thou  be  sovereign  lord  of  Venice  ? 

DOGE. 

Ay, 

If  that  the  people  shnred  that  sovereignty, 
So  that  nor  they  nor  I  were  further  slaves 
'J'o  this  o'ergrown  aristocratic  hydra. 
The  [)oisonous  heads  of  whose  envenom'd  body 
H;:ve  breathed  a  pestilence  upon  us  all. 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

i'ct,  thou  wast  born  and  still  hast  live<l  patrician. 

noGE. 
In  evil  hour  was  I  so  born  ;   my  birth 
riath  made  vif  Do;.'e  to  be  insulted:   but 
1  livcil  and  co>!'d  a  soldier  and  a  servant 
(.)(  Venire  md  her  people,  not  the  senate; 
Their  go^'d  j.nd  my  own  honour  were  my  guerdon. 
I  have  f)n^'h«  and  bled;  commanded,  ay,  and  conquer'd 
Ii;ive  n  .i('.^  and  uiarr'd  peace  oft  in  embassies. 
As  il  might  chance  to  be  our  country's  'vantage; 
Have  traversed  land  and  sea  in  constant  duty. 
Through  ;i!r;w.st  sixty  years,  and  still  for  Venice, 
My  fathers'  and  my  birth-place,  whose  dear  spires, 
Rising  at  distance  o'er  the  blue  Lagoon, 
li  was  reward  enough  for  mo  to  view 
y):  <-ii  more;   but  not  for  any  knot  of  men. 
Nor  s(;ct,  nor  faction,  did  I  bh'ed  or  sweat! 
But  would  you  know  why  I  have  done  all  this? 
Ask  of  the  bleeding  pelican  why  she 
Hath  ripp'd  her  bosom?   Had  the  bird  a  voice, 
Slie'd  tell  thee  'l  was  for  all  her  little  ones. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

And  y.;l  they  made  thee  Duke. 

DOGE. 

JViei/  made  me  so  ; 
f  'joufh'  it  Uii\ ;   t-he  flait<Tirig  fetters  met  me 


Returning  from  my  Roman  embassy, 

And  never  having  hitherto  refused 

Toil,  charge,  or  duty  for  the  state,  I  did  not, 

At  these  late  years,  decline  what  was  the  liighest 

Of  all  in  seeming,  but  of  all  most  base 

In  what  we  have  to  do  and  to  endure : 

Bear  witness  for  me  thou,  my  injured  subject, 

When  I  can  neither  right  myself  nor  thee. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

You  shall  do  both,  if  you  possess  the  will. 
And  many  thousands  more  not  less  o{)press'd, 
Who  wait  but  for  a  signal — will  you  give  it  ? 

DOGE. 

You  speak  in  riddles. 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

Which  shall  soon  be  read,    • 
At  peril  of  my  life,  if  you  disdain  not 
To  lend  a  patient  ear. 

DOGE. 

Say  on. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Not  thou, 
Nor  I  alone,  are  injured  and  abused, 
Contemn'd  and  trampled  on,  but  the  whole  people 
Groan  with  the  strong  conception  of  their  wrongs* 
The  foreign  soldiers  in  the  senate's  pay 
Are  discontented  for  their  long  arrears  ; 
The  native  mariners  and  civic  troops 
Feel  with  their  friends ;   for  who  is  he  amongst  them 
VVhose  brethren,  parents,  children,  wives,  or  sisters, 
Have  not  partook  0|)pression,  or  pollution. 
From  the  patricians?   And  the  hopeless  war 
Against  the  Genoese,  which  is  still  maintain'd 
With  the  plebeian  blood,  and  treasure  wrung 
From  their  hnrd  enniinss,  has  intlamed  them  further: 
Even  now — but  I  forget  that,  speaking  thus. 
Perhaps  I  pass  the  sentence  of  my  death ! 

DOGE. 

And,  sufTering  what  thou  hast  done,  fear'st  thou  death? 
Be  silent  then,  and  live  on,  to  be  beaten 
By  those  for  whom  thou  hast  bled. 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

No,  I  will  speak 
At  every  hazard  ;   and  if  Venice'  Doge 
Should  turn  delat(/r,  be  the  shame  on  him. 
And  sorrow  too  ;   for  he  will  lose  far  more 
Than  I. 

DOGE. 

From  me  fear  nothing  ;   out  with  it. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Know,  then,  that  there  are  met  and  sworn  in  secra 

A  band  of  brethren,  valiant  hearts  and  tr-ie  ; 

Men  who  have  proved  all  fortune  s,  and  have  long 

Grieved  over  that  of  Venice,  and  have  right 

To  do  so ;   having  served  her  in  all  climes. 

And  having  rescued  her  from  foreign  foes. 

Would  do  the  same  from  those  witiiin  her  walls. 

They  are  not  numerous,  nor  yet  too  few 

For  their  great  purpose  ;   they  have  arms,  and  means, 

And  hearts,  and  hopes,  and  faith,  and  patient  courogOi 

DOGE. 

For  what  then  do  they  pause  ? 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

An  hour  to  strike. 
DOGE  {aside). 
Saint  Mark's  shall  strike  that  hour ! 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

I  now  liave  phw.ed 
My  life,  my  honour,  all  my  earthly  ho|>es 
Within  thy  power,  but  in  the  firm  belief 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


527 


That  injnri^js  like  our"".,  Sj^riin<j  from  one  cause, 
V\'ill  iT(,'r.era»e  one  veni,'f;iiice  :  siiouul  il  he  so, 
Be  our  cliief  now — our  sovereign  hereafter. 

VOGK. 

How  many  are  ye  ? 

ISKAKI,    nEKTlTCIO. 

I  '1'.  n(»t  answer  tliat 
Till  1  .ini  answer'd. 

DOGE. 

How,  Sir  !   do  j-ou  menace  ? 

ISRAKL    UKKTlCriO. 

Xo;   I  affirm.     I  have  hetray'ti  myself ; 

But  ihere's  no  torture  in  the  mystic  wells 

Which  undermine  your  palace,  nor  iu  those 

Nut  Ic.-s  ajiiialiing  cells,  "the  leaden  roofs," 

To  for<-f  a  sHiirle  name  t'rom  me  of  others. 

The  Po/.zi  and  the  Piombi  were  in  vain  ; 

Thev  miijiit  wriuir  blood  from  me,  but  treachery  never, 

And' I  would  pass  the  fearful  "  Uridine  of  Sighs," 

Jovous  tliat  mine  must  be  the  last  that  e'er 

Would  echo  o'er  the  Styi.'ian  wave  which  flows 

Between  the  murderers  and  the  murder'd,  washing 

The  prison  and  the  palace  walls :   there  are 

Those  who  would  live  to  think  on 't  and  avenge  me. 

DOCK. 

If  such  your  power  and  purpose,  why  come  here 
To  sue  for  justice,  beino  in  the  course 
To  do  yourself  due  right  ? 

ISRAEL    BEKTU(CI0. 

Because  the  man 
Who  claims  protection  l>om  authority, 
Sho.'.iug  his  confidence  and  his  submission 
To  tliat  authority,  can  hardly  be 
Suspected  of  comliinin^  to  destrov  it. 
flad  i  sate  down  too  humblv  with  this  blow, 
A  r:';.cdv  brow  and  miitter'd  threats  had  made  me 
A.inarii'c  man  to  'he  Forty's  iiKHiisition  ? 
Bui  loud  compiiiiiit,  however  angrily 
It  shapes  its  phrase,  is  little  to  be  fear'd, 
And  less  distrusted.      But,  besides  all  this, 
I  had  anotlier  reason. 

DOGE. 

What  was  that? 

ISRAEL   BF.KTUCCIO. 

S'lne  rumours  thai  the  Doge  was  greatly  moved 

By  the  reference  of  the  Avogadori 

Of  Michel  Steno's  sentence  to  the  Forty 

Had  reachVl  me.     I  had  s(!rved  you,  honour'd  you. 

And  ffit  tliat  you  \\ere  danizerously  insulted. 

Being  of  an  order  of  siicii  spirits  as 

Reijuite  tenfold  both  good  and  evil;    'twas 

INlv  wish  to  prove  and  urge  you  to  redress. 

Now  vou  know  all  ;   and  that  I  speak  the  truth, 

My  peril  be  the  proof. 

nQGE. 

You  have  deeply  ventured  ; 
But  all  must  do  so  who  would  greatly  win  : 
Thus  far  I  il  answer  you — your  secret's  safe. 

ISRAEL    BERXeCCIO. 

Am'  is  this  all  ? 

DOGE. 

Unless  with  all 'entrusted, 
Wiial  would  you  have  me  answer? 

ISRAEL     BERTL'CCIO. 

I  would  have  you 
Trust  him  who  leaves  his  life  in  trust  with  you. 

DOGE. 

But  I  must  krow  your  p.;\n,  your  names,  and  numbers  ; 
The  last  may  tlien  be  doubled,  and  the  former 
Matured  and  strenglhen'd. 


ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

We're  enoutrt  already! 
You  are  the  sole  ally  we  covet  now. 

DOGE. 

But  bring  me  to  the  knowledge  of  ytur  chicfo. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

That  shall  be  done,  ui)on  your  formal  p.edgo 
To  keep  the  faith  that  we  will  pledge  to  you. 

DOGE. 

When?    .vhere? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

This  niuht  I  '11  bring  to  your  apartmtnl 
Two  of  the  principals  ;   a  greater  number 
Were  hazardous. 

DOGE. 

Stay,  I  must  think  of  this. 
What  if  1  were  to  trust  myself  amongst  you, 
And  leave  the  palace  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

You  must  come  alone. 

DOGE. 

With  but  my  nephew. 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

Not  were  he  your  son. 

DOGE. 

Wretch !   darest  thou  name  my  son  ?   He  died  in  arnis, 

At  Sapienza,  for  this  faithless  state. 

Oh!    that  he  were  alive,  and  I  in  ashes! 

Or  that  he  were  alive  ere  I  be  ashes ! 

I  should  not  need  the  di.bious  aid  of  strangers. 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

Not  one  of  all  those  strangers  whom  thou  doubtegt 

But  will  regard  thee  with  a  filial  feeling. 

So  that  tliou  keep'st  a  flither's  failii  with  them. 

DOGE. 

The  die  is  cast.    Where  is  the  place  of  meeting  ? 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

At  niidniuht  I  will  be  alone  and  mask'd 
Where'er  your  highness  [ileases  to  direct  me, 
To  wait  your  coming,  and  coiuiuct  you  where 
You  shi'.ll  receive  our  homage,  and  pronounce 

Upon  our  project. 

DOGE. 

At  what  hour  arises 
The  moon  ? 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

Late  ;  but  the  atmosphere  is  thick  ana  duslty; 
'Tis  a  sirocco. 

DOGE. 

At  the  midnight  hour,  then. 
Near  to  the  church  where  sleep  my  sjres  ;    the  same, 
T^viu-naii-'i!  from  the  apostles  John  and  Paul; 
A  ijoiidobu-  with  one  oar  only,  will 
Lurk  ill  ihe  narrow  channel  which  glides  by. 
Be  there. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

I  will  not  fail. 

DOGE. 

And  now  retire 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

In  the  full  hope  your  highness  will  not  falter 

In  your  irreat  purpose.     Prince,  I  take  my  .eave. 

[Exit  Israel  Bertijccio 

DOGE  {ltoltl/i\. 

At  midnu'ht,  by  the  church  Saints  John  and  Paul, 

Where  sleep  my  noble  fathers,  I  repair — 

To  what  ?  to  hold  a  council  in  the  dark 

With  common  ruffians  leagued  to  ruin  states' 

And  will  not  my  great  sires  leap  from  the  vauit, 

Where  lie  two  Doges  who  preceded  me, 

And  [iluck  me  down  amf  ngst  them?  Would  they  cuuki 


528 


T^YTIOX'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


For  I  should  rest  in  honour  with  the  honour'd. 
Alas!   1  must  not  think  of  them,  but  those 
Who  have  made  me  thus  unworthy  of  a  name, 
Noble  and  brave  as  aught  of  consular 
On  Roman  marbles  :    hiii.  I  will  redeem  it 
Back  to  its  anticjue  lustre  in  otir  annals, 
By  sweet  revenge  on  all  that's  base  in  Venice, 
And  frcedo?n  to  the  rest,  or  leave  it  black 
To  all  the  growing  calmnnies  of  time, 
^Vhich  never  spare  the  fame  of  him  who  fails. 
But  try  the  Ca'sar,  or  the  Catiline, 
By  the  true  touchstone  of  desert — success. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

An  Aparf/meiit  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 
Angiolina  {ici/e  of  the  Doge)  and  Marianna 

ANGIOLINA. 

What  was  the  Doge's  answer  ? 

MAPaAXNA. 

That  he  was 
Th-it  moment  snmmon'd  to  a  conference  ; 
/•{lit  't  is  bv  this  time  ended.      I  perceived 
Not  long  ago  the  senators  embarking ; 
And  tb.e  last  gondola  may  now  be  seen 
Gliding  into  the  throng  of  barks  which  stud 
The  glittering  waters. 

AXRIOLINA. 

Would  he  were  return'd  ! 
He  ha«:  been  muf;h  disquieted  of  late; 
And  Time,  which  ha«  not  famed  his  fiprv  spirit, 
Nor  vet  enfiHjhled  even  his  mortal  frame, 
Which  seems  to  be  more  nourish'd  by  a  soul 
So  (]uick  and  restless  that  it  wouki  consume 
Less  hardv  clay — Tune  has  but  little  power 
On  his  resentments  or  his  griefs.     Unlike 
To  other  spirits  of  his  order,  who. 
In  the  first  hurst  of  passion,  pour  away 
Their  wratli  or  sorrow,  ail  things  wear  in  him 
An  aspect  of  (;ternity  :    his  thoughts. 
His  feelings,  pa-sions,  good  or  evil,  all 
i{;iv(,'  iiMiliiii"  ol"  old  ygi; ;    and  his  bold  brow 
i-i(,  .rs  hut  tlie  =<-ars  of  mmd,  the  thoughts  of  years, 
Not  their  decrepitude:    and  he  oi  late 
Has  been  more  agitat(;d  than  his  wont. 
Would  he  were  cornel   for  I  alone  have  power 
lTt)on  his  troubled  spirit. 

MARIANNA. 

It  is  true, 

His  highness  has  of  late  been  greatly  n.oved 
By  the  atlront  of  Steno,  and  with  cau.;e  _ 
But  tin;  oilender  doul)tless  even  now 
Is  doom'd  to  expiate  his  rash  insult  with 
Such  chastisement  as  will  enforce  respect 
To  ti'.mali!  virtue,  and  to  noble  blood. 

ANGIOr.INA. 

'T  was  a  gross  insult ;   but  I  heed  it  not 
For  the  rash  scorner  s  falsehood  in  itself, 
But  f  )r  the  etfi'ct,  the  deadly  deep  impression 
Which  It  has  made  upon  Faliero's  soul, 
The  proud,  the  (iery,  the  austere — austere 
'Vc  all  save  me  :   I  tremble  when  I  think 
To  what  it  may  conduct. 

MARIANNA. 

Assuredly 
Tne  Doj;e  cannot  suspect  you  '! 

ANOIOLINA. 

Siis[)ect  me  ! 
Why  Steno  dared  not:   when  he  scrawl'd  liis  lie, 


Grovelling  by  stealth  in  the  moon'r  gnmmenng  light, 
His  own  still  conscience  smote  bin   'or  the  act, 
And  every  shadow  on  the  walls  tVov/n'd  sharne 
Upon  his  coward  calumny. 

MARIANNA. 

'T  were  fit 
He  should  be  punish'd  grievously. 

ANGIOMNA. 

He  is  50. 

MARIA  \N  A. 

What!   is  the  sentence  pass'd  ?  is  he  condernn'd  ' 

ANGIOLINA. 

I  know  not  that,  but  he  has  b(;en  detected. 

MARIANNA. 

And  deem  you  this  enough  for  such  foul  scorn  ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

I  would  not  be  a  ju'ige  in  my  own  caus3. 
Nor  do  1  know  what  sense  of  punishment  • 
May  reach  the  sou!  of  ribalds  such  as  Steno, 
But  if  Ins  insults  sink  no  deeper  in 
The  minds  of  the  iiKpiisitors  than  they 
Have  ruffled  mine,  he  will,  for  all  acijuittance, 
Be  left  to  his  own  shamelessness  or  shame. 

MARIANNA. 

Some  sacrifice  is  due  to  siander'rl  virtue. 

ANGIOMNA. 

Why,  what  is  virtue  if  it  needs  a  victim? 
Or  if  it  tiuisi  dej)end  upon  men's  words? 
The  dying  Roman  saui,  "'twas  but  a  name:'' 
It  were  uideed  no  more,  if  hiuuan  breath 
Could  make  or  mar  it. 

MARIANNA. 

Yet  liill  manv  a  dame, 
Stainless  and  faithful,  would  feel  all  the  wrong 
Of  such  a  slander ;   and  l(!ss  rigid  ladies, 
Such  as  abound  in  Venice,  would  be  loud 
And  all- Inexorable  in  their  cry 
For  jfistice. 

ANGIOLINA. 

This  but  proves  it  is  the  namt 
And  not  the  quality  they  prize  ;   the  first 
Have  found  it  a  hard  task  to  hold  their  honour, 
If  they  require  it  to  be  blazon'd  forth  ; 
And  those  who  have  not  kei)t  it  seek  its  seeming 
As  they  wouU!  look  out  for  an  ornament 
Of  which  they  feel  tlje  want,  but  iK>t  because 
They  think  it  so;   they  live  in  oth(;rs'  thoughts, 
And  would  seem  honest  as  they  must  st^em  fair. 

MARIANNA. 

You  have  strange  thoughts  t()r  a  patrician  dame. 

ANGIOMNA. 

And  yet  they  we>-e  my  fatlu  r's  ;   with  his  name, 
The  sole  inheritance  he  left. 

MARIANNA. 

Yuii  want  none  ; 
Wife  to  a  prince,  the  chief  of  the  republic. 

ANGIOLINA. 

I  should  have  sought  none,  though  a  peasant's  bndp. 
But  feel  not  less  the  love  and  gratitude 
Due  to  my  father,  who  bestow'd  my  hand 
Upon  his  early,  tried,  and  trusted  friend. 
The  Count  Val  di  Marino,  now  our  Doge. 

M  A  fi  I  A  N  N  A  . 

And  with  that  hand  diil  he  bestow  your  heart? 

ANGIOMNA. 

He  did  so,  or  it  had  not  been  Uestow'd. 

MARIANNA. 

Yet  this  strange  disproportion  m  your  years. 
And,  let  me  add,  disparity  of  tempers, 
Might  make  the  world  doubt  wln-lher  sucti  an  union 
Could  make  von  wiselv,  permanently  happy. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


529 


AXCiOLINA. 

The  worln  will  think  with  worlulings:  but  my  heart 
Has  still  been  in  my  duties,  which  are  many, 
Rut  never  lUfficult. 

MARIANNA. 

Ami  do  3()u  love  him? 

ANGIOI.IXA. 

1  .ove  ill'  nohl^  (jualitics  whu-h  merit 

I^ove,  and  I  loved  my  father,  who  first  taught  me 

To  single  out  what  we  should  love  in  others, 

And  to  subdue  all  tendency  to  lend 

The  best  arid  purest  feelings  of  our  nature 

To  baser  passions.      He  hestow'd  my  hand 

rpon  Falieri);    he  had  known  hnn  noble, 

Brave,  ijenerous,  rich  in  all  the  qualities 

Of  soldier,  eitr/.en,  and  friend  ;   in  all 

Such  have  I  fflund  him  as  my  father  said. 

His  fuills  are  those  thnt  dwi'il  in  the  high  bosoms 

Of  men  who  have  co!?iinarid(;d  ;  'too  much  pride. 

And  the  deep  passions  iierceiy  fijster'd  by 

Tiie  uses  of  patricians,  and  a  life 

Siient  in  the  storms  of  ^nale  and  war;   and  also 

From  the  quick  sense  of  Iionour,  which  becomes 

A  duty  to  a  certain  sign,  a  vice 

^Vhen  overstrain'd,  and  this  I  fear  in  him. 

And  then  he  ha=  been  rash  from  his  youth  upwards, 

Vet  ti'iniier'd  bv  redeeming  nobleness 

!ti  such  sort,  that  the  wariest  of  republics 

Fills  lavished  all  its  chief  employs  up'on  him, 

From  his  hrst  fiwlit  to  his  last  embassy, 

F'-om  which  on  his  reliirn  the  dukedom  met  him. 

MARIANNA, 

But,  pievious  fo  this  marriage',  had  your  heart 
Ne'er  !jeat  for  any  of  ihi-  noble  youth, 
3i;,;h  ;is  in  years  hi>d  been  more  meet  to  match 
Boauty  like  yours  /   or  suice  have  you  ne'er  seen 
One,  who,  if  your  fan-  hand  were  still  to  give, 
M'ijht  now  pretend  to  Loredano's  daughter? 

ANGIOLINA. 

I  aiiswer'd  you*-  first  question  when  I  said 
I  married, 

MA  RIANNA, 

And  the  second  / 

AXGIOI.INA, 

Needs  no  answer, 

MA  RIANNA. 

I  pray  you  pardon,  if  I  liave  otiended, 

ANGIOl.INA, 

I  feel  no  wrath,  but  some  surprise  :  I  knew  not 
That  wedded  bosoms  could  permit  themselves 
To  ponder  upon  what  they  rt'jiv  might  choose. 
Or  aught,  save  their  [)ast  choice, 

MARIANNA, 

'T  is  their  past  choice 
That  far  too  often  makes  them  deem  they  would 
Now  choose  more  \'isely,  could  they  cancel  it. 

ANGIOLINA. 

It  may  be  so,     I  knew  not  of  such  thoughts. 

MARIANNA. 

Hre  comes  the  D<.ge — shall  I  retire? 

A  N  G  1  O  L I  N  A , 

It  mav 

Be  Dctter  you  shoul<    put  me  ;   he  seems  wrapt 
In  thoMght. — How  pensively  he  takes  his  way  I 

[Exit   ,Ma  RIANNA. 

Enter  iite  Doge  and  Pietro. 
DOGF,  [miisinf^). 
There  is  a  certain  Phi!i[)  Calendaio 
Now  in  the  arse.'ial,  \\ho  h"'  's  >;ommand 
CW  eighty  men,  and  \:r\<   '••••.•it  uit^"''iicc  j 

34 


Besides  on  all  the  spirits  .if  his  comrades. 
This  man,  I  hear  is  bold  and  })opular. 
Sudden  and  daring,  and  yet  secret :    't  woi.al 
Be  well  that  he  were  won  :    I  needs  must  hope 
That  Israel  Hertuccio  has  secured  him. 
But  fain  would  be 

riETRO. 

My  lord,  pray  pardon  me 
For  breaking  m  ,ipon  your  meditation  , 
The  Senator  Hertuccio,  j'oiir  kinsman, 
Charged  me  to  follow  and  in(]uire  your  pleasure 
To  fix  an  hour  when  he  may  speak  with  you, 

UOGE, 

At  sunset. — Stay  a  moment — let  me  see — 

Say  in  the  second  hour  of  night.  [Erit  Pietrc 

AXGIOI.INA- 

My  lord ! 

DOGE. 

Mv  dearest  child,  forsivc;  me — whv  delay 
So  long  approaching  me? — I   saw  you  not. 

ANGIOLIXA. 

Vou  were  absorb'd  in  thought,  and  he  who  now 
Has  parted  from  you  might  have  worris  of  weight 
To  bear  you  from  the  senate. 

DOGE. 

From  the  senate  ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

I  would  not  interrupt  him  in  his  duty 
And  theirs. 

DOGE. 

The  senate's  duty  I   you  mistake  ; 
'Tis  we  who  owe  all  service  <'■  the  senate. 

ASGIOr.IXA. 

I  thought  the  Duke  had  held  command  in  Venice. 

DOGE. 

He  shall. — But  let  that  pa^s. — We  will  be  jocund 
How  fares  it  with  you  /   have  you  been  abroad  ? 
The  day  is  overcast,  but  the  calm  wave 
Favours  the  gondolier's  ii^ht  skimming  oar;  n 

Or  have  you  held  a  levee  of  your  friends  ? 
Or  has  your  music  made  you  solitary? 
Sav — is  there  imirlit  that  you  would  will  within 
The  little  swav  now  left  the  Duke?  or  aught 
Of  fittinij  sftlendoiir,  or  of  honest  pleasure. 
Social  or  lonely,  that  would  glad  your  heart, 
To  compensate  for  maoy  a  dull  hour,  wasted 
On  an  old  man  oft  moved  wi;h  many  cares? 
S;)eak,  and  'l  is  done. 

aUgiomna. 

Vou  're  ever  kind  to  me  — 
I  have  nothm2  *f>  desire,  or  to  reipiest, 
Except  to  see  you  oftencr  and  calmer. 

DOGE. 

Calmer? 

axgiomxa. 
Ay,  c  Jmer,  mv  i'ood  lord. — Ah,  why 
Do  you  st.il  keep  apart,  and  walk  alone. 
And  let  such  stroiiL'  emotions  stamj)  your  brow 
As,  not  betraying  their  full  import,  yet 
Disclose  too  much  1 

DOGE. 

Disclose  too  much!-  -ot'  whaf  / 
What  is  t'lere  to  disclose? 

ANGTOT.TNA, 

A  heart  sc  i'1 
At  ease.  * 

DOGE. 

'Ti-  nothinir,  child,— ^>ui  in  t\,e  stale 
Vou  know  wnal  daily  cares  oppress  all  those 


580 


BYRON'S    rOETICAL    WORKS. 


Who  govern  this  precanous  commonwealth  ; 
Now  siilTeriiig  from  the  Genoese  witliont, 
And  njalconlents  wiihiii — 't  is  thi.-  which  snakes  ma 
More  pensive  and  less  tranquil  than  my  wont. 

A.\«l()l,iNA. 

Vet  this  existed  long  hifon.',  and  never 

Till  in  these  hue  days  did  I  see  yon  thns. 

Forgive  n^e  :   there  is  soinethiiig  at  yonr  lieart 

More  than  the  mere  discharge  of  public  duties, 

Which  long  use  and  a  talent  like  to  yours 

Have  reiuler'd  light,  nay,  a  necessity, 

To  keep  vour  mind  from  stagnating.   'T  is  not 

In  hostile  states,  nor  perils,  thns  to  shake  you  ; 

Yon,  who  have  stood  all  storms  and  never  sunk, 

And  climl)'(l  up  to  the  pinnacle  of  power, 

And  never  fainted  hv  the  way,  and  stand 

Tpon  it,  and  can  look  do  An  steadily 

Along  the  de[)th  beneath,  and  ne'er  feel  dizzy. 

Were  Genoa's  gallevs  riding  in  the  port. 

Were  civil  fury  raging  in  Saint  Mark's, 

You  are  not  to  be  wrought  on,  but  would  fall, 

As  vou  liave  risen,  with  an  unalter'd  brow:  ' 

Your  feelings  now  are  of  a  ditierent  kind; 

Something  lias  stung  your  pride,  not  patriotism. 

DOGK. 

Pride!   Angiolina?   Alas!   none  is  left  me. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Yes — the  same  sin  that  overthrew  the  angels, 
And  of  all  sins  most  easilv  besets 
IMortals  the  nearest  to  the  angelic  nature: 
The  vile  are  only  vain  ;   the  great  are  proud. 

DOGE. 

I  hml  the  f)ride  of  honour,  of  your  honour, 

Deej)  at   mv  heart — Hut  le;  us  change  the  theme. 

A.N'GIOIINA. 

Ah  no! — As  I  have  ever  siiared  your  kindness 
In  all  things  else,  let  me  not  be  shut  out 
From  your  distress:    were  it  of  public  import. 
You  know  1  never  sought,  would  never  seek 
To  win  a  word  ti-om  you  ;   but  feeling  now 
Vour  gri(»f  is  [)rivate,  it  belongs  to  me 
']'()  lighten  or  (hv-.le  it.      Since  the  day 
When  foolisli  Sumo's  ribaldry,  detected, 
I'niix'd  y')nr  (juifv,  vou  are  greatly  changed, 
And  I  would  sootlie  you  back  to  what  you  were. 

DOGE. 

To  wnat  1  was  ! — Have  you  heard  Steno's  sentence? 

ANGIOLIN\4^. 

No. 

DOGE. 

A  month's  arrest. 

ANGIOLIXA. 

Is  It  not  enough? 

DOGE. 

Enough  ! — Yes,  for  a  drunken  galley  slave. 
Who,  stung  by  stripes,  may  niiirmur  at  his  master; 
Hut  rot  for  a  deliberate,  false,  cool  villain, 
iVho  o.  '  "^s  a  lady's  and  a  prince's  honour, 
F^/(;n  on  ,..e  throne  of  ids  authority. 

ANGIOI..NA. 

fti.  rt,  swsms  to  be  enough  in  the  conviction 
Of  .1  [latric.ian  guilty  of  a  falsehood: 
'Ml  other  puriishmen*  wen;  liglit  unto 
lliy  "oss  (tf  honour 

DOGE. 

Such  men  have  na  honour; 
Tlniy  have  tMit  their  vile  lives — and  tht^se  are  spared. 

ANGIOI.IX  A. 

V()U  WDuH  not    hnve  him  die  for  tlii^  otTtM'.ce? 


DOGE. 

Not  now  : — being  still  alive,  I  'd  have  mm  live 
Long  as  lie  can  ;   he  has  ceased  u.  merit  death  ; 
I'he  guilty  saved  hath  damn'd  his  hundred  judges. 
And  he  is  j)ure,  for  now  his  crime  is  theirs. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Oh  !    had  this  false  and  tlipjiai.t  libeller 
Slied  his  young  blood  for  his  absurd  lampofn, 
Ne'er  from  that  moment  could  this  breast  have  luiov.';, 
A  joyous  hour,  or  dreamless  slumber  more. 

DOGE. 

Does  not  the  law  of  Heaven  say  blood  for  blood? 

And  he  who  taints  kills  more  than  he  who  sheds  it. 

Is  it  the  pain  of  blows,  or  filimrie  of  blows. 

That  makes  such  deadly  to  the  sense  oi  man  ? 

Do  not  the  laws  of  man  say  blood  for  honour? 

And  less  than  honour,  for  a  little  gold? 

Say  not  the  laws  of  nations  blood  for  treason? 

Is  't  nothing  to  have  tili'd  th(;se  veins  with  poison 

For  their  once  healthful  current?   i^  it  nothing 

Tohavestain'd  your  iKune  and  mine?  the  noblest  nanie*7 

Is  't  nothing  to  have  brought  into  contempt 

A  prince  before  his  people  ?  to  hii  ve  failM 

In  the  respect  accorded  by  mankind 

To  youth  in  woman,  and  (►kl   age  in  man? 

To  virtue  in  your  sf.\,  and  dignity 

In  ours? — But  let  ihem  look  to  it  who  have  saved  hJii». 

A  .\  f ; !  n  M  N  A  . 
Heaven  bids  us  to  forgive  o.ir  enemieS. 

noGE. 
Doth  Heaven  forgive  her  own?  Is  S^iian  sav^d 
From  wrath  eternal  ? 

AXGIOI.I.XA. 

Do  not  speak  thus  wildly- 
Hcaven  will  alike  forgive  vou  and  your  foes. 

DOGE. 

Amen  !   May  Heaven  forgive  them. 

ANGIOMNA. 

And  will  you? 

DOGE. 

Yes,  when  the}  are  in  heaven  ! 

ANGIOLIXA. 

And  not  till  then  ? 

DOGE. 

What  matters  my  forgiveness  ?   an  old  mafl»s, 

Worn  out,  scorn'd,  spurn'd,  abused  ;    what  matters  ther 

Mv  [lardoti  more  than  my  rest'urment  ?   both 

Being  weak  and  worthless  ?    I  have  liveti  'oo  long, 

liut  let  us  change  the  argumenl. — My  child  ! 

INIv  injured  wife,  the  child  of  Loredano, 

The  brave,  the  chivalrous,  how  little  deem'd 

Thv  father,  wedding  thee  unto  his  friend. 

That  he  was  linking  thee  to  shame  !  —  Alas 

Shame  without  sin,  for  thou  art  faultless.    Hadst  thou 

Hut  had  a  ditferent  husband,  nvy  husband 

In  N'enice  save  the  Dog(>,  this  blight,  tins  brand, 

Tnis  blasphemy  had  nevcsr  fallen  upon  the'c. 

So  voting,  so  beautiful,  so  good,  s(»  pure. 

To  sutler  this,  and  yet   be  unavenged  ! 

ANGIOr.INA. 

I  am  too  well  avenged,  for  you  still  love  me, 
And  trust,  and  honour  me  ;    and  ;dl  men  knov» 
That  vou  are  just,  and  I  am  true:    what  more 
Could  I  re(juire,  or  you  command? 
do(;e. 

'T  is  well. 
And  may  be  better;   but  whate'er  betide, 
He  thou  at  least  kind  to  my  memory. 

A.N'GIOl  IN  A 

Whv  si.eak  vow  ibiwV 


U  A  R  I  N  0    F  A  L  I  E  R  O. 


531 


DOGE. 

It  is  no  matter  why  ; 
Rut  I  would  ^till,  whatever  others  tliink, 
[lave  your  rct^iJeet  both  now  and  in  my  grave. 

ANGIOl.IN  A. 

W!iy  sliou!<l  yon  doubt  it?   has  it  ever  l"iul'd  ? 

DOGE. 

Come  hither,  clnld ;    I  would  a  word  with  yon. 

Your  iulher  was  inv  ti-iend  ;    unetiual  fortune 

Madi'  bun  my  debtor  for  some  courtesit^s, 

Whieh  bind  the  good  more  tirmly  :    when  opprest 

With  his  last  maladv,  he  will'd  our  union  : 

It  was  not  to  rei)ay  me,  long  repaid 

Kffor(>  bv  his  great  loyalty  in  friendship  ; 

His  object  was  to  place  your  orphan  beauty 

In  honourable  safety  from  Xhv.  perils 

Which,  in  this  scorpion  nest  of  vice,  assail 

A  lonelv  and  undowerM  maid.     I  did  not 

Think  with  him,  but  would  not  oppose  the  thought 

Which  sootned  his  death-bed. 

ANGIOLIXA. 

I  have  not  forgotten 
Th.e  nobleness  with  which  you  bade  me  speak, 
If  mv  young  heart  held  any  preference 
Wliich  would  have  niade  me  happier ;   nor  your  offer 
To  make  mv  dowry  equal  to  the  rank 
Of  au>jht  in  Venice,  and  forego  all  clami 
^lv  father's  last  injunction  gave  you. 

DOGE, 

Thus, 
Fwas  not  a  foolish  dotard's  vile  caprice, 
Nor  the  false  edge  of  aged  appetite. 
Which  made  me  covetous  of  cirlish  beauty. 
And  a  youuiT  bride  ;   for  in  mv  Heriest  youth 
I  swavM  srch  passions  ;   nor  was  this  my  age, 
Infected  with  that  le[)rosy  of  lust 
vVhich  taints  the  hoariest  years  of  vicious  men, 
IMikmg  them  ransack  to  the  very  last 
The  dregs  of  pleasure  for  their  vanish'd  joys ; 
Or  buy  in  selfish  marriage  some  young  victim, 
Too  helpless  to  refuse  a  state  that 's  honest. 
Too  feeiniiz  not  to  know  herself  a  wretch. 
O'lr  wedlock  s'as  not  of  this  sort ;    you  had 
Freedom  from  me  to  choose,  and. urged  in  answer 
Your  father's  clioice. 

AXGIOLIXA. 

I  did  so  :   I  would  do  so 
In  face  of  earth  and  heaven  ;   for  I  have  never 
fiepe-cted  for  mv  sake  ;    sometimes  for  yours, 
lu  pondering  (/er  your   late  d!squietude«. 

DOGE. 

I  knew  my  heart  would  never  treat  you  harshly  ; 

I  knew  my  days  could  not  disturb  you  long; 

Auii  then  !hi-  dnuiihter  of  my  t;arliesl  frieiid, 

(lis  worth_v  dai.'giiter,  tVee  to  choose  a^'ain 

W(;;'Jtluer  and  wiser,  in  the  ri[)es1  bloom 

Of  womauhon.l,  uK.re  skiliiil  to  sele<-t 

IJy  |i;issmg  these  pn.i)atiunary  yt'ars  ; 

Iiihcrifiiig  a  prince's  name  and  riciies  ; 

Secured,  Uv  the  short  penance  of  enduring 

An  old  man  for  some  summers,  ai'ainst  all 

'i'lial  law's  chicane  or  mvious  kinsmen   mmht 

Hav(    uy:yi'd  i.iiainst  her  ri'^ht  :    my  bi'st  friend's  child 

Would  cliMOse  more  iiriy  in  respr^ct  of  years, 

And  nut  les>  Ww'y  in  a  f-ithful  Iwart. 

A  NG  ID  I.  IN  A. 

My  lord,  I  lonk'd  but  to  n.y  father's  wishes, 
Hallow'd  by  his  last  wor.ls,  and  to  my  heart 
For  doniii  all  its  duties,  and   rcplvmu 
With  fa-.th  to  him  w  ith  whom  I  was  afTianceri. 


Ambitious  hopes  ne'er  cross'd  my  dreams  ;   and,  slioiiU 
Tlie  hour  )Ou  speak  of  come,  it  will  be  s(;en  so. 

DOGE. 

I  <lo  believe  yon  ;   and  I  know  you  true: 
For  love,  romantic  love,  which  in  my  youtii 
I  knew  to  he  illusion,  and  ne'er  saw- 
Lasting,  hut  often  fataJ,  it  had   been 
No  lure  for  me,  in  my  most  passionate  days, 
And  could  not  he  so  now,  did  su(di  exist. 
But  such  res|)ect,  and  mildly  paid  regard 
As  a  true  feeliiii;  tor  your  welfare,  and 
A  free  compliance  with  all  honest  wishes ; 
A  kindness  to  vour  virtues,  watchtiilness 
Not  shown,  hut  shadowing  o'er  such  'ittle  failin^^ 
As  vonth  is  apt  in  ;   so  as  not  to  check 
Rashlv,  but  win  you  from  them  ere  you  knew 
You  had  been  won,  but  lhou;:hl  the  change  your  choico, 
A  pride  not  in  your  beautv,  but  voiir  conduct — 
A  trust  m  y(ni — a  patriarelnil  love, 
And  not  a  doting  homage — friendship,  faith — 
Such  estimation  in  your  eyes  as  these 
Might  Claim,  I  hoped  fir. 

A  N  G  I O  L I N  A  . 

And  have  ever  had. 

DOGE. 

I  think  so.      For  the  ditference  in  our  years. 

You  knew  it,  choosing  me,  and  chose :    I  trusted 

Not  to  mv  qualities,  nor  would  have  faith 

In  such,  nor  o'ltward  ornaments  of  nature, 

Were  1  stiil  in  mv  tive-and-twcntieth  spring: 

I  trusted  to  the  h!oo<!  of  Lored:mo, 

Pure  in  your  veins  ;    I  trusted  to  the  soul 

God  gave  you — to  the  truths  your  fither  fangnl  ycu- 

To  your  belief  in  heaven — to  your  mild  virtues— 

To  your  own  faith  and  honour,  for  my  own. 

ANCIOLIXA. 

You  have  done  well. — I  thank  you  for  that  trust, 
Which  I  have  never  for  one  moment  ceased 
To  honour  you  the  more  for. 

DOGE. 

Where  is  honour 
Innate  and  precepi-strengthen'd,  't  is  the  rocl- 
Of  faith  connubial ;    where  it  is  not — where 
Light  thougiits  are  lurking,  or  the  vanities 
Of  worldly  pleasure  rankle  in  the  heart, 
Or  sensual  throbs  convulse  it,  well  I  know 
'Twere  hopeless  for  humanity  to  dream 
Of  honesty  in  such  infected  blood. 
Although  't  were  wed  to  him  it  covets  most: 
An  incarnation  of  the  poet's  god 
In  ail  his  marbie-chiseird  beauty,  or 
The  demi-deity,  Alcides,  in 
His  majestv  of  superhumjin  manliood. 
Would  not  suffice  to  bind  v-lmve  virtue  is  not; 
It  is  consistency  which  forms  and  proves  it: 
S'ice  cannot  f  x,  aiul  virtue  cannot  change. 
The  once  fallen  woman  must  ti.r  ever  fall, 
Fur  vice  must  have  variety,  while  virtue 
Si.md.s  like  the  sun,  and  ail  Nshich  roils  arouno 
Drinks  life,  and  light,  and  glury  from  her  aspect 

A.NGIOl.INA, 

And  seeing,  feeling  thus  this  truth  in  others, 
(I  [irav  Non  par  dun  tne),  but  wlu'refore  yield  yco 
To  the  most  tierce  oi'  fital  passiuns,  and 
Dis(]inet  vour  great  thunghts,  with  rest'ess  natt 
I    Of  such  a  thing  as  Steno  7 

;  DOGE. 

!  You  mistake  nie. 

It  is  not  Steno  who  could  rcne  me  thus; 
i    Had  it  been  so,  he  should -but  let  lli:il  p-isa. 


b-i2 


BYllON'S    POETICAL    WOKKa 


ANGIOLINA. 

Wha'.  IS 't  you  feel  so  deeply,  then,  even  now  ? 

DOGE. 

The  violated  majesty  of  Venice, 

\t  once  insulted  in  her  lord  and  laws. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Aias  !   why  wi\l  you  thus  consider  it  ? 

DOGE. 

I  have  thought  on't  till — but  let  me  lead  you  back 
To  what  I  urged  ;   all  these  things  being  noted, 

'''sdded  you  ;  the  world  then  did  me  justice 
Upoi'  the  motive,  and  my  conduct  proved 
They  did  me  right,  while  yours  was  all  to  praise : 
You  had  all  freedom — all  respect — all  trust 
From  me  and  mine  ;   and,  born  of  those  who  made 
Princes  at  home,  and  swept  kings  from  their  thrones 
On  foreign  sliores,  in  all  things  you  [  ppear'd 
Worthy  to  be  our  first  of  native  danics. 

A?s"GI0LINA. 

To  what  does  this  conduct  ? 

DOGE. 

To  thus  much — that 
A  miscreant's  angry  breath  may  blast  it  all — 
A  villain  whom,  for  his  unbridled  bearing, 
Even  in  the  midst  of  our  great  festival, 
I  caused  to  be  conducted  fortn,  and  taught 
How  to  demean  himself  in  ducal  chambers ; 
A  wretch  like  this  may  leave  upon  the  wall 
The  blighiing  venom  of  his  sweltering  heart, 
And  this  shall  spread  itself  in  general  poison; 
And  womar.'s  innocence,  man's  honour,  pass 
Into  a  bv-word  ;   and  the  doubly  felon 
(Who  lirst  insulted  virgin  modestv 
]i\  a  2' OSS  affront  to  vour  attendant  damsels, 
Au,;ds'  the  noblest  of  our  dames  in  public) 
liequif-?  hmiself  for  his  most  just  expulsion. 
By  blackening  publicly  his  sovereign's  consort, 
And  1)0  absolved  by  his  upright  compeers. 

ANGIOLINA. 

But  he  has  been  condenin'd  into  captivity. 

DOGE. 

For  such  as  him,  a  dungeon  were  acquittal ; 
And  his  brief  term  of  mock-arrest  will  pass 
Within  a  jialace.      But  I  've  done  with  him  ; 
The  rest  must  be  with  you. 

ANGIOMNA. 

With  me,  my  lord? 

DOGE. 

Yes,  Angiolina.     Do  not  marvel ;   1 
Have  let  this  prey  upon  me  till  I  leel 
My  life  cannot  be  long  ;   and  fain  wo 
Regard  the  injunctions  you  will  find 

This  scroll.      [Giving-  her  a  pnjier) Fear  not ;  they 

are  for  your  advantage  : 
Read  them  hereafter,  at  the  fitting  hour. 

ANGIOMNA. 

My  lord,  in  life,  and  after  life,  you  shall 
Be  honoiir'd  still  by  me  :   but  m.iv  your  (iavs 
Bf;  many  yef — and  happier  thnii  the  present  ! 
This  passion  will  giv(^  way,  and  you  w\\\  be 
Serene,  and  what  you  should  hf; — wliat  you  were. 

i)(ff;i:. 
I  wil.  be  what  I  shoiild  b(t,  or  l)c  'jotliing  ; 
But  never  nv)re — oh!    n.ncr,  never  luoic. 
O'er  th(!  fi;w  days  or  hours  wliu-b  v<-i  a\Miil 
The  blight(Nl  old  ag''  of  F-Avm.  >liai! 
Sweet  (|uiet  sIhvI  lier  sunset  I     N(;ver  more 
Those  suiimier  shadows  risuig  from  the  past 
Of  a  not  ill-spent  nor  inglorious  lifi^ 
Mellov.ing  the  last  hours  as  the  night  approaches, 


lid  have  you 
A-ithin 


Shai]  soothe  me  to  my  moment  of  !ong  rest. 

I  had  but  little  more  to  ask,  or  hope. 

Save  the  regards  due  to  the  blood  and  sweat 

And  the  soul's  labour  through  whici  I  have  toiPd 

To  make  my  country  honour'd.      As  her  servant— 

Her  servant,  though  her  chief— I  would  kave  g  .na 

Down  to  my  fathers  with  a  name  serene 

And  pure  as  theirs  ;   but  this  has  been  denied  me.— 

Would  I  had  died  at  Zara  ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

There  you  saved 
The  state  ;  then  live  to  save  her  still.    A  day, 
Another  day  like  that  would  be  the  best 
Reproof  to  them,  and  sole  revenge  for  you. 

DOGE, 

But  one  such  day  occurs  within  an  age  ; 

My  life  is  little  less  than  one,  and  't  is 

Enough  for  Fortune  to  have  granted  once, 

That  which  scarce  one  more  favour'd  citizen 

May  win  in  many  states  and  years.      But  why 

Thus  speak  I?    Venice  has  forgot  that  day — 

Then  why  should  I  remember  it '! — Farewell, 

Sweet  Angiolina  !   I  must  to  mv  cabinet ; 

There  's  much  for  me  to  do — and  the  hour  hastens, 

ANGIOLINA. 

Remember  what  you  were. 

DOGE. 

It  were  in  vain; 
Joy's  recollection  is  no  longer  jov, 
V^hile  sorrow's  memorv  is  a  sorrow  still, 

ANGIOLINA. 

At  least,  whate'er  may  urge,  1.<M  me  implore 

That  you  will  take  some  littlf  pause  of  rest  : 

Your  sleep  for  manv  nights  has  been  so  turbid. 

That  it  had  been  relief  ♦o  htive  awaked  vou, 

Had  I  not  hoped  that  nature  would  o'erpower 

At  length  the  thoughts  which  shook  your  slumbers  th»iS 

An  hour  of  rest  wil!  give  you  to  your  toils 

With  fitter  thoughts  and  freshen'd  strength. 

DOGE. 

I  cannot— 
[  must  not,  if  I  could  ;   f>r  never  was 
Such  reason  to  be  watchful :   yet  a  few — 
Yet  a  few  days  and  dream-perturbed  nights. 
And  I  shall  slumber  well — but  where  ? — no  matter. 
Adieu,  my  Angiolina. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Let  me  be 
An  instant — yet  an  instant  your  companion  ; 
1  cannot  bear  to  leave  you  thus. 

DOGE. 

Come  then, 
My  gentle  child — forgive  me  ;   thou  wert  made 
For  better  fortunes  than  to  share  in  mine, 
No\>-  darkling  in  their  close  toward  the  deep  val« 
Where  Death  sits  robed  in  his  all-sweeping  shadow. 
When  I  am  gone — it  may  be  sooner  than 
Even  these  years  warrant,  for  there  is  that  stirrm" 
Within — above — around,  that  in  this  city 
Will  make  the  cemeteries  populous 
As  e'er  they  were  by  pestilence  or  war, — 
When  I  urn  nothing,  let  that  which  I  iras 
Be  stiil  soimitimos  a  name  on  thy  sweet  lips, 
A  siiadow  in  thy  fancy,  of  a  thing 

Wiiich  would  not  have  thee  mourn  it,  but  remember  ;  - 
Let  us  begone,  my  chud — tlie  time  is  pressing. 

\Ex(uru. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


538 


SCENE  II. 

A  retired  spot  near  the  Arsenal. 
IsRABL  Bektuccio  (Hid  Philip  Cale.vdaro. 

CALKXDARO. 

How  sped  yoii,  Israel,  in  your  lato  complaint  ? 

ISKAKI,    EEUrUCCIO. 

H  hy,  well. 

CALE.VDAKO. 

Is't  possible?  will  he  be  punrsh'd? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 


Yes. 


CALEXUARO. 

With  what  ?  a  mulct  or  an  arrest  ^ 


ISRAEL    BEKTUCCIO. 

With  death ! — 

CALENDARO. 

Now  you  rave,  or  must  intend  revenue, 

Such  as  I  counseil'd  yoii,  with  vour  own  hand. 

ISRAEL   bert:;ccio. 
Ves  ;   and  for  one  sole  drau<{ht  of  hate,  forego 
The  gieat  redress  we  meditate  for  Venice, 
And  change  a  life  of  hope  ibr'one  of  exile  • 
Leaving  one  scorpion  crush'd,  and  thousands  stingmg 
My  triends,  my  family,  my  countrymen ! 
No,  Calendaro  ;   these  same  drops  of  blood, 
Siied  shamefully,  shall  have  the  whole  of  his 
For  their  requital — but  not  only  his  ; 
We  will  not  strike  for  private  wrongs  alone : 
Such  are  for  seltish  passions  and  rash  men, 
But  are  unworthy  a  tyrannicide. 

CALFNOARO. 

Vou  have  more  patience  than  I  care  to  boast. 
Had  I  been  present  when  you  bore  this  insult, 
i  nmst  have  slam  him,  or  expn-ed  myself 
In  *be  vain  effort  to  repress  mv  wrath. 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

riuirik  Heaven  you  were  not— all  had  else  been  marr'd: 
4.S  lis,  our  cause  looks  prosperous  still. 

CALENDARO. 

Yoii  saw 
The  Doge — what  answer  gave  he? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

'I'hat  there  was 
No  punishment  for  such  as  Barbaro. 

CALEXDARO. 

I  told  you  so  before,  and  that  't  was  idle 
To  think  of  justice  from  such  hands. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

At  least. 
It  lull'd  suspicion,  showing  confidence. 
Had  I  iHjen  si'ent,  not  a  sbirro  but 
Had  kept  me  in  his  eye,  as  meditating 
A  silent,  solitary,  deep  revenge. 

CALENDARO. 

But  wherefore  not  address  you  to  the  Council? 
The  Doge  is  a  mere  puf)pet,  who  can  scarce 
Obtain  right  for  himself.     Why  speak  to  /am  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Vou  shall  know  that  hereafter. 

CALEXDARO. 

Why  not  now  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Bo  patient  but  till  midnight.     Get  vour  musters 

And  bid  your  friends  prepare  their  companies : 

Set  all  in  readiness  to  strike  the  blow. 

Pel  haps  m  a  few  hours ;   we  have  long  waited 

For  a  fit  time — that  hour  is  on  the  dial, 

It  may  be,  of  to-moi'row's  sun:  delay 


I     Bey(»nd  may  breed  us  double  danger.     Sec 
!     That  all  be  punctual  at  our  place  of  meeting, 
I     And  arm'd,  excepting  those  of  the  Sixteen, 

Who  will  remain  among  the  troops  to  wait 

The  signal. 

CALEXDARO. 

These  brave  words  have  breathed  ;iow  liie 
Into  my  veins :   I  am  sick  of  these  prcracted 
And  hesitating  councils  :   day  on  day 
Crawl'd  on,  and  added  but  another  link 
To  our  long  fetters,  and  some  fresher  wrong 
Inflicted  on  our  brethren  or  ourselves, 
Helping  to  swell  our  tyrants'  bloated  strength. 
Let  us  but  deal  upon  them,  and  I  care  not 
For  the  result,  which  must  be  death  or  freedom! 
I  'm  weary  to  the  heart  of  finding  neither. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

We  will  be  free  in  life  or  death !   the  grave 
[s  chainless.     Have  you  all  the  musters  ready? 
And  are  the  sixteen  companies  completed 
To  sixty  ? 

CALEXDARO. 

All  save  two,  in  which  there  are 
Twenty-five  wanting  to  make  up  the  number. 

ISRAF.L    BERTUCCIO. 

No  matter;   we  can  do  without.     Whose  are  they'' 

CALEXDARO. 

Bertram's  and  old  Soranzo's,  both  of  whom 
Appear  less  forward  in  the  cause  than  we  are. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Your  fie-.y  nature  makes  vou  deem  all  those 
Who  are  not  restless,  cold  :   but  there  exists 
Oft  in  concentred  spirits  not  less  daring 
Than  in  more  loud  avengers.     Do  not  doubt  theuL 

CALEXDARO. 

I  do  not  doubt  the  elder  ;   but  in  Bertram 

Tliere  is  a  hesitating  softness,  fatal 

To  enterprise  like  ours  :   I  've  seen  that  man 

Weep  like  an  infant  o'er  the  misery 

Of  others,  heedless  of  his  own,  though  greater 

And,  in  a  recent  quarrel,  I  beheld  him 

Turn  sick-at  sight  of  blood,  although  a  villain's. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

The  truly  brave  are  soft  of  heart  and  eyes, 

And  f.  el  for  what  their  duty  bids  them  do. 

I  have  known  Bertram  long  ;   there  doth  not  breathe 

A  soul  more  full  of  honour. 

CALEXDARO. 

It  may  be  so, 
I  apprehend  less  treachery  than  weakness ; 
Yet,  as  he  has  no  mistress,  and  no  wife 
To  work  upon  his  milkiness  of  spirit. 
He  may  go  through  the  ordeal ;   it  is  well 
He  is  an  orphan,  friendless  save  in  us : 
A  woman  or  a  child  had  made  him  less 
Than  either  in  resolve. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

.      Such  ties  are  not 
For  those  who  are  called  to  the  high  destinies 
Which  purifv  corrupted  commonwealths  ; 
We  must  forget  all  feelij^s  save  the  one — 
We  must  resign  all  passions  save  our  purpose— 
We  must  behold  no  object  save  our  country 
And  only  look  on  death  as  beautiful. 
So  that  the  sacrifice  ascend  to  heaven, 
And  draw  down  '"••eedom  on  her  evermore. 


But,  if  we  fail  ?- 


CALENDARO. 


684 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

They  never  fail  who  die 
In  a  great  cause :   the  block  may  soak  their  gore ; 
Their  heatls  may  sodden  in  the  svm  ;   their  limbs 
Be  Strang  to  city  gates  and  castle  walls — 
But  still  their  spirit  walks  abroad.     Though  years 
Elapse,  and  others  share  as  dark  a  doom, 
They  but  augment  the  deep  and  swee[)ing  thoughts 
Wb.r^h  o'erpower  all  others,  and  conduct 
The  world  at  last  to  freedom.     What  were  we, 
If  Brutus  had  not  lived  7   He  died  in  giving 
Rome  liberty,  but  left  a  deathless  lesson — 
A  name  which  is  a  virtue,  and  a  soul 
Which  multiplies  itself  throughout  all  time, 
When  wicked  men  wax  mighty,  and  a  state 
Turns  servile :   he  and  his  high  friend  were  styled 
"  The  last  of  Romans !"     Let  us  be  the  first 
Of  true  Venetians,  sprung  from  Roman  sires. 

CALKNDARO. 

Our  fathers  did  not  fly  from  Auila 

Inlo  these  isles,  where  palaces  have  sprung 

On  banks  redeem'd  from  the  rude  ocean's  ooze, 

To  own  a  thousand  desjiots  in  his  place. 

Better  bow  down  before  the  Hun,  and  call 

A  Tartar  lord,  than  these  swoln  silk- worms  masters! 

The  first  at  least  was  man,  and  used  his  sword 

As  sceptre  :   these  tmmanly  creeping  things 

Command  our  swords,  and  rule  us  with  a  word 

As  with  a  sptll. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

I;  shall  be  broken  soon. 
Yoii  sav  that  all  things  are  iri  readiness  ; 
To-da;'  I  have  not  been  the  usual  round, 
And  whv  thou  Kno-.vest ;   but  thy  vigilance 
Will  better  have  supplied  my  care :   these  orders 
In  recent  council  to  redouble  now 
Our  (  iTirts  to  repair  the  galleys,  have 
LcMt  a  tair  colour  to  the  introduction 
Of  many  of  our  cause  info  the  arsenal, 
As  new  artificers  for  their  equipment. 
Or  fresh  recruits  obtain'd  in  haste  to  man 
The  hoped-for  fleet. — Are  all  su[)plied  with  arms? 

CALF.NDARO 

All  who  were  deem'd  trust-worthy:   there  are  some 

Whom  it  were  well  to  keep  in  ignorance 

Till  it  be  time  to  strike,  and  then  supply  them  ; 

When  in  the  heat  and  hurry  of  the  hour 

Thev  have  no  opj)ortunity  to  pause  ; 

But  needs  must  on  with  those  who  will  surround  them. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

You  have  sa'd  well. — Have  you  rcmark'd  all  such? 

CALEXDARO. 

I  've  noted  most :   and  caused  the  other  chiefs 
To  use  like  (caution  in  their  companies. 
As  far  as  I  have  seen,  we  are  enough 
To  make  the  enterprise  secure,  if  'tis 
Conimeneed  to-morrow;   but  till  'tis  begun, 
Each  hour  is  pregnant  with  a  thousand  perils. 

ISRAEL     KEKTUCCIO, 

Let  t)ie  Sixteen  meet  at  the  wonted  hour, 
Except  Soran/o,  Nieolctto  Blondo, 
And  .Marco  Giuda,  who  will  keep  their  watch 
Within  lh(!  arsenal,  and  hold  all  ready. 
Expectant  of  the  signal  we  will  fix  on. 

CALENUARO. 

We  will  not  fail. 

ISRAEL     RKRTUCCrO. 

Let  all  th<;  r(!st  he  there: 
I  have  a  stranger  to  present  to  them. 

CA  LEND  Alio. 

A  stranger!   dotli  he  know  the  secret? 


ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

YfB. 
CALEXDARO. 

And  have  you  dared  to  peril  your  friends'  lives 
On  a  rash  confidence  in  one  we  know  not  ? 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

I  have  risk'd  no  man's  life  except  rr.y  own 
Of  that  be  certain :   he  is  one  who  may 
Make  our  assurance  doubly  sure,  according 
His  aid :   and,  if  reluctant,  he  no  less 
Is  in  our  power:   he  comes  alone  with  me, 
And  cannot  'scape  us  ;   but  he  will  not  swerve. 

CALEXDARO. 

I  cannot  judge  of  this  until  I  know  him: 
Is  he  one  of  our  order  ? 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

Ay,  in  s[iirit, 
Although  a  child  of  greatness  ;    he  is  one 
Who  would  become  a  throne,  or  overthrow  one  — 
One  who  has  done  great  deeds,  and  seen  great  chaiigeo] 
No  tyrant,  though  bred  up  to  tyranny  ; 
Valiant  in  war,  and  sage  in  council  ;   noble 
In  nature,  although  haughty  ;   quick,  yet  wary: 
Vet,  for  all  this,  so  full  of  certain  passions, 
That  if  once  stirr'd  an<l  baff!(!d,  as  he  has  been 
Upon  the  tendcrest  points,  there  is  no  Fury 
In  Grecian  story  like  to  that  w}ii(;h  wrings 
His  vitals  with  her  burning  hands,  till  he 
Grows  capable  of  all  thin<rs  for  revenge  ; 
And  add  too,  that  his  mind  is  liberal ; 
He  sees  and  feels  the  people  are  oppress'd. 
And  shares  their  sufferinss.     Take  him  a'l  in  all, 
We  have  need  of  such,  and  such  have  need  of  tis 

CALEXDARO. 

And  what  pari,  would  you  have  him  take  with  us  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

It  may  be,  that  of  chief. 

CALEXDARO. 

What !   and  resign 
Your  own  command  as  leader  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Even  so. 
My  object  is  to  make  your  cause  enti  well, 
And  not  to  push  mvself  to  power.      Exjieriencc, 
Some  skill,  and  your  own  choice,  had  mark'd  me  ou 
To  act  in  trust  as  your  commander,  till 
Some  worthier  should  ajjpear :   if  I  have  found  such 
As  you  yourselves  shall  o^vn  more  worthy,  think  you 
That  I  would  hesitate  from  selfishness. 
And,  covetous  of  brief  authority. 
Stake  our  deep  interest  on  my  single  thoughts. 
Rather  than  yield  to  one  above  me  in 
Ail  leading  qualities?     No,  Calendaro, 
Know  your  friend  better  ;  but  you  all  shall  judge.— 
Awav !   and  let  us  meet  at  the  fix'd  hour. 
Be  vigilant,  and  all  will  yet  go  well. 

CALEXDARO. 

Worthy  Bertuccio,  I  have  known  you  ever 
Trusty  and  brave,  with  head  and  heart  to  plan 
What  I  have  still  been  i)rompt  to  execute. 
For  my  own  part,  I  seek  no  other  chief; 
What  the  rest  will  decide  I  know  not,  but 
I  am  with  ^  ou,  as  I  have  ever  been. 
In  all  our  undertakings.     Now  farewell. 
Until  the  hour  of  midnight  sees  us  meet. 

[ExeunU 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


5^6 


ACT  111. 

SCENE  I. 

Scciie,  th-)  Spare  hetireen  (he  Cunnt  and  the  Chnrrh  of 
San  Givanni  e  Snn  Panh.  An  niiiestrinn  Siutnc 
hef'oie  it.'-A  Gondola  lie.t  in  (lie  Canal  id  some  di'^ 
lance. 

Enter  the  Dogk  (done,  disgui.^ed, 
Vi>c.K  [siih(s). 
{  am  before  tlie  !i<iur,  the  hour  whose  voice, 
PeahiiiT  idto  the  iirch  ol"  niuhi,  niiirht  strike 
These   |)ahtces  with  (tmiiious  totleriiijj, 
And  rock  their  nuirlih'S  to  the  corner-stone, 
Waking  the  sUiepers  t'loin  some  hideous  drearn 
Of  indistinct  but  awful  augury 
Of  that  which  will  befall  them.      Yes,  proud  city! 
Thou  must  be  cleansed  of  the  black  blood  wliich  makes 

thee 
A  lazar-house  oi'  tyranny:   the  task 
Is  f()rced  upon  nie.  I  have  souiiht  it  not  ^ 
And  therefore  was  I  punished,  seeino;  this 
PatricifiU  pestilence  spread  on  and  on, 
t'ntil  at  lenofh  it  smote  nie  in  my  shunbers. 
And  I  am  tainted,  and  nmst  wash  away 
The  p.aaue-spots  in  the  healing  wave.     Tall  fane! 
Wh„re  s.eep  my  fatliers,  whose  dim  statues  shadow 
The  floor  which  doth  divide  us  from  the  dead, 
Wiiore  ail  the  pre<rnHnt  hearts  of  our  bold  blood, 
MoulderM  into  a   mite  (tf  ashes,  hoid 
In  one  shrunk  hean  what  once  made  many  heroes, 
When  wiiat  is  now  a  handfnll  shook  the  earth — 
Fane  of  the  tutel  ir  saints  who  ".mart    our  house  ! 
V'.uilf  wheri'  t'vo  H^.-e^  rf'-^t — mv  sires!    who  died 
The  one  of  toil,  the  other  in  the  field, 
With  a  lon^:  race  of  other  lineal  chiefs 
And  sasjs,  wnose  ijreat  lahoiirs,  wounds,  and  state 
I  have  inherited, — let  the  <;raves  <iape, 
Till  all  thine  aisles  be  peopled  w\tu  tlic  dead. 
And  pour  them  from  thy  jiortals  to  gaze  on  me! 
I  call  them  up,  and  them  and  thee  to  witness 
What  it  hath  been  which  put  me  to  this  task — 
Their  pure  hioK  bl(»od,  their  blazon-roll  of  glories. 
Their  inightv  name  dishonour'd  all  in  me. 
Not  hij  me,  but  bv  the  nnaratefui  nobles 
We  lought  to  make  our  ecpials,  not  our  lords : — 
And  chiefly  thou,  Ordelafo  the  brave, 
Who  perish'd  in  the  field  \\here  I  since  conquer'd, 
Rattiino^  at  Zara,  did  the  hecatombs 
Of  thine  and  Venice'  foes,  there  offer'd  up 
Bv  thy  descendant,  merit  such  acquittance? 
Spirits!    smile  down  upon  me,  for  my  cause 
Is  yours,  in  ail  life  now  can  be  of  yours — 
Vour  fame,  your  name,  all  mingled  u|)  in  mine, 
And  in  the  future  fortunes  of  our  race  ! 
Let  me  but  prosjier,  and  I  make  this  ci(y 
Free  and  immortal,  and  our  house's  name 
Worthier  of  what  vou  were,  now  and  hereafter! 
Enter  \-HAK\.    Bf.kix'ccio. 

ISilAF.L     BEKTt'CCIO. 

Who  goes  there'' 

nOGK. 

A  friend  to  Venice. 

ISIiAEL     BKilTUCCIO. 

'T  is  ho. 

Welv^ome,  my  lord, — you  are  before  the  time. 

DOGE. 

I  am  reudy  to  proceed  to  your  assemblv. 


ISll\E^      BERri7t-CIO. 

Have  with  yo'j. — I  am  proud  and  pleased  to  see 

Such  confident  alacrity.      Vour  doi;l)t;5 

Since  our  last  meeting,  tlien,  are  all  dispell'd? 

DOGE. 

Not  so — but  I  h;rve  set  my  little  left 
Of  life  upon  this  cast:    tin;  die  was  tlirown 
When  1  tirst  listen'd  to  your  treason — Sttirt  not! 
Th<U  is  the  word  ;   I  cannot  shape  my  tongue 
To  svllable  black  deeds  inlo  smooth  names, 
Thou2;ii  I  be  wrouiiht  on  to  commit  ttiem.     When 
I  heard  you  tempt  your   sovereii;n,  and  f(jrl>ore 
To  have  von  dragg'd  to  prison,  I  became 
Your  guiltiest  accomplice  :    now  you  may, 
If  it  so  please  yon,  do  as  much  l)y  me. 

ISHAEl.     BEKTrctlO. 

Strange  words,  my  lord,  and  most  unmerited  ; 
I  am  no  spy,  and  neither  are  we  traitors. 

DOGE. 

tVe  ! — JVe  ! — no  matter — you  Iiave  earn'd  the  rgn 

To  talk  of  7<s.— But  to  the  point.— If  this 

Attempt  succeeds,  and  N'enice,  reuder'd  free 

And  flourishing,  when  we  are  in  our  grav(  s. 

Conducts  her  generations  to  our  tombs, 

And  makes  her  children,  with  their  little  hands, 

Strew  Howers  o'er  their  deliverers'  ashes,  then 

The  consequence  will  sanctify  the  deed. 

And  we  shall  be  like  the  two  Bruti  in 

The  annals  of  hereafter ;   but  if  not. 

If  we  should  fail,  employin<{  bloody  means 

And  secret  plot,  aith()U(>h  to  a  Hood  end. 

Still  we  ai-'^  traitors,  hom.'st  Israel ; — thou 

No  less  than  he  who  was  thy  sovereign 

Six  hours  ago,  and  now  thy  brother  rebel. 

ISRAEL     BERTO'CCIO. 

'Tis  not  the.  moment  to  consider  thus, 

Else  I  could  answer.— Let  us  to  the  meeting. 

Or  we  may  be  observed  in  lingering  here. 

DOGE. 

We  ca-e  observed,  and  have  been. 

ISRAEL     BEKrUCCIO. 

We  observed . 

Let  me  discover — and  this  steel- 

DOGE. 

Put  up  ; 
Here  are  no  human  witnesses  ; — look  there — 
What  see  you  ? 

ISRAEL      BERTUCCIO. 

Only  a  tall  warrior's  statac 
Bestriding  a  proud  steed,  in  the  dun  light 
Of  the  dull  moon. 

DOGE. 

That  warrior  was  the  sire 
Of  my  sire's  fathers,  and  that  statue  was 
Decreed  to  him  by  the  twice-rescued  city:— 
Think  you  that  he  looks  down  on  us,  or  no  ? 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

My  lord,  these  are  mere  phantasies  ;  there  are 
No  eyes  in  marble. 

DOGE. 

But  there  are  in  death. 
I  tell  thee,  man,  there  is  a  spirit  in 
Such  things  that  acts  and  sees,  unseen,  though  fell 
And,  if  there  be  a  spell  to  stir  the  dead, 
'Tis  in  such  deeds  as  we  are  now  upon. 
Deem'st  thou  the  souls  of  such  a  race,  as  mine 
Can  rest,  when  he,  their  last  descendant  chief. 
Stands  pl<jttini:  on  the  brink  of  their  pure  jjraves 
i     With  stung  plebeians  ? 


i86 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


ISRAEL    EERTUCCIO. 

It  had  been  as  well 
To  hdve  pondet'd  ibis  before, — ere  voii  eirjbark'd 
In  ou.'  j^-eat  enterj)rise. — Do  you  repent  ? 

POGE. 

No— b.it  I  feel,  and  shall  do  to  the  last. 

I  cannot  (jiiench  a  glorious  life  a>  once, 

Nor  dwindle  to  the  thing  I  now  nui^'  be. 

And  take  men's  lives  by  stealth,  without  some  pause : 

Yet  doubt  me  not ;   it  is  this  very  feeling, 

And  knowing  what  has  wrung  me  to  be  thus, 

Whicl:  is  your  best  security.     There  's  not 

A  roused  mechanic  in  your  busy  plot 

So  wrong'd  as  I,  so  fallen,  so  loudly  call'd 

To  his  redress:   the  very  means  I  am  forced 

Hy  these  fell  tyrants  to  adopt  is  such, 

riiat  I  abhor  them  doublv  for  the  deeds 

Which  I  must  do  to  pay  them  back  for  theirs. 

ISRAtr,    EERTUCCIO. 

Let  us  away  ! — hark  ! the  hour  strikes. 

DOGE. 

On — on — 
It  IS  our  knell,  or  that  of  Venice. — On. — 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

Sw,  rather,  'tis  her  freedom's  rising  peal 

O)  triumph — This  way — we  are  near  the  place. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. 

The  House  where  the  Conspirators  meet. 
Dagulixo,  Doko,  Bertram,  Fedele  Trevisano, 

C^vi.ENDARO,  i\XTONIO   DELLE   BeNDE,  CtC,  etC. 

calendaro  {entering). 
Are  all  here  ? 

DAGOLINO. 

All  with  you  :   except  the  three 
On  duty,  and  our  leader  Israel, 
Who  is  expected  momently. 

OALENDARO. 

Where 's  Bertram  ? 

BERTRAM. 

Here ' 

C  A  LEND  ARC. 

H.ive  yoH  not  been  able  to  complete 
Tho  numlier  wanting  in  your  company  ? 

BERTRAM. 

I  had  marlv'd  out  some  ;   but  I  have  not  dared 
To  trust  them  with  the  secret,  till  assured 
That  they  were  worthy  faith. 

OALENDARO. 

There  is  no  need 
Of  trusting  to  their  faith  :   v:ho,  save  ourselves 
And  our  more  chosen  comrades,  is  aware 
Fu  ly  of  our  intent?  they  think  themselves' 
Engaged  in  secret  to  the  Signory, 
To  punish  some  more  dissolute  young  nobles 
Who  have  defied  the  law  in  their  excesses ; 
But  once  drawn  up,  and  their  new  swords  well  flesh'd 
[n  the  rank  hearts  of  the  more  odious  senators, 
They  will  not  hesitate  to  follow  up 
rh'.'ir  blow  upon  the  others,  when  thev  see 
The  example  of  their  chiefs  ;   and  I  for  one 
Will  s»:t  them  such,  that  they  for  very  shame 
Ar  i  safety,  will  not  pause  till  all  have  perish'd. 

BERTRAM. 

How  say  you?  all'/ 

calendaro. 
Whom  wouldst  thou  spare? 


BERTRAIV, 

/  ^pcffc 
I  have  no  power  to  spare.     I  only  qtiestion'd, 
Thinking  that  even  amongst  these  wicked  men, 
There  might  be  some,  whose  age  and  qualities 
Might  mark  them  out  for  pity. 

OALENDARO. 

Yes,  such  pity 
As  when  the  viper  hath  been  cut  to  pieces, 
The  separate  fragments  quivering  in  the  sun 
In  the  last  energy  of  venomous  life, 
Deserve  and  have.    Why,  I  should  think  as  soon 
Of  pitying  some  particular  fang  which  made 
One  in  the  jaw  of  the  swoln  serpent,  as 
Of  saving  one  of  these  :   they  form  but  links 
Of  one  long  chain — one  mass,  one  breath,  one  bcuj  ; 
They  eat,  and  drink,  and  live,  and  breed  together. 
Revel  and  lie,  oppress,  and  kill  in  concert, — 
So  let  them  die  as  one ! 

DAGOLINO. 

Should  one  survive, 
He  would  be  dangerous  as  the  whole  :   it  is  not 
Their  number,  be  it  tens  or  thousands,  but 
The  spirit  of  this  aristocracy, 
Which  must  be  nwted  out ;   and  if  there  were 
A  single  shoot  of  the  whole  tree  in  life, 
'T  would  fasten  in  the  soil,  and  spring  again 
To  gloomy  verdure  and  to  bluer  fruit. 
Bertram,  we  must  be  firm! 

OALENDARO. 

L.>ok  to  it  we'.l. 
Bertram  ;  I  have  an  eye  ujion  thee. 

BERTRAM. 

Who 
Distrusts  me  ? 

CALEWDARO. 

Noi  I ;  for  if  I  did  so. 
Thou  wouldst  not  now  be  there  to  talk  of  tnist* 
It  is  thy  softness,  not  thy  want  of  faith, 
Which  makes  thee  to  be  doubted. 

BERTRAM. 

You  should  know. 
Who  hear  me,  who  and  what  I  am ;   a  man 
Roused  like  yourselves  to  overthrow  oppression  ; 
A  kind  man,  I  am  apt  to  think,  as  some 
Of  you  have  found  me ;   and  if  brave  or  no. 
You,  Calendaro,  can  pronounce,  who  have  seen  mt. 
Put  to  the  proof;   or,  if  you  should  1kiv(   doubts, 
I  'U  clear  them  on  your  person. 

OALENDARO. 

You  are  welcome, 
When  once  our  enter[)rise  is  o'er,  which  mir-»  not 
Be  interrupted  by  a  private  brawl. 

BERTRAM. 

I  am  no  brawler ;  but  can  bear  myself 
As  tar  among  the  foe  as  any  he 
Who  hears  me ;   else  why  have  I  been  selected 
To  be  of  your  chief  comrades  ?  but  no  less 
I  own  my  natural  weakness :   I  have  not 
Yet  learn'd  to  think  of  indiscriminate  murder 
W^ithout  some  sense  of  shuddering  ;   and  the  sight 
Of  blood  which  spouts  through  hoary  scalps  is  n«>t 
To  me  a  thing  of  triumph,  nor  the  death 
Of  men  surt)rised  a  glory.     Well — too  well 
I  know  that  we  must  do  such  things  on  those 
W  hose  acts  have  raised  up  such  avengers ;  bu* 
If  there  were  some  of  those  who  could  be  saved 
From  out  this  sweeping  fate,  for  our  own  sakes 
'     And  for  our  honour,  to  take;  olf  some  stain 
i    Of  massacre,  which  else  pollutes  it  wholly, 


MARIXO    FALIERO. 


537 


r  had  been  glad  ;   and  see  no  cause  in  tins 
For  sneer,  nor  for  suspicion  ! 

DAGOMXO. 

Calm  thee,  Bertram; 
For  we  suspect  thee  not,  and  take  -rood  heart. 
It  is  tht!  cause,  and  not  our  will,  which  asks 
Such  actions  from  our  hands:    we'll  wush  away 
All  staius   m  Freedom's  fountain! 
Eiita-  IsKAF.i   BEiiTL-i-cio  and  the  Doge,  disginsed. 

DAGO  LI  NO. 

Welcome,  Israel. 
covsiMn  \-n>us. 
-  Most  welcome.  — Hravc  liertuccio,  thou  art  late— 
Who  is  this  stranger '/ 

CAI.  KM)  VF.O. 

It  is  tune  to  name  him. 
Out  comrades  arc  even  now  prepare!  lo  i.n-eet  inm 
In  brotherhood,  as  I  have  made  it  knouu 
That  thou  wouldst  add  a  brother  to  otir  cause 
Ap[)roved  by  thee,  and  thus  approved  bv  all. 
Such  is  our  trust  in  all  thine  actions.     Now 
Let  him  unfold  himself. 

ISRAEL     BKRTUrciO. 

Stranocr,  step  forth  ! 
[I'lip  Doge  discovers  himse!/. 

CONSPIKATOKS. 

To  arms! — we  are  betray'd — it  is  the  Do^e  ! 
Down  with  them  both  !   our  traitorous  captain,  and 
The  tyrant  he  hath  sold  iis  to. 

CALEXDAHO  {draiving-  /»'s  sfcorr/). 
Hold!   Hold! 
Who  moves  a  st<'p  aijainst  tliem  dies.      Hold  !   hear 
Bertuccio. — What !    are  you  ap|>aird  to  see 
A  'one,  unguarded,  wea[)onless  old  man 
Amongst  you  ?— Israel,  speak !  what  means  this  mystery'/ 

ISRAEL     BERTL'CCIO. 

LpI  them  advance  and  strike  at  tluur  own  bosoms, 

Ungrateful  suicides  !    for  on  our  lives 

Depend  tueir  own,  their  tortiines,  and  their  hopes. 

doge. 
fctnke ! — It  I  dreaded  death,  a  death  more  fearful 
Than  any  your  rash,  weapons  can  iiitlict, 
I  should  not  now  be  here: — Oh,  noble  Courage! 
The  eldest  l)orn  <•{  Fear,  which  makes  you  brave 
Against  this  solitary  hoarv  head  ! 
See  the  bold  chiefs,  v.ho  would  reform  a  state 
And  shake  down  senates,  mad  with  wraih  and  dread 
At  sisht  of  one  patrician.  —  Butcher  me. 
You  can :    I  care  not. — Israel,  are  thc5,e  men 
The  mighty  hearts  you  spoke  of?   look  upon  them! 

CALENDARO. 

Faith  !   he  hath  shamed  us,  and  deservedly. 
Was  this  your  trust  in  your  true  chief  Bertuccio, 
To  turn  your  swr)rds  against  him  and  his  guest? 
Sheathe  them,  and  hear  him. 

ISRAEL   BERTCCCIO. 

I  disdain  to  speak. 
Tlicy  might  and  must  have  known  a  heart  like  mine 
Incapable  of  treacherv  ;    and  the  power 
They  gave  me  to  adopt  ail  tittiiii,'  means 
To  further  their  desii:n  was  ne'er  abused. 
They  miifht  be  certain  t!iat  whoe'er  was  brought 
By  me  int(j  this  council,  had  been  led 
To  take  his  choice — as  brother,  or  as  victim. 

DOGE. 

And  which  am  I  to  be?   vour  actions  leave 
Some  cause  to  doubt  the  fr(  edom  of  the  choice. 

ISRAKI     CERl  l-((IO. 

My  lord,  we  would  have  [)erish'd  here  together, 
Had  these  -asn  men  proceeded  ;   but,  behold, 


They  are  ashamed  of  that  mad  moment's  impulse, 
And  droop  their  heads  ;  believe  me,  tliev  are  such 
As  I  described  them. — Speak  to  them. 

CALENDAKO. 

Ay,  speak 
We  are  all  listeniiii;  i'l  wonder. 

ISRAEL   BEiilUCLIO. 

{yiddressing  the  Cntn^iiirutors). 

Voii  arc  safe, 
Nay,  more,  almost  triumiihant — listen  ti;en, 
And  know  my  words  t'or  truth. 

DOGE. 

You  see  me  here, 
As  one  of  you  hath  said,  an  old,  unarm'd. 
Defenceless  man  ;    and  yest(;rday  you  saw  me 
Presiding  in  the  hall  of  due  il  state. 
Apparent  sovereiHU  of  our  hundred  isles, 
Robed  in  ofhcia!  (iur|)le,  dealing  out 
The  edicts  of  a  power  which  is  not  inine, 
Nor  yours,  but  tif  our  masters — tlie  patricians. 
Wiiy  I  was  there  you  know,  or  think  you  know; 
Why  I  am  here  he  who  hath  been  most  wrong'd, 
He  who  among  you  haiti  been  uiost  insulted, 
Outrasjed  and  trodden  on,  until  lie  doubt 
If  he  be  worm  or  no,  may  answer  for  me, 
Asking  of  his  own  heart  wliat  hroiiL'ht  him  here? 
You  know  my  recent  storv,  all  men  know  it. 
And  judge  of  it  far  diiTerently  from  those 
Wiio  sate  in  judgment  to  ht^ap  scorn  on  scorn. 
But  s[)are  me  the  recital — it  is  here. 
Here  at  my  heart,  the  outrage^but  my  words, 
Already  spent  m  unavailing  plaints, 
WoiiUi  on'.y  show  my  feebleness  the  more. 
And  I  come  nere  to  streniithen  even  the  strong, 
And  uri^e  t.hem  on  to  deeds,  ami  not  to  war 
With  woman  s  weapons  ;   but  I  need  not  urge  voti 
Our  unvate  wroiii^s  have  sprun;;  from  [)ublic  Vices 
In  this — I  cannot  call  it  commonwealth 
Nor  kingdom,  which  hath  neither  prince  nor  people, 
But  all  the  sins  of  the  old  Spartan  state 
Without  its  virliics — temperance  and  valour. 
The  lords  of  Lacedemon  nere  true  soldiers, 
But  ours  are  Sybarites,  while  we  are  Helots, 
Of  whom  I  am  the  lowest,  most  enslaved, 
Although  drcst  out  to  head  a  pageant,  as 
The  Greeks  of  yore  made  drunk  their  slaves  to  form 
A  pastime  for  their  children.     You  are  met 
To  overthrow  this  monster  of  a  state, 
This  mockery  of  a  government,  this  spectre, 
Which  must  be  exorcised  with  blood,  and  then 
We  will  venew  the  times  of  truth  and  justice. 
Condensing  in  a  fair  free  commonwealth 
Not  rash  equality,  but  equal  rights, 
Projjortion'd  like  the  columns  to  the  temple, 
Giviiiij  and  taking  strength  reciprocal, 
And  making  firm  the  whole  with  grace  and  beauty, 
So  that  no  part  could  be  remov(;d  without 
Infringement  of  the  general  symmetry. 
In  operatm^  this  great  change,  1  claim 
To  be  (me  of  you — if  you  trust  in  me  ; 
If  not,  strike  home, — mv  life  is  compromised, 
And  I  would  rather  tall  by  freemen's  hands 
Than  live  another  day  to  act  the  tyrant 
As  delegate  of  tyrants :   such  I  am  not. 
And  never  have  been — read  it  in  our  annals. 
I  can  appeal  to  my  past  government 
In  many  lands  and  cities  ;   they  can  tell  you 
If  I  were  an  ojiitressor,  or  a  man 
Feeling  and  thinking  for  my  fellow-men. 
Haply  had  I  been  what  the  senate  souaht, 
A  thing  of  robes  and  trinkets,  dizen''i  out 


538 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


To  sit  in  state  as  for  a  sovereign's  picture  ; 

A.  popular  scourgo,  a  ready  sentence-signer, 

A  stickler  for  the  Senate  and  "  Tlie  Forty," 

A  sceptic  of  all  measures  wliich  had  not 

The  sanction  of  "  The  Ten,"  a  council  fawner, 

A  tool,  a  fool,  a  j)U[)pet, — they  had  ne'er 

Foster'd  the  wretch  who  stung  me.     What  I  suffer 

Has  reach'd  me  through  my  pitv  for  the  people  ; 

That  many  know,  and  they  v^ho  know  not  yet 

Will  one  (lay  learn:   meantime,  I  do  devote, 

Whate'er  the  issue,  my  last  days  of  life — • 

My  present  power,  such  as  it  is,  not  that 

Of  Doge,  but  of  a  man  wlio  has  been  great 

Before  he  was  degraded  to  a  Do^e, 

And  still  has  individual  means  and  mind; 

I  stake  my  fame  (and  I  had  fame'/ — my  breath 

(The  least  of  all,  for  its  last  hours  are  nigh) — 

My  heart — mv  hope — my  soul — upon  this  cast! 

Such  as  J  am,  I  otler  me  to  you 

And  to  vour  ciiifif-^,  accept  rne  or  rf^ject  me, 

A  princ(i  who  f lin  uould  be  a  citizen 

Or  nothing,  and  who  has  left  his  throne  to  be  so. 

CAI.ENDARO. 

Long  live  Faiiero  ! — \'enice  shall  be  free  ! 

CONSPIRATOIIS. 

Long  live  Faiiero : 

ISKAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Comrades!   did  I  well? 
Is  not  this  man  a  host  in  such  a  cause  ? 

DOGE. 

This  is  no  time  for  eulogies,  nor  place 
For  exultation.     Am  I  one  of  you? 

CALENDARO. 

Ay,  and  (he  first  amon<Tst  us,  as  thou  hast  been 
Of  Venice — be  our  general  and  chief. 

DOGE. 

Chief! — General! — 1  was  general  at  Zara, 

And  chief  in  Rhodes  and  Cy[)rus,  prince  m  Venice  j 

I  cannot  stoop that  is,  1  am  not  ht 

To  lead  a  band  of^ patriots:   when  I  lay 

Aside  the  digmties  which  I  have  borne, 
'T  is  not  to  put  on  others,  but  to  be 
Mate  to  niv  fillows — but  now  to  the  point; 
Israel  has  stated  to  me  your  whole  plan— 
'T  IS  bold,  but  feasible  if  I  assist  it, 
And  must  be  set  m  motion  instantly. 

CAI,ENDARO. 

E'en  when  thou  wilt — is  it  not  so,  my  friends? 
I  have  dis|)osed  all  for  a  sudden  blow  ; 
When  shall  it  he  then  ? 

DOGE. 

At  sunrise. 

BERTRAM. 

So  soon  ? 

DOGE. 

So  soon ! — so  late — each  hour  accumulates 

Peril  on  peril,  and  the  more  so  now 

Since  I  have  mmL'h^d  with  you  ;   know  you  not 

Tiie  Council,  and  "  'llie  T<!n  !"  the  spies,  the  eyes 

Of  the  [latricians  dubious  of  their  slrves, 

And  now  more  dubious  of  the  [)rince  they  have  made  one? 

I  tell  you  you  must  strike,  and  suddenly, 

Full  to  the  hydra's  heart — its  heads  will  follow. 

CAI.ENDARO. 

With  all  my  soul  and  sword  I  yield  nssenl ; 
Our  companies  are  read\,  sixty  <!ach, 
And  all  now  und(!r  arms  by  Israel's  order; 
Each  at  tneir  differc-nt  |)iace  of  rendezvous, 
And  vigilant,  ex|»eclant  of  some  blow  ; 
Let  each  repair  for  action  to  his  post! 
And  now,  my  lord,  the  signal? 


DOGE. 

When  you  near 
The  great  bell  of  Saint  ]M ark's,  which  may  not  be 
Struck  without  special  order  of  the  Doge 
(The  last  poor  privilege  they  leave  their  prince  j, 
March  on  Saint  Mark's  ! 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

And  there? 

DOGE. 

By  different  ixiUle* 
Let  5'our  march  be  directed,  every  sixty 
Entering  a  se[)arate  avenue,  and  still 
Upon  the  way  let  your  cry  be  of  war 
And  of  the  Genoese  fleet,  by  the  first  dawn 
Discern'd  before  the  port ;   form  round  the  palace, 
Within  whose  court  will  be  drawn  out  in  arms 
My  nephew  and  the  clients  of  our  house. 
Many  and  martial ;   while  the  bell  tolls  on. 
Shout  ye,  "  Saint  Mark  ! — the  foe  is  on  our  waters  ! 

CALENDARO. 

I  see  it  now — but  on,  my  noble  lord. 

DOGE. 

All  the  patricians  llockina  to  the  Council, 
(Which  they  dare  not  refuse,  at  the  dread  signal 
Pealing  from  out  their  patron  saint's  proud  tower), 
Will  then  be  ijathered  in  unto  the  harvest. 
And  we  will  reap  them  with  the  swy)rd  for  sickle. 
If  some  few  should  be  tardy  or  absent  then, 
'T  will  be  but  to  be  taken  fiint  and  single, 
When  the  majority  are  put  to  rest. 
caee:"'daro. 
Would  that  the  hour  were  come!   we  vvij]  not  scoU.h, 
But  kill. 

BERTRAM. 

Once  more,  sir,  with  voin-  j)ardons,  I 
Would  now  repeat  the  question  which  I  ask'd 
Before  Bcrtuccio  added  to  our  cause 
This  great  ally  who  renders  it  more  sure, 
And  therefore  safer,  and  as  such  admits 
Some  dawn  of  mercy  to  a  portion  of 
Our  victims — must  all  perish  in  this  slaughter? 

CAI.EXDARO. 

All  who  encounter  me  and  nnne,  be  sure — 
The  mercy  they  have  shown,  I  siiow. 

CONSRIRATORS. 

All!  all! 
Is  this  a  time  to  talk  of  [)ity  ?    when 
Have  they  e'er  shown,  or  felt,  or  feign'd  it  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTLTCCIO. 

Bertram, 

This  false  compassion  is  a  folly,  and 

Injustice  to  thy  comrades  and  thy  cause! 

Dost  thou  not  see,  that  if  we  single  out 

Some  for  escape,  they  live  but  to  aven<^e 

The  fallen?  and  how  distinguish  now  the  innocent 

From  out  the  guilty  ?  all  fneir  acts  are  one — 

A  single  emanation  from  one  body. 

Together  knit  for  our  oppression  !    'T  is 

Much  that  we  let  their  ctiildren  live  ;   I  douDt 

If  all  of  these  even  should  be  set  ajtart : 

The  hunter  may  reserve  some  single  cub 

From  out  rh(!  tiger's  litter,  but  who  e'er 

Would  se(;k  to  save  the  spotted  sire  or  dam, 

Unless  to  [)(!rish  by  their  fangs?    However, 

I  will  abide  by  Doge  Faliero's  coimse.: 

Let  him  decide  if  any  should  be  saved. 

DOGE. 

Ask  me  not — tempt  inc  not  with  such  a  question  - 
Decide  yourselves. 

ISRAEL    RERTKCCIO. 

You  know  their  private  virtues 
Far  belter  than  we  can,  to  whom  alone 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


539 


riifii  puMio  v'.L'CS    ami  most  foul  oppression, 

R;iv('  iiicuk-  ihcin  i.iMiilv  ;    if  tlicro  be  amongst    Jiem 

« >iu;  who  (Il:s<i-\(;s  to  be  repeal'd,  pronounce. 

DOCK. 

Dolfino's  t'athcr  was  inv  frund,  and  Lando 

Fuuijlit  by  my  side,  and  .Marc  Cornaro  shared 

IVIv  Genoese  embassv  ;    I  saved  the  life 

t)f  \eniero-shall  I  save  it  twice? 

Would  that  I  could  save  t'iKjm  and  \'eiiice  also! 

All  these  men,  or  their  lathLTS,  were  my  friends 

Till  they  became  lav  subjects  ;   then  fell  from  me 

As  faii.iless  leaves  drop  tiom  the  o'erhlown  flower, 

Aiul  left  i;ie  a  l(in<3  blighted  tb.orny  stalk, 

\A  Inch,  in  its  st)atude,  can  sh<'!ter  notliincr; 

So,  as  tliey  let  me  wither,  let  them  perisli ! 

fAl,i:ND\KO. 

They  cannot  co-e.\ist  with  \'en;ce'  freedom! 

DOGE. 

Ye,  though  you  know  and  feel  our  mutual  mass 

Of  many  wronijs,  even  ye  are  iiiiiorant 

What  fata)  poison  to  the  sprint;s  of  life. 

To  human  ties,  and  all  that's  good  and  dear, 

Lurks  in  the  present  institutes  of  \'enice. 

All  these  men  svere  my  triends  ;   I  loved  them,  they 

Requited  honourably  my  regards  ; 

We  served  and  ibui;ht ;  we  smiled  and  wept  in  concert; 

We  revell'd  or  we  sorrow'd  side  by  side  ; 

We  made  alliances  of  blood  and  marriage; 

\V"e  grew  in  years  and  honours  fairlv,  til! 

Their  own  desire,  not  my  ambition,  made 

Them  choose  me  for  their  prince,  and  then  farewell! 

Farewell  all  social  n.emory  !    all  tlioiiyhts 

In  common !    and  sweet  bonds  w  hich  link  old  friena- 

ships, 
When  the  survivors  of  long  years  and  actions, 
Which  now  belong  to  history,  soothe  the  days 
^^  hich  yet  remain  by  treasuring  each  other, 
And  never  meet,  but  each  beholds  the  mirror 
Of  half  a  centurv  on  his  brother's  brow. 
And  sees  a  hundred  bciiiiis,  now  in  earth, 
Fiit  round  them,  whisj)ering  of  the  days  gone  by, 
And  seeming  not  all  dead,  as  long  as  two 
Of  the  brave,  joyous,  reckless,  glorious  band, 
Which  once  were  one  and  many,  still  retain 
A  brea'h  to  sigh  for  them,  a  tongue  to  speak 

Of  decd-i  that  else  were  silent,  save  on  marble 

Oime  !   Oime  ! — and  must  I  do  this  deed  ? 

ISRAEL     DERTUCCIO. 

INIv  lord,  you  are  much  mover.,   it  is  not  now 
That  such  things  must  be  dweli  upon. 

DOGE. 

Your  patience 
A  moment — I  receue  not :   mark  with  me 
The  gloomy  vices  of  this  government. 
From  the  hoiir  that  made  me  Doge,  the  Doge  the-s 

/iiade  nie — 
Farewell  the  past !    I  died  to  all  that  had  been, 
Or  rather  thev  to  me:    no  friends,  no  kindness, 
No  prn"'",y  of  lite — ail  were  cut  off: 
The^y-  came  not  near  me,  such  approach  gave  umbrage  ; 
Thev  ''ould  not  love  me,  such  was  not  the  law  ; 
They  thwarted  me,  't  was  the  stale's  policy  ; 
Thev  baffled  me,  't  was  a  [)atrician's  duty  ; 
They  wrong'd  me,  for  such  was  to  right  the  state  ; 
Thev  could  not  right  me,  that  would  give  suspicion: 
So  that  I  was  a  slave  to  my  own  subjects  ; 
So  that  I  was  a  foe  to  my  own  friends  ; 
Begirt  with  spies  for  guards — with  robes  for  power— 
V\'ith  po'up  for  freedom — gaolers  for  a  council — 
ImiJisitors  for  friends — and  hell  for  life ' 


!    I  had  one  (.nly  fount  of  qnut  left, 
'     And  lluil  they  poisou'd  !    My  pure  b.ousc 
■    Were  shiver'd  on  my  hearth,  and  o'er  ih 
Sate  grinning  ribaldrv  and  sneering  scon 


d  gods 
shrmc 


ISRAEL    HKi;  ruccio. 
You  have  been  dei  ply  wnmgM,  and  now  shall  b^ 
Nobly  avenged  !)efore  another  niglit. 

DOCK. 

I  had  home  all— it  liurt  me,  but  I  bore  it — 
Till  this  last  running  over  of  th(;  cup 
Of  bitterness— until  this  last  loud  insult. 
Not  only  unredress'd,  but  saiu-tioii'd  ;    then 
And  thus,  I  cast  all  further  fc(  lings  from  me — 
The  feelings  which  thc-y  crush'd  lor  me,  long,  lonj 
Beforii,  even  in  tlieir  oat! 


f  filse  alicgiance! 
Even  in  that  very  hour  and  vow,  th»  y  at  jiired 
Their  friend,  and  made  a  sovereign,  as  beys  inako 
Playthings,  to  do  their  pleasure  and  b*;  broken' 
1  from  that  hour  have  seen  but  senators 
In  dark  suspicious  conHict  witii  thi;  Doge, 
Brooding  with  him  in  niuiiial  hate  and  fear; 
Thev  dreading  he  should  snatch  the  tyranny 
From  out  their  grast),  ami  he  ablmrriiig  tyi;in*s 
To  me,  then,  these  men  have  ti')  prinilt'  life, 
Nor  chum  to  ties  thev  have  cut  oil  from  others 
As  senators  for  ar!)i;rary  acts 
Amenable,  I  look  on  them — as  such 
Let  them  be  dealt  upon. 

C  A  LEND  A  no. 

.And  now  to  action  ! 
Hence,  brethren,  to  our  posts,  and  may  this  be 
The  last  night  of  mere  words  :    I  *d  tiuii  be  doing! 
Saint  Mark's  great  bell  at  d-.xwn  sliail  hnd  me  wakelj.' 

ISKAEL     l!EnTf<(IO, 

Disperse  then  to  vour  posts  ;   be  tiiin  aT!  I  vigihmt ; 
Think  on  the  wiongs  we  bear,  tlie  rights  we  claim. 
This  day  and  night  shall  be  the  last  of  peril! 
Watch  for  the  signal,  aihl  then  march  :    I  go 
To  join  my  band  ;    let  each  be  prompt  to  marshal 
His  separate  charge:    the  Doge  will  now  return 
To  the  palace  to  prepare  all  lor  the  blow. 
We  part  to  meet  in  treedoni  and  in  glory  ! 

CALE.NDARO. 

Doge,  when  I  greet  voii  next,  niv  homage  lo  you 
Shall  be  the  head  of  Steno  on  this  sword! 

DOGE. 

No  ;    let  him  be  reserved  unto  th(t  last. 

Nor  turn  aside  to  strike  at  such  a  pre}', 

Till  nobler  game  is  (juarried  :    his  oti'ence 

Was  a  mere  ebullition  of  the  vice, 

The  g(;neral  C!,>rr'>;>tion  g(  nerati'd 

By  the  foul  aristocracy  ;    he  could  not — 

He  dared  not  in  more  honourable  da\'s 

Have  risk'd  it!    I  have  merged  all  jirivate  wrath 

Against  him.  in  the  thought  of  our  gr(iat  |nirpose. 

A  slave  insults  me — I  require  his  punishment 

From  his  proud  master's  hands  ;    if  he  refuse  it^ 

The  otfence  grows  his,  and  let  him  answer  it. 

CALE.NDARO. 

Yet,  as  the  immediate  cause  of  the  alliance 
Which  consecrates  our  undertaking  more, 
I  owe  him  such  deep  gratitude,  that  fain 
I  would  rejjay  him  as  he  merits  ;    may  I  ? 

DOGE. 

You  would  but  lop  the  hand,  and  I  the  heaa , 

You  would  but  smite  the  scholar,  I  the  maste."  ; 

Y(ni  would  but  punish  Steno,  I  the  senate. 

I  cannot  pause  on  individual  h^U . 

In  the  absorbing,  swee[)ing,  whol^-    evengc, 

Which,  likf.  the  sheeted  fire  froni  heaven,  must  blaai 


540 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


vVirhoii.  dislini'lion.  a.i  it  fei.  of  yore, 

VViiere  the  fJead  Scii  lialh  quench'd  two  cities'  ashes. 

I'iKVEL     BKKTUCtlO. 

Away,  then,  to  your  posts  !    I  but  remain 

A  iMoruent  to  accompany  tlie  Doge 

1  ()  our  late  [jlace  of  tryst,  to  see  no  spies 

Have  been  upon  tlie  scout,  and   tn(>nce  I  hasten 

To  where  my  allotted  band  is  under  arms. 

CALEXbARO. 

fareweli,  then,  until  dawn. 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

Success  go  with  you! 

CO.VSI'IRATORS. 

^'(;  will  not  fail— away!   My  lord,  farewell! 

[The  rMnspirators  >t(didc  the  Dogk   (ii.d  Israei,   Ber- 

Tuccio,  and  retire,  kended  hij  Phieii'  Caeendaro. 

TIte  Doge  (ind  Israel  i>ERi  tncio  raiiain. 

ISHAEE     BERTI-CCIO. 

VVc  have  them  in  the  toil — it  cannot  fiiil  ! 
Now  thou'rt  indeed  a  sovereign,  and  wilt  make 
A  name  immortal  greater  than  the  greatest: 
Frfte  citizens  have  struck  at  kings  en;  now; 
Cti'sars  have  fallen,  and  even  patrician  hands 
Have  crush'd  dictators,  as  tli<;  popular  steel 
H;is  ri:ach'd  [iatnciai:s ;    but  iiii.ii  this  hdur. 
What  prince  has  plotted  fbr  his  f„o|ile's  freedom? 
Or  nskM  a  life  to  liberate  his  subjects? 
For  ever,  and  for  (;ver,  I  hey  conspire 
A<;aiiist  the  pei^ph^,  to  a!)us(!  their  in.nds 
To  chai:i<,  liul  hid  aside  to  carrv  weapons 
Aiiaiii-t  ilie  fellow  nations,  so  that  voke 
On  yoke,  and  slavery  and  death  may  whet, 
Not  '^Iht,  the  nevor-o',,-K,.,i  Leviirthan! 
Now,  uiy  lord,  to  our  enterprise  ;    "t  is  <:reat. 
And  irreater  the  revMird  ;    whv  stand  you  rapt? 
/i  moment  back,  and  you  were  all  impatience' 

DOGE. 

And  IS  It  then  decided  ?   must  they  die'' 

ISRAEL   KERTUCCIO 

Who  ? 

DOGE. 

Mr  own  friends  bv  bload  and  courtesy, 
And  many  deeds  and  days — the  senators? 

ISHAEL    BEV.TUCCIO. 

You  pass'd  tneir  sentence,  and  it  la  u  just  one. 

DOGE. 

Av,  so  it  seems,  and  so  it  is  to  yov  ; 

You  are  a  patriot,  a  plebeian  Gracchus — 

The  rebel's  oracle — the  people's  tribune — 

I  blame  yon  not,  you  act  in  your  vocation  ; 

They  smote  \ou,  and  oppress'd  you,  and  despised  you; 

So  thev  have  iiic  :   but  you  ne'er  spake  with  them  ; 

Vou  never  broke  their  br(;ad,  nor  shared  their  salt; 

Vou  never  had  their  wine-cup  at  your  lip.s  ; 

5fou  grew  not  up  with  them,  nor  laugh'd,  nor  wept, 

N(jr  held  a  revel  in  their  company  ; 

Ne'er  smiled  to  see  tluihi  ^mlie,  nor  claim'd  their  smi'a 

[n  social  inferchaiii.'e  tiir  vours,  nf)r  trusted, 

Nor  wore  tin  in  ui  your  heart  of  hearts,  as  I  have: 

riiese  hairs  of  mine,  are  i^ray,  and  so  are  theirs, 

rheel.ler.:    -f  the  .■.nuneil  ;    I   remember 

When  all  our  locks  were  like  the  raven's  wing, 

As  s\(!  went  forth  lo  take  our  prey  around 

The  isles  urun:;  hdiii  the  false-  Malionnlan: 

Anil   ;an  1  se,.  iIm  n.  dabi»led  o'er  with  blood? 

Each  stab  to  them  ^vill  seem  my  suicfide. 

E^i;  AKI.    liK|{  ITCCKl. 

Doge!    Doge!    this   varillatioti  IS  miworihy 
A  c  iild  ;    if  you  ar<'  not  if.  second  childhoofl, 
C'd'  back  y  ur  nerves  to  your  own  purjiose,  nor 


Thus  shnme  yourself  ;ind  me.    Rv  heavens  !   I  'd  -nUi'-j 

Forego  even  now,  or  fail  m  our  intent, 

Than  see  the  man  I  venerate  subside 

Fro!ii  high  resolves  into  such  shallow  weakness! 

You  have  seen  blood  in  battle,  shed  it,  both 

Your  own  and  that  of  others:   can  you  shrink  then 

From  a  few  drops  from  veins  of  hoary  vampires, 

W  ho  but  give  back  v\  iiat  they  have  drain'd  from  million«i 

DOGE. 

Bear  with  me  !    Step  by  step,  and  blow  on  blow, 

I  will  divide  with  you  ;   think  not  1  waver: 

Ah  !   no  ;   it  is  the  certainty  of  all 

Which  I  must  do  doth  make  ine  tremble  thus. 

But  let  thes(!  last  and  lingering  thouglits  have  way. 

To  which  you  only  and  the  night  are  conscious, 

A!)d  both  regardless  :    when  the  hour  arrives, 

'T  is  mine  to  sound  the  knell,  and  strike  the  blow, 

Which  shall  unpeople  many  palaces. 

And  hew  the  highest  gcn(;aiogic  trees 

Down  to  the  earth,  strew'd  with  their  bleeding  fruit, 

And  crush  their  blossoms  into  barrenness; 

77«'s  wdl  I — must  I— have  I  suorn  to  do. 

Nor  aught  can  turn  me  from  my  destiny: 

But  still  I  quiver  to  behold  what  I 

Must  be,  and  tb.ink  wliat  1  have  been  !    Bear  with  n"»o» 

ISRAEL     HERTrcCIO. 

Re-man  your  brea.~t ;  I  feel  no  such  remorse, 
I  unders!;uid  ii  not:  whx'  should  you  (;hange? 
You  acted,  and  you  acr  on  your  free  will. 

DOGE. 

Ay,  tlna-e  it  is — ynu  feel  not,  nor  do  I, 

Else  1  siiould  stab  thee  on  the  s|)Ot,  to  save 

A  thousand  lives,  and,  killnig,  no  no  murder; 

Ymx  feel  not — ynii  ao  to  this  butcher-work 

As  if  thtise  high-born  men  were  ste<;rs  for  shambicd! 

When  all  is  over,  you'll  I'e  free  and  merry. 

And  calmly  wash  thos<;  hands   ncarnadine; 

But  I,  outiroiiig  thee  and  ail  thy  fellows 

in  this  surpassing  massacre,  shall  be. 

Shall  see,  and  feel — oh  God!   oh  God.   'tis  true, 

And  thou  dost  well  to  answer  that  it  was 

'•  My  own  free  will  and  act;"  and  vet  you  err. 

For  1  ii:.itl  do  tills  !    Doubt  not— fear  not  ;    I 

Will  he  your  most  unmerciful  accomplice! 

And  yet  I  act  no  more  on  niv  free  will. 

Nor  my  own  feelings — both  compel  ino  back ; 

i'v.t  there  is  he'd  \\ithin  me  and  around, 

And,  liki'  the  demon  who  believes  and  trembles, 

Alust  I  abhor  and  do.      Away!   away! 

(iet  the<-  unto  tliv  fellows,  I  will  hie  me 

To  i.'atiier  tlu;  rcstainers  of  our  house. 

Doubt  iiof,  Saint  Mark's  great  bell  shall  wake  all  Yenicfc 

Fxcejil  her  slaughter'd  senate :   ere  the  sun 

Be  broad  ujion  the  Adriatic;,  there 

Shall  be  a  voice;  of  y.e(;piiig,  which  shall  drown 

Tl-c  roar  of  waters  in  the  (;ry  of  blood! 

I  am  r(;soived — come  on. 

ISRAEI      BERTtJCCIO. 

Willi  all  my  soul ! 
Kee])  a  firm  rein  upfiii    hese  bursts  of  passion; 
Remember  what  these  men  have  dealt  to  thee, 
And  that  tliis  sacrihce  will  be  succeeded 
Bv  ai,'(;s  of  prosperity  ami  fr(!edom 
To  this  imshackhid  v\\y  :   a  true  tyrant 
Would  have  depoinilated  empires,  nor 
llav<;  f<;lt  the  strange  com|)un(;tioii  which  hathwning  you 
To  punish  a  few  traitors  to  tin;  peo|ile! 
Trust  me,  such  w(;re  a  jiitv  more;  mistilaced 
Than  the  late  mercy  of  the  state  to  Steno, 


MARINO    F  ALIKE  O. 


Till 


Man,  tt»ou  hast  struck  upon  the  chord  which  j;ns 
All  nature  from  my  heart.     Hence  to  our  task  ! 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

P-dnzzn  of  the  Pittririnn  LioM.  Lioni  tai/in^  aside 
the  i)iti'<l.:  'Old.  cl'Kik  vliirh  thr  Vcuethui  JVobles  wore 
in  jinIiUc^  (tttciuird  by  a  iJoiiifttic      ■ 

LIOM. 

r  will  to  rest,  ri-ihl  weary  of  this  revei, 
'J  he  i;a.\est  we  have  held  for  many  moons, 
And  yet,  1  know  not  why,  it  cheer'd  me  not; 
Tiiere  came  a  heaviness  across  my  heart, 
Which  in  the  liijhtest  movement  of  the  dance, 
Thoiii^h  eve  *o  ev(!  and  hand  in  hand  united, 
Even  with  the  lady  of  my  love,  oppress'd  mo. 
And  throujjh  mv  s[)irit  chill'd  mv  h'iood,  nntil 
A  clamp  like  <leath  ro--e  o'er  my  hrow  ;    I  strove 
To  lanijh  the  thonaj.t  awav,  but  't  would  not  be  ; 
Throuiih  all  the  nmsic  rin^m<;  in  my  ears 
A  knell  was  sounding  as  distinct  and  clear, 
Thou<:h  low  and  far,  as  e'er  the  Adrian  wave 
Kose  o'er  the  citv's  murmur  in  the  ni^lu, 
Dashinw  against  the  outward  Lido's  bulwark; 
So  that  I  left  the  festival  before 
It  reuc.ird  its  zenith,  and  will  woo  my  ])illow 
For  thoughts  more  tranquil,  or  forgetfuiness. 
Antonio,  take  mv  mask  and  cloak,  and  light 
The  lamp  within  my  chamber. 

AXTOXIO. 

Yes,  my  lord  , 
Command  you  no  refreshment? 

LIONI. 

Nought,  save  sleep, 
Which  will  not  be  commanded.     Let  me  hope  it, 

[£".777  An  TO  MO. 
Though  my  breast  feels  too  anxious  ;  I  will  try 
Whether  the  air  will  calm  my  spirits  ;   't  is 
A  goodlv  night ;   the  cloudy  wind  which  blew 
From  the  Levant  hath  crept  into  its  cave, 
And  the  broad  moon  has  brighten'd.    What  a  stillness! 

[  Goes  to  an  open  I  attire. 
And  what  a  contrast  with  the  scene  I  left. 
Where  the  tall  torches'  glare,  and  silver  lamps' 
More  pallid  gleam  along  th'-  tapestried  walls. 
Spread  over  the  reluctant  gloom  which  haunts 
Those  vast  and  dimly-latticed  galleries 
A  dazzling  mass  of  artificial  light, 
Which  show'd  ail  things,  but  notliing  as  they  were. 
There  Ag(;  essaying  to  recall  th.;  past. 
After  long  strivu:g  for  the  hues  of  youth 
At  the  sad  labour  of  the  toilet,  and 
Full  many  a  glance  at  the  too  faithful  mirror, 
r*rankt  forth  in  all  the  pride  of  ornament. 
Forgot  itself,  and  trusting  to  the  falsehood 
Of  the  indulgent  beams,  which  sliow,  yet  hide, 
Believed  itself  forgotten,  and  was  fool'd. 
There  Youth,  which  needed  not,  nor  thought  of  such 
Vain  adjuncts,  lavish'd  its  true  bloom,  and  health, 
And  bridal  beauty,  in  the  unwholesome  press 
Of  flush'd  and  crowded  wassailers,  and  wasted 
Its  hours  of  rest  in  dreaming  this  was  plea|(jre. 
And  so  shall  waste  them  till  the  sunrise  streams 
On  sallow  cheeks  and  sunken  eyes,  which  should  not 
Have  worn  this  aspect  yet  for  many  a  year. 
The  music,  and  the  banquet,  and  the  wine — 
The  garlands,  the  rose  odours,  and  the  llowe-s — 


The  s[)arkl!ng  e^es  and  Hashnig  ornatiirrus — 
The  white  arms  and  iIh;  raven  h;ur--tl'.i'  braids 
And  bracelets  ;'  swanlike  bosoms,  and  the  iieckiace, 
An  India  in  itself,  yet  daz/ling  not 
The  fcve  like  what  it  circled  :    ihe  thin  robes 
Floating  like  light  clouds  'iwixt  our  g;ize  and  heaven, 
The  many  twinkling  feet  so  small  and  sylphhke. 
Suggesting  the  more  si;cret  symmetry 
Of  t!ie.  fair  forms  which  terminate  so  well — 
All  the  delusion  of  tue  dizzy  s.^ene. 
Its  fdse  and  true  enchantments—art  anil  nature, 
Which  swam  before  my  giddy  eves,  that  drank 
The  sight  of  beauty  as  the  |)a:ch'd  pilgrim's 
On  Arab  sands  the  false  mirage,  which  oilers 
-A  lucid  lake  to  his  eluded  thirst. 
Are  gone. — Around  me  are  tlie  stars  and  waters- 
Worlds  mirror'd  in  the  ocean,  goixllier  sight 
Than  torches  glared  bat^k  by  a  gauiiy  glass  ; 
And  the  great  element,  whi(di  is  to  space 
\Vhat  or(,'an  is  lo  earth,  spri-ids  its  blue  depths, 
SoOenM  with  iIk;  first  breathings  of  the  spring; 
The  high  moon  sails  upnn  her  beaulcous  uay, 
Serenelv  smoo'hing  o'er  tlie  lofry/Aalls 
Of  those  tall  piles  an. I  sea-girt  pala<-e>. 
Whose  [)orphyry  pillars,  and  whose  co-tlv  fronts, 
Fraught  witli  the  orient  sjioil  of  many  inar'oles. 
Like  altars  ranged  along  the  bmad  can:d. 
Seem  each  a  trophv  of  son.e  mighty  dee-d 
Re.ar'd  rp  from  out  t!ie  waters,  scirce  less  strangely 
Than  those  more  massv  and  mysterious  giants 
Of  architecture,  those  Titanian  fabrics. 
Which  point  in  Egvpt's  plains  to  times  that  have 
No  other  record       All  is  gentle;   nought 
Stirs  rudelv  ;    but,  congeninl  with  the  night. 
Whatever  walks  is  gliding  like  a  spirit. 
The  tinklings  of  some  vigilant  guitars 
Of  sleeiiless  lovers  to  a  wakeful  mistress, 
And  cautious  opening  of  the  casement,  showing 
That  he  is  not  unheard  ;   while  her  young  hand, 
Fair  as  the  moonlight  of  which  it  seems  part. 
So  dehcately  white,  it  trembles  in 
The  act  of  opening  the  forbidden  lattice, 
To  let  in  love  through  music,  makes  his  heart 
Thrill  like  his  lyre-strings  at  the  sight ; — the  dash 
Phosphoric  of  the  ear,  or  rapid  fvinkle 
Of  the  far  lights  of  skimming  gondolas, 
And  the  responsive  voices  of  the  choir 
Of  boatmen  answering  back  with  verse  for  verse, 
Some  dusky,  shadow  checiuering  ihe  Rialto; 
Some  glimmering  palace  roof,  or  tapering  spire, 
Are  all  the  sights  and  sounds  whicli  here  pervade 
The  ocean-born  and  earth-commanding  city. 
How  sweet  and  soothing  is  this  hour  of  calm ! 
I  thank  thee,  night!   for  thou  hast  chased  awav 
Those  horrid  bodenients  which,  amidst  the  throng, 
I  could  not  dissipate:    and,  with  t!ie  blessing 
Of  thy  benign  and  (piiet  influenc(>, 
Now  will  I  to  my  couch,  although  to  rest 

Is  almost  wrongir-g  such  a  night  as  this 

[A  knocking  is  licarn  from  vithavi 
Hark !   what  is  that  ?   or  who  at  sucii  a  moment '/ 
Entn-  Antomo. 

ANTOMO. 

My  lord,  a  man  without,  on  urgent  business, 
Imi)lores  to  be  admitted. 

LIOXI. 

Is  he  a  stranger? 

AXTOMO. 

His  face  is  muffled  in  his  cloak,  but  both 
His  voice  and  gestures  seem  familiar  to  me ; 


542 


BYRON'S    rOETTCAL    WORKS. 


I  craved  his  name,  but  this  he  seem'd  reluctant 
To  trust,  save  to  yourself;   most  earnestly 
fie  sues  to  be  permitted  to  approach  you. 

LIOM. 

'T  IS  a  strange  hour,  and  a  suspicious  bearing ! 
And  yet  there  is  slight  peril :   't  is  not  m 
Their  houses  noble  men  are  struck  at ;   still, 
Although  I  know  not  that  I  have  a  foe 
In  Venice,  't  will  be  wise  to  use  some  caution- 
Admit  him,  and  retire ;    but  call  up  (piickly 
Some  of  thy  fellows,  who  may  wait  without. — 
Who  can  this  man  be  ? 
Exit  AxTo.MO.  a7id  returns  icitli  Bertram  muffled. 

BERTRAM. 

Mv  good  lord  Lioni, 
I  have  no  time  to  lose,  nor  thou — dismiss 
Tills  menial  hence ;   I  would  be  private  with  you. 

LTOXI. 

It  seems  the  voice  of  Bertram — go,  Antonio. 

[Exit    AXTONIO. 

Now,  stranger,  what  would  you  at  such  an  hour  ? 

BERTRAM  {discovering  himself). 
A  boon,  my  noble  patron  ;   you  have  granted 
Manv  to  vDur  poor- client,  Bertram;   add 
Tins  one,  and  make  him  happy. 

LIONI. 

Thou  hast  known  me 
From  bovhood,  ever  ready  to  assist  thee 
In  all  fair  objects  of  advancement,  which 
Besoem  one  of  thv  station  ;   I  would  promise 
Ere,  thy  rc(|uest  was  beard,  but  that  the  h'»ur, 
Thv  bearincr.  and  this  strange  and  hurried  mode 
Of  suing,  gives  me  to  suspect  this  visit 
n.uh  SOUK!  myst^'rioiis  inijiort — but  say  on — 
What  has  occurred,  soine  rash  and  sudden  broil? 
A  cu|)  too  much,  a  sculfle,  and  a  stab? — 
Mere  things  of  every  day  ;   so  tliat  thou  hast  not 
Spilt  noble  blood,  I  guaranty  thy  safety  ; 
But  then  thou  must  withdraw,  for  angry  friends 
And  relatives,  in  the  first  burst  of  vengeance, 
Are  things  m  Venice  deadlier  than  the  laws. 

BERTRAM 

My  lord,  I  thank  you  ;  but 

LIONI. 

But  what?  You  have  not 
R;'.ised  a  rash  hand  against  one  of  our  order? 
If  so,  v.-ithdraw  and  lly,  tutd  own  it  not; 
I  would  not  slay — but  then  I  must  not  save  thee  ' 
fie  who  has  shed  patrician  blood 

KEKTKAM. 

I  come 
Tn  save  pat>--ciari  blood,  and  not  to  shed  it ! 
And  l!i<reur)to  I  must  be  sj)eedy,  for 
K;,(h  miMutr  lost  itniA-  lose  a  life:    since  Time 
\\:i<  changed  Ins  slow  scythe  for  the  two-edged  sword, 
Afid  IS  aliout  to  take,  instead  of  sand, 
riii;  dust  fr'>m  sepulchres  to  fill  his  hour-glass!— 
Go  not  thou  forth  to-morrow  ! 

I.IOM. 

W  herefore  not  ? — 
W'lat  means  tliis  menace? 

BERTi;  AM. 

Do  not  seek  its  meaning) 
But  do  as  I  implore  thet; ; — stir  not  forth, 
Whate'er  be  stirring  ;    though  the  roar  of  crowds — 
The  crv  of  women,  and  the  shrieks  of  i);il>cs — 
The  groans  of  mi  ii — the  clash  of  arms — the  sound 
(if  rolling  drum,  shrill  trump,  and  hollow  l<ell, 
Pea.  m  otk;  wide  aiariim  ! — Go  not  forth 
Until  the  tocsin's  silc'iit,  nor  ev<-n  llien 
'J'il  1  Miturn! 


LIONI. 

Again,  what  does  this  mean? 

BERTRA.M. 

Again,  I  tell  thee,  ask  not ;   but  by  all 
Thou  boldest  dear  on  earth  or  heaven — by  aR 
The  souls  of  thy  great  fathers,  and  thv  hope 
To  emulate  them,  and  to  leave  behi-id 
Descendants  worthy  both  of  them  and  tnee — 
By  all  thou  hast  of  biest  in  hope  or  memory — 
By  all  thou  hast  to  fear  here  or  hereafter — 
liy  all  the  good  deeds  thou  hast  done  to  me, 
Good  I  would  now  repay  with  greater  good, 
Remain  within— trust  to  thy  household  gods 
And  to  mv  word  for  safety,  if  thou  dost 
As  I  now  counsel— but  if  not,  thou  art  lost; 

LIONI. 

I  am  indeed  already  lost  in  wonder: 

Surely  thou  ravest !   what  have  /  to  dread  ? 

Who  are  my  foes  ?  or,  if  there  be  such,  why 

Art  thou  leagued  with  Xheml—ihou  !  or,  if  so  leagued 

Why  comesL  thou  to  tell  me  at  this  hour, 

And  not  before  ? 

BERTRAM. 

I  cannot  answer  this. 
Wilt  thou  go  for^h  despite  of  this  true  warning? 

LIONI. 

I  was  not  born  to  shrink  from  idle  threats. 
The  cause  of  which  i  know  not:   at  the  hour 
Of  couucil,  be  it  soon  or  late,  I  shall  not 
Be  found  among  the  absent. 

BERTRAM. 

Say  not  so ! 
Once  more,  art  thou  determined  to  go  foitli? 

LIOM. 

I  am  ;  nor  is  there  aught  uhich  shall  impede  me  I 

BERTRA.M. 

Then  Heaven  have  mercy  on  thy  soul !— Farewell  1 

[  Going 

LIONI. 

Stay— there  is  more  in  this  than  my  own  safety 
Which  makes  me  call  thee  back  ;  we  must  not  part  thus! 
Bertram,  1  have  known  thee  long. 

BERTRAM. 

From  childliood,  signoi 
You  have  been  my  protector :   in  the  ilays 
Of  reckless  lufuicy,  when  rank  forgets. 
Or.  rather,  is  not  yet  taught  to  remember 
Its  cold  prerogative,  we  play'd  together; 
Our  sports,  our  smiles,  our  tears,  were  mingled  ;ft; 
My  fiither  was  your  father's  client,  I 
His  son's  scarce  less  than  foster-brother;   years 
Saw  us  together— happy,  heart-full  hours  !  — 
Oh  God!   the  diiiereuce  'twi.xt  those  hours  and  this! 

LIONI. 

Bertram,  'tis  thou  who  hast  forgotten  them. 

BERTRAM. 

Nor  now,  nor  ever  ;   whatsoe'er  betide, 

I  would  have  saved  you :   when  to  manhood's  growth 

We  sprung,  and  you,  devoted  to  the  state. 

As  suits  your  station,  the  more  humble  Bertram 

Was  left'unto  the  labours  of  the  humble. 

Still  you  forsook  me  not:   and  if  my  fortunes 

Have  not  been  towering,  't  was  no  fault  of  him 

Who  oft-times  rescued  and  supported  me 

When  struggling  with  the  tides  of  circumstance 

Which  biNir  away  the  weaker:    noble  blood 

Ne'er  mantled  in  a  nobler  heart  than  thine 

Has  proved  to  me,  the  poor  plebeian  Bertram. 

Would  that  thy  fellow  senators  were  like  thee! 

LIOM. 

Why,  what  hast  thou  to  say  against  the  senate'^ 


MAllINO    F.ALIERO. 


64: 


CEKTRAM. 

Vc  thing. 

LIONI. 

I  know  th:it  there  are  angry  spirits 
And  turliulcii!  iniitttrers  of  stilled  treason, 
U  no  urk  in  narrow  places,  and  walk  out 
MiitHed  to  whisper  cnrses  to  the  ninlH  ; 
Disband.'d  soliiiers,  discontented  rutrians, 
And  desperate  lilx-rlines  wIk.  brawl  ni  taverns. 
Ih'in  hcrdcst  not  witii  such:   't  is  true,  of  late 
I  Ir.ive  lost  v!i.'ht  of  thee,  Init  thou  w.Tt  wont 
To  lead  a  temperate  life,  and  hrrak  ihy  bread 
With  honest  mates,  and  bear  a  chtH'rful  aspect. 
U'liat  ha'li  coiiif  to  thee  /   in  tliy  hollow  eye 
And  hut-less  cheek,  and  thine  unipiiet  nioiions, 
Sorrow  and  .-ihame  and  conscience  seem  at  war 
To  waste  thee. 

BF.RTRA:\r. 

Rather  shame  and  sorrow  lii;ht 
On  I  he  accursed  tyranny  which  rides 
The  ver\"  air  in  VeifuN^,  and  makes  men 
Midden  as  in  the  last  hours  of  th.e  plai;ue 
Which  sweeps  the  sou!  dehriouslv  from  life! 

LIONI. 

Some  villains  have  been  tampering  with  thee,  Rertrain 

Tiiis  is  not  thy  old  language,  nor  own  thoughts; 

Soiiie  wretch  has  made  thee  drunk  with  disatfcction 

Kut  thou  must  not  be  lost  so:    thou  vert  (jood 

And  kind,  and  art  not  fit  \ot  such  base  acts 

As  vice  an<l  vi'dany  wuuhl  jiut  ihee  to: 

Contest — confide  in  me — thou  know'st  my  nature — 

What  is  It  thou  and  thine  ate  bound  to  do. 

Which  should  prevent  thv  friend,,  the  only  son 

Of  hun  who  was  a  friend  nnto  thy  father, 

So  that  our  cr<)od-v\ii]  is  a  herltaL'e 

W--  <houi  I  ;ie<|ueatii  to  our  posterity 

Such  as  eurseives  receiv-d  it,  or  aui'incnted  ; 

I  s.iv    what  IS  it  thou  must  do,  tiiat  I 

>iio  lo  aeem  t'lee  dangerous,  and  keep  the  house 

Like  a  sick  girl  / 

BERTKA-M. 

Nav,  (uiesfion  mc  no  further: 
I  must  be  gone 

L-^OM. 

And  I  be  murder'd  I — say, 
WuS  it  not  thus  thou  said'st,  my  gentle  Bertram? 

BEKTRA.M- 

VVho  talk',  of  murder  ;    what  saui  I  of  murder? 
'T  is  false     1  did  not  utter  such  a  word. 

I.IONI. 

Thou  didst  not  ;   but  from  out  tliy  woltish  eye, 

So  chaiio-e,.  \rnv.\  v.  hat  I  knew  it,  there  glares  forth 

Tile  ijladiator.      If /«v  ''f'-'s  'hine  object. 

Take  It — I  .m  uuarniM, — anii  then  away! 

I  Auuiii  ii.ii  hold  mv  breath  on  such  a  tenure 

As  the  capri.;ious  mercy  of  such  things 

As  tliou  and  those  who  have  set  thee  to  thy  task-work. 

BERTRAM. 

Sooner  than  sr-il!  thy  l)lood,  1  p(  lil  mine  ; 
Sooner  than  harm  a  hair  of  thine,  I  place 
In  jeoDardv  a  thousand  heads,  ami  some 


A\.  IS  it  even  so?    Excuse  me,  Hertram; 
I  am  not  worthy  to  he  sin^zh d  out 
From  such  exalted  ne-catombs — who  are  they 
That  are  iii  .langer,  and  that  muhc  the  datlger? 

MERTRAM. 

Venice,  a!id  all  that  she  inherits,  are 

Divided  like  a  house  against  itself, 

And  so  will  pensh  ere  trwniorrow's  twilight! 


I  loxi. 

IMore  mvsteiies,  and  awful  ones!   Rut  now, 
Or  tiiou,  or  I,  or  both,  it  may  be,  are 

L'pon  the  verg(!  of  ruin;    speak  once  out, 

And  thou  art  safe  and  glorious  ;   f  )r  'l  is  more 

Glorious  to  -.ave  than  slay,  and  slay  i'  the  dark  too— 

Fie,  Bertram!   that  was  not  a  craft  for  thee! 

How  woiilil  it  look  to  see  upon  a  spear 

The  head  of  liiin  whose  heart  was  ojien  to  thee^ 

Rome  l>v  thv  hand  before  the  shudtlering  people? 

And  such  may  be  my  doom;   f<jr  here  I  swear, 

VVhate'er  tlie  |>eri!  or  the  penalty 

Of  thy  denuncK.iion.  I  go  forth,' 

Tiiless  thou  .lost  detail  the  cause,  and  show 

Tiie  cons.Mpience  of  all  which  led  thee  here! 

BEI'.TllAM. 

Is  there  no  way  to  save  thee  ?   minutes  fly, 

Ana  tlioii  art  lost !   thm  1   my  sole  benefactor, 

The  oniv  being  \vho  v.  as  constant  to  me 

Through  every  change.     Y(!t,  make  ine  not  a  traitor' 

Let  me  save  thee — but  spare  my  honour! 

LIO.NI. 

Where 

Can  lie  the  honour  in  a  league  of  murder? 
And  who  are  traitors  save  unto  the  state? 

BERTRAM. 

A  lea2ue  is  still  a  compact,  and  more  binding 
In  honest  hearts  when  words  must  stand  for  law  j 
And  in  mv  mind,  there  is  no  traitor  like 
He  whose  domestic  treason  plants  the  poniard 
Within  the  breast  which  trusted  to  his  truth. 

LIOM. 

And  irho  will  strike  the  steel  to  mine  ? 

BERTRAM. 

Not  I ; 

\  could  have  wound  mv  soul  u'l  to  n''  tliiieis 

Save  this.     Tlou  must  not  die  !   and  think  how  dear 

Thy  life  is,  when  I  risk  so  many  lives, 

Nav,  more,  the  liie  of  lives,  the  liberty 

Of  i'uture  generations,  )i'd  to  be 

Tlie  assassin  tiiou  niiscall'st  me  ; — once,  once  more 

I  do  adjure  thee,  pass  not  o'er  tiiy  threshold! 

lOM. 

It  is  in  vain — this  moment  I  H"  ibrth. 

BERTRA.M. 

Then  perish  Venice  ratheT  than  my  friend! 
I  wiii  disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
Oh,  what  a  v-llain  I  become  tor  thee! 

1. 1 0  M . 

Sav  rath:'r,  thv  friend's  saviour  and  the  state's . - 
Sj,',-ak— 11  u;s.-  n..t— all  rewards,  all  pledges  for 
Thv  sali  \y  aad  thy  welfare  ;    wealth  such  as 
Th-  st;.i..   accords  her  worthiest  servants;   nay, 
Noliilitv  itseif  I  guaranty  thee, 
So  that  t'lou  art  snicere  and  penitent. 

BERTRAM. 

I  have  th..uii;'it  again.:    it  must  not  be — I  love  thee— 
Thou  kiiowest  it — that  I  stand  here  is  the  proof. 
Not  least  tliouuh  last ;    but,  having  done  my  dut)' 
By  thee,  I  no  v  must  do  it  by  my  country  ! 
Fareweli ! — ^e  meet  no  more  in  lite  ! — farewell! 

LIOXI. 

What,  ho!   Antonio — Pedro — to  the  door' 

See  that  none  jiass — arrest  this  man  ! 

En'er  An  tomo  and  other  armed  D'lmeMics^  icho  seize 

Bertram. 

LiOM  (continues). 

Take  crui; 
He  hath  no  harm  ;  bring  me  my  sword  and  cloak. 
And  man  the  gondola  with  four  oars — (juick — 

\Exit  Antonio 


544 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


We  will  unto  (iiovaniii  Grademgo's, 

And  send  for  Marc  Cornaro: — Fear  not,  Bertram  ; 

This  needful  violence  is  tor  thy  safety, 

i\o  less  than  for  the  general  weal. 


sear  me  a  prisoner  t 


Next,  to  the  Doge. 


Where  wouldst  thou 

LIOISI. 

Firstly,  to  "  The  Ten  ;" 


BERTRAM. 

To  the  Doge  '^ 

LIOXI. 

Assuredly ; 
Is  he  not  cliief  of  the  state? 

BKirruAM. 

Perhaps  at  sunrise 

LIONI. 

What  mean  you  ? — but  we  '11  know  anon. 

BEKTRAM. 

Art  sure  / 

LIONI. 

Sure  as  all  gentle  means  can  make  ;   and  if 
Tiiey  fail,  you  know  -'The  Ten"  and  their  tribunal, 
And  that  Saint  Mark's  has  dungeons,  and  the  dungeons 
A  rack. 

BKKTRAM. 

Apply  to  it  before;  the  dawn 
Now  hastening  into  htiaveu. — One  more  such  word, 
And  you  shall  perish  piecemeal,  by  the  death 
Ve  think  to  doom  to  me. 

Rp-e»tcr  Antoxto. 

ANTONIO. 

The  bark  is  ready, 
Mj  loro,  and  ail  prepared. 

LIONI. 

Look  to  the  prisoner. 
Bertram,  I'll  reason  with  thee  as  we  go 
To  the  Magnilico's,  sage  Gradenigo.  [Exeunt. 


scf:ne  II. 

The  Dur,<l  Palnr.c — tlu'^  Dige'a  ApaHment. 
The  Dog?:  and  his  nephew  Bertuccio  Fai.iero. 

DOGE. 

Are  all  the  people  of  our  house  in  muster? 

bertuccio   kaliero. 
Thav  are  array'd,  and  eager  for  the  signal, 
Within  our  valace  precincts  at  San  Polo.'* 
I  f:orae  for  your  last  orders. 

DOGE. 

It  had  been 
As  well  had  there  bc(!n  time  to  have  got  together 
From  my  own  fief,  Val  di  Marino,  more 
Of  our  retainers — but  it  is  too  late. 

BERTUCCIO   FALIERO. 

Methinks,  mv  lord,  't  is  better  as  it  is  ; 

A  sudden  swelling  of  our  retinue 

Had  wak(^d  suspicion  ;   and,  though  fierce  and  trusty, 

The  vassals  of  that  district  are  too  rude 

And  fpnck  in  quarrel  to  have  long  maintain'd 

rhj  secret  fliKci|)line  we  need  for  such 

A  service,  till  our  foes  are  dealt  upon. 

COGE. 

Tru(.      but  when  once  th*;  signal  has  been  given, 

Tliese  are  the  men  for  such  an  enterprise  : 

These  city  slaves  have  all  tlieir  private  bias, 

'F'heir  pr(!Judice  nf^ainst  or  for  this  noble. 

Which  may  .nduce  them  to  o'(!rdo,  or  spare 

^V'beri   mercy  may  ho  madness  ;   the  fierce  peasants, 


Serfs  of  my  country  of  Val  di  Marino, 

Would  do  the  bidding  of  their  lord  w-thout 

Distmguishing  lor  love  or  hate  his  foes  ; 

Alike  to  them  Maree'io  or  Cornaro, 

A  Gradenigo  or  a  Foscari ; 

They  are  not  used  to  start  at  those  vain  names. 

Nor  bow  the  knee  before  a  civic  senate: 

A  chief  in  armour  is  their  suzerain. 

And  not  a  thing  in  robes. 

BERTUCCIO    KALIERO. 

We  are  enough  j 

And  for  the  dispositions  of  our  clients 
Against  the  senate,  I  will  answer. 

DOGE. 

Well, 
The  die  is  thrown  ;   but  for  a  warlike  service, 
Done  in  the  field,  commend  me  to  my  peasants  ; 
They  made  the  sun  shine  through  the  host  of  Huna 
When  sallow  burghers  slunk  back  to  their  tents, 

I    And  cower'(i  to  hear  their  own  victorious  trumpet. 
If  there  be  small  resistance,  voii  will  tind 

;    These  citizens  all  lions,  lik(!  their  standard  ; 
But  if  there  's  much  to  do,  you  'I!  w  ish  with  me 
A  band  of  iron  rustics  at  our  backs. 

BERTUf^CTO    I'ALIERO.  , 

Thus  thinking,  I  must  marvel  yon  resolved 
To  strike  the  blow  so  suddenly. 

DOGE. 

Such  blows 
Mnst  be  struck  suddenly  or  never.      When 

i    I  had  o'ermaster'd  tin;  weak  false  remorse 
Which  yearn'd  al)out  my  heart,  too  fondly  vieldino 
A  moment  to  the  feelings  of  old  davs, 

.    I  was  most  fain  to  strike  ;    and,  tlrstlv,  that 
I  might  not  yield  ajain  to  such  emotions  ; 
And,  secondly,  because  of  all  these  men, 
Save  Israel  and  Phili[)  Calendaro, 
I  knew  not  well  the  courage  or  the  faith 
To-day  miuht  find  'moiigst  them  a  traitor  to  us, 

j    As  yesterday  a  tliousaiul  to  the  senate ; 

I    But  once  in,  with  their  hills  hot  in  their  hands, 

I    They  must  on.  for  their  own  sakes  ;   one  stroke  strucK, 
And  the  mere  instinct  of  the  hrst-born  Cain, 
Winch  ever  lurks  somen  h(;r^;  m  human  hearts. 
Though  circumstance  may  keep  it  in  abeyance, 
Will  urge  the  rest  on  like  to  wolves  ;   the  sight 
Of  blood  to  crowds  begets  the  diirst  of  more, 
As  the  first  wine-cup  leads  to  the  long  revel ; 
And  you  will  hiid  a  hard-r  task  to  cpiell 
Than  urge  them  when  they  hate  comiuenced  ;   but  txiS 
That  moment,  a  m(>re  voice,  a  straw,  a  shadow 
Is  capable  of  turning  them  aside. — 
How  goes  the  night? 

BERTUCCIO   FALIERO. 

Almost  upon  the  dawn. 

DOGE. 

Then  it  is  time  to  strike  upon  the  bell. 
Are  the  men  posted  ? 

BERTUCCIO   FALIERO. 

By  this  time  they  are  ; 
But  they  have  orders  not  to  strike,  until 
They  have;  commaml  from  you  through  me  in  peraon, 

DOGE. 

'T  is  well. — Will  the  morn  never  put  to  rest 

These  stars  wlr.ch  twinkle  yet  o'er  all  the  heavens? 

I  am  settled  and  bound  u|),  and  being  so, 

The  very  effort  which  it  cost  me  to 

Besolve  to  cleansi;  this  commonwealth  with  fire 

No\v  l(>aves  my  mind  more  steady.     I  have  wept. 

And  tremtileJ  at  the  tJiought  of  this  dread  duty ; 


MAEINO    FALIERO. 


545 


Bat  now  I  have  put  down  all  idle  passion, 

Aiul   ook  the  growing  tempest  in  the  face, 

As  dotii  the  [)ilot  of  an  adiuiral  galley  • 

Yi-l  (woiiidst  thou  think  it,  kinsman?)  it  hath  been 

A  greater  struggle  to  me,  than  wiien  nations 

He/x'ld  their  fate  merged  in  tiie  approaching  fight, 

Wnere  1  was  leader  of  a  phalanx,  where 

Thousands  were  sure  to  perish — Yes,  to  spill 

l"he  rani;  polluted  current  from  the  veins 

Of  a  few  hloaled  despots  needed  more 

T:>  steel  me  to  a  pur[)ose  such  as  made 

Tii;i()leon  innnorlal,  than  to  face 

The  toils  and  dangers  of  a  life  of  war. 

EKKTL-L'CIO   KAI.IKRO. 

It  gladdens  me  to  see  your  former  wisdom 
Subdue  the  furies  wliich  so  wrung  j-ou  ere 
VoLi  were  decided. 

DOCE. 

It  was  ever  thus 
With  me ;   the  hour  of  agitation  came 
In  the  first  giinnneruigs  of  a  purpose,  when 
Passion  had  too  much  room  to  swav ;    but  in 
The  hour  of  action  I  have  stood  as  calm 
As  were  the  dead  who  lav  arouu^mc:    this 
They  knew  who  made  me  what  I  am,  and  trusied 
To  the  subduing'power  whicli  I  preserved 
Over  my  mood,  when  its  tirst  hurst  was  spent. 
Hut  they  were  not  aware  that  there  are  things 
Which  make  revenge  a  virtue  by  reflection, 
And  not  an  imiail.-c  of  mere  anger:   though 
The  laws  s!e»^p.  justice  v.akes,  and  injured  souls 
Oft  do  a  public  ritrht  with  private  wioish- 
And  justity  their  df-f^.d^  unto  themselves. — 
^Tvthinks  the  dav  breaks — is  it  not  so  ?  look, 
Trine  eyes  are  clear  with  youth  ; — tne  air  puts  on 
A  n'lorning  freshness,  and,  at  least  to  me, 
Tne  °ea  looks  orayer  through   the  lattice. 

BEKTLCCIO    FALIERO. 

True, 
The  morn  is  dajipling  in  tb.e  sky. 

DOGE. 

Awav,  then! 
See  that  they  strike  without  delav,  and  with 
The  first  toll  from  Si.  Mark's,  march  on  the  palace 
With  all  our  house's  stretiijth  ;   here  I  will  meet  you— 
The  Sixteen  and  their  companies  will  move 
In  separate  columns  at  tl^e  selfsame  moment — 
Be  sure  you  [lost  yourself  by  the  great  gate, 
I  would  not  trust  "  The  Ten  "  except  to  us — 
The  rest,  the  rabble  of  patricians,  may 
Glut  the  more  careless  swords  of  those  leagued  witn  us. 
Remember  that  the  c^v  is  still  "  Saint  Mark! 
The-  Genoese  are  cnme-  ho  !    to  the  rescue  ! 
Saint  Mark  and  libertv  !"—  Now — now  to  action  I 

HKK'IUCCIO    FA  I.IEKO. 

Farewell  then,  noble  uncle  !  we  will  meet 
In  rreed(jm  and  true  sovereiijntv,  or  never  ! 

I)o(;e. 
Cc ijie  hither,  my  Bertuccio-^one  embrace — 
Sp<  ed,  f<)r  the  dav  arows  brcKuier — Send  me  soon 
A  messenger  to  tell  me  how  all  goes 
W  lion  vou  rejoin  our  troops,  and  then  sound — sound 
T!..;  ?torm  bell  from  Samt  Mark's  ! 

[Krif  BfUTrct'io  Famf.ko. 

DOCK     (s<./».v). 

He  IS  gone, 
And  on  each  footsteji  move';  a  life. — 'Tis  done. 
Now  the  destrfiviiii;  anm-l  hovers  o'er 
Venice,  and  pauses  ere  he  pours  the  vial, 
Even  as  the  engle   overlooks  bis  prey. 
And  for  a  mom.ent  |)oised  in  middle  air, 
35 


Suspends  the  motion  of  his  mig  ity  wings. 

Then  swoops  with  his  unerring  beak. — Thou  day ! 

That  slowly  walk'st  the  waters  !   march — march  on- 

I  would  not  smite  i'  the  dark,  but  rather  see 

That  no  stroke  errs.     And  you,  ye  blue   sea-wavca 

I  have  seen  you  dyed  ere  now,  and  deejdy  too, 

With  Genoese,  Saracen,  and  fluiinish  gore, 

While  that  of  Venice  llow'd  too,  but  victorious: 

Now  thou  njust  wear  an  unmix'd  crimson  ;  no 

Barbaric  blood  can  reconcile  us  now 

Unto  that  horrible  incarnadine. 

But  friend  or  foe  will  roll  in  civic  slaughter. 

And  have  I  lived  to  fourscore  years  for  this  ? 

I,  who  was  named  preserver  of  the  city  ? 

I,  at  whose  name  the  million's  caps  were  <aing 

Into  the  air,  and  cries  from  tens  of  thousands 

Rose  up,  imploring  Heaven  to  send  mr.  blessings, 

And  fame  and   length  of  days — to  see  this  day  '/ 

But  this  day,  black  within  the  calendar. 

Shall  b(,'  succeeded  by  a  bright   millennium. 

Doije  Dandolo  survived  to  ninety  summers 

To  van(|uis!i  empires  and  refuse  their  crown; 

I  will  resign  a  crown,  and  make  the  state 

Renew  its  freedom — but  oh  !    by  what  means? 

The  no!)le  end  must  justify  them — What 

Are  a  ♦ew  drops  of  human  blood  ?   't  is  false, 

The  bloo  1  of  tyrants  is  not  human?   they, 

Like  to  incarnate  Moloclis,  fc^ed  on  ours, 

Until  'tis  tim<;  to  givrf  them  to  tl.t^  tombs 

Which  ihev  have  made  so  populous. — Oh  world  ! 

Oh  men  !    what  are  ve,  an<l  our  best  d(>sii,ms. 

That  we  must  work  by  crime  to  punish  crime  ? 

And  slav  as  if  Death  had  but  this  one  irate. 

When  a  few  years  wool  1  make  the  sword  superfluoiin' 

And  I,  upon  tne  verge  of  the  unknown  realm, 

Yet  send  so  many  heralds  on  before  mc  ? — 

I  must  not  ponder  this. 

I  A  pause. 
Hark  I   was  there  not 
A  murmur  as  of  distant  voices,  and 
The  tramp  of  feet  in  martial  unison? 
What  phantoms  even  of  sound  our  wishes  raise  I 
It  cannot  be — the  siiinal  hath  not  rung — 
Why  pauses  it?   My  nephew's  nif-sseiiger 
Should  be  ujjon  his  way  to  me,  and  he 
Himself  perhaps  even  now  draws  grating  back 
Upon  its  pon.lerons  hiegc  tlie  steijp  tower  portal, 
Where  swings  the  sullen  huge  oracular  bell, 
Which  never  knelh  but  for  a  jiriiu-ely  death, 
Or  for  a  stale  in  peri!,  pealin-  forth 
I'remeiidous  hod.Mnents  ;    let  it  do  its  office, 
And  be  this  peal  its  awfiillest  and  last. 
Sound  till  ilie  strong  low(r  rock! — What,  silent  Htill? 
I  would  i:o  Ibrili.  but  that  my  post  is  here. 
To  b(;  ihe  ceiiire  of  reunion  to 
The  oft-disconlant  elements  which  form 
Leagues  of  this  nature,  and  to  keeji  com|)act 
The  waverini;  or  the  weak,  in  cn^i'  of  conflict: 
For  if  thev  should  di>  batde,  't  \\ill  be  here, 
Within  the  i)alace,  that  the  strife  will  thicken  ; 
Then  h.(-r(!  must  be  mv  station,  as  becomes 
The  ma>ter-MH)ver.  — Hark!   he  comes— lie  comea, 
My  nephew,  brave  Hertuccio's  nie>set;_rer.- 
What  tuliiiL's?    Is  bemarchmir?    Hath  he  sped?— 
The,;  hcrcl—all's  lost— y.-t  wll'  I  make  an  effort. 
Enter  ((  SioNoK  OF  the  Nir,HT,=~  nilh  Guanls.,ctfl 

SIGNOK   OF  THF.    NMGUT. 

Doge,  I  arrest  thee  of  hi^h  treason  ! 

DOGE. 

Me  ' 

Thy  i)rince,  of  treason  !— Who  are  they   hat  daro 


540 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Cloak  their  own  treason  under  such  an  order  ? 

siG^'OR  OF  THE  NIGHT   {shtntin^-  liis  ordei ). 
Behold  my  order  from  the  assembled  Ten. 

DOGE. 

Ar.i  where  are  they,  and  ii:liy  assembled  ?   no 
Such  council  can  be  laufnl,  till  the  prince 
Preside  there,  and  that  duty  's  mine :   on  thine 
1  chari^e  thee,  give  me  waj',  or  marshal  me 
To  the  council  chamber. 

SIGNOR  OF  THE   NIGHT. 

Duke,  it  may  not  be  ; 
Nor  are  they  m  the  wonted  Hall  of  Council, 
But  sitting  in  the  convent  of  Saint  Saviour's. 

DOGE. 

You  dare  to  disobey  me  then  7 

SIGNOK   OF  HIE    NIGHT. 

I  serve 
The  state,  and  needs  must  serve  it  faithfully. 
My  warrant  is  the  will  of  those  who  rule  it. 

DOGE. 

And  till  that  warrant  has  mv  signature 

It  is  illecrai,  and,  as  noiv  a[)|)lied, 

Rebellious — Hast  thou  weigh'd  well  thy  life's  worth 

That  thus  you  dare  assume  a  'awless  function? 

SIGNOR     OF    THt     NIGHT. 

'T  is  not  my  office  to  reply,  but  act — 

I  am  placed  here  as  gua'd  upon  thy  person, 

And  not  as  judge  to  hear  or  to  decide. 

DOGE  {a.ti/le), 
I  must  gain  time — So  that  the  storm-bell  sound. 
All  may  he  well  yet. — Kinsman,  speed — speed — speed  ! 
Our  fate  is  tremblincr  m  the  balance,  and 
Woe  to  the  yanr|msh'(l !   be  they  prince  and  people, 
Or  slaves  and  senate — 

[The  great  hdl  of  St.  /i./a/-A-'«  'o//,«. 
I^o  !    it  sounds — it  tolls  ! 

DOGE  {aloud). 
flark,  Si<;nor  of  the  Night!   and  you,  ye  hirelings, 
Who  wield  your  mercenary  staves  in  fear. 
It  is  your  knell — Swell  on,  thou  lusty  peal! 
Now,  knaves,  what  ransom  fir  ycur  lives? 

STGNOR    OF     THE     NIGHT. 

Confusion ! 
Stand  to  your  arms,  and  guard  the  door — all 's  lost, 
I'nless  that  i"earful  bell  be  silenced  soon. 
Tne  officer  hath  nnss'd  his  path  or  j)ur|)ose, 
Or  mot  sr,ine  unforeseen  and  hideous  obstacle. 
Anselmo,  with   thy  com|)any  proceed 
Straight  to  the  tower;    the  rest  remain  with  me. 

[Kxit  a  part  of  the  Guard. 
DOGE. 

Wtetch!   if  thou  wouldst  have  ihy  vne  life,  implore  it  : 
It  IS  not  now  a  lease  of  sixty  seconds. 
Av,  send  thy  miserable  ruffians  forth  ; 
They  never  shall  return. 

SIGNOR    OF    THE     NIGHT. 

So  let  it  be  ! 
hen  in  their  duty,  as  will  I. 

DOGE. 

il !   the  hitdi  eagle  flies  at  nobler  game 

ui  thou  and  thy  liase  myrmidons, — live  on, 

thou  |)rf)vok'sf  not  peril  by  resistance, 

I  le:irn  (if  souls  so  much  obscured  can  bear 

l.'aze  upon  the  sunl/(;a!iis)  to  be  free. 

ST(;.NOK    f>K     1  IIK     NIGHT. 

1  learn  thou  to  be  ca|>tive — It  hath  ceased, 

[IVir  hell  ceases  to  toll. 
The  traitorous  si;:nal,  which  was  to  have  s.-t 
riie  bloodhound  mob  on  their  patrician  pri'V — 
I'ht.'  Kueil    lath  tu'>g,  but  it  is  not  the  senile's! 


rh.'> 

Fn 
Tl 
Sf 
Ar 
'I'. 

Ar 


DOGE  [after  a  pause). 
All's  silent,  and  all 's  lost ! 

SIGNOR    OF    THE     NIGHT. 

Now,  Doge,  denounce  me 
As  rebel  slave  of  a  revolted  council ! 
Have  I  not  done  my  duty  ? 

DOGE. 

Peace,  thou  thing ! 
Thou  hast  done  a  worthy  deed,  and  earnM  the  price 
Of  blood,  and  they  who  use  thee  will  reward  thee. 
But  thou  wert  sent  to  watch,  and  not  to  prate, 
As  thou  said'st  even  now — then  do  thine  office. 
But  let  it  be  in  silence,  as  behoves  thee. 
Since,  though  thy  prisoner    I  am  thy  piince. 

SIGNOR     OF    THE     NIGHT. 

I  did  not  mean  to  fail  in  the  respect 

Due  to  your  rank :    in  this  I  shall  obey  you. 

DOGE    (aside). 
There  now  is  nothing  left  me  save  to  die  ; 
And  yet  how  near  success  !   I  would  have  fallen. 
And  proudly,  in  the  hour  of  triumiih,  but 
To  miss  it  thus  ! 

Enter  other  Signors  of  the  Night  with  BunrvcviC 
Fa^ieko  prisoner. 

second    SIGNOR.     ■ 

We  took  him  in  the  act 
Of  issuinc  from  the  tower,  where,  at  his  order. 
As  delegated  from  the  Doge,  th(;  signal 
Ha<l  thus  begun  to  sound. 

first    SIGNOR. 

Are  all  the  passes 
Which  lead  up  to  the  palace  well  secured? 

SECOND    SIGNOR. 

They  are — besides,  if  m;itt(M-s  not  ;    the  chiefs 
Are  all  in  chains,  and  some  (;veii  now  on  trial — 
Their  followers   art;  dispersed,  and  many  taken. 

BERTfCCIO     FALIERO. 

Uncle ! 

DOGE. 

It  is  in  vain  to  war  with  Fortune  ; 
The  glory  liuth  departed  from  f);ir  hens;,-. 

IlERTUCCIO     F.M.IERO. 

Who  would  have  deeiuM  it? — Ah!  one  moment  sooner 

DOGE. 

That  moment  would  have  chano-ed  the  face  of  ages  ; 
77(js  gives  us  to  t:teniity— U^i  'II  meet  it 
As  men  wliose  triumph  is  not  in  success. 
But  who  can  make  their  own  minds  all  in  all 
E(jnal  to  every  f  )rtune.      Droop  not,  't  is 
But  a  brief  passage — I  would  go  alone, 
Yet  if  they  send  us,  as  't  is  like,  together. 
Let  us  go  worthy  of  our  sires  and  selves. 

bertuccio   famero. 
I  shall  not  shame  you,  uncle. 

FIRST     SIGNOR. 

J^ords,  out  orders 
Are  to  keep  guard  on  both  in  separate  chambers, 
Until  the  Council  call  ye  fo  your  trial. 

doge. 
Our  trial !   will  they  keep  their  mockery  up 
Even  to  the  last?   but  let  them  deal  upon  us 
As  we  had  dealt  on  them,  but  with  less  pomp. 
'T  is  but  a  game  of  mutual  homindes. 
Who  liiive  cast  lots  for  the  first  death,  and    hey 
Have  won  with  false  dice  ? — Who  hath  l)e(>n  our  JutifJ 

FIRST    SIGNOR. 

I  am  not  warranted  to  answer  that. 

nERi-rrcio   f  \meko. 
I  '11  answer  f  )r  thee — 't  is  a  certain  Bertrani, 
Even  now  deiiosing  to  the  secret  giimta. 


MAKING    FALIERO. 


5i? 


PIKJK. 

Bflnm,  the  Bertrainnsk  !    Witli  wliat  \ile  tools 
We  i)[)Orult;  to  si;iy  or  savf  !    This  ci(a;ui(.', 
IJlaok'with  a  iloiible  treason,  now  will  earn 
Uew;irds  and  honours,  and  he  stamiit  in  story 
Willi  tiie  Heese  in  the  Capitol,  which  <rahbled 
Till  IloMie  awijke,  ynd  had  an  annual  triiunph, 
While  .Maniuis,  w/io  hurlM  down  tl;e  Gauls,  was  cast 
From  the  Tar[)eian. 

FIRST    SIGNOr. 

He  aspired  to  treason, 
A.nd  sought  to  rule  the  state, 

DOGE. 

He  saved  the  state, 
And  sought  but  to  reform  what  he  revived — 
Flit  this  is  idle — Come,  sirs,  do  your  work. 

FIRST    SIGXOR. 

No'dIc  Berfuccio,  we  must  now  remove  you 
Info  an  inner  chamber. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

Farewell,  uncle  ! 
If  we  shall  meet  again  in  lite  I  know  not. 
Hut  thcv  perhaps  will  let  our  ashes  mingle. 

DOGE. 

^  PS,  and  our  spirits,  which  shall  yet  go  forth, 

An<i  do  what  our  frail  clay,  thus  cioirnM,  hath  fail'd  in  ! 

Thev  cannot  quench  the  memory  of  those 

V\  ho  would  have  hurl'd  them  from  their  guilty  thrones, 

And  such  examnles  will  find  heirs,  though  distant. 


ACT  Y. 

SCENE   I. 


The  Hall  of  the  C'mncil  of  Ten  at^f^embled  with  the 
aci(Htioi  'il  Senators,  who,  on  tite  Trials  of  the  Con- 
hpi  rotors  for  Hit  Treason  o/'Marino  Faliero,  com- 
yosed  vhal  xas  called  the  Giiinta. — Guards,  OjJi- 
cers,  etc.,  etc. — Israel  Beiituccio  and  Philip 
Calexdaro  ns  Prisoners. — Bertram,  Lio.m,  and 
IVitnesses,  etc. 

The  Chief  of  the  Ten,  Bexintende. 

BEXIXTEXDE. 

There  now  rests,  after  such  conviction  of 
Their  manifold  and  manifest  offences, 
But  to  pronounce  on  these  obdurate  men 
The  sentence  of  the  law:    a  grievous  task 
To  those  who  hear  and  those  who  sfieak.      Alas! 
That  it  should  fill  touic,  and  thii.t  my  days 
Of  office  shoiili  be  stigmatized  through  all 
The  years  of  (;oming  time,  as  bearing  record 
To  this  mo5t  fou!  and  (lomjdlcated  treason 
Against  a  just  and  free  state,  known  to  all 
Tlie  eartli  as  being  tlie  Christian  bulwark  'gainst 
The  Saracen  and  the  schismatic  Greek, 
The  savage  Hun,  and  not  less  barbarous  Frank  ; 
A  citv  which  has  oiteird  India's  wealth 
To  Ruro[)C ;   the  last  Roman  refuge  from 
O'erwh^lnnng  Attila  ;    thi;  ocean's  (pieen  ; 
Prou  1  Genoa's  prouder  rival  !    'T  is  to  sap 
Th',>  thronf!  of  such  a  citv,  these  lost  men 
Have  risk'd  and  forfeited  their  worthless  lives — 
So  le*  them  die  the  death. 

ISRAEL     BERTUrriO. 

We  are  prepared  ; 
font  r;ick3  have  done  that  fee  us.     Let  us  die. 


liKMXTEXDE. 

If  ye  1  ave  that  to  «ay  which  would  obtain 
Abatem.Mit  of  your  punishment,  the  Giunta 
Will  hear  you  ;    if  you  have  aught  to  coiifeaa, 
Now  is  your  lime,  perhaps  it  may  avail  ye. 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO, 

We  stand  to  hear,  and  not  to  speak. 
benixtexde. 

Yourer'mes 
Are  fully  proved  by  your  accomplices. 
And  all  which  circumstance  can  add  to  aid  them; 
Yet  we  would  hear  from  your  own  lips  complete 
Avowal  of  your  treason  :  on  the  verge 
Ot"  that  dread  gulf  which  none  repass,  the  truth 
Alone  can  profit  you  on  earth  or  heaven — 
Say,  then,  what  was  your  motive? 

ISJRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Justice  ! 
benintende. 

W^hat 

Your  object? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO, 

Freedom ! 

BEXIXTEXDE. 

You  are  brief,  sir. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

So  my  life  grows :  I 
Was  bred  a  soldier,  not  a  senator. 

BEXIXTEXDE. 

Perhaps  vou  think  bv  this  blunt  brevity 

To  brave  your  judges  to  postpone  the  sentence? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Do  you  be  brief  as  I  am,  and,  believe  me, 
I  shall  prefer  that  mercy  to  your  pardon. 

BEXIXTEXDE. 

Is  this  your  sole  reply  'o  'he  tribunal  ? 
Israel   bertuccio. 
Go,  ask  your  racks  what  they  have  wrung  from  us, 
Or  place  us  there  again  ;    we  have  still  some  blood  left. 
And  so.ne  slight  sense  of  pain  in  these  wrench'd  hmbs  ; 
But  this  ye  dare  not  do  ;    for  if  we  die  there — 
And  you  have  left  us  little  life  to  spend 
Upon  your  engines,  gorged  with  pangs  already — 
Ye  lose  the  public  spectacle  with  which 
You  n'ould  appal  vour  sla\es  to  further  slavery  ! 
Groans  are  not  words,  nor  agony  assent, 
Nor  affirmation  truth,  if  nature's  sense 
Should  overcome  the  soul  into  a  lie, 
For  a  short  respite — ^Must  we  bear  or  die  ? 

BEXIXTEXDE. 

Say,  who  were  your  accoutplices  ? 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

The  senate 

BEXIXTEXDE. 

What  do  vou  mean  ? 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

Ask  of  the  sutiering  people, 
Whom  vour  patrician  crimes  have  driven  to  ;riir'e. 

BEXIXTEXDE. 

You  know  the  Doge? 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

I  served  with  him  at  Zara 
In  the  field,  when  i/mi  w(;re  p.eading  here  your  way 
To  present  oilice  ;    we  e\j>osed  our  '.ves, 
While  you  but  ha/arded  the  lives  of  others, 
Alike  by  a<'eusa'ion  or  defence  ; 
And,  for  the  rest,  all  Venice,  knows  her  Doge, 
Through  his  gieat  actions,  and  the  3eiiate's  insulto' 


548 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


BENINTEXDE. 

You  have  held  conference  with  him  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

I  am  weary — 
Even  wearier  of  your  questions  than  your  tortures : 
I  pray  you  pass  to  judgment. 

BENINTENDE. 

It  is  coming — 
And  you,  too,  Philip  Calendaro,  what 
Have  you  to  say  why  you  should  not  be  doom'd  ? 

CALENDARO. 

I  never  was  a  man  of  many  words, 

And  now  have  few  left  worth  tlie  utterance. 

BENINTENDE. 

A  further  application  of  yon  engine 
May  change  your  tone. 

CALENDARO. 

Most  true,  it  will  do  so, 
A  former  application  did  so  ;   but 
It  will  not  change  my  words,  or,  if  it  did 

BENINTENDE. 

What  then? 

CALENDARO. 

Will  my  avowal  on  yon  rack 
Stand  good  in  law  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Assuredly. 

CALENDARO. 

Whoe'er 
TliG  culprit  bo  whom  I  accuse  of  treason? 

BENINTE^■DE. 

IMUiOut  doubt,  he  will  be  brought  up  to  trial. 

CALENDARO. 

And  on  this  testimony  would  he  perish? 

BENINTENDE. 

So  y)iir  confession  be  detail'd  and  full, 
He  will  stand  here  m  peril  of  his  life. 

CALENDARO. 

I'hen  look  well  to  thy  proud  self,  President ! 
For  by  the  eternity  which  yawns  before  me, 
I  swear  that  thou,  and  only  thou,  sbalt  be 
The  traitor  I  denounce  upon  that  rack. 
If  I  be  strctch'd  there  f)r  the  second  time. 

ONE     OF    THE     GH/NTA. 

Lord  President,  't  were  best  to  pnxieed  to  judgment ; 
There  is  no  more  to  be  drawn  from  these  men. 

BENINTENDE. 

Unhappy  men  !   prepare  for  instant  death. 

The  nature  of  your  crime — our  law — and  peril 

The  state  now  stands  in,  U^ave  not  an  hour's  respite — 

Guards!    lead  them  forth,  and  upon  tin;  balcony 

Of  the  red  columns,  wliere,  on  festal  'J'hursday,^ 

The  Doge  stands  to  beholiJ  the  .;h;ise  of  bulls, 

Let  them  be  justified  :    and  leave  t.'xposed 

Th(;ir  wavermg  relics,  in  tlie  place  f>f  judgment, 

To  the  full  view  of  the  ass<,Mi!>!e(l  people  { 

And  Heaven  have  mercy  on  ihtir  souls! 

THE     Gil' NT  A. 

Amen ! 

ISRAEL     FilCKTITCCIO. 

Si'^nors,  farewell!    we  shall  not  all  again 
Mce;  m  one  place. 

BK.MN  rK..M)K. 

And  Ifst  I  hey  sliould  essay 
To  stir  up  tn.-  distr.ictt  d  niultiludc — 
(lu-.Tiis!  l.;i  tln;ir  mouths  Ik-  iia^'ii'd,'  even  in  the  act 
*)f  execution. — Lead  tliein  hence! 


CALENDARO. 

Whit,  nuist  we 

Not  even  say  farewell  to  some  fond  friend, 
Nor  leave  a  last  word  with  our  confessor  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

A  priest  is  waiting  in  the  ante-chamber  ; 
But,  for  your  friends,  such  interviews  would  be 
Painful  to  them,  and  useless  all  to  you. 

CALENDARO. 

I  knew  that  we  were  gagg'd  in  life  ;  at  least, 
All  those  who  had  not  heart  to  risk  their  lives 
Upon  their  open  thoughts ;  but  still  I  deem'd 
Tliat,  in  the  last  few  moments,  the  same  idle 
Freedom  of  speech  accorded  to  the  dying. 
Would  not  now  be  denied  to  us ;   but  since 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

Even  let  them  have  their  way,  brave  Calendars 

What  matter  a  few  syllables  ?  let 's  die 

Without  the  slightest  show  of  favour  from  them ; 

So  shall  our  blood  more  readily  arise 

To  Heaven  against  them,  and  more  testify 

To  their  atrocities,  than  could  a  volume 

S|)oken  or  written  of  our  dying  .words  ! 

They  tremble  at  our  voices — nay,  they  dread 

Our  very  silence — let  them  live  in  l"ear  ! — 

Leave  them  unto  their  thoughts,  and  let  us  now 

Address  our  own  above  ! — Lead  on  ;   we  are  read^. 

CALENDARO. 

Israel,  hadst  thou  but  hearken Vi  unto  me, 

It  had  not  now  been  thus  ;   and  yon  pale  villain, 

The  coward  Bertram,  would 

ISRAEL    BEKTUCCIO. 

Peace,  Calendari-J 
What  brooks  it  now  to  ponder  upon  this  ? 

BERTRAM. 

Alas  !   I  fain  you  died  in  peace  with  me: 
I  did  not  seeK  this  task  ;   't  was  forced  upon  me  : 
Say,  you  forgive  me,  though  1  never  can 
Retrieve  my  own  forgiveness — frown  not  thus  ! 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

I  die  and  pardon  thee  ! 

CALENDAR©  [svilting-  (it  liim). 
I  die  and  scorn  thee ! 
[Exeunt  lss.\-Ei.  Bektuccio  (md  Pjiilip  Caiki 
DARO,  Guards,  etc. 

BENINTENDE. 

Now  that  these  criminals  have  been  disposed  of, 

'Tis  time  that  we  proceed  to  |)ass  our  sentence 

Upon  the  great(;st  traitor  upon  record 

In  any  annals,  the  Doge  Faliero ! 

Th«!  |)roofs  and  process  are  complete  ;  the  tmie 

And  crime  require  a  quick  procedure:    shall 

He  now  be  call'd  in  to  receive  the  award  ? 

THE    GlUNTA. 

.\y,  ay. 

BENINTENDE. 

Avogadori,  order  that  the  Doge 
Be  brought  before  the  council. 

ONE     OF     THE     OIITNTA. 

And  tl-e  rest, 
When  shall  they  be  brought  up  7 

BKNINTE.NDE. 

Wlu-n  aiithcclm:Jii 
Have  been  disposed  of.      Some  have  lied  to  ("hio/./.a  j 
But  then;  are  thousands  in  pursuit  of  th(^m, 
And  such  precaution  ta'en  on  terra  iirma, 
As  well  as  in  the  isliinds,  that  we  hopt; 
Non(>  will  escape  to  utter  iii  slr;uige  lands 
His  libellous  tale  of  treason  'gainst  the  penate. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


649 


Ente'the  Doge  as  Prisoner,  ivith  Guaras,  etc.  etc. 

BENINTKN'DE. 

D  1.,'e— for  svich  still  yon  are,  atid  by  the  law 

Mii^t  be  coiisidcrM,  till  the  hour  shall  come 

When  you  must  CuAX  the  ducal  bonnet  from 

That  head,  which  couhl  not  wear  a  crown  more  noble 

Than  empires  can  confer,  in  (juiet  honour, 

Hut  il  must  plot  to  overthrow  your  peers, 

Wha  made  you  what  you  are,  and  (luench  in  blood 

A  city's  glory — we  have  laid  already 

Before  you  in  your  chamber  at  full  length, 

Ky  the  Avogadori,  all  the  proofs 

Which  have  appeared  against  you;   and  more  ample 

Ne'er  rear'd  their  sanguinary  shadows  to 

Confront  a  traitor.   What  have  you  to  say 

In  your  defence  ? 

DOGE. 

What  shall  I  sr.y  to  ye. 
Since  my  defence  must  be  your  condemnation? 
lou  are  at  once  oHenders  and  accusers, 
Judges  and  executioners  ! — Proceed 
U,->on  your  jiower. 

ET;NiXTEXDE. 

Vour  chief  accomplices 
Haviiig  confess'd,  there  is  no  hope  for  you. 

DOGE. 

And  who  be  they  ? 

BEXINTEXDE. 

In  numhe.-  nxr,v  ;   but 
The  first  now  stands  before  yuu  m  the  court, 
Bertram,  of  Bergamo, — would  you  question  hiti.? 
DOGE  {looking  at  him.  contemptuously)^ 

BEXIXTENDE. 

And  two  others,  Israel  Bertuccio, 
And  Philip  Calendaro,  have  admitted 
riieir  fellowship  in  treason  w  iih  the  Doge  ! 

DOGE. 

And  where  are  they  ? 

BEXIXTEXDE. 

Gone  to  their  place,  and  now 
Answermg  to  Heaven  for  what  they  did  on  earth. 

DOGE. 

Ah     the  plebeian  Brutus,  is  he  gone? 
Ano  the  quick  Cassius  of  t!ie  arsenal? — 
How  did  they  meet  their  doom? 

BEXIXTEXDE. 

Think  of  your  own ; 
(t  is  approaching.     You  decline  to  plead,  then  ? 

DOGE. 

I  cannot  plead  to  my  inferiors,  nor 

Can  recognise  your  legal  power  to  try  me : 

Show  me  the  law  ! 

BEXIXTEXDE. 

On  great  emergencies, 
The  law  must  be  remodell'd  or  amended : 
Our  fdthers  had  not  fix'd  the  punishment 
Of  such  a  crime,  as  on  the  old  Roman  tables 
Tiie  sentence  against  parricide  was  left 
n  pure  forgeffuiness ;   they  could  not  render 
That  penal,  whi-ih  nad  neither  name  nor  thought 
In  their  great  bosoms  :   who  would  have  foreseen 
Tnat;  nature  could  be  filed  to  such  a  crime 
As  sons  'gainst  sires,  a.id  pnnces  'gainst  their  realms  ? 
Your  sin  hath  made  us  nvaKH  a  law  which  will 
Become  a  precedent  'gainst  such  haught  traitors, 
As  would  with  treason  mount  to  tyranny  j 
Not  even  contented  with  a  sceptre,  till 
They  can  c(  nvert  it  to  a  two-edged  sword  .' 
Was  not  the  place  tif  Doge  sutticient  for  ye  ? 
What 's  nobler  than  thr'  signory  of  Venice? 


I  DOGE. 

'.    The  signory  of  Venice  I    You  betray  d  me — 
Yuu— you,  who  sit  there,  traitors  as  ye  are  ! 
From  my  equality  with  you  in  birth, 
And  my  superiority  in  action. 
You  drew  me  from  my  honourable  toils 
In  distant  lands — on  Hood — in  field — in  cities — 
You  singled  me  out  like  a  victim,  to 
Stand  crown'd,  but  bound   and  helpless,  at  the  altar 
Where  you  alone  could  minister.    I  kne^  not — 
I  sought  not — wish'd  not — dream'd  not  the  election. 
Which  reacji'd  me  first  at  Rome,  and  I  obey'd ; 
But  found,  on  my  arrival,  that  besides 
The  jealous  vigilance  which  always  led  you 
To  mock  and  mar  your  sovereign's  best  intents, 
Y^ou  had,  even  in  the  interregnum  of 
My  jouiney  to  the  cafiitai,  curtail'd 
And  mutilated  the  few  privileges 
Yet  left  the  duke  :   a!'  this  I  bore,  and  would 

Have  borne,  until  my  verj'  hearth  was  stain'd 

By  the  pollution  of  your  ribaldry. 

Ana  he,  the  ribald,  whom  I  see  amongst  you — 

Fit  judge  in  such  tribunal ! 

bexi:jtexde  {interrupting  him). 

Michel  Steno 

Is  here  in  virtue  of  his  office,  as 

One  of  the  Forty  ;   "  The  Ten"  having  craved 

A  Giunta  of  patricians  from  the  senate 

To  aid  our  judgment  in  a  trial  arduous 

And  novel  as  the  present,  he  was  set 

Free  from  the  })enalty  pronounced  upon  him. 

Because  the  Doge,  who  should  protect  the  law. 

Seeking  to  abrogate  all  law,  can  claim 

No  punishment  of  others  by  the  statutes 

Which  he  himself  denies  and  violates! 

DOGE. 

IHs  PUxisHMENT  !   I  mther  see  him  there, 
Where  he  now  sits,  to  glut  him  with  my  death, 
Than  in  the  mockery  of  castigation, 
Which  your  foul,  outward,  juggling  show  of  jusUce 
Decreed  as  sentence  !   Base  as  was  his  crime, 
'Twas  purity  compared  with  your  protection. 

BEXIXTEXDE. 

And  can  it  be,  that  the  great   Doge  of  Venice, 
With  three  parts  of  a  century  of  years 
And  honours  on  his  head,  cojld  thus  allow 
His  fiiry,  hke  an  angry  boy's,  to  master 
A'i  feeling,  wisdom,  faith,  and  fea.,  on  such 
A  provocation  as  a  young  man's  petulance  ? 

DOGE. 

A  spark  creates  the  flame ;   'tis  the  last  drop 
^Vhich  makes  the  cup  run  o'er,  and  mine  was  full 
Already:   you  oppress'd  the  prince  and  people; 
I  would  have  freed  both,  and  have  faii'd  in  both. 
The  price  of  such  success  would  have  been  glory, 
Vengeance,  and  victory,  and  such  a  name 
As  would  have  mfde  Venetian  history 
Rival  to  that  of  Greece  and  Syracuse, 
When  they  were  freed,  and  flourish'd  ages  after, 
And  mine  to  Gelon  and  to  Thrasvbulus: 
t'ailing,  I  know  the  penalty  of  failure 
Is  present  infamy  and  death — the  future 
Will  judge,  when  Venice  is  no  more,  or  free ; 
Till  then,  the  truth  is  in  abeyance.     Pause  not ; 
I  would  have  shown  no  mercy,  and  I  seek  none; 
My  life  was  staked  upon  a  mighty  hazard, 
And  being  lost,  take  what  I  would  have  taken! 
I  would  have  stood  alone  amidst  vour  tombs; 
Now  you  may  flock  round  mine,  and  trample  on  II, 
As  you  have  done  upon  my  heart  while  living 


650 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


BENIKTENDE. 

You  do  confess  then,  and  admit  the  justice 
Of  our  tribunal? 

DOGE. 

I  confess  to  have  fail'd  : 
Fortune  is  feinale ;  from  my  youth  her  tavours 
Were  not  withheld ;   the  fault  was  mine  to  hope 
Her  former  smiles  again  at  this  late  hour. 

EENINTKNDE. 

You  do  not  then  in  aught  arraign  our  equity? 

DOGE. 

Noble  Venetians !   siii  me  not  with  questions. 

I  am  resign'd  to  the  worst ;   but  in  me  still 

Have  something  of  the  blood  of  brighter  days, 

And  am  not  over-patient.     Pray  you,  spare  me 

Further  interrogation,  which  boots  nothing. 

Except  to  turn  a  trial  to  debate. 

I  shall  but  answer  that  which  will  offend  you, 

And  please  your  enemies — a  host  already  : 

'T  is  true,  these  sullen  walls  should  yield  no  echo ; 

But  walls  have  ears — nay,  more,  they  have  tongues ; 

and  if 
There  were  no  other  way  for  truth  to  o'erleap  them, 
You  who  condemn  me,  you  who  fear  and  slay  me, 
Yet  could  not  bear  in  silence  to  your  graves 
What  you  would  hear  from  me  of  good  or  evil; 
The  secret  were  too  mighty  for  your  souis : 
Then  let  it  sleep  in  mine,  unless  you  court 
A  danger  which  would  double  that  you  escape. 
Such  my  defence  would  be,  had  I  full  scope 
To  make  it  famous ;   for  true  icords  are  thugs, 
And  dying  men's  are  things  which  long  oudive. 
And  oftentimes  avenge  ihem  ;   bury  mine, 
If  ye  would  fain  f.-urvive  me :   take  this  counsel, 
And  though  too  olt  ye  made  me  live  in  wrath, 
Let  me  die  calmly  ;   you  may  grant  me  this  ; — 
I  deny  nothing — defend  nothing — nothing 
I  .lyk  of  you,  but  silence  for  myself. 
And  sentence  from  the  court ! 

BEXINTENDE. 

This  full  admission 
Sp;<.res  us  the  harsh  necessity  of  ordering 
Tlu-  torture  to  elicit  the  whole  truth. 

DOGE. 

The  torture  !   you  have  put  me  there  already 
Daily  since  I  was  Doge ,  but  if  you  will 
Add  the  corporeal  rack,  you  may ;   these  limbs 
Will  yield  with  age  to  crushing  iron  ;   but 
There  's  that  within  my  heart  shall  strain  your  engines. 
Enter  an  Officer. 

OFFICER. 

Noble  Venetians  !   Duchess  Faliero 
He<)uesls  admission  to  the  Giiinta's  presence. 

BENINTENDE. 

Say,  conscript  fathers,^  shall  she  be  admitted? 

ONE     OF    THE     GIUNTA. 

Slie  may  have  revelations  of  importance 
Unto  the  slate,  to  justify  compliance 
With  her  retjuest. 

BEMNTENDE. 

Is  this  the  general  will? 

ALL. 

It  is. 

DOGE. 

Uh,  admirable  laws  of  V^mice  ! 
VUich  would  admit  ihe  wife,  in  the  full  hope 
That  she  might  testily  against  the  hM.sl)ai.d. 
Wliat  <:l(.ry  to  the  chaste  Venetian  dames! 
But  such  blasph(!mers  'gainst  all  hunour,  as 
Sit  here,  do  well  to  act  in  their  vocation. 


Now,  villain  Steno !    if  this  woman  fail, 
I'll  pardon  thee  thy  lie,  and  thy  escape. 
j!7,ft  Duchess  enters. 

BENI>'TENDE. 

Lady!    this  just  tribunal  has  resolved. 

Though  the  request  be  strange,  to  grant  it,  and, 

Whatever  be  its  purport,  to  accord 

A  patient  hearing  wilh  the  due  respect 

Wiiich  fits  your  ancestry,  your  rank,  and  virtues 

But  you  turn  pale— !io  !   tliere,  look  to  the  lady  ' 

Place  a  chair  instantly. 

ANGIOLINA. 

A  mnmeiirs  faintncss- 
'Tis  past ;   I  pray  you  pardon  me,  I  sit  not 
In  presence  of  my  prince,  and  of  my  husband, 
While  he  is  on  his  feet. 

BENINTEXDE. 

Your  i.'ieasure,  lady? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Strange  rumours,  but  most  ivvt'.  if  all  I  hear 
And  see  be  sooth,  have  reach'd  inc,  and  I  come 
To  know  the  worst :    even  at  the  worst ;    forgive 
The  abruptness  of  my  entrance  and  my  bearing. 

Is  it 1  cannot  speak — I  cannot  shai)e 

The  question — but  you  answer  il  ere  spoken. 
With  eves  averted,  and  with  gloomy  brows — 
Oh  God!   this  is  the  silence  cf  the  grave! 

EENIXTENDE    (fl/'fT  a  JiUllSe). 

Spare  us,  and  spare  thyself  the  re|.etition 
Of  our  most  awful,  bnt  inexorable 
Duty  to  Heaven  and  nan  ! 

ANGIOI.IN'A. 

Yet  speak  ;  I  cannot— 
I  cannot — no — even  now  believe  these  things; 
Is  he  coudemn'd  1 

BEMNTENDE. 

Alas  ! 

ANGIOLINA, 

And  was  he  guilty  .' 

BEMNTENDE. 

Lady  !   the  natural  distraction  of 

Thy'thoughts  at  such  a  moment  makes  the  qucstian 

jMerit  forgiveness  ;   else  a  doubt  like  this 

Against  a  just  and  paramouni  tribunal 

w\>re  deep  otieiice.     But  question  even  the  Doge; 

And  if  he  can  deny  the  proofs,  believe  hini 

Guiltless  as  thy  own  bosom. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Is  It  SO? 
My  lord— my  sovereign— my  poor  father's  fnend- 
The  mightv  m  the  field,  the  sage  in  council ; 
Unsay  the  words  of  this  man  !— Thou  art  silent! 

BENINTENDE. 

He  hath  already  own'd  to  his  own  guilt, 
Nor,  as  thou  seest,  doth  lie  deny  it  now. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Ay,  but  he  must  not  die !   S|)are  his  few  years, 
VVhich  grief  and  shame  will  soon  cut  down  to  days, 
One  day  of  bafHed  crime  must  not  efface 
Near  sixteen  lustres  crowded  with  brave  acts. 

BENINTENDE. 

His  doom  must  be  fuHill'd  without  remission 
Of  time  or  penalty— 't  is  a  decree. 

A  N  G  1 0  L I N  A  . 

He  hath  been  guilty,  but  there  may  De  mercy. 

BENINTENDE. 

Not  in  this  case  with  justice. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Alas!   signoi, 
He  who  is  only  just  is  cruel  ;   who 
L'pon  the  earth  would  live,  were  all  judged   justly. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


BRNINTEMIE. 

flis  puniihinent  is  safety  to  'he  state. 

AXGIOhiN.V. 

He  was  a  stihjcol,  ami  haili  served  the  state: 
11/-,  was  your  i;.'iieral,  and  lialh  saved  »he  slate  ; 
fio  is  your  sovereign,  and  halli  ruled  the  slate. 

O.VK     OF     THK     COUNCIL 

Ht  is  a  traitor,  and  hetray'd  tlie  state. 

ANGIOt.lN.V. 

And,  but  tor  him,  there  now  liad  heeii  no  state 
To  save  or  to  destroy  ;   and  you,  wlio  sit 
There  to  |)ronoiince  the  death  of  your  dehverer, 
Had  now  been  groaning  at  a  .Moslem  oar, 
Or  digging  m  the  Hiinnish  mines  in  fetters!    - 

ONE     OF    THE     COUNCIL. 

No,  lady,  there  are  others  who  would  die 
Rather  than  breathe  in  slavery  ! 

A.^GIOLI  \A. 

If  there  are  so 
Witliiii  thffse  walls,  thou  art  not  one  of  the  number; 

The  truly  brave  are  generous  to  the  fallen  ! 

Is  there  no  liope  ? 

BEXIXTENDE. 

Lady,  it  cannot  be. 
AXGiOLiXA  {turning  to  the  Doge). 
Then  die,  Faliero !    since  it  must  be  so; 
But  vvitli  the  spirit  of  my  father's  fr'end. 
Thou  hast  been  guilty  of  a  great  oifence, 
Half-cancell'd  by  the  harshness  of  these  men. 

I  would  have  sued  to  tiietn — have  pray'd  to  them 

Have  begg'd  as  famisii'd  men'iicants  for  bread 

Have  wept  as  they  will  cry  unto  their  God 
For  mercy,  and  be  answer'd  as  they  answer- 
Had  it  been  tilling  for  thy  name  or  mine, 
And  if  the  cruelty  in  their  cold  eyes 
Had  rot  amiounced  the  heartless  wrath  witlun, 
Tiitn,  as  a  prince,  address  thee  to  thy  doom ! 

DOGE. 

I  have  lived  too  long  not  to  know  how  to  die ! 

Thy  suing  to  these  men  were  but  the  bleating 

Of  the  lamb  to  the  butcher,  or  the  cry 

Of  seamen  to  the  surge :   I  would  not  lake 

A  hfe  eternal,  granted  at  the  hands 

Of  wretches,  from  whose  monstrous  villanies 

I  sought  to  free  the  groaning  nations  ! 

MICHEL     STENO. 

Doge, 
A  w'»rd  with  thee,  and  with  this  noble  lady, 
Whnm  I  have  grievously  otfended.      Would 
Sorrow,  or  shame,  or  penance  on  my  pari, 
Could  cancel  the  inexorable  past! 
But  since  that  cannot  be,  as  Christians  let  us 
Say  farewell,  and  in  peace:   with  full  contrition 
I  crave,  not  [lardnn,  but  compassion  from  you, 
And  gi\..,  however  weak,  my  prayers  for  both. 

AXGIOMNA. 

Sage  P--nintende,  now  chief  judge  of  Venice, 

I  speal   to  thee  in  answer  to  yon  signor. 

Inform  the  ribald  Sleno,  that  his  words 

Ne'er  v/eigh'd  in  mind  with  Loredano's  dauohtei 

Further  than  to  create  a  moment's  pity 

F'.r  su?,h  as  he  is  ;    would  that  others  had 

Despited  him  as  I  pity!    J  prefer 

My  Ijonour  to  a  thousand  lives,  could  such 

Be  niultipliel  in  mine,  but  would  not  have 

A  finglo  life  of  others  lost  .''or  that 

Whi..h  nothing  human  can  impugn— the  sense 

Of  virtue,  looking  not  to  what  is  called 

A  good  name  for  reward,  b  it  to  itself. 

To  me  tlie  scorner'?.  worus  were  as  the  wind 


I  Unto  the  rock :  but  as  there  aio — a!as( 
I  Spirits  more  sensitive,  on  which  such  things 
Light  as  the  whirlwind  on  tne  waters  ;  soulg 
;  To  whom  dishonour's  shadow  is  a  substance 
More  terrible  than  death  here  and  hereufter ; 
I  Men  whose  vice  is,  to  start  at  vice's  scoffing, 
I   And  who,  though  proof  against  all  blandishment 

Of  pleasure,  and  all  pangs  of  pain,  are  feeble 
I    VVh(;n  the  |)roud  name  on  which  they  pinnacled 
!    Their  lio|)es  is  breathed  on,  jealous  as  the  eagle 
Of  her  high  aiery ;    let  what  we  now 
Behold,  and  f<",el,  and  sutTer,  be  a  lesson 
To  wretches  how  they  tamper  in  their  spleen 
With  beings  of  a  higher  order.      Insects 
Have  made  the  lion  mad  ere  now  ;   a  shaft 
r  the  heel  o'erthrew  the  bravest  of  the  brave, 
A  wife's  dishonour  was  the  bane  of  Troy,- 
A  wife's  dishonour  unking'd  Rome  for  ever  • 
An  injured  husband  brought  the  Gauls  to  Clusiurn, 
And  thence  to  Rome,  which  perish'd  for  a  time  • 
An  obscene  gesture  cost  Cali<;ula 
His  life,  while  earth  yet  bore  his  cruelties  ; 
A  virgin's  wrong  made  Spain  a  Moorish  province; 
And  Sleno's  lie,  couch'd  in  two  worthless  lines. 
Hath  decimated  Venice,  put  in  peril 
A  senate  which  hath  stood  eight  hundred  years, 
Discrown'd  a  prince,  cut  off  his  crownless  head, 
And  forged  new  fetters  for  a  groaning  people! 
Let  the  poor  wretch,  like  to  the  courtesan 
Who  fired  Persepolis,  be  proud  of  this, 
If  it  so  please  him— 't  were  a  pride  fit  for  him! 
But  let  him  not  insult  the  last  hours  of 
Him,  who,  whate'tT  he  now  is,  vods  c  hero, 
By  the  intrusion  of  his  very  prayers  • 
Nothing  of  good  can  come  from  such  a  source, 
Nor  would  we  aught  with  him,  nor  now,  nor  evci 
We  leave  him  to  himself,  that  lowest  depth 
Of  human  baseness.      Pardon  is  for  men, 
And  not  for  reptiles— we  have  none  for  Steno, 
And  no  resentment ;   things  like  him  must  sting, 
And  higher  f)eings  suffer;   'tis  the  charter 
Of  life.     The  man  who  dies  by  the  adder's  fang 
May  have  the  crawler  crush'd,  but  feels  no  anger: 
'Twas  the  worm's  natuie;   and  some  men  are  wormi 
In  soul,  more  than  the  living  things  of  tombs. 

DOGE    {to  BeXIXTEXDE). 

Signor,  complete  that  which  you  deem  your  duty. 

BEXIXTEXDE. 

Before  we  can  proceed  upon  that  duty. 

We  would  recjuest  the  princess  to  withdraw; 

'T  vvill  move  her  too  much  to  be  witness  to  it. 

AXGlOLI^^\.. 
I  know  it  will,  and  yet  I  must  endure  it ; 
For  't  is  a  [»art  of  mine — I  will  not  quit. 
Except  by  force,  my  husband's  side.— Proceed! 
Nay,  fear  not  either  shriek,  or  sigh,  or  tear ! 
Though  my  heart  burst,  it  shall  be  silent.— Speak' 
I  have  that  within  which  shall  o'ermaster  all. 

BEXIXTEXDE 

Marino  Faliero,  Doge  of  Venice, 

Count  of  Val  di  Marino,  Senator, 

And  sometime  General  of  tf  e  Fleet  and  Army. 

Noble  Venetian,  many  times  and  oft 

Entrusted  by  the  state  with  hijjh  employments, 

Even  to  the  highest,  listen  to  the  sentence. 

Convict  by  many  witnesses  and  proofs. 

And  by  thine  own  confession,  of  the  I'liilt 

Of  treachery  and  treason,  yet  unheard  of 

Until  this  trial — the  decree  is  death. 

Thy  goods  are  confiscate  unto  ihe  state 


->51 


BYRON'S     POETICAL    WORKS. 


Thy  name  is  razed  from  out  her  records,  save 
Upoa  a  public  day  of  thanksgiving 
For  .his  our  most  miraculous  deliverance, 
VVh  n  liou  art  noted  in  on.  calendars 
VVit'i  earth(|uakes,  pestilence,  and  foreign  foes, 
And  the  great  enemy  of  man,  as  subject 
Of  (/ateful  masses  for  Fleaven's  grace  in  snatching 
Our  lives  and  country  from  thy  wickedness. 
Thf  place  wherein  as  Doge  thou  shouldst  be  painted, 
Wit  1  thine  illustrious  predecessors,  is 
I'o  be  left  vacant,  with  a  death-black  veil 
F'ung  over  these  dim  words  engraved  beneath, — 
''  This  place  is  of  Marino  Faliero, 
Decapitated  for  his  crimes.'" 

IVhat.  crimes  ? 
Were  it  not  better  to  record  the  facts, 
So  that  the  contemplator  might  ajiprcve, 
Or  at  the  least  learn  whence  the  crimes  arose? 
When  the  beholder  knows  a  Doge  conspired, 
Let  him  be  told  the  cause — it  is  your  history. 

BEMXTTSIIE. 

Time  must  ref)lv  to  that ;   our  sons  will  judge 
Their  fathers'  judgment,  which  I  now  pronounce. 
As  Doge,  clad  in  the  ducal  robes  and  cap. 
Thou  shalt  oe  led  hsnce  to  the  Giant's  Staircase, 
Where  thou  and  all  our  princes  are  invested ; 
And  there,  the  ducal  crown  being  first  resumed 
[Jpon  the  spot  where  it  was  first  assumed, 
Thy  head  shall  be  struck  off;   and  Heaven  have  moroy 
I'pon  thy  soul ! 

COOE. 

Is  this  the  Giunta's  sentence? 

BENINTENDE. 
II    13, 

DOGE. 

I  can  endure  it.— And  the  time  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Mu«*  be  immediate.— Make  thy  peace  with  God; 
Within  an  noui  thou  must  be  in  his  presence. 

DOGE. 

i  am  already ;   and  my  blood  wil'  rise 

To  Heaven  before  the  souls  of  those  who  shed  it. 

Are  all  my  lands  confiscated? 

BENINTEJfDE. 

They  are : 
And  goods,  and  jewels,  and  all  kind  of  treasure. 
Except  two  thousand  ducats— these  dispose  of. 

DOGE. 

That's  harsh — I  would  have  fain  reser\>ed  the  lands 
Near  to  Treviso,  which  I  hold  by  investment 
From  Laurence,  the  Count-bishop  of  Ceneda, 
In  fief  perpetual  to  myself  and  heirs. 
To  portion  them  (leaving  my  city  spoil, 
My  palace  and  my  treasures,  to  your  forfeit) 
Between  my  consort  and  my  kinsmen. 

BEMNTENDE. 

These 
Lie  under  the  state's  ban,  their  cliief,  thy  nephew, 
In  peril  of  his  Dwn  life  ;   but  the  council 
Postpones  his  trial  {'or  the  present.     If 
Thou  wili'st  a  state  unto  thy  widow'd  princess, 
Kear  not,  <br  we  will  do  h«^r  justice. 

ANGIOI.INA.  ' 

Signors, 
\  iha'e  not  in  voiir  '  poil !    From  henceforth,  Know 
I  dm  devoted  unto  (iod  alone, 
\\\A  lake  my  rel'uge  m  the  cloister. 

DOGE. 

Come ! 
The  \o\\x  may  be  a  hard  on(^,  but  't  will  end. 


Have  I  aught  else  to  undergo  save  death  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

You  have  nought  to  do  except  confess  and  die. 
The  priest  is  robed,  the  scimitar  is  bare, 
And  both  await  without.— But,  above  all. 
Think  not  to  speak  unto  the  people  ;  they 
Are  now  by  thousands  swarming  at  the  gates, 
Hut  these  are  closed:   the  Ten,  thp  Avogadon, 
The  Giunta,  and  the  chief  men  of  the  Fortv, 
Alone  will  be  beholders  of  thy  doom. 
And  they  are  ready  to  attend  the  Doge. 

DOGE. 

The  Doge ! 

BENirJTENDE 

Yes,  Doge,  thou  hast  lived  and  thou  shult  Jie 

A  sovereign  ;   till  the  moment  which  precedes 

The  sei)aration  of  that  head  and  trunk. 

That  ducal  crown  and  head  shall  be  united. 

Thou  hast  forgot  thy  dignity  in  deigning 

To  ,,ilot  with  pettv  traitors  ;   not  so  we. 

Who  in  the  very  punishment  acknowledge 

The  prince.     Thy  vile  accomplices  have  died 

The  dog's  death,  and  the  wolf's  ;   but  thou  shalt  falS, 

As  falls  the  lion  by  the  hunters,  girt 

By  those  who  feci  a  proud  compassion  for  thee, 

And  mourn  even  the  inevitable  death 

Provoked  by  thy  wild  wrath  and  regal  fierceness. 

Now  we  remit  thee  to  thy  preparation: 

Let  it  be  brie*",  and  we  ourselves  will  be 

Thy  guides  unto  the  place  where  first  we  were 

United  to  thee  as  thy  subjects,  and 

Thv  senate ;   and  must  now  be  parted  from  ihee 

As  such  for  ever  on  the  selfsame  spot. — 

Guiirds  !   form  the  Doge's  escort  lo  his  chamber. 

[Exeunl. 

SCENE  IL 

The  D)ge''s  Apartment. 
The  DoGE  a.s  prisoner^  and  the  Duchess  attending  Jam, 

DOGE. 

Now  that  the  priest  is  gone,  't  were  useless  all 

To  linger  out  the  miserable  minutes ; 

But  one  pang  more    the  pang  of  |)arting  from  thee. 

And  I  wil[  leave  the  few  last  grains  of  sand. 

Which  yet  remain  of  t!ie  accorded  hour. 

Still  faUing — I  have  done  witii  'I'ime. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Alas! 
And  1  have  been  tlie  cause,  the  unconscious  cause  ; 
And  for  this  funeral  marriage,  this  black  union, 
Which  thou,  compliant  wnh  my  father's  wish, 
Didst  promise  at  hfs  death,  thou  hast  seafd  thine  owii. 

DOGE. 

Not  so:   there  was  that  in  my  spirit  ever 
Which  shaped  out  for  itself  some  great  reverse; 
The  marvel  is,  it  came  not  unal  now  — 
And  yet  it  was  foretold  me. 

ANGIOJ.INA. 

How  foretold  you? 

DOGE. 

Long  years  ago — so  long,  they  are  a  doubt 

In  memory,  and  yet  tht.-y  live  in  annals: 

When  1  was  m  my  youth,  and  served  the  senate 

And  signory  as  podesta  and  captam 

Of  the  town  of  Treviso,  on  a  day 

or  festival,  the  sluggish  bishoj)  who 

Convey'd  the  Host  aroused  my  rash  young  anger, 

By  strange  delay,  and  arrogaiit  reply 

To  my  r(>proof ;   I  raised  my  hand  and  smote  iiiiii, 

Until  he  reel'd  beneath  his  holy  burthen; 


MARINO    PALIERO. 


And  as  he  ros«  from  eartli  again,  he  raised 

His  iremulous  hands  in  pious  wrath  towards  Heaven. 

Tlience  pointing  to  tlie  Host,  whieh  had  fallen  from  him, 

He  tiirn'd  to  me,  and  said,  "  Tlie  hour  will  come 

When  He  tlimi  hast  o'erlhrowii  shall  overthrow  thee: 

The  ii\ory  shiill  depart  from  out  thy  house, 

Tiie  wisdom  shall  he  shaken  from  tliy  soul, 

And  ui  thv  lust  maturity  of  mind, 

A  nuulMcss  of  llu!  hear't  shall  seize  upon  thee; 

F'ass-  ni  shiill   tear  th(  e  when  all  passions  eease 

In  oi...-r  men,  or  nu'lKiw  into  virtues  ; 

And  majesty,  which  decks  all  other  heads, 

Shall  crown  to  le  ive  thee  headless  ;   hono'irs  shall 

But  prove  to  thee  the  heralds  of  destruction. 

And  lioary  hairs  of  shame,  and  both  of  death, 

Hut  not  such  death  as  tits  an  aocd  man."' 

Tims  saying,  he  pass'd  on. — That  hour  is  come. 

A?.'GI0LINA. 

Ana  with  this  warning  couldst  thou  not  have  striven 

To  avert  the  fatal  moment,  and  atone 

By  penitence  for  that  which  thou  hadst  done? 

DOGE. 

1  own  the  words  went  to  my  heart,  so  much 

That  I  remeinber'd  them  amid  the  maze 

Of  life,  as  if  they  fonn'd  a  spectral  voice, 

Which  shook  me  in  a  su[)ernaiural  dream ; 

And  I  repented  ;    but  'twas  not  for  me 

To  pull  in  resolution:    what  must  l)e 

I  could  not  change,  and  wouhi  not  fear.     Nay,  more, 

Thou  canst  not  have  forgot  what  all  remernber, 

That  on  m^'  day  of  landing  here  as  Doge, 

On  my  return  from  Rome,  a  mist  of  such 

Unwonted   density  went  on  before 

The  buc«!ntaur,  like  the  columnal  cloud 

Which  usher'd  Israel  out  of  Ejzypt,  till 

The  pilot  was  misled,  and  disembark'd  us 

Between  the  pillars  of  Saint  Mark's,  where  'tis 

The  custom  of  the  state  to  put  to  death 

Its  criminals,  instead  of  touching  at 

The  Hiva  deila  Paglia,  as  the  wont  is,— 

So  that  all  X'eidce  shuddei  d  at  the  omen. 

ANGIOLIN.V. 

Ah  !   little  boots  it  now  to  recoUext 
Such  things. 

DOG  v.. 

And  yet  I  find  a  comfort  in 
The  thought  that  these  things  are  the  work  of  Fate; 
For  1  would  rather  yield  to  gods  than  men, 
Or  clini;  to  any  creed  of  destiny. 
Rather  than  deem  these  mortals,  most  of  whom 
I  know  to  be  a*?  worthless  as  the  dust. 
And  weak  as  worthless,  more  than  instruments 
Of  an  o'er-ruling  power;   they  in  themselves 
Were  all  incapable— they  (-ould  not  be 
Victors  of  him  who  oft  had  concjuer'd  for  them! 

ANGIOI.INA. 

Em[)loy  the  minutes  left  in  aspirations 

Of  a  more  healing  nature,  and  m  pi'ace 

Even  with  these  wretches  take  thy  flight  to  heaven. 

DOGE. 

I  am  at  peace:   the  peace  of  certainty 

I'hat  a  sure  h(nir  will  come,  wlien  their  sons'  sons. 

And  this  proud  city,  and  these  azure  waters. 

And  all  wliich  makes  them  eminent  and  bright, 

Shall  be  a  d(;solation  and  a  curse, 

A  hissing  and  a  scolF  unto  the  nations, 

A  Cartnage,  and  a  Tyre,  nn  Ocean- Babel ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

Speak  not  thus  now:  the  surge  of  passion  still 
Sweeps  o'er  thee  to  the  last  ;  thou  dost  deceive 
Tliyself  and  canst  noi  m.iure  them— be  calmer. 


DOGK. 
I  stand  within  eternity,  and  see 
Into  eternity,  and  I  behold — 
Av,  p;dpable  as  I  see  thy  sweet  face 
For  the  last  time — the  days  which  I  denounce 
Unto  all  time  against  these  wave-girt  walls, 
And  they  who  are  ind welters. 

GUARD  {coming  forward). 

k)o;'e  of  Venice, 
The  Ten  are  in  attendance  on  your  mglincss. 

LOGE. 

Then  farewell,  Angiolina  '.—one  embrace- 
Forgive  the  old  man  who  hath  been  to  thee 
A  fotid  but  fatal  husband— love  my  memory — 
I  would  not  ask  so  much  for  me  still  living. 
But  thou  canst  judge  of  me  n.ore  kindly  now. 
Seeing  my  evil  feelings  are  at  rest. 
Besides,  of  all  the  fruit  of  these  long  years, 
Glory,  and  wealth,  and  power,  and  fam(^,  and  name, 
Which  generally  leave  some  flowers  to  bloom 
Even  o'er  the  grave,  I  have  nothing  left,  not  even 
A  little  love,  or  friendship,  or  esteem. 
No,  not  enough  to  extract  an  epitaph 
From  ostentatious  kinsmen  ;   in  one  hour 
I  have  uprooted  all  my  former  life, 
And  outlived  every  thing,  except  thy  heart. 
The  pure,  the  good,  the  gentle,  which  will  oil 
With  unimpair'd  hut  not  a  clamorous  grief 

^tiU  keep Thou  turn'st  so  pale— Alas  !   she  faints, 

She  hath  no  breath,  no  pulse  !  Guards  !  lend  your  aid- 
I  cannot  leave  her  thus,  and  yet 't  is  better. 
Since  every  lifeless  moment  spares  a  pang. 
When  she  shakes  off  this  temporary  death, 
I  shall  be  with  the  Eter-'al — Call  her  women — 
One  look  !— how  cold  her  hand  !    as  cold  as  mine 
Shall  be  ere  she  recovers.— Gently  tend  her, 
And  take  my  last  thanks.— I  am  ready  now. 

[  The  attendants  of  A  N  G  i  o  m  N  a  enter  and  sui  - 
round   tkdr   mistress,    who    has  fainted. 
Exeunt  the  Doge,  Guards,  etc.,  etc. 


SCENE  III. 

The  Court  of  the.  Ducal  Palace:  the  outer  gates  are 
shut  ag<dnst  the  people.— The  Doge  enters  m  his 
ducal  rohes,  in  procession  iinth  the  Council  if  Ten 
and  other  Patricians,  attended  hi)  the  Guards,  till 
they  arrive  at  the  top  of  the  "  Giant's  Staircase'' 
[where  the  Doges  took  the  oallis);  the  Ext'utioner  is 
stationed  there  '.vith  his  award.  On  arriving ,  a  Chief 
of  the  Ten  takes  off  the  ducal  cup  fom  the  Doge's 
head. 

DOGE. 

So,  now  the  Doge  is  nothing,  and  at  last 

I  am  again  Marino  Faliero : 

'T  is  well  to  be  so,  though  but  for  a  moment. 

Here  was  I  crown'd,  and  here,  bear  witne,ss,  IlCcVeu' 

With  how  mucli  more  contentment  I  resign 

That  shining  mockery,  the  ducal  bauble. 

Than  I  received  the  fatal  ornament. 

ONE    OK    THE    TEN, 

Thou  tremblest,  Faliero ! 

liOGE. 

'T 13  with  age,  ihen, 

BEMXTE-?DE. 

Fahero!    hast  th/?u  aught  furthe--  to  commend, 
Com[)atible  with  justice,  to  the  senate? 

DOGE. 

I  would  commend  my  nephew  to  their  mercy, 
My  consort  to  their  justice  ;  fir  m(;lhiiiks 


554 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


My  d«;atli,  and  such  a  death,  might  settle  all 
Between  the  state  and  me. 

BENIXTEXDE. 

They  shall  he  cared  for ; 
Even  notwithstanding  thine  nnheard-of  crime. 

DOGE. 

rriheard-of  I    ay,  there  's  not  a  history 
But  shows  a  thousand    ,-o\\trd  conspirators 
As^uinst  the  people  ;    hut  to  set  them  free 
One  sovereign  only  died,  and  one  is  dying. 

BEMNTENOE. 

And  .vho  are  tnr;y  who  fell  in  such  a  cause? 

DOGE. 

The  KiTi2  of  Sparta,  and  the  Doge  of  Venice — 
Agis  and  Faliei  o  ! 

EENIXTENTE. 

Hast  thou  more 
Tout;er  or  to  do? 

DOGE. 

May  I  speak? 

BEMNTENDE. 

Thou  may's  , 
But  recollect  the  people  are  without, 
Beyond  the  compass  of  the  human  voice. 

DOGE. 

I  speak  t")  Time  and  to  Eternity, 

Of  wiiich  I  irrow  a  portion,  not  to  man. 

Ye  elements  !    in  which  to  he  resolved 

I  liasTcn,  let  mv  voire  l)e  as  a  spirit 

I'pon  voii  I    Ye  lijiie  waves!    which  hore  my  banner! 

Ye  win  is!    which  t'i:tii-r'd  o'er  as  if  you  loved  it, 

And  fillM  mv  swclliuiz  sails  as  they  were  wafted 

To  manv  a  iriiirni)h  !   Thou,  my  native  earth, 

Which  I  h;ive  hied  for,  and  thou  foreign  earth, 

Which  drunk  this  w,llim_r  hlood  from  many  a  wound! 

Ye  stones,  in  which  my  gore  will  not  sink,  but 

Reek  up  to  Heaven!    Ve  skies,  which  will  receive  it! 

Thou  sun  !    whicli  shinest  on  these  things,  and  Thou! 

Who  kindlcst  and  who  (juenchest  suns  I — Attest! 

I  am  not  innocent — but  are  these  guiltless  ? 

I  [lerish,  but  not  umivenged  ;    far  ages 

Float  11])  fi-om  the  abyss  of  time  to  be, 

And  show  these  eyes,  before  tliey  close,  the  doom 

Of  this  prou  I  (;ity,  and  I  leave  my  curse 

On  her  an  i  hers  for  ever: Yes,  the  hours 

Are  silently  eiiofu'leriiig  of  the  day, 

When  she  who  built  'gainst  Attila  a  bulwark, 

Siiali  yield,  and  biooJIessly  and  basely  yield 

Unto  a  bastin-d  Attila,  without 

Shed<liii<j  so  much  hlood  in  her  last  defence 

As  these;  old  Veins,  oft  drain'd  in  shielding  her, 

Siiall  |)our  in  sacrilice. — She  shall  be  bought 

And  sold,  and  be  an  appanage  to  those 

Who  shall  despise  her! — She  shall  stoop  to  be 

4.  province;  tor  an  empire,  (letty  town 

In  hell  of  capital,  with  slaves  for  senates, 

Beggars  for  i  -'des,  panders  for  a  people  !'° 

Then,  wli(;n  the  Hebrew's  in  tliy  palaces," 

The  Hun  in  lliy  high  places,  and  the  Greek 

Walks  o'er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  on  it  for  his ! 

When  thy  patricians  beg  tlnnr  hitter  bread 

In  narrow  streijls,  and  m  their  shameful  need 

Make  their  iiDbilily  a  plea  for  pily ! 

Then,  when    he  few  who  still  retain  a  wreck 

Of  their  great  falh(;rs'  heritage  shall  fiwn 

Round  a  barbarian  \  ice  of  Kiniis'  Vi%t>gerent 

Even  in  the  palace  where  they  sway'd  as  sovereigns. 

Even  in  the  palace  uherf;  they  slew  tlu'ir  soveri^ign, 

l',ou<l  ;if'  >oine  name  they  hnve  di><i;raced,  or  sprung 

Trom   111  liduiire-'s  boiistliil  of  her  :'uilt 


With  some  large  gondolier  or  foreign  soiJier, 

Shall  bear  about  their  bastardy  in  triumi)n 

To  the  third  spurious  generation  ;-;-wiien 

Thy  sons  are  in  the  lowest  scale  of  being, 

Slaves  turn'd  o'er  to  the  vanquish'd  by  the  victors. 

Despised  bv  cowards  for  greater  cowardice, 

And  soorn'd  even  by  the  vicious  for  such  vices 

As  in  the  monstrous  grasp  of  their  conception 

Defy  all  codes  to  image  or  to  name  them  ; 

Then,  when  of  Cyprus,  now  thy  subject  kingdom, 

All  thine  inheritance  shall  be  her  shame 

Entail'd  on  thy  less  virtuous  daughters,  grown 

A  wider  proverb  for  worse  prostitution; — 

When  all  the  ills  of  conquer'd  states  shall  cling  t'  (^ 

Vice  without  splendour,  sin  without  relief 

Even  fi-om  the  gloss  of  love  to  smooth  it  o'er, 

But  in  its  stead  coarse  lusts  of  habitude, 

Prurient  yet  passionless,  cold  studied  lewdness. 

Depraving  nature's  frailty  to  an  art ; — 

When  these  and  more  are  heavy  on  thee,  when 

Smiles  without  mirth,  and  pastimes  without  pleasure, 

Youth  without  honour,  age  without  respect. 

Meanness  and  weakness,  and  a  sense  of  woe 

'Gainst  which  thou  wilt  not  strive,  and  dar'st  not  murmur 

Have  made  thee  last  and  worst  of  peopled  deserts; 

Then,  in  the  last  gasp  of  thine  agony, 

Amidst  thy  many  murders,  think  of  mine! 

Tiiou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes  :'2 

Gehenna  of  the  waters!   thou  sea  S->flom! 

Thus  I  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  goiis ; 

Thee  and  thy  serpent  seed  ! 

I  Here  the  Doge  tuDis,  and  addrestses  the  Fxe- 
cutioner. 

Slave,  do  thine  office; 
Strike  as  I  struck  the  foe !    Strike  as  I  would 
Have  struck  those  tyrants  !   Strike  deep  as  niv  curse 
Strike — and  but  once  ! 

[7Vte  Doge  throws  himself  irpon  his  rtnces, 
and  as  the  Kxecutioner  raises  his  stoord 
the  scene  closes. 


SCENE  IV. 

The  Piazza  and  PiazzcLla  of  Saint  JMarkKs.  —  The  PiO' 
pie  in  crowds  gathered  round  the  grated  gates  of  Lh( 
Ducal  Palace^  v)hich  are  shut. 

FIKST     CITI7EN. 

I  have  gain'd  the  gate,  and  can  discern  the  Ten, 
Robed  in  their  gowns  of  state,  ranged  round  the  Doge. 

SECOND     CIXr/.E.N. 

I  cannot  reach  thee  with  mine  utmost  effort. 
How  IS  it?  let  us  hear  at  least,  since  sight 
Is  thus  prohibited  unto  the  people, 
Except  the  occupiers  of  those  bars. 

FIKST     CIT1/E\. 

One  has  approach'd  the  Do^-e,  and  now  they  strip 

Tiie  ducal  bonnet  from  his  head — and  now 

He  raises  his  keeneyes  to  heaven.     I  see 

Them  glitter,  and  his  lips  move — Hush!   hush!   No, 

'Twas  but  a  murmur — Curse  upon  the  distance! 

His  words  are  inarticulate,  but  the  voict; 

Swells  up  like  mutt(;r  ■,  tiiunder;    would  we  could 

But  gather  a  sole  seiKence! 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

Hush!   we  perhaps  mav  catch  the  sound. 

FIliST     CITIZEN. 

'Tis  vain. 
I  cannot  hear  him. — How  his  hoarv  hair 
Sirt'ams  <m  the  wind  like  ioam  upon  the  wave! 
Now — now — he  kneels — and  now  they  form  a  circle 


MAUINO    F  ALTER  0. 


555 


Round  hiin,  ariil  all  is  hi  Uieii — l)ut  I  see 

The  litled  suord  lu  uir Ah  !    hark  !    it  falls  ! 

[  7 Vic  pc'iple  m  u rm u r. 

THIKO    Cni/.KN. 

Then  thci'  have  uiurtk^rM  him  who  would  have  freed  us. 

FOL'IITH     Cni/KN. 

He  was  a  kind  man  to  the  conmions  ever. 
FIFTH    crn/KN. 

Wiocly  tliey  did  to  keep  their  portals  harr'd. 
Would  we  had  known  the  work  lliey  were  preparing 
Ere  we  were  suniinon'd  here ;   we  would  have  brought 
Weapons,  and  tijrced  them  ! 

SIXTH     CITI/F.X. 

Are  you  sure  he's  dead? 
FIRST   cnizKX. 
I  saw  the  sword  fall — Lo !    what  have  we  here  ? 
[En/er  on  the  Bnlconi/  of  the  Pal'ire  which  fniutft  Saint 
31<trk's  Pliire  a  Chief  of  thk  Tkn,'^  idtli  a  bloody 
sicortL      lie   waves   it   thrice   he/ore   the  people,   and 
€d:cloimf<, 
"  Jusiice  halh  dealt  upon  the  mighty  traitor!" 

[The  gatefi  are  opened;   the  populace  rush  in  towards 
the   "  GinnL''s  Stairca.'^e,''^   where  the  execution  has 
taken    place.      The  foremost   of  them    exclaims  to 
those  litliind, 
The  gory  head  rolls  down  the  "  Giant's  steps  !" 

\The  curtain  falls. 


TsOTES, 


Note  8.    P;igr  18^2,    me  20. 
Say,  Coiisrnin  faihurs,  ;.li:.ll  sl,c  b,'  admilti.l  7 
The  Vcnttian  senate  luuk  the  same  title  as   the  Ka 
man,  of  "Conscrinl  Fatliers." 

Note  9.    Pa;;;'  196,  line  27. 


u 


',  II 


Paris,  to 
:l,  on  hia 


Note  1.  Page  81,  line  2. 
I  smote  the  tardy  bishop  at  'J  revise. 
A  historical  fact.     See  Mann  Sanuto's  Lives  of  the 
Doges. 

Note  2.  Page  92,  line  17. 

A  eondola  with  one  oar  only. 

A  gondola  is  not  like  a  common  boat,  but  is  as  easily 

rowed  with  one  oar  as  with  two  (though  oi"  course  not 

GO  swiftly  h  and  often  is  so  from  motives  of  privacy,  and 

(since  the  decay  of  Venice)  of  economy. 

Note  3.   Page  126,  line  20. 
Tliey  think  themselvos 
Eiiiiaircd  in  secret  to  the  tfignory. 
A  historical  fact. 

Note  4.   Page  158,  line  12. 
Within  our  palace  precincts  at  San  Polo. 
The  Doge's  private  family  palace. 

Note  5.   Page  164,  line  31. 
"  Signor  of  the  Xii-'ht." 
*' I  Signori  di  Notte"  held  an  important  charge  in 
he  old  Republic. 

Note  6.   Page  174,  line  18. 
Festal  Thursday. 
''  Giovedi  Grasso,"  '■'■fat  or  greasy  Thursday,"  which 
J  i.annol  literally  translate  in  the  text,  was  the  day. 

Note  7.   Page  174,  line  32. 
Guarda!  let  their  mouths  be  gas.'f;"d,  even  in  the  act. 
Histoi  cal  f?  ?t.     See  Sanuto,  in  *he  appendix  to  thif 
tragedy. 


This  was  the  actual  reply  oi"  Haiili,  mai 
a  FrenchiiKin  who  mad*;  him  the  s..nie  re 
way  to  execution,  m  the  earliest  pari  of  ititir  rcvolniioii. 
I  tind  in  reading  over  (since  the  com|)ktion  ot'  this 
tragedy),  for  the  hrst  time  these  six  years,  "Venice 
Preserved,"  a  similar  reply  on  a  ditferen'  dc-asioii  by 
Renault,  and  other  coincidences  arisini'  from  Uie  snli- 
I  ject.  I  need  hardly  reniind  the  g(Mitlesl  rt  adcr,  lliat 
such  coincidences  must  be  accidental,  frmii  llic  very 
facilitv  of  their  detection  by  reference  to  so  po;,ular  a 
plav  on  the  stage  and  m  the  closet  as  (Jtway's  chef' 
d''(jeuvre. 

Note   10.   Page  198,  line  22. 
Reir^'ars  fur  nobles,  panders  for  a  pioiiie. 
Should    the    dramatic    picture    seem    harsh,   let    the 
reader  look  to  the  historical,  of  the  perioii  prophesied, 
or  rather  of  the  few  years  preceding  that  period.     Vol- 
taire calculated  their   "nosire  beiiemerile    .Merttrici," 
at  twelve  thousand  of  regulars,  withmil    mrliniiiiH  vol- 
'     unteers  and  local  iniluia,  on  what  authority  1  know  not  j 
but  it  is   perha|)s  the   only  part   of  the   poj.nliition   not 
j    decreased.      Venice  once  contained  two   hmnlre.' thou- 
j    sand  inhabitants;    there  are   now   about    ii.neu    ihou- 
I    sand,  and  thkse  !  !    Few  individuals  can  conceive,  and 
none  could   describe   the   actual    slate   into  u  hirh  the 
more  than  infernal  tyranny  of  Austria  has  phjuged  this 
unhappy  city. 

Note  11.  Page  19S,  line  23. 
Til  -n,  when  the  Hebrew  's  in  tliy  i)ala(  es. 
Tiie  chief  palaces  on  the  Brenta  now  belonc  to  the 
Jews  :  who,  in  the  earlier  times  of  the  Repu!»h< ,  were 
only  allowed  to  mhaliit  .Mestri,  and  not  ti  enter  the 
citv  of  Venice.  The  wiiole  commerce  is  m  the  hands 
of  the  Jews  and  Greeks,  and  the  Huns  form  the  gar- 
rison. 

Note  12.  Page  199,  line  28. 
Thou  den  of  drunkards  witii  tlie  blood  of  princes! 
Of  the  first  fit-ty  Doges,  Jice  abdicated— ://re  were 
banished  with  their  eyes  |)ut  out^y?;^  were  massacreu 
— and  nine  deposed  ;  so  that  nineteen  out  of  tlfty  lost 
the  throne  by  violence,  besides  two  who  fell  m  battle: 
this  occurred  Ions  previous  to  the  reicn  of  .Marino 
Faliero.  One  of  his  more  immediate  predecessors,  An- 
drea Dandolo,  died  of  vexation.  Marino  Faliero  hiro- 
self  perished  as  rehited.  Amongst  his  successors,  Fos- 
cari,  after  seeiriir  his  son  repeatedly  tortured  ar.d  ban- 
ished, was  deposed,  and  died  of  breakmi^  a  b'ood- 
vessel,  on  hearing  the  bell  of  Saint  Mark's  lo'l  for  I  he 
election  of  his  successor.  Morosini  was  impcaclnid  foi 
the  loss  of  Candia  ;  but  this  was  previous  'o  his  dukt>- 
dom,  durniir  which  he  con(|uered  the  IMcrea,  and  was 
styled  the  Peloponnt^sian.  Faliero  might  truly  say, 
Tliou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  olood  of  princes  ' 

Note  13.    Page  201,  hne  18. 
Chief  of  the  1  en. 
"Un  Capo  de'  lieci"  are  the  word     of  Sanuto's 
Chronicle. 
I 


5n6 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


APPENDIX. 


I. 

MCCCLIV. 
M>RIN  )  FALIERO,  DOGE  XLIX. 

"Fc"  eletio  da  quarantimo  Eleltori,  il  quale  era  Cav- 
aiiere  e  conte  di  Valdemarino  in  Trivigiana,  ed  era 
ficco,  e  s!  trovava  ambasciadore  a  Roma.  E  a  di  9,  di 
Setlernbre,  dopo  sepolt')  il  suo  predecessore,  fii  chiamato 
jl  gran  Consigiio,  e  fu  preso  di  fare  il  Doge  giusta  il  so- 
ito.  E  furono  fatti  i  cinque  Corrtttori,  Ser  Bernardo 
Giustiniiini  Procnratore,  Ser  Paolo  Loredano,  Ser  Fi- 
;ip])0  Aurio,  Ser  Pietro  Trivisano,  e  Ser  Tommaso 
Viadro.  I  quali  a  u)  10,  misero  queste  correzioni  alia 
protaozione  del  Doge:  die  i  Consjulieri  non  cdano  gli 
Oratori  e  Nunzi  de'  Signori,  seriza  i  Capi  de'  (juaranta, 
ne  f)ossano  risporidere  ad  alcuno,  se  non  saranno  quattro 
Consiglieri  e  due  Capi  d»"'  Quaranta.  E  che  osservino 
la  forma  del  suo  Capilolare.  E  che  Messer  lo  Doge 
si  m(!tta  nella  nnglior  parte,  quarido  i  giudici  tra  loro 
non  fossoro  d'accordo.  E  ch'  egli  non  possa  far  ven- 
dere  i  suoi  imprestiti,  srilvo  con  Icgittima  causa,  e  co) 
voler  di  cinque  Consiglieri,  di  due  Capi  de'  Quaranta, 
e  delle  due  parti  del  Consiglio  de'  Pregati.  //'erw,  che 
in  luoi'o  di  tre  mila  pelli  di  Coriigli.  die  dehbon  dare  i 
Zaratini  per  regalia  al  Doge,  non  trovandosi  tante  pelli, 
gli  diano  Diicati  ottanta  I'anno.  E  [)oi  a  dl  11,  detto, 
misero  etiam  altre  correzioni,  che  se  il  Doge,  che  sarS 
eletto,  fosse  fuori  di  V^enezia,  i  savj  possano  provvcdere 
del  suo  ritorno.  E  quando  fosse  il  Doge  ainmalato,  sia 
Vicedoge  uno  de'  Consialieri,  da  essere  eletto  tra  loro. 
K  che  il  detto  sia  noniinato  V  iceluogotenente  di  Messer 
'j  Doge,  quando  i  giudici  faranno  i  suoi  at»i.  E  nota, 
pijrche  fu  tatto  Doge  uno,  ch'era  asser>te,  che  fu  Vice- 
doge Ser  Marino  Badoero  piu  vecchio  de'  Consigiieri. 
Item,  che  il  governo  del  Ducato  sia  conimesso  a'  Con- 
siglieri, e  a'  Capi  de'  Quaranta,  quando  vachera  il 
Ducato  finche  sara  eletto  1'  altro  Doge.  E  cosi  a  di  11 
dl  Setti  nibre  fu  creato  il  prefato  Marino  Faliero  Doge. 
E  fu  preso,  che  il  governo  del  Ducato  sia  conimesso  a' 
Consiglieri  e  a'  Capi  de'  Quaranta.  I  quali  stiano  in 
Palazzo  di  continuo,  fino  che  verrh  il  Doge.  Sicche  di 
contuiuo  stiano  in  Palazzo  due  Consigiieri  e  un  Capo 
de'  Quaranta.  E  subito  furono  spedite  lettere  al  detto 
Done,  il  (]uale  era  a  Roma  Oratore  al  Legato  di  Papa 
Innocenzo  VI.  ch'  era  in  Avignone.  Fu  preso  nel  gran 
Consiglio  d'eb^gfjere  dodici  anibasciadori  incontro  a 
Marmo  Faliero  Doge,  il  quale  veniva  da  Roma.  E  gi- 
unto  a  Chiogiria,  il  Podesta  rnando  Taddeo  Ouistiniani 
suo  figliuolo  incontro,  con  quindici  Ganzaruoli.  E  poi 
vennto  a  S.  Clemente  nel  Bucintoro,  venne  un  gran 
caligo,  adeo  che  il  Bucintoro  non  ji  pote  levare.  Laonde 
il  Doge  co'  gentiliiomim  lu'lle  piatte  vennero  di  lungo 
in  questa  Terra  a' 5  d'Ottohiv.  .iel  1354.  E  dovendo 
sniontarc;  alia  riva  della  Paglia  per  lo  caligo  andarono 
^d  ismonlare  alia  riva  dclla  Piazza  in  mezzo  alle  due  co- 
ionne  (b^ve  si  ta  la  Giustizia,  che  fu  un  malissimo  au- 
purio.  E  a'  6,  la  maltnia  vcrme  alia  Chiesa  di  San 
Marcii  alia  laudiziftne  di  (|uello.  Era  in  questo  tempo 
Cancellier  Grande  Messer  Btnuntitnde.  I  (|uarantuno 
Eleltori  furono,  S<'r  (JKjvanrn  Contarini,  Ser'  Andrea 
Guistmumi,  Si-r  Michi-le  Morossirn.  Ser  Simon'^  Dan- 
dolo,  Ser  Pietro  Eando,  S<:r  Mari-io  Gradenigo,  Ser 
Marco  Dolfino,  Ser  Nicoio  Faliero,  Ser  (Jiovainii  Qui- 
rini,  Ser  Lorenzo  Soranzo,  Ser  Mar(-n  B<  irdio.  Sere 
Slel.ino  Belegno,  Ser  Francesco  Loredano,  Ser  Ma- 
rino \  en.i'ro,  Ser  Giovar:ni  M  >cenii.'o,  .Ser  Andrea 
Buil'Pro,  Ser  Loreirzo  IJarl)arij»(     Ser  Beltino  da  Mol- 


lino,  Ser'  Andrea  Arizzo  Procuratore,  Ser  Marco  CcISi 
Ser  Paolo  Donato,  Ser  Bertucci  G  rimani,  Ser  Pietro 
Steno,  Ser  Luca  Duodo,  Ser'  Andrea  Pisani,  Ser  Fran- 
cesco Caravello,  Ser  Jacopo  Trivisano,  Sere  Schiavc, 
Marcello,  Ser  Maffeo  Aiino,  Ser  Marco  Capello,  Ser 
Pancrazio  Giorgio,  Ser  Giovanni  Foscarini,  Ser  Tom- 
maso Viadro,  Sere  Schiava  Polani,  Ser  Marco  Polo, 
Ser  Marino  Sagredo,  Sere  Stefano  Mariari,  Ser  Fran- 
cesco Suriano,  Ser  Ono  Pasqualigo,  Ser'  Andrea 
Gritti,  Ser  Buono  da  Mosto. 

"  Trattato  di  Messier  Marino  Faliero  Doge,  trritio  rla 
una  Crouica  antica.  Essendo  venuto  il  Giovcdi  della 
Caccia,  fu  fa.tta  giusta  il  solito  la  Caccia.  E  a'  (|ue 
tcMupi  dopo  fatta  la  Caccia  s'andava  in  Palazzo  del  Doge 
in  una  di  quelle  sale,  e  con  donne  facevasi  una  feslic- 
cinola,  dove  si  ballava  faio  alia  pritna  carnpana,  e  ve- 
niva inia  colazione;  la  (juale  spesa  fac(wa  Messer  lo 
Doge,  quando  v'  era  la  Dogaressa.  E  poscia  tutti  anda- 
vano  a  casa  sua.  Sopra  la  (jual  festa,  pare,  che  Ser  Mi- 
chele  Steno,  molto  giovane  e  povero  gentiluomo,  ma 
ardito  e  astuto,  il  cpiale  era  innamorato  in  certa  donzella 
della  Dogaressa  J  essendo  sul  Solajo  appresso  le  donne, 
facesse  cert'  aito  non  conveniente,  adeo  che  il  Doge  co- 
mandw  ch'  e'  fosse  buttato  giu  dal  Solajo.  E  cosi  quegli 
scudieri  del  Doge  lospinsero  giiJ  di  quel  Solajo.  Laonde 
a  Ser  Michele  parve,  che  fossegli  stata  fatta  Iroppo 
grande  ignominia.  E  non  considerando  altramente  il 
fine,  ma  sopra  (piella  passione  fornita  la  festa,  e  andati 
tutt'i  via,  quella  notte  eijli  ando,  e  sulla  cadrega,  dovo 
sedeva  il  Doge  nella  Sala  dell'  Udienza  (!)erchp  allora  i 
Dogi  non  tenevano  panno  di  seta  sopra  la  cadrega,  ma 
sedevano  in  una  cadrega  di  legno)  scrisse  aiciuie  parole 
disoneste  del  Doge  e  della  Do<raressa,  cio'"' :  Marin  fa- 
liero dalla  bella  mog/je  :  Altri  la  gode,  ed  egli  hi  mart- 
tiene.  E  la  mattina  furono  vedute  tali  parole  scrittCi 
E  parve  una  brutta  cosa.  E  per  la  Signoria  fu  cora 
nsessa  la  cosa  agli  Avvogadori  del  Comune  con  grando 
efficacia.  I  quali  Avvogadori  subito  diedero  taglia  grande 
per  venire  in  chiaro  della  verith  di  chi  avea  scritto  tal 
lettera.  E  tandem  si  seppe,  che  Michele  Steno  aveale 
scritte.  E  fu  per  11  Quaranta  preso  di  riten.^rlo ;  e  ri- 
tenuto  confesso,  che  in  quella  passione  d'  essere  stato 
s[»intogiu  dal  Solajo,  presente  la  sua  aniante,  egli  aveaie 
scritte.  Onde  |)oi  fu  [)lacitato  nel  detto  Consiglio,  e 
parve  al  Consiglio  si  per  rispetto  all'  eta,  come  |)er  la 
caldezza  d'amore,  di  condannarlo  a  compi<'re  du(!  niesi 
in  prigione  serraio,  e  poi  ch'  e'  fosse  liandito  di  Venp/ia 
e  dal  distretto  [lerun'anno.  Per  la  (jual  condennagione 
tanto  piccola  il  Doge  ne  prese  grande  sde^no,  paren- 
dogli  che  non  fosse  stata  fatta  (juella  estiinazinnii  della 
cosa,  che  ricercava  la  sua  di<rnita  del  Ducato.  E  diceva, 
ch'  eglino  doveano  averlo  fatto  appiccare  per  la  gola,  o 
<ialtem  bandirlo  in  perpetuo  da  Venezia.  E  perch6 
(quando  dee  succedere  un'  effetto  ^  necessario  die  v\ 
concorra  la  cangione  a  fare  tal'  effetto)  era  destinato,  che 
a  Messer  Marino  Doge  fosse  tagliata  la  testa,  perciit  oc- 
corse,  che  entrata  la  Quaresima  il  gioriio  dopo  che  fu 
condannato  il  detto  Ser  Michele  Stc^no,  im  gentiluomo 
fla  Ca  Barbaro,  di  nalura  collerico,  andasse  all'  Arsenale, 
domandasse  certe  ("ose  ai  Padroni,  ed  era  alia  presenzu 
de'  Signori  I'A.mmiraglio  dell'  Arsenale.  II  (pia!(>  intesa 
la  domanda,  disse,  che  non  si  [loteva  fare.  Quid  gen- 
tiluomo vfMine  a  parole  coll'  \mmiraglio,  e  du)d(>gli  un 
pugno  su  un'occhio.  E  perchi''  avea  un'anello  in  dito, 
coll'  anello  <rli  ruppe  la  pelle,  e  fece  sangue.  E  I'Ammi- 
ra^dio  cosi  battuto  e  insanguinato  and-i  al  Do<,'e  a  latnen- 
larsi,  acciocch^  il  Do<jc  ftctisse  1~are  g^rai?  purrzione  con- 
tra il  detto  d;«  C;i  Barbaro :  II  Doge  dis^^e  :  Che  vvoi  clit 
tifaccia  7  Guarda  le  ignovnniose  parole  s-'itte  di  ine,  e 
il  modo  clCl  stato  punito  quel  ribaldo  di  Michelt  Steno, 


MARINO    FALTERO. 


557 


ch>:  le  srrtsfte.  iT  quale  stima  hanno  i  Quarantn  fiitlo 
'Mia  persona  a  afra  ?  Laomlc  I' Arnmiraglio  frli  differ 
Alcsscr  lo  D'lf^e^  se  voi  i-ohte  farfi  Si^norc,  e  fare  tn- 
fcliare  tutti  ^iiicsti  berrhi  ifi^ulihaniiini  ii  jjezzi,  mi  hafla 
Caniino.  (iuulonii  voi  ((Jnto,  di  J'arvi  Sii^-nore  ili  quesla 
Tt-rra.  K  nV.nra  roi  p(,trcte  rasli^-arc  tilth  rostoro.  In- 
toso  qiiosto,  il  Do;,'t;  dissc,  Ciriif  si  pito  Jure  una  si/iiile 
coso?   K  cosl  eiitiarciK)  in  rai'idiiaiiK  iito. 

"  II  Doiit'  inaiulo  a  chiatii'erc  Scr  H(>rtiiccioFalierOfiuO 
niuote,  il  inialc  stava  va>u  !ui  in  I'ala/./.o,  e  cMlraroiio 
ill  (|ii<'sta  niacchiiia/.ione.  N'o  si  paitiroiio  (ii  11,  che  niaii- 
(iarDno  \)er  Filij)j)o  Caleiidaro,  iioino  inariuiino  a  di  j',ran 
scijinto,  e  per  Jicrtiiccio  Israello,  iiigogiicre  e  uonioastu- 
tissiino.  E  cuiisi^lialisi  insieiiie  diede  ordirie  di  chia- 
inare  alcuiii  altrl.  E  cosl  per  alciuii  uiorni  ia  nntlo  si 
ridiicevano  iiisicme  in  Palazzo  in  casa  del  Doije.  E  cliia- 
niarono  a  j);u-te  a  parte  altri,  vi'letirct  Niccolu  Fa- 
giiiolo,  Giovanni  da  Corfu,  Stefano  Fajjiano,  Niccolo 
dalle  Bende,  Niccnl5  iJiondo,  e  Stefano  Trivisano.  E 
ordino  di  fare  sedici  o  diciassette  Caj)i  in  diversi  luoi;hi 
della  Terra,  i  quali  avessero  cadaun  di  loro  (]iiarant'  iio- 
niini  provvii^ionati,  preparati,  non  dicendo  a'  detti  suoi 
quaranta  qnello,  che  volessero  fare.  INIa  che  i!  iTiorno 
staliilito  si  inostrasse  di  far  qnistinne  tra  loro  in  diversi 
hifii'M,  acciocche  ii  Do'ze  face^sse  sonare  a  .San  Marco  le 
cainnaiie,  le  (jiiali  iion  si  possono  siionare,  s'  e^W  riol 
comanda.  E  al  suorio  delle  catnpane  qiiesti  sedici  o 
diciassotte  co'  suoi  uoniini  venissero  a  San  Marco  alle 
strade,  che  biittano  in  Piazza.  E  cost  i  nohili  e  priniarj 
ciltadini,  che  venissero  in  Piazza,  i)er  sapore  del  rornore 
cio  ch'era,  Ii  tagliassero  a  pezzi.  E  seguito  qiiesto,  che 
fosse  chiarnato  per  SignoreMesserMarinoFalieroDoiie. 
E  ferinale  le  cose  tra  loro,  stabilito  fn,  che  qiiesfo  do- 
ve.S3  essere  a'  13  d'Aprile  del  1355  in  giorno  di  Merco- 
Icdi.  La  quale  niacchinazione  trattata  fu  tra  loro  tanto 
segretamente,  che  niai  ne  pure  se  ne  sosjietti),  non  che 
se  ne  sapesse  cos'  alcuna.  Ma  il  Signor'  Iddio,  che  ha 
eetnpre  ajutato  questa  gloriosissima  citta,  e  che  per  le 
santinionie  e  giustizie  sue  niai  non  I'ha  abbandonata, 
ispir5  a  un  Beltramo  Bergamasco,  il  quale  fu  niesso 
Capo  di  quarant'  uomini  per  uno  de'  detti  consriurati 
(il  quale  intesequalche  parola,  sicche  compresf;  I'etFeto, 
che  doveva  succedere,  e  il  qual  era  di  casa  di  Ser  Nic- 
cok'i  Lionidi  Santo  Stefano)  diandare  adl  '•'***  d'Aprile 
a  casa  del  detto  Ser  Niccol5  Lioni.  E  gli  dlsse  ogni 
cosa  dell'  ordin  dato.  II  quale  intese  le  cose,  rimase 
come  niorto  ;  e  intese  molte  particolarita,  il  detto  Bel- 
tramo il  prego  che  lo  tcnesse  segreto,  e  glielo  disse, 
acciocche  il  detto  Ser  Niccolu  non  si  partisse  di  casa  a 
dl  15,  acciocche  egli  non  fosse  morto.  Ed  egli  volendo 
partirsi,  il  fece  ritenere  a  suoi  di  casa,  e  serrarlo  in  una 
camera.  Ed  esso  andi^  acasadi  M.  Giovanni  Gradeni^o 
Nasone,  il  (juale  fu  poi  Doge,  che  stava  ancii'  eijii  a 
Santo  Stefano  ;  e  dissegli  la  cosa.  La  quale  [)ar(-n- 
dogh,  com'era,  d'una  grandissirna  importariza,  tutti  e 
due  andarnno  a  casa  di  Ser  Marco  Cornaro,  che  stava 
a  San  Felice.  E  dettoiili  il  tulto,  tutti  e  fre  delihera- 
rono  di  venire  a  casa  del  detto  Ser  Niccolo  I/iotii,  ed 
esaminare  il  detto  Beltramo.  E  quello  esa!ninat(j,  ui- 
fese  le  cose,  il  fecero  stare,  serrato.  E  andarono  liitM  e 
Ire  a  Saii  Salvatore  in  sacristia,  e  maiidorono  i  loro  ia- 
mi;.'!.  a  chinmare  i  Consiglieri,  i^li  Avvooadori,  i  C;ipi 
de'  Dieci,  e(]ue'del  Consiiilio.  K  ridotti  msi('mediss(  ro 
loro  ic  cose.  I  qnali  rimasero  morti.  F.  deliborarono  di 
tnandare  pel  diMto  Beltramo,  e  fattolo  venire  caiita- 
rnente,  ed  esaminatoio,  e  verificate  le  cose,  ancorche  Me 
sentissero  2*an  passione,  pure  pensarono  la  ])rovvisioiie. 
E  niandarono  i)e'  Capi  de'  Quaranta,  |)e'  Sitfnori  di 
notte,  pe  Capi  de'  Sestieri,  e  p'"'  Cincjue  della  Pace.  E 
ordmato,  ch    eglino  co'  Joro  uomini   trovassero  de;;li 


altri  biioni  uomini,  e  mandasscro  a  c.isa  de'  capi  de 
con^inrali,  lit  supra  mettessiro  loro  'e  mani  addosso. 
!•:  tolsero  i  detti  le  Ma(;slrerie  dell'  Arsenale,  accioclK> 
provvisionati  de'  congiurati  non  poKvssero  oll'enderli. 
E  si  riilussero  ui  Palazzo  verso  la  sera.  D(  ve  ridoiti 
fecero  serrare  le  jxjrte  della  corte  del  Palazzo.  E  ur.ui- 
darono  a  ordinare  al  catnpaiiaro,  che  nun  sonasse  In 
campane.  E  cosl  fu  eseguilo,  e  messe  le  mani  addcKsso 
<a  tulli  i  noininati  di  so[)ra,  furono  ipie'  condom  a 
\  Palazzo.  F^  vedenc^o  il  Consiglio  de'  Dieci,  che  il  Do^je. 
era  nella  cospirazione,  [)resero  di  ele<.'g«;re  venti  de' 
primarj  della  Terra,  di  giunta  a!  detto  Consiirlio  a  con- 
sigliare,  non  perf)  che  potessero  mettcre  |)al!otta. 

"  I  Consiglieri  furono  questi :  Stir  Giovanni  Mocenigo 
I  del  Sestiero  di  San  Marco ;  Ser  Almoro  Veniero  da  Santa 
f  Marina,  del  Sestiero  di  Cast-jllo ;  S(;r  Tommaso  Viadro, 
I  del  Sestiero  di  Caneregio;  Ser  Giovanni  Satiudo,  del 
i  Sestiero  di  Santa  Croce  ;  Scr  Pietro  Trivisano,  del  Se- 
i  stiero  di  San  Paolo,  Ser  Pantalione  Barbo  ii  Grande,  del 
S'.'stiero  d'Ossodiiro.  G!i  Avvnaadori  di-l  Comune  fu- 
rono Ser  Zufredo  INIorosini,  e  Ser  Orio  Pasquali^o,  e 
!  q  lesii  non  ballottarono.  Que'  del  Consiirlio  de'  Dieci ; 
;  furono:  Ser  Giovanni  Marceilo,  Ser  Tommaso  Sanudo, 
,  e  Ser  Micheletto  Dolfmo,  Capi  del  detto  Consiglio  de' 
'  Dieci ;  Ser  Luca  da  Legge,  e  Ser  Pietro  da  Moslo,  Inqui- 
;    sitori  del  detto  Consiglio :  Ser  ?tIarco  Polani,  S<!r  Marmo 

V.eniero,  Ser  Lando  Lombardo,  Ser  Nicolctto  Trivisano  ■ 
'  da  Satit'  Angiolo.  Questi  elessero  tra  loro  una  Giunta, 
nella  notte  ridotti  quasi  sul  rom[)er  del  giorno,  di  venti 
nobih  di  Venezia  de'  mi«liori,  de'  piiJ  savj,  e  de'  piu  an- 
'  tichi,  per  consultare,  non  pero  che  metfessero  pallot- 
tola.  E  non  vi  vollero  alcuiio  da  Ca  Faliero.  E  ca> 
ciarono  fuori  del  Consiglio  Niccol()  Faliero,  e  un'  ailro 
Niccol5  Faliero  da  San  Toir)maso,  per  essere  della  ca- 
sata  del  Dojje.  E  (juesta  pro\i(rione  di  cliiamare  i  venti 
della  Giunta  fu  molto  commendata  per  tutta  la  Terra. 
Questi  furono  i  venti  della  Giunta,  Ser  Marco  Gmsti- 
niani,  Procuratore,  Ser'  Andrea  Erizzo,  Procuralore,  Ser 
Lionardo  Giustiniani,  Procuratore,  Ser'  Andrea  Conta- 
rini,  Ser  Sitnone  Dandolo,  Ser  Niccolo  Vol|)e,  Ser  Gio- 
vanni Loredano,  Ser  INIarco  D\o  lo,  Ser  Giovanni  Gra 
denigo,  Ser'  Andrea  Cornaru,  Cavaiiere,  Ser  Marco  So 
ranzo,  Ser  Rinierida  Mosto,  Ser  Gazano  Marceilo,  Sei 
Marino  Morosino,  Sere  Stefano  Bele^no,  S(^r  NiccoRi 
Lioni,  Ser  Fili|)po  Orio,  Ser  Marco  Trivisano,  Ser  Ja- 
copo  Bragadino,  Ser  Giovanni  Fiscarini.  E  chiamati 
questi  venti  nel  Consiglio  de'  Dieci,  fu  mandato  per 
Messer  Marino  Faliero  Doge,  il  (|uale  andava  pel  Pa- 
lazzo con  gran  gente,  gentiluoniini,  e  altra  buoiia  Hfife, 
che  non  sapeano  ancora  come  il  fitto  stava.  In  (piesto^ 
tempo  Fu  condotto,  preso,  e  1' ira'o,  Bertuccio  Israello, 
mio  de'  Capi  del  trattato  per  que'  di  Santa  Croc(;,  e  an- 
cora fu  preso  Zanello  del  Brin,  Nicoletlo  di  Rosa,  e 
Nicoletto  Alberto,  il  Guardiaga,  e  altri  uomini  da  mare 
e  d'  altre  condizioni.  I  quali  furoiio  esaminati,  e  trovata 
la  verita  del  tradimento.  A  il  16  d'Aprile  fu  senten- 
ziat.)  pel  d<;tto  Consicrlio  de'  Dieci,  che  Filippo  Caian- 
dario,  e  Bertiicci  Israello  fossero  appiccati  alle  colonne 
rosse  del  balconate  del  Palazzo,  neile  quali  sfa  a  vedi  re 
i!  Doge  la  festa  della  Caccia.  E  cosl  furono  appic,  ati 
con  s])rani.'lie  in  bocca.  E  nel  giorno  seoueiiK;'  (piesti 
furono  condannati,  Niccolf)  Zuc(;uo!o,  Nicoletlo  BIoikIo, 
Nicoletto  Doro,  Marco  Geuda,  J;;comel!o  Dagolino,  Ni- 
coietto  Fedele  figliuolo  di  Filippo  Calendaro,  iMarco  T(V 
rello,  detto  Israello,  Stefano  Trivisano,  cambiafo/e  di 
Santa  Margherita,  Antonio  dalle  Bende.  Furono  turn 
[)resi  a  Chioggia,  che  fuggivano,  e  dipoi  in  diversi  giomi 
a  due  a  due,  ed  a  unO  a  uno,  per  sentenza  fiiUa  nel  detto 
Consiolio  de'  Dieci,  furono  aopiccati  per  la  <ro'a  al!**  co- 
lonne, continuando  dalle  rosse  del  Palaz/o,  seguerdo  fin 


558 


B  Y  E  0  X '  S    r  0  E  T  T  C  A  T.    WORKS 


verso  il  Canale.  E  altri  prcsi  furono  lasciati,  perch6 
senliroiiu  i)  latto,  ma  iiuu  vi  furono  tal  che  fu  dato  ioro 
ad  inteiidrre  [)er  questi  capi,  che  venissero  coll'  arin,e, 
per  preiidere  alcurii  malfatlori  in  servijrio  della  Signoria, 
oe  aitro  sapeano.     Fii  encora  liberato  Nicoletto  Alberto, 

Guardiaga,  e  Bartoloinrneo  Ciriiiola,  e  suo  figliuolo, 
e  molti  allri,  die  non  erano  in  colpa. 

E  a  di  16  d'  Aprile,  giorno  di  \enerdl,  fu  sentenziato 
nel  delto  Consiglio  de'  Dieci,  di  tagliure  la  testa  a  Mes- 
ser  Marino  Faliero  Doge  sul  pato  della  scala  di  pietra, 
dove  i  Dogi  giurano  il  priino  sagraniento,  qiiando  mon- 
tano  prima  in  Palazzo.  E  cosi  serrato  il  Palazzo,  la 
mattina  seguente  a  ora  di  tcsrza,  fu  tagliata  la  testa  al 
delto  Doge  a  di  17  d'  Aprile.  E  prima  la  berretta  fu 
tolta  di  testa  al  detto  Doge,  avanti  che  venisse  giu  dalla 
Bcala.  E  conipiuta  la  giustizia,  pare  che  un  Capo  de' 
Dieci  andasse  alle  Colorme  del  Palazzo  sopra  la  Piazza, 
e  mostrasse  la  spada  insanguinata  a  tutti,  dicendo:  E 
statu  J'tiUa  la  gran  giustizia  del  Traditore.  E  aperta  la 
porta,  tutti  entraroiio  dentro  con  gran  furia  a  vedere  il 
Doge,  ch'  era  stato  giustiziato.  E'  da  sapere,  che  a  fare 
la  detta  iziustizia  non  fu  Ser  Giovanni  Sanudo  il  Consi- 
Sjlitrre,  perche  era  andato  a  casa  i)er  difetto  della  persona, 
sicchi'  furono  (juattordici  soli,  che  ballottarono,  cio6 
cincpie  Consiglieri,  e  nove  del  Consiglio  de'  Dieci.  E  fu 
preso,  che  tutti  i  beiii  del  Doge  fossero  confiscati  nel 
Comune,  e  cosi  degli  altri  traditori.  E  fu  conceduto 
al  dftto  Doge  pel  detto  Consiglio  de  Dieci,  ch'  egli  po- 
tesse  ordiiiare  del  suo  per  ducati  due  mila.  Ancora  fu 
preso,  che  tutti  i  Consiglieri,  e  Avvogadori  del  Comune, 
que'  del  Consiglio  de'  Dieci,  e  della  Giunta,  ch'  erano 
stati  a  fare  la  detta  sentenza  del  Doge,  e  d'altri,  avessero 
licenza  di  |)orlar'  aime  di  di  e  di  notte  in  Venezia  e  da 
Grado  Hiio  a  Gavarzere,  ch'  e  sotto  il  Dogato,  con  due 
fanti  in  vita  Ioro,  stando  i  faiiti  con  essi  in  casa  al  suo 
pane  e  al  suo  vmo.  E  chi  non  avesse  fanti,  [)otesse  dar 
tal  licenza  a'  suoi  figliuoli  ovvero  fratelli,  due  per6  e  non 
piii.  Eziandio  fu  data  iicenza  dell'  arme  a  quattro  Notaj 
della  Cancelleria,  cioe  della  Corte  jVIaggiore,  che  furono 
a  prendere  le  de|)Osizioni  e  inquisizioni,  in  perpetuo  a 
Ioro  soli,  i  (piali  furono  Amadio,  Nicoletto  di  Loreno, 
Stetfanello,  e  Pietro  de'  Compostelli,  Scrivani  de'  Si- 
gnori  (li  u(,nv,.  Ed  essendo  stati  impiccati  i  traditori,  e 
tughiita  la  testa  al  Doge,  rimase  la  Terra  in  gran  riposo 
e  (|uit:te.  E  come  in  una  cronica  ho  trovato,  fu  por- 
talo  il  cor|)0  del  Doge  in  una  barca  con  otto  doppieri 
a  sr;pp(ilire  nella  sua  area  a  San  Giovanni  e  Paoio,  la 
quale  al  presente  ^  in  quell'  andito  per  mezzo  la  Chie- 
puola  (li  Santa  Maria  della  Pace,  fatta  fare  pel  Vescovo 
Gabriello  di  liergatno,  e  un  cassnnedi  pietra  con  (jueste 
lettere:  Ilicjwel  Dundaus  Marinu^  Fuictro  Dux,  E 
nel  gran  Cons  j^ho  iion  gli  c  stat;o  fatto  alcun  brieve,  ma 
il  lno<i()  vacuo  con  lettere,  che  dicono  cosi :  Hie  eat  locus 
jShirnd  Fu'<  Uo,  dccavitali  p^o  rnndnibusi.  E  pare,  che 
la  sua  casa  fosse  data  alia  Chiesa  di  Sant'  Apostolo,  la 
(]ual  era  quella  grande  sul  ponte.  Tamen  vedo  il  con- 
(rano  che  e  pure  di  C;i  Faliero,  o  che  i  Falieri  la  ricu- 
perassero  con  danari  dalla  Ciiiesa.  N6  voglio  restar  di 
scrivere  alcimi,  che  volevano,  che  fosse  messo  nel  suo 
ortjve,  cioi"' :  ^InrinuH  F(d.clr(t  Dux.  7\77ierita:ime  cepit. 
i'lfnas  lui  dcrdpiintus  pro  criiidnilnif^.  Altri  vi  fecero 
in  distico  assai  df^no  a!  suo  nierito,  il  (juale  e  questo, 
ia  cessere  poslo  su  la  sua  sei)oltura: 


Dux  Vi'iictiim  j;i<  > 
Si;vj)lru,  (icMis,  cei 


TO  tontans, 
put." 


"Non  voglio  restar  di  s(-rivere  (jucllo  che  ho  Ictto  in 
una  cronica,  f-io^,  che  Marino  Falifto  Irovandosi  Po- 
destii  <•  Canilano  a  'IVeviso,  e  dovtsidosi  fin;  una  ])ro- 
eessione,  d  v(;s(;()Vo  slelte  troppo  a  far  veniii;  il  Corpo 
di  ('ix((..     II  d(  tto  Faliero  era  di  laiita  superbia  e  ar- 


roganza,  che  diede  un  bufTetto  al  prefato  Vescovo,  per 
mo'Jo  ch'  egli  quasi  cadde  in  terra.  Peru  fu  permesso, 
che  il  Faliero  perdette  I'intelletto.  e  fecc  la  mala  morte, 
come  ho  scritto  di  sopra." 

***  +  *  +  + 

Cronica  di  Sanido — Muratori  S.  S.  Rerum  Italicaruni 
—vol.  xxii.  62S— 639. 

II. 

MCCCLIV 

MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE  XLIX. 

On  the  eleventh  day  of  September,  in  the  year  of  ou 
Lord  1354,  Marino  Faliero  was  elected  and  chosen  to  be 
the  Duke  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Venice.  He  was 
Count  of  Valdemarino,  in  the  Marches  of  IVeviso,  and 
a  Knight  and  a  wealthy  man  to  boot.  As  soon  as  the 
election  was  completed,  it  was  resolved  in  the  Great 
Council,  that  a  deputation  of  twelve  should  be  des- 
patched to  Marino  Faliero,  the  Duke,  who  was  then  on 
his  way  from  Rome ;  for,  when  he  was  chosen,  he  was 
ambassador  at  the  court  of  the  Holy  Father,  at  Rome, 
— the  Holy  Father  himself  held  his  court  at  Avignon. 
When  Mcsser  Marino  Falif.TO,  the  Duke,  was  about  to 
land  in  this  city,  on  the  fifth  day  of  October,  1354,  a 
thick  haze  came  on,  and  darkened  the  air ;  and  he  was 
enforced  to  land  on  the  [)lace  of  Saint  Mark,  between 
the  two  columns,  on  the  spot  where  evil  doers  are  })iil 
to  death  ;  and  all  thought  that  this  was  the  worst  of 
tokens. — Nor  must  I  forget  to  write  that  which  I  have 
read  in  a  chronicle. — Wlien  Messer  Marino  Faliero  was 
podesta  and  Captain  of  Treviso,  the  bishop  delayed 
coming  in  with  the  liolv  sacrament,  on  a  davvhen  a 
procession  was  to  take  place.  Now  the  said  Marino  Fa- 
liero was  so  very  |)roud  a'ld  wiathful,  that  he  buffeted 
the  bishop,  and  almost  struck  him  to  the  ground.  And 
therefore,  Ht;av(;n  allowed  IVIarino  Faliero  to  (jo  out  of 
his  right  senses,  in  order  that  he  might  bring  himself  to 
an  evil  death. 

When  this  Duke  had  held  tlie  dukedom*  during  nine 
months  ai>  i  six  days,  he  being  wicked  and  ambitious, 
sout;ht  to  m.ike  himself  lord  of  Venice,  in  the  manner 
which  I  have  read  in  an  ancient  chronicle.  When  the 
Thursday  arrived  upon  which  they  were  wont  to  hunt 
the  bull,  the  bull-hunt  took  [)lace  as  usual ;  and,  accord- 
ing to  the  usage  of  those  times,  after  the  bull-hunt  had 
ended,  they  all  proceeded  unto  the  palace  of  the  Duke, 
and  assembled  together  in  one  of  his  halls ;  and  they 
disported  themselves  with  the  women.  And  until  the 
first  bell  tolhid  they  danced,  and  then  a  banquet  was 
served  up.  My  Lord  the  Duke  [laid  the  ex])enses  there- 
of, provided  tie  had  a  Duchess,  and  after  tha  baiKjuet 
they  all  returniMl  to  their  homes. 

Now  to  this  feast  thi;re  came  a  certain  Ser  Michele 
Steno,  a  gentleman  of  poor  estate  and  very  young,  but 
crafty  and  daring,  and  who  loved  one  of  tlu;  damsels  of 
the  Duchess.  Ser  Michele  stood  amongst  the  women 
ujion  the  solajo  ;  and  he  behaved  indiscreetly,  so  that 
my  Lord  the  Duke  ordered  that  he  should  be  kicked  ctf 
the  solajo;  and  the  esquires  of  the  Duke  Hung  him 
down  ti-om  the  solajo  accordingly.  Ser  Michele  thought 
that  such  an  affront  was  beyond  all  bearing ;  and  when 
the  feast  was  over,  and  all  other  persons  !iad  left  the 
palac(!,  he,  continuing  heated  with  anger,  went  to  the 
hall  of  audience,  and  wrote  certain  unseemly  words  re- 
lating to  the  Duke  and  the  Duchess,  upon  the  chair  in 
which  th(;  Duke  was  used  to  sit;  for  in  those  days  the 
Duki!  did  not  cover  his  chair  with  cloth  of  sendal,  but 
he  sat  in  ;i  chair  of  wood.  Ser  Michele  wrote  thereon: 
— '■'■  Murm  Fidier,  the  husbaml  of  iht  fair  wife;   others 


MARINO    Fx\  LIERO 


559 


hs)  her,  blithe  keq)S  hcr.''^  I.i  the  mo.niiig  the  words 
were  steii,  uiid  tlu:  matter  uus  coiisultreu  to  bt  very 
scaiidalods;  and  the  ScMiate  coiimiaudtnl  the  Avvogadon 
vf  the  Coinnioiuvealtli  to  proccid  therein  with  the 
greatest  dihiieiice.  A  largess  ot"  great  anxHnil  was  ini- 
niediat.;ly  iirollered  by  the  Avvogadori,  in  order  t(_'  dis- 
cover who  liad  written  these  words.  And  at  length  it 
was  known  that  Michele  Stem,  had  \sritten  them.  It 
was  resolved  in  the  Council  of  Forty  ihat  he  should  he 
arrested  ;  and  he  then  Cinitesscd,  that  in  a  ht  of  vexa- 
tion and  spile,  occasioned  by  his  !)eing  t 
solajo  in  the  presence  of  his  unstress,  h 
the  words.     Therefore  the   Council 


hrust  oH'  the 

e  had  written 

baii'd    thereon. 


And  the  Council  took  his  youth  into  consideration,  and 
that  he  wa?  a  lover,  and  llierefi)re  they  adjudged  that 
he  should  be  kept  in  close  continenient  during  two 
months,  and  that  afterwards  he  sliould  be  banished  from 
Venice  and  the  state  during  one  year.  In  c..nsequence 
of  this  merciful  sentence  the  Duke  became  exceedingly 
wroth,  it  appt'anng  to  him  that  the  Council  had  not 
acted  ill  such  a  manner  as  was  required  by  the  respect 
iue  to  his  ducal  dignity  ;  and  he  said  that  they  onglit 
to  have  condemned  Ser  Michele  to  be  hanged  by  the 
ne(!k,  or  at  least  to  be  banished  for  life. 

Now  it  was  fated  that  my  Lord  Duke  IMarino  was  to 
have  his  head  cut  off.  And  as  it  is  necessary,  when  any 
efli'Ct  is  to  be  brought  about,  that  the  cause  of  such  ef-  j 
feet  must  happen,  it  theref  ire  came  to  pass,  that  on  the 
verv  day  after  sentence  had  been  pronounced  on  Ser 
Michele  Steno,  being  the  first  day  of  Lent,  a  gentlerniui 
of  the  house  of  Barbaro,  a  choleric  gentleman,  went 
to  the  arsenal  and  required  certain  things  of  the  mas- 
ters of  the  galleys.  This  he  did  in  the  presence  of  the 
admiral  of  the  arsenal,  and  he.  hearing  the  requi-st, 
answered, — No,  it  cannot  be  done. — High  words  p.':o<v 
between  the  gentleman  and  the  adunrai,  and  the  gen- 
tleium  struck  him  with  his  fist  just  above  the  eye  ;  and 
as  he  happened  to  have  a  rinu  on  his  linger,  the  rin<- 
cut  the  admiral  and  drew  niood.  The  admiral,  al. 
bruised  and  bloody,  ran  straight  to  the  Duke  to  com- 
plain, and  with  the  intent  of  praying  him  to  mtlict 
jouk;  heavv  punislinient  upon  the  gei  tienian  of  Ca  Bar- 
baro. — "What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  for  thee?" 
answered  the  Duke; — "tliink  uiion  the  shameful  gibe 
which  hath  been  written  concerning  me  ;  and  tldnk  on 
t/ie  manner  in  which  they  have  punished  that  ril)ald 
Micheh;  Steno,  who  wTote  it ;  and  see  how  the  Council 
of  Forlv  respect  our  |)erson." — Upon  this  the  admiral 
answered  ;— "  My  Lord  Duke,  if  vou  would  w  ish  to  make 
ynurself  a  prince,  and  to  cut  aM  :hos<;  cuckoldy  gentle- 
men to  pieces,  I  have  the  lieart.  if  you  do  hut  help  nie, 
to  nuike  vou  prince  of  all  tliis  stiite  ;  and  then  you  may 
punish  them  all.'*— Hearing  this,  the  Duke  said  ;—"  How 
can  such  a  ma'.ter  be  brought  about  /" — and  so  they 
liscfiursed  th'?reon. 

The  Duke  julled  for  his  nephew,  Ser  l?ertuccio  Falioro, 
who  lived  w-th  him  in  the  palace,  and  they  commuHcd 
about  this  piot.  And,  without  leaving  the  place,  they 
sent  for  Ph.hp  Calendaro,  a  seaman  of  great  repute,  and 
for  Bertu'yjJJ  Israello,  who  was  exceedingly  wily  and 
cunnintr.  ^Then,  taking  counsel  atriongst  themselves, 
ihe\  acrvred  to  call  in  some  others;  and  so  for  several 
nigh's  su'xessively,  they  met  w ith  the  Duke  at  hfune  in 
fiis  pdace.  And  the  followiriH  men  were  called  in  singly  ; 
to  wii: — Niccolo  Fagiuolo,  Giovanni  da  Corfu,  Stefano 
Fagiano,  Niccolo  dalle  Bende,  Niccolo  Biondo,  and  Ste- 
fpno  Trivisano. — It  was  concerted  that  sixteen  or  seven- 
teen leaders  should  be  stationed  in  various  parts  of  the 
cilv,  each  being  at  the  head  of  forty  men,  arnud  and 
prepared  ;  but  the  followers  were  not  to  know  their  des- 


tination. On  tlu  appointed  di:y  thev  were  to  make  af^ 
frays  amongst  themselves  here  and  there,  in  order  that 
the  Duke  miglit  have  a  pretence  for  tolling  the  bells  ol 
San  Marco:  these  bells  art;  nev<  r  rung  but  by  the  order 
of  the  Dukf.  And  at  the  sound  of  the  bells,  these  six- 
teen  or  seventeen,  with  their  f  illowers,  were  to  cotno 
to  San  Marco,  through  the  streeis  wliieii  open  iqion  the 
Pia//.ii.  Am!  when  the  noble  u'd  leailing  citi/.cus  should 
come  into  the  Piazza,  to  know  the  cause  of  the  riot,  'heri 
the  conspirators  were  to  cut  them  in  pieces ;  and  this 
work  being  finished,  my  Lord  Marino  Faliero  '.he  Duke 
was  to  be  proclaimed  the  Lord  of  Venice.  Things 
having  been  thus  settled,  they  agreed  to  fiilti!  their  in- 
tent on  Wednesday,  the  fifteenth  day  of  April,  in  the 
year  135'.  So  covertly  did  they  plot,  that  no  one  ever 
dreamt  of  their  machinations. 

But  the  Lord,  who  hath  always  helped  this  most 
glorious  citv,  and  who,  loving  its  righteousness  and 
holiness,  hath  never  forsaken  it,  inspired  one  Beltramo 
Bergamasco  to  be  the  cause  of  bringing  the  plot  to  light 
in  the  followung  manner.  This  Beltramo,  who  belonged 
to  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni  of  Santo  Stefano,  had  heard  a  word 
or  two  of  what  was  to  take  [ilace  ;  and  so,  in  the  before- 
mentioned  month  of  April,  he  went  to  the  house  of  the 
aforesaid  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni,  and  told  him  all  the  partic- 
ulars cf  the  plot.  Ser  Niccolo,  when  he  heard  all 
these  things,  was  struck  dead,  as  it  were,  with  affright. 
He  heard  all  the  particulars,  and  Beltramo  [)rayed  him 
to  keep  it  all  secret ;  and  if  he  told  Ser  Niccolo,  it  was 
in  order  that  Ser  Niccolo  might  stop  at  home  on  the 
fifteenth  of  April,  and  thus  save  his  life.  Beltramo  was 
going,  but  Ser  Niccolo  ordered  his  servants  to  lav  hai.ds 
upon  him  and  lock  him  up.  Ser  Niccolo  then  went  to 
the  house  ■jf  Messer  Giovanni  Gradenigo  Nasoni,  who 
afterwards  became  Duke,  and  who  also  liveo  at  Santc 
St(-f\ino,  and  told  him  all.  The  matter  seemed  to  him 
to  be  of  the  very  greatest  importance,  as  indeed  it  was; 
and  they  two  went  to  the  house  of  Ser  ?.Iarco  Cornaro, 
who  lived  at  San  Felice  ;  and,  having  spoken  with  him, 
they  all  three  then  determined  to  go  back  to  the  house 
of  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni,  to  examine  the  said  Beltram>; 
aihi  liHvnig  (iuestioned  him,  and  heard  all  that  he  had  to 
sav,  thev  left  him  in  confinement.  And  then  they  all 
three  went  into  the  sacristy  of  San  Salvatore,  and  sent 
their  men  to  summon  the  Councillors,  the  Avvogadori, 
the  C.i;>i  de'  Dieci,  and  those  of  the  Great  Council. 

When  all  were  assembled,  the  whole  story  was  told 
to  them.  Tiiev  were  struck  dead,  as  it  were,  with 
alliight.  They  determined  to  send  for  Beltramo.  He 
was  brouuht  in  before  them.  They  examined  him,  and 
ascertained  that  the  matter  was  true;  and,  although 
thev  were  exceedingly  troubled,  yet  they  determined 
upon  th<  ir  measures.  And  they  sent  for  the  Capi  de' 
Quaranta,  the  Signori  di  Notte,  the  Capi  de'  Sestieri, 
an  i  the  Cnrpie  della  Pace  ;  and  they  were  ordered  to 
associate  to  their  men  other  good  men  and  true,  who 
were  to  proceed  to  the  houses  of  the  ringleaders  of  the 
conspiracy  and  secure  them.  And  they  secured  the 
foreman  <jf  the  arsenal,  in  order  that  the  conspirators 
might  no^  do  .iiischief.  Towards  nightfall  they  assem- 
bled in  the  palace.  When  they  were  assembled  in  the 
palace,  they  caused  the  gates  of  the  quadrangle  of  tfie 
palace  to  be  shut.  And  they  sent  to  the  keeper  of  the 
bell-tower,  and  forbade  the  tolling  of  the  hells.  All  this 
was  carrieil  into  effect.  The  before-mentioned  con- 
spir;ttors  were  secured,  and  they  were  brought  to  tht 
palace;  and  as  the  Council  of  Ten  saw  that  the  Dukw 
was  in  the  plot,  they  resolved  that  twenty  of  the  lead 
ing  men  of  the  state  should  be  associated  to  them.  lo» 


560 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    AYOKKS. 


the  purpose  (if  consultaticr  and  deliberarion,  but  thaJ 
lliey  should  not  be  allowed  to  ballot. 

The  counsfcllors  were  the  following:  Ser  Giovanni 
Mocenigo,  of  the  Sestiero  of  San  Marco ;  Ser  Almoro 
Veniero  da  Santa  Marina,  of  the  Sestiero  of  Caslello; 
Ser  Tomma-o  Viadro,  of  the  Sestiero  of  Caneregio;  Ser 
Giovanni  Sanudo,  of  the  Sestiero  of  Santa  Croce  ;  Ser 
Pietro  Tnvisano,  of  the  Sestiero  of  San  Paolo;  Ser 
Pantalione  Barho  il  Grande,  of  the  Sestiero  oi'  Ossodnro. 
The  Avvosadori  of  the  Connnonweahh  were  Zufredo 
Morosini,  and  Ser  Orio  Pastpialifo ;  and  these  did  not 
ballot.  Those  of  the  ('otnu-il  of  Ten  were  Ser  Giovanni 
Marcello,  Ser  Toinmaso  Sanndo,  and  Ser  Micheietto 
Dolfino.  the  heads  of  the  aforesaid  Couneil  of  Ten. 
Ser  Luca  da  Legsje,  and  Ser  Pietro  da  Mo.-^o,  inijuisi- 
tors  of  the  aforesaid  Council.  And  Ser  Marco  Polani, 
Ser  Marino  Veniero,  Ser  Laiido  Loinbardo,  and  Ser 
Nicoletto  Trivisano,  of  Sant'  Angelo. 

Late  in  the  night,  just  before  the  dawning,  they 
chose  a  junta  of  twenty  noblemen  of  Venice  from 
amongst  the  wisest  and  the  worthiest  and  the  oldest. 
Thev  were  to  give  counsel,  but  not  to  ballot.  And  they 
would  not  admit  any  one  of  Ca  Faliero.  And  Niccolo 
Faliero,  and  another  Niccolo  Faliero,  of  San  Tommaso, 
were  expelled  from  the  Council,  because  thev  belonged 
to  the  familv  of  the  Doge.  And  this  resolution  of 
creating  the  junta  of  twenty  was  much  praised  through- 
out the  state.  The  following  were  the  members  of  the 
junta  of  twenty: — Ser  Marco  Giustiniani,  Procuratore, 
Ser'  Andrea  Erizzo,  Procuratore,  Ser  I.ionardr  Guis- 
tiniani,  Procuratore,  Ser'AndreaContarini,  Sere  Simone 
Dandolo,  Ser  Niccolo  Volpe,  Ser  Giovanni  Loredaao, 
Ser  Marco Diedo,  Ser  Giovanni  Gradenigo,  Ser  Andrea 
Cornaro,  Cavaliere,  Ser  Marco  Soranzo,  Ser  Rinieri 
dalNTosto,  Ser  Gazano  Marcello,  Ser  Marino  Morosini, 
Ser  Stefano  Belegno,  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni,  Ser  Fiiipno 
Orio,  Ser  Marco  Trivisano,  Ser  Jacopo  IJragadiuo,  Ser 
Giovanni  Foscarini. 

These  tuetiry  were  accordingly  called  in  to  the 
Council  of  Ten;  and  they  sent  tor  my  Lord  Marino 
Faliero  the  Duke  ;  and  my  I^o.'d  M\rino  was  then 
consorting  in  the  [)alace  v, iih  people  <>f  great  estate, 
gentlemen,  and  other  good  men,  none  of  whom  knew 
yet  how  the  fact  stood. 

At  the  same  time  Bertuccio  Israel'o,  who,  as  one  of 
the  ringleaders,  was  to  head  the  conspirators  in  Santa 
Croco,  was  arrested  and  bound,  and  l)rougiit  before  the 
Council.  Zaneilo  del  Brin,  Nicoletti.>  di  Ilosa,  Nicoletto 
Alberto,  and  the  Guardiaga,  were  also  taken  together, 
^vith  severa.1  seamen,  and  peopl<!  of  vitrions  ranks. 
These  w(;re  ex;iniined,  and  the  truth  of  tlie  plot  was 
ascertained. 

On  the  sixteenth  of  April,  judgment  was  given  in  the 
Council  of  Ten,  that  i<"ilippo  Calendaro  and  Bertuccio 
Israello  should  be  hanged  upon  the  red  pillars  of  the 
balcony  of  the  palace,  from  which  the  Duke  is  wont  to 
iook  at  the  liiill-lnint :  and  they  wer(>  hanged  w-ith  gags 
in  their  niouihs. 

The  next  day  the  ftllowing  were  condemned: — Nic- 
colo Zuccuolo,  Nic,o!(tUj  Blondo,  Nicoletto  Doro,  Marco 
Giuda,  Jacomello  Dagolino,  Nicoletto  Fidele,  the  son  of 
Philip  Calendaro,  Marco  Torello,  called  Israello,  Stefano 
'I'rivisano,  the  money-changer  i.f  Santa  IMargh(!rita,  and 
Antonio  dalh;  Bende.  These  we're  all  taken  atChiozza, 
iiir  they  w(!re  endeavouring  to  e'-cajie.  After\\ards,  by 
virtiK!  of  the  sentence  which  was  pnssi d  upon  them  in 
the  Coiiuril  nf  T(;ii,  th(!y  were  hang'cti  on  successive 
days,  some  snii^lv  and  souk;  in  conpl's,  n;ion  the  col- 
■imns  of  the  palace,  beginning  from  the  red  columns, 
and  so  "oinjj  onwards  towards  llie  canal.      Arid  otlier 


prisoners  were  discharged,  because,  dll.no:  gh  ihiy  nad 
been  involved  in  the  conspiracy,  yet  they  had  not  assist- 
ed in  It:  for  they  were  given  to  understand  by  some  of 
the  heads  of  the  plot,  that  they  were  to  ccine  armed 
and  prejiared  for  the  service  of  the  state,  and  in  order 
to  secure  certain  criminals,  and  they  knew  nothing  else, 
Nicoletto  Alberto,  the  Guardiaga,  and  Bartolommeo 
Ciriuola  and  bis  son,  and  several  others,  who  were  not 
guilty,  wrre  discharged. 

On  Friday,  the  sixteenth  day  of  A  [iril,  judgment  was 
also  given,  in  the  aforesaid  Council  ol"  Ten,  that  mj 
Lord  Marino  Fali<'ro,  the  Duke,  should  have  nis  head 
cut  otf,  and  that  the  execution  should  be  done  on  the 
landing-place  of  the  stone  staircase,  where  the  Dukes 
lake  th(;ir  oath  when  thev  first  enter  the ^ja'ace.  On 
the  following  day,  the  seventeenth  of  A[.ril,  the  doors 
of  the  palace  being  shut,  the  Duke  had  his  head  cut  off, 
about  the  hour  of  noon.  And  the  cap  of  estate  was 
taken  from  the  Duke's  head  before  he  came  down  stairs. 
When  the  execuiion  was  over,  it  is  saitfthat  one  of  the 
Council  of  Ten  went  to  the  columns  of  the  palace  over 
against  the  place  of  St.  Mark,  and  that  he  showed  the 
bloody  sword  unto  tlic  peoph;,  crying  out  with  a  loud 
voice — "The  terrible  doom  hath  fii!i(,'n  upon  the  trai- 
tor!"— and  the  doors  were  opened,  and  the  ])eople  all 
rushed  in,  to  see  the  corpse  of  the  Duke  who  had  been" 
beheaded. 

It  must  be  known,  that  Ser  Giovanni  Sanudo,  the 
councillor,  was  not  prest;nt  when  the  af  iresaid  s(  ntence 
was  pronounced  ;  because  he  was  unwell  and  remained 
at  home.  So  thai  only  fourteen  balloted;  that  is  to 
say,  five  councillors,  and  nine  o!'  the  Council  of  Ten. 
And  it  was  adjiidijed,  that  ail  the  lands  and  chattels  of 
the  Duke,  as  well  as  of  the  other  traitors,  should  be 
forfeited  to  the  state.  And,  as  a  grace  to  the  Duke,  it 
was  resolved  m  the  Council  of  Ten,  that  he  should  bo 
allowed  to  disjiose  of  two  thousand  ducats  out  of  his 
own  property.  And  it  was  resolved,  that  all  the  coun- 
cillors and  all  the  Avvogadori  of  the  commonwealth, 
those  of  the  Council  of  Ten,  and  the  members  of  the 
junta  who  had  assisted  in  passing  sentence  on  the  Duke 
and  the  other  traitors,  should  have  the  privilege  of  car- 
rying arms  both  by  day  and  by  night  in  V(:nice,  and 
from  Grado  U>  Cavazi-re.  And  they  were  also  to  be 
allowed  two  !(>otinen  carrying  arms,  tiie  aforesaid  foot- 
men living  and  hoarding  witlithem  in  their  own  houses. 
And  he  who  did  not  keep  two  footmen  might  transfer 
the  privilege  to  his  sons  or  his  brothers;  but  (-nly  to 
two.  Permission  of  carrying  arms  was  also  granted  to 
the  four  Notaries  of"  the  Chancery,  that  is  to  t;ay,  of  the 
Suprenu;  Court,  who  took  the  lU^positions  ;  and  they 
were  Amedio,  r'.icol<-tto  (U  Loriiio,  Sieilanello,  and 
Piiitro  de  Compix'telli,  the  secretaries  of  the  Siiinori  di 
Notte. 

After  the  traitors  had  been  hanged,  and  the  Duke  had 
had  his  head  cut  oti',  the  stale  rciinained  in  great  tran- 
quillity anti  peace.  And,  as  I  have  read  in  a  chronicle, 
the  corpse  of  the  Duke  was  removed  in  a  barge,  with 
eight  torclH!s,  to  his  tomb  in  the  church  of  San  Giovanni 
e  Paolo,  where  it  was  buried.  The  tomb  is  now  in 
that  aisle  in  the  middle  of  the  lilth;  church  of  Santa 
Maria  della  Vac;  which  was  built  by  Bishop  Gabriel  o 
Bergamo.  It  is  a  cotiiii  of  slone,  with  these  words  en- 
gravitd  thereon  :  "  I Idc  j:irct  D'l/iiiuvs  31(iri)nis  Falctro 
Dux.'''' — Ami  they  dill  not  jiiMnf  his  portrait  in  the  liali 
of  the  Great  (.'(>uneil  : — l<ut  ui  ine  place  where  it  ought 
to  have  hetui,  you  see  these  words: — " //ic  flit.  Incus 
jyiarini  Fah'tro  (Irraj/iliiti  jjro  criniiiubux  " — and  it  is 
thought  that  his  iiouse  was  granted  to  u.e  church  of 
Sant'  Apostolo;   it  was  that  great  one  near  the  bridge 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


5G1 


fet  this  could  not  be  the  case,  o\  else  the  family  bought 
!t  bacK  from  the  church  ;  for  it  still  belongs  to  Ca  Fa- 
uero.  I  mast  not  refrain  from  noting,  that  some  wished 
to  write  the  following  words  in  the  place  wiiere  his 
portrait  ought  to  have  been,  as  aforesaid: — ^^^Loimis 
Faletro  Dux,  temerilas  me  ccpif,  panunt  liii,  decnpiluius 
xn  o  criminibm.'''' — Others,  also,  indited  a  cou|i!et,  worthy 
ot"  being  inscribed  upon  his  tomb. 

"  Dux  Veiieluiii  jacet  lieic,  patriani  qui  iinHtfie  ter.tans, 
Sceptra,  decus,  ceusuiu,  perdijit,  atiiiie  caput."' 

[I  am  obliged  fnr  this  excellent  translation  nf  the  n!d  chniMJcle  to  Ml. 
r.  Cohen,  to  u  honi  the  reader  uih  t.nd  himseir  indebted  for  a  vereioii 
Uiat  1  could  not  n.yselC  r.houdi  al'er  many  ye.ira'  in'eicourse  with  Italian,) 
have  given  by  any  means  -•)  purely  and  so  l'ai;hlu!ly.] 


III. 

"  Al  giovane  Doge  Andrea  Dandolo  succedette  un 
vecchio,  il  quale  tardi  si  pose  al  timone  della  repubblica, 
ma  sempre  prima  di  quel,  che  facea  d'  uopo  a  Im,  ed  alia 
patria:  egli  t!"  Marino  Faliero  porsonnaggio  a  tne  noto 
per  antica  dmiestichezza.  Faka  era  1'  opinione  intorno 
a  lui,  giacche  egli  si  mostrc)  fornito  pnu  di  coraggio 
che  di  senno.  Non  pago  della  prima  dignita,  entro  con 
sinistro  piede  nel  pubblico  Palazzo:  imperciocch^ 
qtiesto  Do^e  dei  Veneti,  magistrate  sacro  in  tutti  i  se- 
coli,  che  dagli  antichi  fu  sempre  venerato  (jtial  nume  in 
fjuella  citta  P  altr'  jeri  fu  decoilato  nel  vestibolo  dell' 
istesso  Pahiz/.o.  Discorrerei  fin  dal  jjrincipio  le  cause 
di  un  tale  evento,  se  cost  vario,  ed  ainbiguo  non  ne 
fosse  il  grido.  Nessuno  pero  lo  scusa,  tutti  afiermano, 
che  egli  abbia  voluto  cangiar  qualche  cosa  nell'  ordine 
della  repubblica  a  lui  tramandatw  dni  maocriori.  Che 
desiderava  egli  di  piu  ?  lo  son  d'avviso,  che  egli  abbia 
citennto  cio,  che  non  si  concedette  a  nessun  aUro: 
j/ientre  adempiva  gli  uflicj  di  legato  presso  il  Pontefice, 
o  sulle  rive  del  Rodano  iraUava  la  pace,  che  io  prima 
di  lui  avevo  indarno  tentato  di  conchiudere,  gli  fti  con 
fetito  1'  onore  del  Ducato,  che  ne  cliiedeva,  ne  s'  aspet- 
tava.  Tfirnato  in  patria,  penso  a  (piello,  cui  nessuno 
non  pose  niente  giammai,  e  soMVl  (|ii(  llo  che  a  niuno 
accade  mai  de  sotfrire :  eiacche  in  quel  luo20  celeber- 
rimo,  e  chiarissmio,  e  beliissimo  infra  tutti  quelli,  che 
io  vidi,  ove  i  suoi  anlenali  avevano  ricevuti  grandissimi 
cnori  in  mezzo  alle  pompe  trioiifali,  ivi  t  gli  fu  trasci- 
nato  in  nxidu  servile,  e  spogliato  delle  inscgne  ducali, 
perdette  la  testa,  e  macchio  col  proprio  sangue  le  so^lie 
del  tempio,  I'  atrio  del  Palazzo,  e  le  scale  marmoree  ren- 
dute  spesse  volte  illustri  o  dalle  sol.  iini  festivit:!,  o  dalle 
ostdi  spoglie.  Ho  notato  il  luoi.'o,  ora  noto  il  tempo: 
e  1'  anno  del  Natale  di  Crist o  13j5,  fii  il  giorno  18  d'A- 
prile.  Si  alto  e  il  gndo  sparse,  che  se  alcimo  esaminera 
la  disciplina,  e  le  costumanze  di  quella  citia,  e  quanto 
mutamento  di  cose  venga  minacciato  dalla  morte  di  un 
sol  uomo  (quantunijue  molti  altri,  come  narrano,  es- 
sendo  complici,  o  subirono  1'  istesso  supplieio,  o  lo 
aspettano)  si  accorgtjrh,  che  nidla  di  \)\\\  grande  avvenne 
ai  nostri  tempi  nell'  Italia.  Tu  forse  (lui  altendi  il  mio 
giudizio;  assoivo  il  popolo,  se  credere  alia  fama,  benche 
abbia  potuto  e  castigari,'  piij  rnitamente,  e  con  magi{ior 
dolcezza  vendicare  i!  siio  dolore:  ma  non  cost  facil- 
nente,  s  modera  un'  ira  gnista  msieme,  e  grande  in 
un  numeroso  popolo  priiiciipahiuiiti-,  nel  (juale  il  pre- 
eipitosn,  ed  instabile  vo'.go  aiiuzza  gJi  stinioli  dell'  ira- 
t.ondia  con  rapidi,  e  sconsigliati  clamori.  Compatisco, 
e  nell'  istesso  tempo  mi  adiro  con  (jiiell'  infelice  uotno, 
il  quale  aiioriP)  di  im'  insolilo  onore,  non  so  che  cosa 
si  volesse  no<;li  estrt^nn  aiim  della  sua  vitii :  la  cala- 
niith  di  lui  diviene  sempre  piii  grave,  percbe  dalla 
Bentenza  contra  di  es>o  promnigata  a|)parir<i,  el  <;  ei.di  fu 
[Kin  solo  misero,  ma  insano,  e  demente,  e  che  con  vare 
36 


arti  si  usurpi)  per  tanti  am    una  lidsa  (ama  di  sapienza, 
Aminomsco  i  Dogi,  i  (pitdi  gli  siuieeiieranno,  che  (]ue'sto 


e  un  esempio  posto  mnanzi  ai  loro  oc 


•jiiali'  specehie 


nel  quale  Voggano  di  essere  non  Signori,  ma  Diici,  anzi 
nemmeno  Diici,  ma  onorati  servi  di-lla  Repubblica. 
Tustasano;  e  giacch^  fiultuano  le  publicche  cose,  sfor- 
ziamoci  di  governar  modestissimtunente  i  privati  nostn 
adari." 

Ijevnti.      Vinggi  di  Petrarcn,  vol.  iv.  p.  323. 

The  above  Italian  translation  from  the  Latin  epistles 
of  Petrarch,  proves — 

Istly,  That  Marino  Faliero  was  a  personal  friend  ot' 
Petrarch's:  "antica  dimestichezza,"  old  intimacy,  is  the 
phrase  of  the  poet. 

2dly,  That  Petrarch  thought  that  he  had  more  courage 
than  conduct,  "  piii  di  coraggio  che  di  senno." 

Silly,  That  there  was  some  jealousy  on  the  part  of 
Petrarch  ;  for  he  says  that  Marino  Faliero  was  treating 
of  the  peace  which  he  himself  had  "  vainly  attempted 
to  conclude." 

4th!y,  That  the  honour  of  the  dukedom  was  con- 
ferred upon  him,  which  he  neither  sought  nor  expected, 
"  che  no  chiedeva  nes'  aspettava,"  and  which  had  never 
been  granted  to  any  other  in  like  circumstances,  "  ci6 
che  non  si  concedette  a  nessun  altro;''  "  [)roof  of  the 
high  esteem  in  which  he  must  have  been  held." 

olhly.  That  he  had  a  reputation  for  u-isdoju,  ojilij 
forfeited  b\'  the  last  ent'Tprise  of  his  life,  "si  surpfi 
per  tanti  anni  ima  falsa  fama  di  stipienza." — "He  had 
usurjjed  for  so  many  years  a  false  fame  of  wisdom  ;" 
rather  a  difficult  task,  I  should  think.  People  are  rrene- 
rally  found  out  before  eight}'  years  of  age,  at  !ea>^t  in  e 
re[)ublic. 

From  these,  and  the  other  historical  notes  which  I 
have  collected,  it  tnay  bo  nderred  that  Marino  Faliero 
possessed  many  of  tiie  (jualities,  but  not  the  success  of 
a  hero ;  and  that  his  passions  were  too  violent.  The 
paltry  and  ignorant  account  of  Dr.  Moore  falls  to  the 
ground.  Petrarch  says,  "  that  there  had  been  no 
greater  event  in  his  times"  (our <i/??e.s  literally),  "nostn 
temjii,"  in  Italy.  He  also  differs  from  the  historian  n 
saying  that  Faliero  was  "on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone,'''' 
instead  of  at  Rome,  when  elected  ;  the  other  accounts 
say,  that  the  deputation  of  the  N'enetian  senate  met 
him  at  Ravenna.  How  this  may  have  been,  it  is  not 
fjr  me  to  decide,  and  is  of  no  great  itn|»ortance.  Had 
the  man  succeeded,  he  would  have  chtinged  the  face  ot 
Venice,  anrl  perhaps  of  Italv.  As  it  is,  what  are  they 
both  / 


IV. 

Eoctrnit  de  Pourrage.  —  Histoire  de  la  Rcpuhlique  de 
Veitise,  par  P.  Daru,  de  C Amdeitne  Fnmraise, 
toiii.  v.  liv.  xx.w.  p.  95,  etc.  Edition  de  Paris, 
MDCCCXIX. 

"A  CKS  atla(|ues  si  frt'npientes  que  le  gouyernement 
dirigeait  centre  le  clerge,  a  c(;s  luttes  etablies  entre  les 
dilicrens  corps  coiistiliies,  a  ces  entre])rises  de  li  masse 
de  la  noblesse  centre  les  depositaires  du  [xiuvoir,  a 
toutes  ces  propositions  d'innovation  tpii  se  terminaieni 
toujours  par  des  coups  d'etat  ;  il  faut  ajouier  une  autre 
cause,  non  moins  |)ropre  a  propager  le  me[)ris  des  an- 
cienries  doctrines,  c'etait.  frjcis  rip  Ui  corrnption. 

"Cette  liberie  de  ma;urs,  qu'on  avait  long-tt  nijis  van- 
tee  conime  le  clKirme  princi|);d  de  la  sottiete  de  \  enise, 
etait  devenue  mi  desordre  scaiidaleux  ;  h;  lien  fiu  mariagc 
btait  moms  sacre  dans  ce  pays  cathoiique  (jue  dans  cea« 
ou  les  lois  civiles  ct  religieuses  permettent  d;  le  dis- 
.soudre.     Faute  de   [xiuvoir  rompre  le  conirat,  on  sup- 


5G2 


BTKON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


posaii  qu'il  n'avait  jamais  existe,  et  les  moyens  de  nul- 
Jite,  allegues  avec  impudeur  par  les  epoux,  etaient 
ttdmis  avec  la  rneine  faciiitt  par  dt;s  magistrats  et  par 
des  oretres  egalement  corro.npus.  Ces  divorces  colores 
d'un  autre  noin  devinreiit  si  frequents,  que  I'acte  le  plus 
important  de  la  societe  civile  se  trouva  de  la  competence 
d'un  tribunal  d'exception,  et  que  ce  fut  a  la  police  de 
reprimer  le  scandale.  Le  conseil  des  dix  ordonna,  en 
1782,  que  toute  feinine  qui  inteiiterait  une  deinande  en 
tlissolution  de  mariage  serait  obligee  d'en  attendre  le 
jugeinent  dans  un  convent  que  le  tribunal  designerail. ' 
Kientot  apres  il  evoqua  devaiit  lui  tontes  les  causes  de 
cotte  nature.-  Cet  empietement  sur  la  jurisdiction 
ecclesiastique  ayant  occasionne  des  reclamations  de  la 
par'  de  la  cour  de  Rome,  le  conseil  se  reserva  le  droit 
dc  debouter  les  epoux  de  leur  demande  ;  et  consentit  a 
Ma  renvov'er  devant  I'officialite,  toutes  les  foies  qu'il  ne 
•'aiirait  pas  reietee.^ 

"  11  v  eut  un  moment  ou  sans  doute  le  renversemenl 
des  fortunes,  la  perte  des  jeunes  gens,  les  discordes  do- 
mestiques,  determinerenl  le  gouvernement  a  s'ccarter 
des  maximes  qu"il  s'etait  fai.^s  sur  la  liberte  de  moeurs 
qu"il  permettait  a  ses  sujets :'  on  chassa  de  Venise  toutes 
les  courtisanes.  Mais  leur  absence  ne  suffisait  pas  pour 
ramener  aux  bonnes  mceurs  toulo  une  population  elevee 
dans  la  plus  honteuse  licence.  Le  desordre  peiietra 
dans  I'interieur  des  families,  dans  les  cloitres  ;  et  Voy.  se 
crut  obliije  de  rappeler,  d'indemniscr  meme  "  des  femmes 
qui  surprenaient  quelquefois  d'unportants  secrets,  et 
qu'on  [louvait  employer  utilement  a  ruiner  des  homines 
que  leur  fortune  aurait  pu  rendre  dangereux.  Depuis, 
la  licence  est  toujours  allee  croissant,  et  I'on  a  vu  non 
seulement  des  meres  trafiquer  de  la  virginite  de  leurs 
fiUes,  mais  la  vendre  par  un  contrat,  do«t  I'authenticite 
elait  garantie  par  la  signature  d'un  officier  public,  et 
I'execution  mise  sous  la  ])rotection  des  lois.* 

"  Les  parloirs  des  couvents  ou  etaient  renfermees  les 
tilies  nobles,  les  maisons  des  courtisanes,  quoique  la 


police  V  entretint   soigneusement  un  gra 


nd  nombre  de 


sur.-eiUans,  etaient  les  seuls  points  de  reunion  de  la  so- 
ciete de  Venise,  et  dans  ces  deux  endroits  si  divers  on 
etait  egalement  libre.  La  musique,  les  collations,  la 
galanturit;,  n'etaient  pas  plus  interdites  dans  les  parloirs 
que  dans  les  casins.  II  y  avait  un  grand  nombre  de 
casins  destines  aux  reunions  publiques,  ou  ie  jeu  etait 
la  principale  occup:>tjon  de  la  societe,  C'etait  un  sin- 
guiier  speclccle  de  \cir  autour  d'une  table  des  personnes 
des  deux  sexes  en  masque,  et  de  graves  personnages  en 
robe  de  magistral  ..re,  implorant  le  hasard,  passant  des 
arigoisses  du  desfc^poir  aux  illusions  de  I'esperance,  et 
cela  sans  proferer  une  parole. 

"  Les  riches  avaient  des  casins  particuHers  ;  mais  ils 
y  vivaient  avec  mvsttire  ;  leurs  femmes  delaissees  trou- 
vaient  un  dedommagement  dans  la  liberte.  dont  elles 
jouissaient ;  la  corruption  des  moeurs  les  avait  privees 
de  tout  leur  empire ;  on  vient  de  parcourir  toute  I'his- 
foire  de  Venise,  et  on  ne  les  a  pas  vues  une  seule  fois 
(•xc.rri'r  la  inoiiidre  influence. " 


1  Correspondunce  do  M.  Si-hlick,  charge  d'affaires  do 
France,  depC-cho  (hi  24  Aofit,  17S2. 

2  Iljid.     Depcehe  du  ;31  Aofit. 

3  Ibid.     DopCclie  du  :i  .Scptcnibre,  1785. 

4  Li.'  decrct  de  raiiiicl  li'.s  do>i-iiait  sous  ie  iioiii  do  nnstre 
ta>.n„r,-iir.  mrrririri.  On  lour  assi-iia,  uu  lunds  et  des 
uiaiMiiis  iippt'lL-ft;  (W.vg  rainj:<ui<\,  d'ou  vient  hi  deiiuiniua- 
tioii  iiijuriousi!  do  ('araiiijKinf. 

y  Mayer,  IJeacr-pliou  de  Vetiisr,  torn.  ii.  ot  M.  Archou 
Uoltz,  Tableau  dt   "li.liu,  torn.  i.  chap.  2. 


Extract  f.om  tlie  History  of  the  Republic  of  Venice,  ht/ 
P.  D(iru,  IMtinber  of  the  French  Acudemi^,  vol.  v 
b.  XXXV.  p.  95,  etc.     Pans  Edit.  1819. 

"To  these  attacks,  so  frequently  pointed  by  the 
government  against  the  clergy, — to  the  continual  strug- 
gles between  the  different  constituted  bodies,  —iu  these 
enterprises,  carried  on  by  the  mass  if  the  nobks  aj-ain^t 
the  depositaries  of  pov^er, — to  all  those  projectL  ol  inat- 
vation,  which  always  ended  by  a  stroke  of  state  pol.cy,— 
we  m  St  add  a  cause  not  less  fitted  to  spread  contempt 
*"or  ancient  doctrines  ;  this  was  the  excess  of  c-orruptim. 
"  That  freedom  of  manners,  which  had  been  lung 
boasted  of  as  the  principal  charm  of  Venetian  society, 
had  degenerated  into  s(;andalous  licentiousness;  the  tie 
of  marriage  was  less  sacred  in  that  Catholic  country, 
than  among  those  nations  where  the  laws  and  religicii 
admit  of  its  being  dissolved.  Because  they  could  net 
break  the  contract,  they  feigned  that  it  had  not  existed  ; 
and  the  ground  of  nullity,  immodestly  alleged  by  the 
married  pair,  was  adniitted  with  equal  facility  by  priests 
and  magistrates,  alike  corrupt.  These  divorces,  veiled 
under  another  name,  became  so  frecpient,  that  the  most 
important  act  of  civil  society  was  discovered  to  be 
amenable  to  a  tribunal  of  exceptions  ;  and  to  restram 
the  o[)en  scandal  of  such  proceedings  became  the  office 
of  the  police.  In  1782  the  Council  of  Ten  decreed,  that 
every  woman  who  should  sue  for  a  dissolution  of  her 
marriage  should  be  compelled  to  await  the  decision  ol 
the  judges  in  some  convent,  to  be  named  by  the  court.' 
Soon  afterwards  the  same  council  summoned  all  causes 
of  that  nature  before  itself.^  This  infringement  on 
ecclesiastical  jurisdiction  having  occasioned  some  re- 
monstrance from  Rome,  the  council  retained  only  thn 
right  of  rejectina  the  petition  of  the  married  persons, 
and  consented  to  refer  such  causes  to  the  lioly  office  as 
it  should  not  previously  have  rejected.-' 

"  There  was  a  moment  in  which,  doubtless,   the  de- 
struction o*"  private  fortunes,  the  ruin  of  youth,  the  do- 
mestic discorti,  occasioned  by  these  abuses,  determined 
the  government  to  depart  fiom  its  established  maxims 
concerning  the  f.-ecilom  of  manners  allowed  the  subject, 
i    All  the  courtesans  v.-ere  banished  from  \  emce,  t)ut  tiieir 
i    absence   was  not   enou^ih  to  reclniiu    and    bring  back 
[    good   morals  to  a  whole   people  hi  ought  up  in  the  n.osi 
I    scandalous  licentiour-ness.    Depravity  reached  the  vt  ry 
I    bosoms  of  private  families,  and   even  into  the  cioistiT  ; 
and  they  found  themselves  obhgeJ  to  recall,  and  even 
to  indemnify  •  women   wlio  sometimes  gained   posses- 
j    sion  of  important   secrets,  and   who  might  be  usefuH} 
employed  in  the    ruin  of   men   whose    fortunes    might 
have  rendered  them  dangerous.      Since  that  time  licen- 
tiousness  has   gone  on  increasing,  and  we  have  se<n 
mothers,  not  only  selling  the  innocence  of  their  daugh- 
ters, but  selling  it  by  a  contract,  authenticated   by  the 
signature  of  a  |)ublic  officer,  and  the  performance  of 
which  was  secured  by  the  protection  of  the  laws.' 

"  The  parlours  of  the  convents  of  noble  ladies,  ai  d 
the  houses  of  the  courtesans,  though  the  police  carefully 
kept  up  a  number  of  spies  alxiut  them,  were  the  only 
assemblies  for   society    in   Venice  ;   and   in   these    Iv^o 

1  rorrespondcncoof  IVlr.  Schlick.  French  charKC  d'aftairei 
Drspaich  III" 24th  Auimsl,  17-i2. 

2  Ibid.    Despatch.  Hist  A  usual 

;•,  Ibid.    Despatch,  lid  September,  178r>. 
4  The  decree  for  tiioir  recall  designates  them  as  Aostrebcne 
viiritt  rii/'nlrici.     A  fund  and  soini!  houses  called  Casf  rain 
j    panit  were  assicned  to  llieni :  hence  the  opprobrious  appelhUioB 
I    of  Ciiraiiipane. 

h  Mayor,  /)rsrri!>tion  of  Vevicp.  vol.  i».  and  M.  .\rchenh(«r7 
Pirt.ur'  of  hulu.  vol.  1.  chap.  2 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


568 


|».aces,  so  ditiorent  Irom  each  other,  there  was  equal  free- 
dom. JMiisic,  cohutioiis,  jjjaihintry,  were  not  more  forbid-  I 
den  u  tlie  i)arloiir.-  tlian  at  the  casinos.  There  were  a 
number  of  casinos  for  the  purpose  of  pubhc  assenibhes, 
where  gaming  was  the  principal  pursuit  of  the  company. 
It  was  a  strange  sight  to  see  persons  of  eiilier  sex,  mask- 
ed, or  grave  |)ersonages  in  their  magisterial  robes,  round 
a  'able,  invoking  chance,  and  giving  way  at  one  instant 
to  the  agoDK.'s  of  despair,  at  the  next  to  the  illusions  of 
hope,  and  tiiat  without  uttering  a  single  word. 

"  The  rich  had  private  casinos,  hut  they  lived  incog- 
nito in  them  ;  and  the  wives  whom  they  abandoned 
found  compensation  in  the  libert}  they  enjoyed.  The 
corruption  of  morals  had  deprived  them  of  their  em- 
pire. We  have  just  reviewed  the  whole  history  of 
Venice,  and  we  have  not  once  seen  them  exercise  the 
slightest  influence." 

From  the  present  decay  and  degeneracy  of  Venice 
under  the  barbarians,  there  are  some  honourable  indi- 
vidual exceptions.  There  is  Pasqualigo,  the  last,  and, 
alas  !  j^oslhumous  son  of  the  marriage  of  the  Doges  with 
the  Adriatic,  who  fought  his  frigate  with  far  greater 
gallantry  than  any  of  his  French  coadjutors  in  the  me- 
morable action  otT  Lissa.  I  came  home  in  the  squadron 
with  the  jTJ-izes  in  ISll,  and  recollect  to  have  heard  Sir 
William  Hoste,  and  the  other  officers  engaged  in  that 
glorious  conflict,  speak  in  the  highest  terms  of  Pasqua- 
ligo's  behavioiir.  There  is  the  Abbate  jNIorelli.  There 
is  Alvise  Querini,  who,  after  a  long  and  honourable 
diplomatic  career,  finds  some  consolation  for  the  wrongs 
of  iiis  count 'v,  in  the  pursuits  of  literature,  with  his 
nephew,  Vittor  Benzon,theson  of  the  celebrated  beauty, 
the  heroine  of  "  La  Biondina  in  Gondoletta."  There  are 
the  {)atrician  poet  Morosini,  and  the  poet  Lamberti,  the 
author  of  the  "  Biondina,"  etc.  and  many  other  estima- 
ble productions  ;  and,  not  least  in  an  Englistiman's  esti- 
mation, Madame  INIichelli,  the  translator  of  Shakspeare. 
There  are  the  voung  Dandolo,  and  the  improvvisatore 
Carrer,  and  Giuseppe  Albrizzi,  the  accomplished  son 
of  an  accomplished  mother.  There  is  Aglietti,  and, 
were  there  nothing  else,  there  is  the  immortality  of 
Canova.  Cicognara,  Mustoxithi,  Bucati,  etc.,  etc.  I  do 
not  reckon,  because  the  one  is  a  Greek,  and  the  others 
were  born  at  least  a  hundred  miles  off",  which,  through- 
out Italy,  constitutes,  if  not  a  foreigner,  at  least  a 
stranger  {forestiere). 


VI. 

Extrait  de  Vouvrage—Hiatdire  litteraire  (Pltalie,  par 
P.  L.  Gingueni\  torn.  ix.  chap,  xxxvi.  p.  144.  Edi- 
tion de  Pans,  MDCCCXIX. 

"  II  y  a  une  prediction  fort  singulifre  sur  Venise  :  'Si 
tu  ne  changes  pas,'  dit-el!e  a  cette  repubhque  altiere,  '  ta 
liberte,  qui  d'ija  s'enfiiit,  ne  comptera  pas  un  siecle  apr6s 
fa,  millieme  annee.' 

"  En  faisant  reinonter  I'epoque  de  la  liberte  Veni- 
uenne  jusqu'a  I'ctablissement  du  gouvernement  sous  le- 
quel  la  repul)lique  a  fleuri,  on  trouvera  que  I'election 
du  premier  Doge  date  de  097,  et  si  Ton  y  ajoute  un 
si^de  aprf-s  mille,  c'est-a-dire  on/.e  cents  ans,  on  trou- 
vc;a  encore  que  le  sens  de  la  prediction  est  litterale- 
ment  celui-ci :  '  Ta  liberte  ne  comptera  pas  jusqu'a  I'an 
1797.'  Rappelez-vous  inaintenant  (]ue  Venise  a  cesse 
d'etre  fibre  en  I'an  ciiuj  de  la  Republique  francaise,  on 
en  1799  ;  vous  verrez  qu'il  n'y  eut  jamais  de  prediction 
plus  precise  et  plus  ponctuellement  suivie  de  I'eftel. 
Vous  noterez  done  comme  tr^s  remanjuahles  ces  trois 
vers  de  I'Alamani,  adres-v^s  a  Venise,  que  personne 
notirtant  I  a  retnarquea : 


'  Se  noil  cangi  pcnsier,  Tun  seco  solo 
Kon  conteik  sopra  '1  miiit-siino  anno 
Tua  liberty,  che  va  fugfjcrido  a  volo.' 

Bien  des  propheties  ont  passe  pour  telles,  et  bie.'    le? 
gens  ont  etc  ap[)eles  propht^tcs  a  meilleur  mar;che." 

VII. 

Extract  from  the  Literary  History  of  Italy,  by  P. 
Gingueni,  vol.  ix.  p.  144.    Paris  Edit.  1819. 

<<  There  is  one  very  singular  prophecy  concernin 
Venice:  '  If  thou  dost  not  change,'  it  says  to  that  prou 
republic,  'thy  liberty,  which  is  already  on  the,  wing,  wil 
not  reckon  a  century  more  than  the  thousandth  y<;ar.' 

"  If  we  carry  back  the  epocha  of  Venetian  freedom  to 
the  establishment  of  the  government  under  which  the  re 
public  flourished,  we  shall  find  that  the  dale  of  the  elec- 
tion of  the  first  Doge  is  697  ;  and  if  we  add  one  century 
to  a  thousand,  that  is,  eleven  hundred  years,  we  snail 
find  the  sense  of  the  prediction  to  be  literally  this  :  '  Thy 
liberty  will  not  last  till  1797.'  Recollect  that  Venice 
ceased  to  be  free  in  the  year  179fi,  the  fifth  year  of  the 
French  republic  ;  and  you  will  perceive  that  there  never 
was  prediction  more  pointed,  or  more  exactly  followed 
by  the  event.  You  will,  therefore,  note  as  very  remark- 
able the  three  lines  of  Alamanni,  addressed  to  Venice, 
which,  however,  no  one  has  pointed  out: 

*Se  non  cangi  pensier.  Tun  secol  solo 
Non  conterfi  sopra,  M  millesimo  anno 
Tua  libertk,  che  va  fuggondo  a  volo.' 

Many  propnecies  have  passed  for  such,  and  many  men 
have  been  called  prophets  for  much  less." 

Tf  the  Doeo's  prophecy  seem  remarkiible,  look  to  the  nbove. 
made  by  Alamanni  two  hundred  and  st-veiity  years  r.e.^. 

The  author  of  "Sketches  Descriptive  of  Italy,"  etc. 
one  of  the  hundred  tours  lately  published,  is  extremely 
anxious  to  disc.aim  a  possible  charge  of  plagiarism 
from  "  Childe  Harold"  and  "  Beppo."^  He  adds,  that 
still  less  could  this  presumed  coincidence  arise  from 
"  mv  conversation,"  as  he  had  reijeatctlly  declined  an 
introduction  to  me  while  in  Italy. 

Who  this  person  may  be,  I  know  not ;  but  he  must 
have  been  deceived  by  all  or  any  of  those  who  "repeat- 
edly offered  to  introduce"  him,  as  I  have  invariably 
refused  to  receive  any  English  with  whom  I  was  not 
previously  acquainted,  even  when  they  had  letters 
from  Euiiland.  If  the  vvhole  assertion  is  not  an  inven- 
tion, I  request  this  person  not  to  sit  down  with  the 
notion  that  he  could  have  been  introduced,  since  there 
has  been  nothing  I  have  so  careliilly  avoided  as  any 
kind  of  intercourse  with  his  countrymen, — excepting 
the  very  few  who  were  a  considerable  time  resident 
in  Venice,  or  had  been  of  my  previous  acquaintance. 
/Whoever  made  him  any  such  offer  was  possessed  of 
impudence  equal  to  that  of  making  such  an  assertion 
without  having  had  it.  Tlie  fact  is,  that  I  hold  in  utter 
abhorreiHM!  anv  contact  with  the  travelling  English,  aa 
my  friend  the  Cf)nsul-General  Hoppner,  and  the  Coun- 
tess Benzoni  (in  whose  house  the  Conversazione  most- 
Iv  fre(|uente<l  by  them  is  held),  could  amply  testify, 
were  it  worth  while.  I  was  persecuted  by  these  tourisia 
even  to  my  riding-ground  at  lido,  and  reduced  to  the 
most  disagreeable  circuits  to  avoid  them.  At  Madame 
Benzoni's  I  repeatedly  r»-fused  to  be  introduced  to 
tliein  ; — of  a  thousand  such  presentat-ons  pressed  upon 
me,  I  accepted  two,  and  both  were  to  Irish  women. 

I  should  hardlv  have  descended  to  speak  of  such 
trifles  publicly,  if  the  impudence  of  this  "sketcher" 
had  not  forced  me  to  a  refutUion  of  a  disinsenucws 


564 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


and  gratuitously  Impertinent  assertion ;— so  meant  to 
be,  for  what  could  it  import  to  the  reader  to  be  told  that 
the  author  "had  repeatedly  declined  an  introduction," 
even  had  it  been  true,  which,  for  the  reasons  I  have 
above  given,  is  scarcely  possible.  Except  Lords  Lans- 
downe,  Jersey,  and  Lauderdale;  Messrs.  Scott,  Ham- 
mond, Sir  Humphry  Davy,  the  late  M.  Lewis,  W.  Bankes, 
Mr.  Hoppner,  Thomas  Moore,  Lord  Kiunaird,  his  bro- 
ther, Mr.  Joy,  and  Mr.  Hobhouse,  I  do  not  recollect  to 
have  exchanged  a  word  with  another  Englishman  since 
I  left  their  country;  and  almost  all  these  I  had  known 
before.  The  otber.s— and  God  knows  there  were  some 
hundreds — who  bored  me  with  letters  or  visits,  I  refused 
to  have  any  communication  with,  and  shall  be  proud 
and  happy  when  that  wish  becomes  mutual. 


A  MYSTERY. 

FOUNDED  OX  THE  FOLLOWING  PASSAGE 

IN    GENESIS,    CHAP.   VI. 

And  it  came  to  pass....  that  the  sons  of  God  saw  the 
daughters  of  men  that  they  were  fair,  and  they  took  them 
wives  of  all  which  they  chose. 

And  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover. — Coleridge. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 

ANGELS. 
Samiasa.  Azaziel. 

Raphael,  the  Archangel. 

MEN. 
No.AH,  and  ?iis  S'ms.  Irad. 

WOMEN. 

Anah.  Aholibamah. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  of  the  Earth.— Chorus  of  Mortals. 


SCENE  I. 

A  woody  and  mountainous  dldrict  near  Mount  Ararat, 

Time — midnight. 

Enter  Anah  and  Aholibamah. 

ANAH. 

Our  lathei  sleeps :  it  is  the  hour  when  they 
Who  love   ir.  are  accustom'd  to  descend 
Through  *;hc  deep  clouds  o'er  rocky  Ararat : — 
How  my  hv-art  beats ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Let  us  proceed  upon 
Our  invocation. 

ANAH. 

But  the  stars  are  hidden. 
J  tremble. 

AHOTJBAMAH. 

So  do  /.  but  m.t  with  fear 
Of  aught  save  their  delay. 

ANAH. 

My  sister,  though 
I  lOve  Aziiziel  more  than — <ili,  loo  iiiucli ! 
What  wa.s  I  going  to  s;ty  ?   my  licart  grows  impiouB. 

AHOl.IinMAH. 

And  wliere  is  tin-  impiety  of  loving 
Cele.stial  natures ''. 

AN\M. 

But.  Aholil.amah, 
I  love  our  God  less  since  liis  angel  loved  me: 
rhi«  <annot  be  of  good  ;  and  though  I  kuow  not 
That  I  do  wrong.  I  fei-l  a  tbousiind  fears 
^"hich  are  not  ominous  of  right. 


AHOLIBAMAir. 

Then  vi'ea  ihee 
LFnto  some  son  of  clay,  and  toil  and  spin  ! 
There  's  Japhet  loves  thee  well,  hath  loved  thee  long 
Marry,  and  bring  forth  dust ! 

ANAH. 

I  should  have  loved 
Azaziel  not  less  were  he  mortal :  yet 
I  am  glad  he  is  not.     I  cannot  outlive  him. 
And  when  I  think  that  his  immortal  wings 
Will  one  day  hover  o'er  the  sepulchre 
Of  the  poor  child  of  clay  which  so  adored  him. 
As  he  adores  the  Highest,  death  becomes 
Less  terrible  ;   but  yet  I  pity  him  ; 
His  grief  will  be  of  ages,  or  at  least 
Mine  would  be  such  for  him,  were  I  the  seraph. 
And  he  the  perishable. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Rather  say. 
That  he  will  single  forth  some  other  daughter 
Of  earth,  and  love  her  as  he  once  loved  Anah. 

ANAH. 

And  if  it  should  be  so,  and  she  so  loved  h*nr„ 
Better  thus  than  that  he  should  \veep  for  me. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

If  I  thought  thus  of  Samiasa's  love. 

All  seraph  as  he  is,  I  'd  spurn  him  from  me. 

But  to  our  invocation !  'T  is  the  hour. 

ANAH. 

Seraph  ! 
From  thy  sphere ! 
Whatever  star  contain  tliy  glory  ; 
In  the  eternal  depths  of  heaven 
Albeit  thou  watchest  with  "the  seven,"' 
Though  through  space  infinite  and  hoary 
Before  thy  bright  wing?  worlds  be  driven, 
Yet  hear ! 
Oh !  think  of  her  who  holds  thee  dear ! 

And  though  she  nothing  is  to  thee. 
Yet  think  that  thou  art  all  to  her. 
Thou  canst  not  tell, — and  never  be 
Such  pangs  decreed  to  aught  save  me,— 
The  bitterness  of  tears. 
Eternity  is  m  thine  years, 
Unborn,  undying  beauty  in  thine  eyes : 
W^ith  ine  tho«  canst  not  sympathize. 
Except  in  love,  and  there  thou  must 
Acknowledge  that  more  loving  dust 
Ne'er  we[)t  beneath  the  skies. 
Thou  waik'st  tliy  many  worlds,  thou  see'st 

The  face  of  Hun  who  made  thee  great, 
As  He  hath  made  me  of  tlie  least 
Of  those  cast  out  from  Eden's  gate : 
Yet,  seraph  dear ! 
Oh  hear ! 
For  thi-u  hast  loved  me,  and  I  would  not  die 
Until  I  know  what  I  must  die  in  knowing, 
That  thou  forget'sl  in  thine  eternity 

Her  whose  heart  death  could  not  keo])  from  o'erfl<j\'s  ;n^ 
For  thee,  innnortal  essence  as  thou  art ! 
Great  is  their  love  who  love  in  sin  and  fear ; 
And  such  I  iv.vX  are  wajjiii<:;  in  my  heart 
A  war  uuwortny:    to  an  Adainiie 
Forgive,  my  seraph  I   that  such  thoughts  appear, 
For  sorrow  is  our  element ; 
Delight 
An  Eden  kept  afar  ti-om  sight. 

Though  sometimes  willi  our  visions  blent. 
The  iioiir  IS  near 


1  The  archangels,  said  tc  be  seven  in  numbc 


HEAVEN    AND    EARTH. 


5t»d 


VVhuh  telU  me  \^q  are  not  abandon'd  quite. — 
Appear!   appear! 
Sorapli ! 
My  own  Az^ziel .   be  but  here, 
And  leave  the  stars  to  their  own  light. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Samiasa ! 
Wheresoe'er 
Thou  rulest  in  the  upper  air — 
Or  warring  with  the  spirits  who  may  dare 
Dispute  with  Him 
Who  made  all  eni[)ires,  empire  ;  or  recalling 
Some  wandering  star  which  shoots  through  the  abyss, 
Whose  tenants,  dying  while  their  world  is  falling, 
Share  the  dun  destiny  of  clay  in  this ; 
Or  joining  with  the  inferior  cherubim, 
Thou  deignest  to  partake  their  hynm — 
Samiasa ! 
I  call  thee,  I  await  thee,  and  I  love  thee. 

Many  worship  thee — that  will  I  not : 
[f  that  thy  spirit  down  to  mine  may  move  thee, 
Descend  and  share  my  lot ! 
Though  I  be  form'd  of  clay 

And  thou  of  beams 
More  bright  than  those  of  day 
On  Eden's  streams. 
Thine  immortality  cannot  repay 

With  love  more  warm  than  mine 
My  love.     There  is  a  ray 
In  me,  which,  though  forbidden  yet  to  shine, 
I  feel  was  lighted  at  thy  God's  and  thine. 
It  may  be  hidden  long:   death  and  decay 

Our  mother  Eve  bequeath'd  us— but  my  heart 
Defies  it:   though  this  life  must  jjass  awav, 

Is  that  a  cause  for  thee  and  me  to  part  ? 
Thou  art  immortal — so  am  I  :   I  feel, 

1  feel  my  unmortality  o'ersweep 
All  pains,  all  tears,  all  time,  all  fears,  and  peal 

Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep, 
[nlo  my  ears  this  truth — "  thou  livest  for  ever  '" 
But  if  it  be  in  joy, 
I  know  not,  nor  svould  know  ; 
That  secret  rests  with  the  Almighty  giver 

Who  folds  in  clouds  the  fonts  of  bliss  and  woe. 

But  thee  and  me  He  never  can  destroy  ; 
Change  us  He  mav,  but  not  o'erwhelm  ;   we  are 
Of  as  eternal  essence,  and  must  war 
With  Him  if  He  will  war  with  us  ;   with  thee 

I  can  share  all  things,  even  immortal  soitow; 
For  thou  hast  ventured  to  share  life  with  me, 
And  shall  /  shrink  from  thine  eternity  ? 

No !   though  the  serpent's  sthig  should  pierce  me 
through. 
And  thou  thyself  wert  like  the  serpent,  coil 
Around  me  still !   and  I  will  smile 

And  curse  thee  not ;   bu*  hold 
Thee  in  as  warm  a  fold 

As but  descend  ;   and  prove 

A  mortal's  love 
Ir'or  an  immortal.     If  the  skies  contain 
More  joy  than  thou  canst  give  and  take,  remain ! 

A  N  A  H  . 

Sister!  sister!   I  view  them  winging 
Their  bright  way  through  the  parted  night. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

The  clouds  from  off  their  pinions  flinging 
As  though  they  bore  to-morrow's  light. 

ANAH. 

But  if  our  father  see  the  sight ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

He  woulJ  but  deen".  it  was  the  moon 


Rising  unto  some  sorcerer  s  tune 
An  hour  too  soon. 

ANAH. 

They  come  I  lie  comes  ' — Azaziel ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Haaie 
To  meet  them !  Oh  !  for  wings  to  bear 
My  spirit,  while  they  hover  there, 
To  Samiasa's  breast ! 

ANAH. 

Lo !   they  have  kindled  all  the  west, 

Like  a  returning  sunset ; — lo ! 
On  Ararat's  late  secret  crest 

A  mild  and  many-colour'd  bow, 
The  remnant  of  their  flashing  path. 
Now  shines  !   and  now,  behold  !   it  hath 
Return'd  to  night,  as  rippling  foam, 

Which  the  leviathan  hath  lash'd 
From  his  unfathomable  home, 
When  sporting  on  the  face  of  the  calm  deep 

Subsides  soon  after  he  agam  hath  dash'd 
Down,  down,  to  where  the  ocean's  fountains  sleep. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

They  have  touch'd  earth  !   Samiasa  ! 

ANAH. 

My  Azaziei 

[Exi-unl 


SCENE  IL 

E7iter  Irad  and  Japhet. 

IRAD. 

Despond  not :  wherefore  wilt  thou  wander  thus 
To  add  thy  silence  to  the  silent  night. 
And  lift  thy  tearful  eye  unto  tho  stars  ? 
They  cannot  aid  thee.  • 

JAPHET. 

But  they  soothe  me — now 
Perhaps  she  looks  upon  them  as  I  look. 
Methinks  a  being  that  is  beautiful 
Becometh  more  so  as  it  looks  on  beauty. 
The  eternal  beauty  of  undying  things. 
Oh,  Anah ! 

IRAD. 

But  she  loves  thee  not. 

JAPHET. 

Alas! 

?«AD. 

And  proud  Aholibamah  spurns  me  also. 

JAPHET. 

I  feel  for  thee  too. 

IRAD. 

Let  her  keep  her  pride : 
Mine  hath  enabled  me  to  bear  her  scorn ; 
It  may  be,  time  too  will  avenge  it. 

JAPHET. 

Canst  thou 
Find  joy  in  such  a  thought  ? 

IRAD. 

Nor  joy,  nor  sorrow. 
I  loved  her  well ;   I  would  have  loved  her  better, 
Had  love  been  met  with  love :  as  't  is,  I  leave  hor 
To  brighter  destinies,  if  so  she  deems  them. 

JAPHEll. 

What  destinies  ? 

IRAD. 

I  have  some  cause  to  think 
She  loves  another. 

JAPHET. 

Anah? 

IRAD. 

No ;  her  sister. 


666 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


JAPHET. 

What  0th  3r? 

IRAD. 

That  I  know  not ;  but  her  air, 
ff  not  her  words,  tells  me  she  loves  another. 

JAPHKT. 

Ay,  but  not  Anah  :  she  but  loves  her  God. 

I R  A  D. 

Whate'er  she  loveth,  so  she  loves  thee  not. 
What  can  it  profit  thee  ? 

JAPHET. 

True,  nothing ;  but 
I  love. 

IRAD. 

And  so  did  I. 

JAPHET. 

And  now  thou  lovest  not, 
Oi'  think'st  thou  lovest  not,  art  thou  bappiei  ? 

IKAD. 

Yes, 

JAPHET. 

I  pity  thee. 

IRAD. 

Me!  why? 

JAPHET. 

For  being  happy, 
Deprived  of  that  which  makes  my  misery. 

IRAD. 

I  take  thy  taunt  as  part  of  thy  distemper, 
And  would  not  feel  as  thou  dost,  for  more  shekels 
Than  all  our  father's  lierds  would  bring  if  weigh'd 
Against  the  metal  of  the  sons  of  Cain — 
The  yellow  dust  they  try  to  barter  with  us, 
As  if  such  useless  and  discoloured  trash, 
The  refuse  of  the  earth,  could  be  received 
For  milk,  and  wool,  and  flesn,  and  fruits,  and  all 
Our  flocks  and  wilderness  afford. — Go,  Japhet, 
'Sigh  to  the  stars,  as  wolves  howl  to  the  moon — 
I  must  back  to  my  rest. 

JAPHET. 

And  so  would  I, 
If  I  could  rest. 

IRAD. 

Thou  wilt  not  to  our  tents,  then  ? 

JAPHET. 

No,  Irad  ;  I  will  to  the  cavern,  whose 
Mouth,  they  say,  opens  from  the  internal  world. 
To  let  the  inner  spirits  of  the  earth 
Forth,  when  they  walk  its  surface. 

IRAD. 

Wherefore  so? 
What  wouldst  thou  there? 

JAPHET. 

Soothe  further  my  sad  spirit 
With  gloom  as  sad  :  it  is  a  hopeless  spot, 
And  I  am  hopeless. 

IRAD. 

But  't  is  dangerous  ; 
Strange  sounds  and  sights  have  peopled  it  with  terrors. 
I  murit  go  with  thee. 

JAPHET. 

Irad,  no  ;  believe  me 
I  fee.  no  evil  thought,  and  fear  no  evil. 

IRAD. 

But  evil  things  will  be  thy  foe  the  more 

As  not  being  of  them:   turn  thy  steps  aside, 

Or  let  mine  be  with  thine. 


I  must  proceed  alone 


MET. 

No ;  neither,  Irad : 


iKAr>, 
'1  nen  peace  be  with  thee 

[Fxit  Iii.iu 

JAPHET    (solus). 

Peace  !   I  have  sought  it  where  it  should  be  found. 

In  love — with  love  too,  which  perhaps  deserved  il : 

And,  in  its  stead,  a  heaviness  of  heart — 

A  weakness  of  the  spirit — listless  days, 

And  nights  inexorable  to  sweet  sleep — 

Have  come  upon  me.   Peace  !  what  peace  ?  the  calm 

Of  desolation,  and  the  stillness  of 

The  untrodden  forest,  only  broken  by 

The  sweeping  tempest  through  its  groaning  boughs; 

Such  is  the  sullen  or  the  fitful  state 

Of  my  mind  overworn.     Tlie  earth  's  grown  wicked, 

And  many  signs  and  [)orteiits  have  proclaim'd 

A  change  at  hand,  and  an  o'erwhelniing  doom 

To  perishable  beings.     Oh,  my  Anah  ! 

When  the  dread  hour  denounced  shall  oi)en  wide 

The  fountains  of  the  deep,  how  mightest  thou 

Have  lain  within  this  bosom,  folded  from 

The  elements  ;   this  bosom,  which  in  vain 

Hath  beat  for  thee,  and  then  will  beat  more  vainlv. 

While  thine Oh,  God  !   at  le.isl  remit  to  her 

Thy  wrath!  for  she  is  pure  amidst  the  failing, 

As  a  star  in  the  clouds,  which  cannot  quench, 

Although  they  obscure  it  for  an  hour.     IVIy  Anah ! 

How  would  I  have  adored  thee,  but  thou  wouldst  not. 

And  still  would  I  redeem  thee — see  thee  live 

When  ocean  is  earth's  grave,  and,  unopposed 

By  rock  or  shallow,  the  leviathan. 

Lord  of  the  shoreless  sea  and  watery  world. 

Shall  wonder  at  his  boundlessness  of  realm. 

[Exit  J APilFT. 

Enter  Noah  and  Shem. 

NOAH. 

Where  is  thy  brother  Japhet  ? 

SHEM. 

He  went  forth, 
According  to  his  wont,  to  meet  with  Irad, 
He  said  ;   but,  as  I  fear,  to  bend  his  steps 
Towards  Anah's  tents,  round  which  he  hovers  nigntly 
Like  a  dove  round  and  round  its  pillaged  nest ; 
Or  else  he  walks  the  wild  up  to  the  cavern 
Which  opens  to  the  heart  of  Ararat. 

NOAH. 

What  doth  he  there  ?  It  is  an  evil  spot 
Upon  an  earth  all  evil ;   for  things  worse 
Than  even  wicked  men  resort  there :   he 
Still  loves  this  daughter  of  a  fated  race, 
AUhough  he  could  not  wed  her  if  she  loved  him. 
And  that  she  doth  not.     Oh,  the  unhappy  hearts 
Of  men !   that  one  of  my  blood,  knowing  well 
The  destiny  and  evil  of  these  days. 
And  that  the  hour  approacheth,  should  indulge 
In  such  forbidden  yearnings  !   Lead  the  way  ; 
He  must  be  sought  for ! 

SHEM. 

Go  not  forward,  father : 
I  will  seek  Japhet. 

NOAH. 

Do  not  fear  for  me  : 
All  evil  things  are  powerless  on  the  man 
Selected  by  Jehovah — let  us  on. 

SHEM. 

To  the  tents  of  the  father  of  the  sisters  ? 

NOAH. 

No;  to  the  cavern  of  the  Caucasus. 

\ Exeunt 'Soak  awl  Siu^M. 


HEAVEN    AND    EARTH. 


5G7 


SCENE  HI. 

riie  nvmnt'dns.—A  cavern,  and  the  rocks  of  Caucasus. 

jAiMU/r  [solus). 
Ve  vvi'ds,  that  look  et*'nuil ;   and  thou  cavo, 
Wliich  seein'st  unf  ithonuihle  ;   and  ye  mountains, 
So  varied  and  so  terrible  in  beauty  ; 
Here,  in  vour  ruirged  inaj<isty  of  rocks 
'Vnd  topli'iiii  trees  tliat  twine  their  roots  with  stone 
rni)er|)endicu;<ir  places,  where  the  foot 
or  man  would  treuil)le,  could  he  reacii  them — yes. 
Ye  look  eternal !    Yet,  in  a  few  days. 
Perhaps  even  hours,  ye  will  be  changed,  rent,  hurlM 
IJefore  the  mass  of  waters:   and  yon  cave. 
Which  seems  to  lead  into  a  lower  world. 
Shall  have  its  depths  search'd  by  the  sweeping  wave, 
And  dolphins  (rambol  in  the  li<Mi's  den  ! 

And  man ^^Oh,  men  !   my  fellow-beings  !   Who 

Shall  weep  above  your  universal  grave. 

Save  I  ?   Who  shall  be  left  to  weep  ?  My  kinsmen, 

Alas !   what  am  I  better  than  ye  are. 

That  I  must  live  beyond  ye?  Wliere  shall  be 

The  pleasant  places  where  I  thought  of  Anah 

While  I  had  hope?  or  the  more  savage  haunts, 

Scarce  less  beloved,  where  I  desjiair'd  (or  her  ? 

And  can  it  be?— Shall  yon  exulting  peak, 

Whose  glittering  top  is  hke  a  distant  star, 

Lie  low  beneath  the  boiling  of  the  deep  ? 

No  more  to  have  the  morning  sun  break  forth, 

And  scatter  back  the  mists  in  floating  folds 

From  its  tremendous  brow  ?   no  more  to  have 

Day's  broad  orb  drop  behind  its  head  at  even. 

Leaving  it  with  a  crown  of  many  hues  ? 

No  more  to  be  the  beacon  of  the  world, 

For  angels  to  alight  on,  as  the  spot 

Nearest  the  stars  /   and  can  those  words  "  ^"  »nore" 

Be  n.ean*  for  thee,  for  all  things,  save  for  us, 

And  tnc  predestined  creeping  things  reserved 

By  my  sire  to  Jehovah's  bidding  ?   May 

fir  preserve  ihem,  and  /  not  have  the  i)0wer 

To  snatch  the  loveliest  of  earth's  daughters  from 

A  doom  which  even  some  serpent,  with  his  mate, 

Shall  'scape  to  save  his  kind  to  be  prolong'd. 

To  kiss  and  sting  through  some  emerging  world. 

Reeking  and  dank  from  out  the  slime,  whose  ooze 

Shall  slumber  o'er  the  wreck  of  this,  until 

The  salt  morass  subside  into  a  sphere 

Heneath  the  sun,  and  be  the  monument, 

The  sole  and  undistingnish'd  sepulchre, 

Of  yet  quick  myriads  of  all  life  ?    How  much 

Breath  will  he  still'd  at  once!   All-beauteous  world! 

So  voun2,  so  inark'd  out  for  destruction,  1 

With  a  cleft  heart  look  on  thee  day  by  day. 

And  nisht  by  night,  thy  number'd  days  and  nights. 

i  cannot  save  thee,  cannot  save  even  her 

Whose  love  had  made  me  love  thee  more  ;  but  as 

A  portion  of  thy  dust,  I  cannot  think 

Upon  thy  coming  doom,  without  a  feeling 

Such  as — Oh  God  !   and  canst  thou 

[He  pauses. 

\A   rushing  sound  from  the  cavern  is  heard,  and  shouts 
of  luuglder — afterwards  a  Sfiint  passes. 

JAPHET. 

In  the  name 
Of  the  M<«'  Hish,  what  art  thou  ? 
SPiKiT  (laughs). 

Ha!  ha.  ha! 


lAPtlET. 

By  fil   that  earth  holds  holiest,  speak ! 
SPIKIT  {laughs). 


Ha'  ha 


JAPHET. 

By  the  approaching  deUige  !   by  the  earth 
Whicii  will  be  strangled  by  the  ocean !   by 
The  deep  which  will  lay  open  all  her  fountains! 
The  heaven  which  will  convert  her  clouds  to  seas, 
And  the  Omnipotent  who  makes  and  crushes! 
Thou,  unknown,  terrible,  and  indistinct, 
YvX  awful  thing  of  shadows,  speak  to  me  ! 
Why  dost  thou  laugh  that  horrid  laugh? 

SPIPaX. 

Whv  weep'st  thou 

JAPHET. 

For  earth,  and  all  her  children. 

SPIKIT. 

Ha!   ha!   ha!        \ Spirit  vanislus 

JAPHET. 

How  the  fiend  mocks  the  tortures  of  a  world, 
Tlie  coming  desolation  of  an  orb, 
On  which  the  sun  shall  rise  and  warm  no  life  : 
How  the  earth  sleeps !   and  all  that  in  it  is 
Sleep  too  ui)on  the  very  eve  of  death  ! 
Why  should  they  wake  to  meet  it?   What  is  here, 
Which  look  like  death  in  life,  and  speak  hke  things 
Born  ere  this  dymo  world  ?   They  come  hke  clouds  ! 
[  Various  Spirits  pass  from  the  cavern 

SPIKIT. 

Rejoice ! 
The  abliorred  race 
Which  could  not  keep  in  Eden  their  high  place. 

But  listen'd  to  the  voice 
Of  knowledge  without  power, 
Are  nigh  the  hour 
Of  death  ! 
Not  slow,  not  single,  not  by  sword,  nor  sorrc  *r. 

Nor  years,  nor  heart-break,  nor  time's  sapping 
motion. 
Shall  they  drop  otf.     Behold  their  last  to-morrow! 

Earth  shall  be  ocean  !  ,i^ 

Ami  no  breath. 
Save  of  the  winds,  be  on  the  unbounded  wave! 
Angels  shall  tire  their  wings,  but  find  no  spot: 
Not  even  a  rock  from  out  the  liquid  grave 

Shall  lift  its  point  to  save. 
Or  show  the  place  where  strong  Despair  hath  died, 
After  long  looking  o'er  the  ocean  wide 
For  the  expected  ebb  which  cometh  not : 
All  shall  be  void, 
Destroy'd  ! 
Another  element  shall  be  the  lord 

Of  life,  and  the  abhorr'd 
Children  of  dust  be  quench'd  ;   and  of  each  hue 
Of  earth  novight  left  but  the  vmbroken  blue  ; 
And  of  the  variegated  mountain 
Shall  nought  remain 
Unchanged,  or  of  the  level  plain  ; 
Cedar  and  pine  shall  lift  their  tops  in  vain  ; 
All  merged  within  the  universal  fountain, 
Man,  earth,  and  fire,  shall  die, 
And  sea  and  sky 
Look  vast  and  lifeless  in  the  eternal  eye. 
Upon  the  foam 
Who  shall  erect  a  home  ? 

JAPHET  ( coming  forward). 
My  sire  ' 
Earth's  seed  shall  not  expire  ; 

Only  the  evil  shall  be  put  awav 
From  day. 
Avaunt !   ye  exulting  demons  of  the  waste! 
Who  howl  your  hideous  joy 
When  God  destroys  whom  you  dare  not  destroy; 
Hence  !   haste  ' 


J68 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Back  to  your  inner  caves  ! 
Until  the  waves 
Shall  search  you  m  your  secret  place, 
And  drive  your  sullen  race 
Forth,  to  be  roU'd  upon  the  tossing  winds 
In  restless  wretchedness  along  all  space  ! 

SPIRIT 

Son  of  the  saved  ! 
When  thou  and  thine  have  braved 
The  wide  and  warring  element ; 
When  the  great  barrier  of  the  deep  is  rent^ 
Shalt  thou  and  thine  be  good  or  ha])py  ? — No  ! 
Thy  new  world  and  new  race  shall  be  of  woe — 
Less  goodly  in  their  aspect,  in  their  years, 
Less  than  the  glorious  giants,  who 
Yet  walk  the  world  in  pride, 
The  sons  of  Heaven  by  many  a  mortal  bride. 
Thine  shall  be  nothing  of  the  past,  save  tears. 
And  art  thou  not  ashamed 

Thus  to  survive. 
And  eat,  and  drink,  and  wive  ? 
With  a  base  heart  so  far  subdued  and  tamed. 
As  even  to  hear  this  wide  destruction  named, 
Without  such  grief  and  courage,  as  should  rather 

Bid  thee  await  the  world-dissolving  w  ave. 
Than  seek  a  shelter  with  thy  favour'd  father, 

And  build  thy  city  o'er  the  drown'd  earth's  grave  ? 
Who  would  outlive  their  kind, 
Except  the  base  and  blind  ? 
Mine 
Hateth  thine, 
As  of  a  different  order  in  the  sphere, 
But  not  our  own. 
There  is  not  one  who  hath  not  left  a  throne 

Vacant  in  heaven  to  dwell  in  darkness  here, 
Rather  than  see  his  mates  endure  alone. 
Go,  wretch  I   and  give 
A  life  like  thine  to  other  wretches — hve  ! 
And  when  the  annihilating  waters  roar 
Above  what  they  have  done, 
Envv  the  giant  patriarchs  then  no  more. 
And  scorn  thy  sire  as  the  surviving  one ! 
Thyself  for  being  his  son  ! 

Chorus  of  Spirits  v<suing  from  the  caverru 

Rejoice  ! 
No  more  the  human  voice 
Shall  vex  our  joys  in  middle  air 

With  prayer ; 
No  more 

Shall  they  adore  ; 
And  we,  who  ne'er  for  ages  have  adored 

The  prayer-exacting  Lord, 
To  whom  the  omission  of  a  sacrifice 
Is  vice  ; 
We,  we  shall  view  the  deep's  salt  sources  pour'd 
Until  one  element  shall  do  the  work 

Of  all  in  chaos  ;   until  they. 
The  creatures  proud  of  their  poor  clay. 
Shall  perish,  and  their  bleached  bones  shall  lurk 
in  caves,  in  dens,  in  clefts  of  mountains,  where 
The  deep  slial.  follow  to  their  latest  lair  ; 

Where  even  the  brutes,  in  their  despair, 
Shall  c(!ase  to  prey  on  man  and  on  each  other. 

And  the  striped  tiger  shall  he  down  to  die 
Beside  the  lamb,  as  though  he  were  his  brother ; 
Til.  all  things  sliall  be  as  they  were. 
Silent  and  uiirreated,  save  the  sky: 
While  a  brief  truce 
Is  made  with  Death,  who  shall  forbear 
The  little  remnant  of  the  past  creation, 
To  "eneraic  ricw  nations  for  his  use  ; 


This  remnant,  floating  o'er  the  unduiation 
Of  the  subsiding  deluge,  from  its  same, 
When  the  hot  sun  hath  baked  the  reeking  soil 
Into  a  world,  shall  give  again  to  time 
New  beings — years — diseases — sorrow — cnr.ie — 
With  all  companionship  of  hate  and  toil. 

Until 

JAPHET  {interrupting  therUf . 
The  eternal  will 
Shall  deign  to  expound  this  dream 
Of  good  and  evil ;   and  redeem 

Unto  himself  all  times,  and  things ; 
And,  gather'd  under  his  ahnighty  wings. 
Abolish  hell ! 
And  to  the  expiated  earth 
Restore  the  beauty  of  her  birth. 
Her  Eden  in  an  endless  paradise. 
Where  man  no  more  can  fall  as  once  he  fell, 
And  even  the  very  demons  shall  do  well ! 

SPIRITS. 

And  when  shall  take  effect  this  wondrous  spell  ? 

JAPHET. 

When  the  Redeemer  cometh  ;   first  in  pain. 
And  then  in  glory. 

SPIRIT. 

Meantime  still  struggle  in  the  mortal  chain. 

Till  earth  wax  hoary  ; 
War  with  yourselves,  and  hell,  and  heaven,  in  vain, 

Until  the  clouds  look  gory 
With  the  blood  reeking  from  each  battle  plain  ; 
New  times,  new  climes,  new  arts,  new  men  ;   bv.t  sJJl.; 
The  same  old  tears,  old  crimes,  and  oldest  ill, 
Shall  be  amongst  your  race  in  different  forms , 

But  the  same  moral  storms 
Shall  oversweep  the  future,  as  the  waves 
In  a  few  hours  the  glorious  giants'  graves.' 
Chorus  of  Spirits. 
Brethren,  rejoice  ! 
INIortal,  farewell ! 
Hark  !   hark  !   akeady  we  can  hear  the  voice 
Of  growing  ocean's  gloomy  swell  ; 

The  winds,  too,  plume  their  piercing  wings ! 
The  clouds  have  nearly  fill'd  their  springs  ! 
The  Tountains  of  the  great  deep  shall  be  broken. 

And  heaven  set  wide  her  windows  ;   while  mankiiic 
View,  unacknowledged,  each  tremendous  token — 
Still,  as  they  were  from  the  beginning,  blind. 

We  hear  the  sound  they  cannot  hear. 
The  mustering  thunders  of  the  threatening  sphere; 
Yet  a  few  hours  their  coming  is  delay'd  ; 
Their  flashing  banners,  folded  still  on  high. 
Yet  undisplay'd. 
Save  to  the  spirits'  all-pervading  eye. 

Howl !   howl !   oh  earth  ! 
Thy  death  is  nearer  than  thy  recent  birth  : 
Tremble,  ye  mountains,  soon  to  shrink  below 

The  ocean's  overflow  ! 
The  wave  shall  break  upon  your  cliffs  ;   and  shefls, 

The  little  shells  of  ocean's  least  things,  be 
Deposed  where  now  the  eagle's  offspring  dwellsK- 
How  shall  he  shriek  o'er  the  remorseless  sea! 
And  call  his  nestfings  up  with  fruitless  yell, 
Unanswer'd  save  by  the  encroaching  swell: — 
While  man  shall  long  in  vain  for  his  broad  wings, 

Tiie  wuigs  which  could  not  save  :— 
Where  could  he  rest  them,  while  the  whole  space  brin^* 
Nought  to  his  eye  beyond  the  deep,  his  grave '! 

1  "  And  there  were  giants  in  those  days,  uiid  after;  miKhl> 
men,  which  were  of  old  men  of  renown.'"— CrCTiciO, 


HEAVEN    AND    EARTH. 


569 


Brethren,  rejoice  ! 
And  ioudiv  lift  eiich  suiterhuman  voice — 

All"  die, 
Save  the  slight  leiiinant  of  Seth's  seed — 

The  seed  of  Seth, 
Rxempt  for  future  sorrow's  sake  from  death. 
Bui  of  the  sons  of  Cain 
None  shall  reinain  ; 
And  all  his  gootily  daughters 
Must  lie  bene;;ti;  the  desolating  waters  ; 
Or,  floating  ujjward  with  their  long  hair  laid 
Along  th<}  wave,  the  cruel  Heaven  upbraid, 
Whicli  would  not  spare 
Beings  even  in  death  so  fair. 
It  is  decreed. 
All  die  ! 
And  to  the  universal  human  cry 
The  universal  silence  shall  succeed  ! 
Fly,  brethren,  fly  ! 
But  still  rejoice  ! 
We  fell ! 
They  fall ! 
So  perish  all 
These  petty  loes  of  Heaven  who  shrink  from  Hell ! 

[The  Spirits  disappear^  soaring  upaiards. 
JAPHET  {solus). 
God  hath  proclaiin'd  the  destiny  of  earth ; 
My  father's  ark  of  safety  hath  announced  it ; 
The  very  demons  shriek  it  from  their  caves ; 
The  scroll  '  of  Enoch  prophesied  it  long 
In  silent  books,  which,  in  their  silence,  say 
More  to  the  mind  than  thunder  to  the  ear  : 
And  yet  men  listen'd  not,  nor  listen  :   but 
Walk  darkling  to  their  doom  ;   which,  though  so  nigh, 
Shakes  them  no  more  in  their  dim  disbelief. 
Than  cheir  last  cries  shall  shake  the  Almighty  purpose 
Or  deaf  obedient  ocean,  which  fulfils  it. 
No  sign  yet  hangs  its  banner  in  the  air  ; 
The  clouds  are  few,  and  of  their  wonted  texture  ; 
The  sun  will  rise  upon  the  earth's  last  day 
As  on  the  fourth  day  of  creation,  when 
God  said  unto  him,  "  Shuie  !"  and  he  broke  forth 
Into  the  dawn,  which  lighted  not  the  yet 
Unform'd  forefather  of  mankind— but  roused 
Before  the  human  orison  the  earlier 
Made  and  far  sweeter  voices  of  the  birds, 
Which  in  the  open  firmament  of  iieaven 
Have  wings  like  angels,  and  like  them  salute 
Heaven  first  each  day  before  the  Adamites ! 
Their  matins  now  draw  nigh — the  east  is  kindling — 
And  they  will  sing  !   and  day  will  break  !     Both  near, 
So  near  the  awful  close  !   For  these  mu>t  drop 
Their  outworn  pinions  on  the  deep :   and  day, 
After  the  bright  course  of  a  few  brief  morrows, — 
Av,  day  will  rise  ;   but  upon  what  ?  A  chaos. 
Which  was  ere.  dav  ;   and  which,  renew'd,  make«  time 
Nothing  !   for,  without  life,  what  are  the  hours  ? 
No  more  to  dust  than  is  eternity 
Unto  Jehovr.h,  who  created  both. 
Without  him,  even  eternity  would  be 
A  void  :   without  man,  time,  as  made  for  man, 
Dies  with  man,  and  is  swallow'd  in  that  deep 
Which  has  no  fountain  ;   as  his  race  will  be 
Devour'd  by  tha',  which  drowns  his  infant  world. — 
What  have  we  here  ?   Shapes  of  both  earth  and  air  ? 
No — all  of  neaven,  they  are  so  beautiful, 
I  cannot  trace  their  features  ;   but  their  forms, 
Hew  lovelily  they  move  along  the  side 
Of  the  f^ray  mountain,  scattering  its  mist ! 

1  The  Book  of  Enoch,  preserved  by  the  Ethiopians,  is  said 
by  them  to  be  anterior  to  the  flood 


And  after  the  swart  savage  spirit.-,  whose 
Infernal  immortality  pour'd  torth 
Their  impious  hymn  of  triumph,  they  sha  I  be 
Welcome  as  Eden.     It  may  be  they  come 
To  tell  me  the  repr'eve  of  our  young  world. 
For  which  \  have  so  often  pray'd — Thev  come ! 
Anah  !   oh  God  !   and  with  her 

£'nicrSAMIASA,  AZA/.IKL,  A.VAH,a«(:ZAHOLIPAMAa 
ANAH. 

Japhet ! 

SAMIASA. 

Lo! 
A  son  of  Adam  ! 

AZAZIEL. 

What  doth  the  earth-born  here, 
While  all  his  race  are  slumbering  / 

JAPHET. 

Angel !   what 
Dost  thou  on  earth  when  thou  shouldst  be  on  high  / 

AZAZIEL. 

Know'st  thou  not,  or  forget'st  thou,  that  a  part 
Of  our  great  function  is  to  guard  thine  earth  ? 

JAPHET. 

But  all  good  angels  have  forsaken  earth, 
Which  is  condemn'd :   nav,  even  the  evil  fly 
The  approaching  chaos.     Anah  !    Anah  !   my 
In  vain,  and  long,  and  still  to  be  beloved ! 
Why  walk'st  thou  with  this  spirit,  in  those  hours 
When  no  good  spirit  longer  liglits  below  ? 

ANAH. 

Japhet,  I  cannot  answer  thee  ;  yet,  yet 
Forgive  me 

JAPHET. 

May  the  Heaven,  which  soon  no  more 
Will  pardon,  do  so !   for  thou  art  crreatly  tem[)ted. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Back  to  thy  tents,  insulting  son  of  Noah! 
We  know  thee  not. 

JAPHET. 

The  hour  may  come  when  ihou 
May'st  know  me  better  ;   and  thy  sister  know 
Me  still  the  same  which  I  have  ever  been. 

SAMIASA. 

Son  of  the  patriarch,  who  hath  ever  been 
Upright  before  his  God,  whate'er  thy  griefs, 
And  thy  words  seem  of  sorrow,  mix'd  with  wrath. 
How  have  Azaziel,  or  myself,  brought  on  thee 
Wrong  ? 

JAPHET. 

Wrong!   the  greatest  of  all  wrongs :   but  thoi 
Say'st  well,  though  she  be  dust,  I  did  not,  could  not, 
Deserve  her.     Farewell,  .\nah  !   I  have  said 
That  word  so  often !   but  now  say  it,  ne'er 
To  be  repeated.    Angel !   or  whate'er 
Thou  art,  or  must  be  soon,  hast  thou  the  power 
To  save  this  beautiful — these  beautiful 
Children  of  Cain? 

AZAZIEL. 

From  what 

JAPHET. 

And  is  It  so 
That  ye  too  know  not  ?     Angels  !   angels  !   ye 
Have  shared  man's  sin,  and,  it  may  be,  now  mus» 
Partake  his  punishment;   or  at  the  least 
My  sorrow. 

SAMIASA. 

Sorrow  !   I  ne'er  thought  till  now 
To  hear  an  Adamite  speak  riddles  to  me. 

JAPHET. 

And  hath  not  the  Most  High  expounded  them? 
Then  ye  are  lost,  as  they  are  lost. 


670 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


AH01.IBAMAH. 

Sn  be  It ! 
If  they  love  as  tney  are  loved,  they  will  not  shrink 
More  to  be  mortal,  than  I  would  to  dare 
An  immortality  of  agonies 
With  Samiasa ! 

AN  AH. 

Sister !  sister !  speak  not 
Thus. 

AZAZ/EL. 

Fearest  tnou,  my  An  ah  ? 

ANAH. 

Yes,  for  thee ; 
I  would  resign  this  greater  remnant  of 
This  little  life  of  mine,  before  one  hour 
Of  thine  eternity  should  know  a  pang. 

J\PHET. 

It  IS  for  him,  then  !   for  the  seraph,  thou 

Hast  left  me  !   That  is  noihlng,  if  thou  hast  not 

Left  thy  God  too !   for  unions  like  to  these, 

Between  a  mortal  and  immortal,  cannot 

Be  happy  or  be  hallow'd.     We  are  sent 

Upon  the  eafth  to  toil  and  die ;  and  they 

Are  made  to  minister  on  high  unto 

The  Highest ;   but  if  he  can  save  thee,  soon 

The  hour  will  come  in  which  celestial  aid 

Alone  can  do  so. 

ANAH. 

Ah !   he  speaks  of  death. 

SAMIASA. 

Of  death  to  us  !  and  those  who  are  with  us ! 
But  that  the  man  seems  full  of  sorrow,  I 
Could  smile. 

JAPHET. 

I  gr'evQ  not  for  myself,  nor  fear ; 
I  am  safe,  not  for  my  own  deserts,  but  those 
Of  a  well-doing  sire,  who  hath  been  found 
liighteous  enough  to  save  his  children.     Would 
His  power  were  greater  of  redemption !   or 
That  by  exchanging  my  own  hfe  for  hers, 
Who  could  alone  have  made  mine  happy,  she. 
The  last  and  loveliest  of  Cain's  race,  could  share 
The  ark  which  shall  receive  a  remnant  of 
The  seed  of  Seth  ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

And  dost  thou  think  that  we, 
With  Cain's,  the  eldest  born  of  Adam's  blood 
W'arm  in  our  veins, — strong  Cain,  who  was  begotten 
In  Paradise,— would  mingle  with  Seth's  children  ? 
Seth,  the  last  offspring  of  old  Adam's  dotage  ? 
No,  not  to  save  all  earth,  were  earth  in  peril ! 
Our  race  hath  always  dwelt  apart  from  thine 
From  the  beginning,  and  shall  do  so  ever. 

JAPHET. 

I  did  not  speak  to  thee,  Aholibamah  ! 

Too  much  of  the  forefather,  whom  thou  vauntest, 

Has  come  down  in  that  haughty  blood  which  springs 

From  him  who  shed  the  first,  and  that  a  brother's  ! 

But  thou,  my  Anah  !   let  me  call  thee  mine. 

Albeit  thou  art  not ;   't  is  a  word  1  cannot 

Part  with,  although  I  must  from  thee.     My  Anah ! 

Thou  whc  dost  rath(;r  make  me  dream  that  Abel 

Had  left  a  daughter,  whose  pure  pious  race 

Survived  in  thee   so  much  unlike  thou  art 

The  rest  of  the  stern  Cainites,  save  in  beauty 

For  all  of  them  are  fairest  in  their  favour 

AHOLIBAMAH  ( interrupting  him ) . 
And  wouldst  thou  have  her  like  our  father's  foe 
In  mind,  and  soul?   If  /  partook  thy  thought, 
And  dream'd  that  aught  of  Ahd  was  in  her  ! — 
Get  thee  hence,  son  of  Noah  ;  thou  mak'st  strife. 


JAPHET. 

Offspring  of  Cain,  thy  father  did  so  I 

AHOLIBAMAH. 


But 


He  slew  not  Seth  ;   and  what  hast  thou  to  d* 
With  other  deeds  between  his  God  and  h'nn't 

JAPHFT. 

Thou  speakest  well :   his  God  halh  judged  Inn-,  tf-d 
I  had  not  named  his  deed,  but  that  thyself 
Didst  seem  to  glory  in  him,  nor  to  shrink 
From  what  he  had  done. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

He  was  our  father's  father 
The  eldest  born  of  man,  the  strongest,  bravest, 
And  most  enduring :— Shall  I  blush  for  him. 
From  whom  we  had  our  being?   Look  upon 
Our  race;   behold  their  stature  and  their  beauty, 
Their  courage,  strength,  and  length  of  days 

JAPHET. 

They  are  number'd. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Re  it  so !   but  while  yet  their  hours  endure, 
I  glory  in  my  brethren  and  our  fathers ! 

JAPHET. 

My  sire  and  race  but  glory  in  their  God, 
Anah !  and  thou  ? 

ANAH. 

W^hate'er  our  God  decrees, 
The  God  of  Seth  as  Cain,  I  must  obey, 
x\nd  will  endeavour  patiently  to  obey  ; 
But  could  I  dare  to  pray  in  this  dread  hour 
Of  universal  vengeance  (if  such  should  be), 
It  would  not  be  to  live,  alone  exempt 
Of  all  my  house.     My  sist(>r  !   Oh,  my  sister! 
What  were  the  world,  or  other  worlds,  or  all 
The  brightest  future  without  the  sweet  past— 
Thy  love — my  fatlier's — all  the  life,  and  all 
The  things  which  sprung  up  with  me,  like  the  stars 
Making  my  dim  existence  radiant  with 
Soft  lights  which  were  not  niine?  Aholibamah! 
Oh!   if  there  should  be  mercy— seek  it,  tii.a  .t: 
I  abhor  death,  because  that  thou  must  die. 

AHOLIl!  AMAH. 

What!   hath  this  dreamer,  with  his  father's  ark, 
The  bugbear  he  hath  built  to  scare  the  world, 
Shaken  my  sister  ?  Are  we  not  the  loved 
Of  seraphs  ?  and  if  we  were  not,  must  we 
Cling  to  a  son  of  Noah  fo'  our  lives  ? 

Rather  than  thus Bui  the  enthusiast  dreams 

The  worst  of  dreams,  the  phantasies  engender'd 
By  hopeless  love  and  heated  vigils.    Who 
Shall  shake  these  solid  mountains,  this  firm  earth, 
And  bid  those  clouds  and  waters  take  a  shape 
Distinct  from  that  which  we  and  all  our  sires 
Have  seen  them  wear  on  their  eternal  way  7 
W^ho  shall  do  this  ? 

JAPHET. 

He  whose  one  word  produced  theiu 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Who  heard  that  word  ? 

JAPHET. 

The  universe,  which  leap'O 
To  life  before  it.     Ah!   smilest  thou  still  in  scori) . 
Turn  to  thy  seraphs ;   if  they  attes*  it  not. 
They  are  none. 

SAMIASA. 

Aholibamah,  own  thy  God  ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

1  have  ever  hail'd  our  Maker,  Samiasa, 

As  thine,  and  mine  ;   a  God  of  love,  not  sorrow. 

JAPHET. 

Alas  !   what  else  is  love  but  sorrow  ?     Even 


HEAVEN    AND    EARTH. 


571 


He  vUio  made  eaith  in  love,  Iiatl  soou  to  grieve 
Above  its  first  and  best  inliabiiauis. 

A  HO  LIB  AM  AH. 

*'f  J*  said  so. 

JAI'HET. 

It  i?  even  so. 

En^er  Noah  and  Shem. 

NOAH. 

Japhet!   What 
Dist  thou  here  with  these  children  of  the  \vicl<ed? 
Drcad'st  thou  not  to  partake  their  coining  doom  ? 

japhet. 
Father,  it  cannot  be  a  sin  to  seek 
To  save  an  earth-born  being  ;   and  behold, 
These  are  not  of  the  su:fiil,  since  they  have 
The  fellowship  of  angels. 

NOAH. 

These  are  they,  then, 
Who  leave  the  throne  of  God,  to  take  thorn  wives 
From  out  the  race  of  Cain  :   the  sons  of  Heaven, 
Who  seek  earth's  daughters  for  their  beauty ! 

AZAZIEL. 

Patriarch  ! 
Thou  hast  said  it. 

NOAH. 

Woe,  woe,  woe  to  such  communion  ! 
Has  not  God  made  a  barrier  between  earth 
And  heaven,  and  Umited  each,  kmd  to  kmd  ? 

SAMIASA. 

Was  not  man  made  in  high  Jehovah's  image  ? 
Did  God  not  love  what  he  had  made  ?   And  v/hat 
Do  we  but  imitate  and  emulate 
His  love  unto  created  love  ? 

NOAH. 

I  am 
But  man,  and  was  not  made  to   judge  mankind, 
Far  less  the  sons  of  God ;   but  as  our  God 
Has  deign'd  to  commune  with  me,  and  reveal 
His  judgments,  1  reply,  that  the  descent 
Of  ceraphs  from  their  everlastmg  seat 
Unlo  a  perishable  and  perishing, 
Even  on  the  very  eve  of  perishing,  world, 
Cannot  be  good. 

AZAZ&EL. 

What !  though  it  were  to  save  ? 

NOAH. 

Not  ye  in  all  your  glory  can  redeem 

What  He  who  made  you  glorious  hath  condemn'd. 

\Vt;re  yoar  immortal  mission  safety,  't  would 

Be  general,  not  for  two,  though  beautiful, 

And  beautiful  they  are,  but  not  the  less 

Condemn'd. 

JAPHET. 

Oh  father !  say  it  not. 

NOAH. 

Son  !   son ! 

If  tnat  t  lou  wouldst  avoid  their  doom,  forget 
That  they  exist ;   they  soon  shall  cease  to  be, 
While  thou  shalt  be  the  sire  of  a  new  world, 
And  better 

JAPHET. 

Let  m3  die  with  Ihia,  and  them  ! 

NOAH. 

Tliou  ahouldst  fo.  such  a  thought,  but  shalt  not ;   Ht 
\\  ho  can,  redeems  thee. 

SAMIASA. 

And  why  him  and  thee, 
More  than  what  he,  thy  son,  prefers  to  both  ? 

NOAH. 

Ask  Him  who  made  thee  greater  than  myself 
And  mine,  but  not  less  subject  to  his  own 


Almightiness.     And  lo  !    his  mildest  and 
Least  to  be  tempted  inessen>;er  a|)pears' 

Enter  Raphael  the  ArchangeU 

KAPHA  EL. 

Spirits  ! 
Whose  seat  is  near  the  throne, 
What  do  ye  here  ? 
Is  thur.  a  seraph's  duty  to  be  shown 
Now  tiiat  the  hour  is  near 
When  earth  must  be  alone? 
Return! 
And  burn 
In  glorious  homage  with  the  elected  "seven." 
Your  place  is  heaven. 

SAMIASA. 

Raphael 
The  first  and  fairest  of  the  sons  of  God, 

How  lonsi  hath  this  been  law. 
That  earth  by  angels  must  be  left  untrod? 

Earth  !   whiih  oft  saw 
Jehovah's  footsteps  not  disdain  her  sod  ' 
The  world  He  loveil,  and  made 
For  love  ;   and  oft  have  we  obey'd 
His  frequent  mission  with  deliijhted  pinions ; 

Adoring  Him  in  his  least  works  dis[)layM ; 
Watching  this  youngest  star  of  his  dominions: 
And  as  the  latest  birth  of  His  great  word, 
Eager  to  keej)  it  woitliy  of  our  Lord. 
Whv  is  thy  brow  severe  / 
And  wherefore  speak'st  thou  of  destruction  ncar^ 

RAPHAEL. 

Had  Samiasa  and  Aza/.iol  been 
In  their  true  [dace,  with  the  angelic  choir, 
WritKMi  in  tire 
They  would  have  seen 
Jehovah's  late  decree. 
And  not  inquired  their  Maker's  breath  of  me. 
But  ignorance  must  ever  be 
A  part  of  sin  ; 
And  even  the  spirits'  knowledge  shall  grow  less 

As  they  wax  proud  with...  , 
For  blindness  is  the  first-born  of  excels. 

When  all  good  angels  left  the  world,  ye  stay'a, 
Stung  with  strange  passions,  and  debasea 

By  mortal  feelings  for  a  mortal  maid  ; 
But  ye  are  pardon'd  thus  far,  and  replaced 
With  your  pure  equals  :   Hence  !  away  !  away  * 
Or  stay. 
And  lose  eternity  b\  :hat  delay ! 

AZAZIEL. 

And  thou!   if  earth  be  thus  forbidden 
In  the  decree 
To  us  until  this  moment  hidden, 

Dost  thou  not  err  as  we 
In  being  here  ? 

RAPHAEL. 

I  came  to  call  ye  back  to  your  fit  sphere, 

In  the  great  name  and  at  the  word  of  God ! 
Dear,  dearest  in  themselves,  and  scarce  less  dear 

That  which  I  came  to  do :   till  now  we  trod 
Together  the  eternal  space — together 

Let  us  still  walk  the  stars.   True,  earth  must  die 
Ker  race,  return'd  into  her  womb,  ip.ust  w  ither^, 

And  much  which  she  '.nnents  ;   but  oh !   svhy 
Cannot  this  earth  be  made,  or  be  destroy 'd, 
Without  involving  ever  some  vast  void 
In  tho  ir.imort^d  .ar.ks  ?   immortal  still 

In  tli'^ir  mrne-xsrrablo  forfeiture. 
Ou-  b,-otbor  Satan  fill,  hir  burning  will 

Rather  than  longer   vorship  dared  endure! 


572 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WOT!  K  S. 


But  ye  w.io  still  are  pure. 
Seraph'' '   less  mighty  thun  that  mightiest  one, 

Think  how  he  was  undone  ! 
A.nd  think  if  tempting  man  can  compensate 
For  heaven  desired  too  late? 
Long  have  I  warr'd, 
Long  must  I  war 
With  him  who  deem'd  it  hard 
To  be  created,  and  to  acknowledge  Him 
Who  'midst  the  cherubim 
Made  him  as  sun  to  a  dependent  star, 
Leavin.i^  tlie  archangels  at  his  right  hand  dim. 

I  loved  him — beautiful  he  was:   oh  Heaven! 
Save  His  who  made,  wliat  beauty  and  what  power 
Was  ever  like  to  Satan's !     Would  the  hour 

In  which  he  fell  could  ever  be  forgiven ! 
The  wish  is  impious  :    but  oh  ye  ! 
Yet  undestroy'd,  be  warn'd  I    Eternity 

VVith  him,  or  with  his  God,  is  in  your  choice: 
He  hath  not  tem|ite(l  you,  he  cannot  tempt 
The  angels,  from  his  further  snares  exempt; 

But  man  hath  listen'd  to  his  voice, 
And  ye  to  woman's — beautiful  she  is. 
The  ser|)ent's  voice  less  subtle  than  her  kiss. 
The  snak":  but  vancjUish'd  dust;  but  she  will  draw 
A  second  host  from  heaven,  to  break  Heaven's  law. 
Yet,  yet,  oh  Hy  ! 
Ye  cannot  die. 
But  they 
Shall  pass  away. 
While  ye  shall  till  with  shrieks  the  upper  sky 

For  perishable  clay, 
Whose  memory  in  your  immortalitv 

Shall  lonsj  outlast  the  sun  which  gave  them  day. 
Think  how  your  essence  diir<Teth  trom  theirs 
In  all  but  suifermg  !   Why  partake 
Tiie  agony  to  which  they  must  be  heirs — 
Born  to  be  plough'd  with  tears,  and  sown  with  cares. 
And  rea|)'d  by  Death,  lord  of  the  human  soil? 
Even  had  their  ilays  been  left  to  toil  their  path 
Through  time  to  dust,  unshorten'd  by  Goil's  wrath, 
Stih  they  are  evil's  prey  and  sorrow's  spoil. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Let  them  fly  ! 

I  hear  the  voice  which  says  that  all  must  die. 

Sooner  than  our  white-bearded  patriarchs  died  ; 

And  that  on  high 

An  ocean  is  prepared, 

While  from  below 

The  deep  shall  rise  to  meet  heaven's  overflow. 

Few  shall  be  spared, 
It  seems  ;   and,  of  that  few,  the  race  of  Cain 
Must  hft  their  eyes  to  Adam's  God  in  vain. 
Sister  !    sin(;e  it  is  so, 
And  the  et(;rnal  Lord 
In  vain  woiild  be  implored 
For  the  riMuission  of  one  hour  of  woe. 
Let  us  resign  even  what  we  have  adored. 
And  meet  the  wave,  as  we  would  meet  the  sword, 

If  not  unmoved,  yet  undismay'd. 
And  wairm;.'  less  for  us  than  those  who  shall 
Survive  m  mortal  or  immortal  thrall, 

And,  wlicn  the  fatal  waters  are  allay'd. 
Weep  for  the  myriads  who  can  weisp  no  more. 
Fly,  seraphs!   to  your  own  eternal  shore. 
Where  winds  iior  howl  n:)r  waters  roar. 
Our  [lortioii  is  to  die. 
And  yours  to  live  for  (■v<;r  . 
But  which  is  b.;st,  a  dead  (!teriiit\, 
Or  living,  is  but  known  to  the  great  Giver: 


Obey  him,  as  we  shall  obey ; 
I  wcnild  not  keep  this  life  of  mine  in  ciay 
An  hour  beyond  His  will  ; 
Nor  see  ye  lose  a  portion  of  His  grace, 
For  all  the  mercy  which  Seth's  race 
Find  still. 
Fly ! 
And  as  your  pinions  bear  ye  back  to  heaven, 
Think  that  my  'ove  still  mounts  with  thee  on  higii, 

Samiasa! 
And  if  I  look  up  with  a  tearless  eye. 

'T  is  that  an  angel's  bride  disdahis  to  weep — 
Farewell  !   Now  rise,  inexorable  deep ! 

A\  AH. 

And  must  we  die? 
And  must  I  lose  thee  too, 
Azaziel  / 
Oh,  my  heart !   my  heart ! 

Thy  prophecit;s  were  true. 
And  yet  thou  wert  so  happy  too! 
The  blow,  though  not  unlook'd  for,  falls  as  new  ; 
But  yet  depart  ! 
Ah,  wjiy  ? 
Yet  let  me  not  retain  thee — fly ! 
My  pangs  can  be  but  brief:   but  thine  would  be 
Eternal,  if  repulsed  from  heaven  for  me. 
Too  mncli  alreadv  hast  thou  deign'd 
To  one  of  Adam's  race  ! 
Our  doom  is  sorrow  !    not  to  us  alone. 
But  to  the  spirits  who  have  not  disdain'd 
To  love  us,  conieth  anijuish  with  disgrar.e. 
1'he  first  who  taught  us  knowledge  hath  teen  hiirl'i 
From  his  once  areliangelic  throne 
Into  some  unknown  world: 

And  thou,  Azaziel !   No — 
Thou  shalt  not  suffer  woe 
For  me.     Away  !   nor  weep! 
Thou  canst  not  weep  ;    but  yet 
May'st  siilfer  more,  not  weejiing:   then  forget 
Her  uhom  the  surges  of  the  all-strangling  deep 

Can  bring  no  pang  like  this.     Fly!    fly! 
Being  gone,  'twill  be  less  difiicult  to  die. 

JAl'HET. 

Oh  say  not  so  ! 
Father  I   aii<l  thou,  archangel,  thou  ! 
Surely  celestial  mercy  lurks  below 
That  pure  severe  serenity  of  brow : 

Let  them  not  meet  this  sea  without  a  shore. 
Save  m  our  ark,  or  let  me  be  no  more ! 

NOAH. 

Peace,  child  of  passion,  peace  ! 
If  not  wiihm  thy  heart  yet  with  thy  tongue 

Do  God  no  wrong  ! 
Live  as  he  wills  it — die,  when  he  ordains, 
A  righteous  death,  unlike  the  seed  of  Cain's. 

Cease,  or  be  sorrowful  in  silence  ;   cease 
To  weary  Heaven's  ear  with  thy  selfish  plaint. 

Wouldst  thou  have  God  comm.t  a  sin  for  the«? 
Such  would  it  be 
To  alter  his  intent 
For  a  mere  mortal  sorrow.     Be  a  man  ! 
And  bear  what  Ailam's  race  must  bear,  and  CQll. 

JAl'HET. 

Ay,  father  !    but  when  they  are  gone, 

And  we  are  all  aloiK!, 
Floating  upon  the  azure  desert,  and 

The  depth  beneath  us  hides  our  own  dear  land, 
And  dearer,  silent  friends  and  brethren,  all 
Buried  in  its  immeasurable  breast, 
Who,  who,  our  tears,  our  shrieks,  shall  then  conimcJidi 
Can  we  in  desolation's  peace  have  rest? 


HEAVEN    AND    EAKTTI. 


578 


Oh,  God  !   be  thou  a  jfod,  and  spare 
Yet  while  'l  is  tiino  ! 
Rjne.v  not  Adam's  fall  : 

Mankind  were  then  but  twain, 
But  tli(n'  are  numerous  now  as  are  the  waves 

And  the  tremendous  rain, 
Whose  drops  sliall  he  l(>ss  thick  than  would  their  grave? 
VVere  graves  permitted  to  the  seed  of"  Cain. 

NO  VH. 

Silence,  vain  boy  !    each  word  of  thine  's  a  crime ! 
Angel !   forgive  this  strii)ling's  fond  desjjair. 

U.VI'HAKL. 

Sera])hs  .   these  mortals  speak  in  passion  :   Ye, 
Who  are,  or  should  be,  passionless  and  pure, 
May  now  return  with  me. 

SAMtASA. 

It  may  not  be  : 
We  have  chosen,  and  will  endure. 

RAPHAEL. 

Say'st  thou  ? 

AZAZIEL. 

He  hath  said  it,  and  I  say,  Amen  ! 

RAPHAEL. 

Again  ! 
Then  from  this  hour. 
Shorn  as  ye  are  of  all  celestial  power, 
And  aliens  from  youi  God, 

Farewell ! 

JAPHET. 

Alas  !   where  shall  they  dwell  ? 
Hark  !   hark  !     Deep  sounds,  and  deeper  still, 

Are  howling  from  the  mountain's  bosom  : 
7'here  's  not  a  breath  of  wind  upon  the  hill. 

Yet  quivers  every  leaf,  and  drops  each  blossom. 
Earth  groans  as  if  beneath  a  heavy  load. 

NOAH.  I 

Haik  !  hark  !  the  sea-birds  cry  ! 
In  clouds  they  overspread  the  lurid  sky, 
And  hover  round  the  mountain,  where  before 
Never  a  white  wing,  wetted  by  the  wave, 

Yet  dared  to  soar, 
Even  when  the  waters  wax'd  too  fierce  to  brave. 
Soon  it  shall  be  their  only  shore. 
And  then,  no  more  ! 

JAPHET. 

The  sun  !  the  sun  ! 
He  riseth,  but  his  better  light  is  gone  ; 
And  a  black  circle,  bound 

His  glaring  disk  around, 
Proclaims  earth's  last  of  summer  days  hath  shone  ! 
The  clouds  return  into  the  hues  of  night, 
Save  where  their  brazen-colour'd  edges  streak 
The  verge  where  brighter  morns  were  wont  to  break. 

NOAH. 

And  lo  !   yon  flash  of  light, 
The  distant  thunder's  harbinger,  appears  ! 

It  cometh  !   hence,  away  ! 
Leave  to  the  elements  their  evil  prey ! 
Hence  to  where  our  all-hallow'd  ark  uprears 
Its  safe  and  wreckless  sides. 

J  A  I' HEX. 

Oh,  father,  stay  ! 
Leave  not  my  Anah  to  the  swallowing  tides  ! 

NOAH. 

Must  we  not  leave  all  life  to  such  ]      Begone  ! 

JAPHET. 

Not  I. 

NOAH. 

Then  die 
With  them! 
Hew  darest  thou  look  on  that  piophetic  sky. 


And  seek  to  save  what  all  filings  now  c<iiidemn, 
In  overwhelming  unison 

With  just  Jehovah's  wrath  ? 

J\PUET. 

Can  rage  and  justice  join  m  tin;  same  path? 

NOAH. 

Blasphemer  !   darest  thou  murmur  even  now  ? 

RAPHAEL. 

Patriarch,  he  still  a  father  !   smooth  thy  brow  : 
Thy  son,  despite  his  folly,  shall  not  sink  ; 

lie  knows  not  what  lie  says,  yet  shall  not  drink 
With  Subs  tiie  salt  foam  of  the  swelling  waters  , 

But  he,  wlnm  passion  [lassetii,  good  as  thou. 

Nor  (lerisii  like  Heaven's  clnldren  with  man's  daugli 
ters. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

The  tempest  cometh  ;   heaven  and  earth  unite 

For  the  annihilation  of  all  life. 

Unequal  is  the  strife 
Between  our  strength  and  the  eternal  might  ! 

SAMI  ASA. 

But  ours  is  with  thee  :    we  will  bear  ye  far 

To  some  untroubled  star, 
Wliere  thou  and  Anah  shall  partake  our  lot: 

And  if  thou  dost  not  weeji  for  thy  lost  earth, 
Our  forfeit  heaven  shall  also  be  forgot. 

ANAH. 

Oh,  my  dear  father's  tents,  my  place  of  birth  ! 
And  mountains,  land,  and  \\  oods,  when  ye  are  not, 
Who  shall  dry  up  my  tears  / 

AZA/.IEL. 

Thy  spirit-lord. 
Fear  not,  though  we  are  shut  from  heaven. 
Yet  much  is  ours,  whence  we  cannot  be  driven. 

RAPHAEL. 

Rebel !   thv  words  are  wished,  as  thv  deeds 
Shall  henceforth  be  but  weak :   the  llaming  sword, 
Which  chased  the  first-born  out  of  paradise, 
Still  flashes  in  the  angelic  hands. 

AZAZIEL. 

It  cannot  slay  us :   threaten  dust  with  death. 
And  talk  of  weapons  unto  that  winch  bleeds  ! 
What  are  thy  swords  in  our  immortal  eyes'/ 

RAPHAEL. 

The  moment  cometh  to  apjjrove  thy  strength  : 
And  learn  at  length 

How  vain  to  war  with  what  thy  God  commands  . 
Thy  former  force  was  in  thy  faltli. 

Enter  Mortals,  Jlyhifi  for  refuge. 
Cliorus  of  3Iort(ils. 
The  heavens  and  earth  are  mingling — God  !   oh  God 
What  have  we  done  ?     Yet  spare  ! 
Hark  !   even  the  forest  beasts  howl  forth  their  praver 

The  dragon  crawls  from  out  his  den, 

To  herd  in  terror  innocent  with  men  ; 
And  *he  birds  scream  their  agony  through  air. 
Yet,  yet,  Jehovah  !   yet  withdraw  thy  rod 
Of  wrath,  and  pity  thine  own  workl's  despair! 
Hear  not  man  only  but  all  nature  plead  ! 

RAPHAEL. 

Farewell,  thou  earth  I   ye  wretched  sons  of  clay, 
I  cannot,  must  not  aid  you.      'T  is  decreed  ! 

[Exit  Raphae: 

JAPHET. 

Some  clouds  sweep  on,  as  vultures  for  their  prey. 
While  others,  fix'd  as  rocks,  await  the  woru 
At  which  their  wrathful  vials  shall  be  poui'd. 
No  azure  more  shall  robe  the  firmament, 
Nor  spangled  stars  be  glorious:   death  hath  risen: 
In  the  sun's  place  a  p:»le  and  ghastly  glar<» 
Hath  wound  itself  arount.  the  dying  air. 


574 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


AZAZIEL. 

Come,  Anah !   quit  this  chaos-founded  prison. 

To  which  the  elements  again  repair, 

To  turn  it  into  what  it  was :   beneath 

The  shelter  of  these  wings  thou  shalt  bo  safe, 

As  was  the  eagle's  nestling  once  within 

Its  mother's. — Let  the  coming  chaos  chafe 

With  all  its  elements  !     Heed  not  their  din  ! 

A  brighter  world  than  this,  where  thou  shalt  breathe 

Ethereal  life,  will  we  explore  : 

These  darken'd  clouds  are  not  the  only  skies. 

[Az4ziEL  and  Samiasa  Jiij  off,  and  disappear 
with  Anah  and  Aholibamah. 

JAPHET. 

They  are  gone  !   They  have  disappear'd  amidst  the  roar 
Of  the  forsaken  world  ;   and  never  more, 
Whether  they  hve,  or  die  with  all  earth's  life, 
Now  near  its  lasi,  can  aught  restore 
Anah  unto  these  eyes. 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 
Oh  son  of  Noah  !   mercy  on  thy  kind  ! 
What,  wilt  thou  leave  us  all — all — all  behind? 
While  safe  amidst  the  elemental  strife. 
Thou  sit'st  within  thy  guarded  ark? 

A  MOTHER  [offering  her  infant  to  Japhet). 
Oh  let  this  child  embark  ! 
I  brought  him  forth  in  woe. 

But  thought  it  joy 
To  see  him  to  my  bosom  clinging  so. 

Why  was  he  born  ? 

What  hath  he  done — 

IVly  unwean'd  son — 
To  move  .lehovah's  wrath  or  scorn  ? 
What  is  there  in  this  milk  of  mine,  that  death 
Should  stir  all  heaven  and  earth  up  to  destroy 

My  hoy, 
And  roll  the  waters  o'er  his  placid  breath? 
Save  him,  thou  seed  of  Seth  ! 
Or  cursed  be — with  Him  who  made 
Thee  and  thy  race,  for  which  we  are  betray'd  ! 

JAPHET. 

Peace  !   't  is  no  hour  for  curses,  but  for  prayer  ! 
Chorus  of  Mortals^ 
For  prayer  !  !  ! 
And  v.here 
Shall  prayer  iscend. 
When  the  swoln  clouds   mto  the  mountains  bend 

And  burst. 
And  gushing  oceans  every  barrier  rend. 
Until  the  very  deserts  know  no  thirst  ? 
Accursed 
Be  He,  who  made  thee  and  thy  sire! 
Wt,  >icom  onr  curses  vain  ;   we  nmst-expire; 

But,  as  wc  know  the  worst, 
Why  should  our  hymns  be  raised,  our  knees  be  bent 
B<'fore  the  implacable  Omnipotent, 
S-nce  wo  must  fill  the  same  ? 
If  He  hath  made  earth,  let  it  be  His  shame. 
To  make  a  v/orld  for  'orturc  : — Lo!   they  come, 
The  loathsome  untcrs  in  their  rage! 
And  with  th<ir  roar  make  wholesome  nature  dumb! 

The  forest's  trees  {coeval  with  the  hour 
When  ()aradise  upsprung. 

Ere  Eve  gave  Adam  knowledge  for  her  dower, 
Or  Adam  his  first  hymn  of  slavery  sung), 

So  massv,  vast,  yet  green  m  their  old  age, 
Are  overt opp'd, 

riicn  -iununer  blossoms  by  the  surges  lopp'd, 
'A'liich  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise. 
Vawilv  we  look  up  to  tiie  louring  skies — 


They  meet  the  seas, 
And  shut  out  God  from  our  beseeching  eyes. 

Fly,  son  of  Noah,  fly,  and  take  thine  ease 
In  thine  allotted  ocean-tent ; 
And  view  all  floating  o'er  the  element, 
The  corpses  of  the  world  of  thy  young  days : 
Then  to  Jehovah  raise 
Thy  song  of  praise  ! 

A   WOMAN. 

Blessed  are  the  dead 
Who  die  in  the  Lord  ! 
And  though  the  waters  be  o'er  earth  outspread 
Yet,  as  His  word. 
Be  the  decree  adored  ! 
He  gave  me  life — He  taketh  but 
The  breath  which  is  His  own : 
And  though  these  eyes  should  be  for  ever  shut, 
Nor  longer  this  weak  voice  before  His  throne 
Be  heard  in  supplicating  tone. 
Still  blessed  be  the  Lord, 
For  what  is  past. 
For  that  which  is  : 
For  all  are  His, 
From  first  to  last — 
Time — space — eternity — life — death — 

The  vast  known  and  immeasurable  unknown. 
He  made,  and  can  unmake  ; 

And  shall  7,  for  a  little  gasj:  jf  breath. 
Blaspheme  and  groan  ? 

No  ;   let  me  die,  as  I  have  lived,  in  faith. 
Nor  quiver,  though  the  universe  may  quake  ! 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 
Where  shall  vve  fly  ? 
Not  to  the  mountains  high  ; 
For  now  their  torrents  rush  with  double  roar. 
To  meet  the  ocean,  jv'hich,  advancmg  still, 
Already  grasps  each  drowning  hill. 
Nor  leaves  an  unsearch'd  cave. 

Enter  a  Woman, 

WOMAN. 

Oh,  save  me,  save  ! 

Our  valley  is  no  more  : 

My  father  and  my  father's  tent. 

My  brethren  and  my  brethren's  herds. 

The  pleasant  trees  that  o'er  our  noon-day  bent, 

And  sent  forth  evening  songs  from  sweetest  birds, 

The  little  rivulet  which  freshen'd  all 

Our  pastures  green, 

No  more  are  to  be  seen. 
VYhen  to  the  mountain  cliff  I  climb'd  this  morn, 

I  turn'd  to  bless  the  spot. 
And  not  a  leaf  appear'd  about  to  fall ; — 

And  now  they  are  not ! — 
VYhy  was  I  born  ? 

JAPHET. 

To  die  "  in  youth  to  die ; 

And  happier  in  that  doom. 

Than  to  behold  the  universal  tomb 

Which  I 

Am  thus  condemn'd  (o  weep  above  in  vain. 

Why,  when  all  perish,  why  must  I  remain  ? 

[  The  Waters  rise  :  Men  fly  in  every  direction  j 
mimy  are  overtaken  by  the  waves  ;  the  Chorus 
of  Mortals  disperses  in  search  of  safety  up  the 
Mimntains ;  Japhet  remains  upon  a  rock^ 
while  the  Ark  Jloats  towards  him  in  Vie  dis- 
tance. 


u 


©on  3nmi. 


DON    JUAN. 


676 


Di.ficile  est  proprif  cdiiMiitinia  (iic(M-e. 

won.   Kpi.-t.  (id  Pisnv. 
Doat  tJinu  tliink,  liocanse  thou  an  virtiimis,  llicre  ."liall   be 
no  iDori;  Cakes  and  Ale  ''—Yes,  by  St.  Aimc,  aiuKJin-.T  sliail 
be  hot  i'  the  mouth,  too. —  'J'wel'''U    \^i^'/it ;  or  li'/mt  vim — 
n'llL  SHAKSl'EARE. 


CANTO  I. 


r. 

4j^     i  w\NT  a  hero: — an  tincomtiion  want, 

When  every  year  and  inonlli  sends  forth  a  now  one, 
Till,  after  cloving  the  gazettes  with  cant. 

The  aiie  discovers  he  is  not  the  true  one ; 
Of  such   as   these   I    should   not  care   to  vaunt, 

I'll  therefore   take  our  ancient   friend  Don  Juan; 
\Ve  all   have  seen  liitn  in   the   pantomime 
Sent  to  the  devil  somewhat  ere   his  time. 

II. 
Vernon,  the  butcher,  Cumberland,  Wolfe,  Hawke, 

Prince  Ferdinand,  Graiiby,  Hurgoyne,Keppe!,  Howe, 
Evil   and   good,  have  had   their  tithe  of  talk, 

.•\nd  fill'd  t.heir  sign-posts  then,  like  Weili-slev  now  ; 
Each   in   their   turn   like    Ran(|Uo's  nionarchs  stalk, 

Followers  of  fame,  "nine   farrow'"  of  that  sow  : 
France,  too,  had  Buonaparte   and    Duuiourier, 
Recorded   in   the   Moniteur   and   Coin-ier. 

III. 
B  irnave,  Hrissot,  Condorcet,  Mirabeau, 

Petion,  Clootz,  Dantoii^  .Marat,  La  Favctre, 
Were  French,  and   famous  people,  as   we  know  ; 

And  thei-e   were  others,  scarce   forgotten   yet, 
Joubert,  Hnhe,  .Marceau,  Lannes,  Dessaix,  .Moreau, 

With  many  of  the  military  set, 
E.xceedingly  remarkable  at  times, 
But  not  at  all  adapted  to  my  rhymes. 

IV. 

Nelson  was  once   Britaii'iia's  god  of  war, 

And   still  should   ho  so,  but  the  tide  is  turn'd  ; 

There's  no  more  to  be  said  of  Trafalgai, 
'Tis   with  our   hero  {pnetly  iiiurn'd  ; 

Because  the  army's  grown  mere  popular. 
At  which  the   naval  people   are  coiH^eni'd  : 

Besides,  the   prince   is   all   fijr   the   land-service, 

Forgetting  Duncan,  Nelson,  Howe,  and  Jcrvis. 


Brave  men  were  living  before  Agamemnon,' 
And  since,  e.xceeding  valorous   and  sage, 

A  good  dea!  hV^  him  too,  though  quite  the  same  none, 
But  then  they  shone  not  on  the  poet's  page, 

And  so   have  been  forgotten:— I  condemn  none. 
But   can't  find  any  in  the  present  age 

Fit  for  mv  poem   (that   is,  for  my  new  one); 

So,  as  I  said,  1  '11   take   my  friend  Don  Juan. 

VI. 

Most   epic  poets  plunge   iri  »' medias  res" 

(Horace  makes  this  the  heroic  turnpike  road). 

And   then    your   hero  tells,  whene'er  you   please, 
Wl  at   went   before — by  way  oi  episode, 

While  seateci   after  dinner   at  his  ease. 
Beside  his  mistress   in   some  soft   abode, 

Pilace  or  garden,  paradise  or  cavern, 

WhicVj  serves  the  happy  couple  for  a  tavern. 


VII. 


That  is   .lie  usual  method,  but  not  mine — 
My  way  is  to  begin  with  the  beginning; 

The  regularity  of  my  design 

Forbids   all   wandering  as  the   worst  of  ;  inning, 

And   therefore  I  shall  open  with  a  line 

(Although   it  cost  me  half  an   hour  in  spinning 

Narrating  somewhat  of  Don  Juan's  father, 

And  also  of  liis  mother,  if  you  'd  rather. 

VIII. 

In  Seville  was  he  born,  a  pleasant  city. 
Famous  for   oranges   and   women — lie 

Who   has   not  seen   it  will  be  mucli   to  pity, 
So  says   the   proverb — and   I   quite  agree  ; 

Of  all   the   Spanish   towns   is   none   more   pretty, 
Cadiz   p<^rhaps,  but   that  you   soon  may  see  : — 

Don  Juan's   parents   lived   beside   the   river, 

A  noble  stream,  and  call'd  the  Guadalquivir. 

IX. 

His  father's  name  was  Jose — Don^  of  course, 
A  true   Hidalgo,  free   from   every  stain 

Of  .Moor  or  Hebrew  blood,  he  traced   his  source 
Through  the  most  Gothic   gentlemen  of  Spain; 

A  better  cavalier  ne'er  mounted  horse. 
Or,  being  mounted,  e'er  got   down   again, 

Than  Jose,  who  begot  our  hero,  who 

Begot — but  that's  to  come — Well,  to  renew: 

X. 

His  mother  was  a  learned  ladv,  famed 

For  every  branch  of  every  science  known— 
In  every  Christian   language  ever  named. 

With   virtues  equalled  by  her   wit   alone. 
She  made  the  cleverest  people  quite  ashamed, 

.And  even  the  good  with  inward  envy  groan, 
P^'indiiig  themselves  so  very  much  exceeded 
In   ihtnr  own  wjy  by  all  the  things   that  she   did, 

XI. 
Her  momorv  was  a  mine:   she  knew  by  heart 

All   Caldcron   and   greater   part  of  Lope, 
So  that    if  any  actor  miss'd  his  |)art. 

She  could  have  served  him  for  the  jirompter's  copy 
For  her   Feinagle's   were  an   useless  art, 

And   he  himself  obliged  to  shut  up  shop — he 
Could   ne^er   make  a   memory  so  fine  as 
That   which   adorn'd  the   brain  of  Donna  Inez. 

XII. 
Her  favourite  science  was   the  mathematical. 

Her  noblest  virtue  was   her  magnanimity, 
Hci-  wit    (she  sometimes  tried  at  wit)  was  Attic  all. 

Her  serious  sayings  darken'd  to  sublimity; 
In  short,  m  all  things  she  was  fairly  what  I  call 

A  pro  ligy — her  morning  dress  was  dimity, 
Her  evening  silk,  or,  in  the  summer,  muslin. 
And  other  stuffs,  with  which  I  wf.n'l  stay  puzzling. 

XIII. 

She  knew  the  Latin — that  is,  "the  Lord's  prayer,'' 
And  (ireek,  the  alphabet,  I  'rn   nearly  sure  ; 

She  read  some  French  romances  here  and  there, 
Although   her  mode  of  speaking  was  not  pure 

For  native  Spanish  she  had  no  great  care, 
At  least   her  conversation  was  obscure  ; 

Her  thoughts  were  theorems,  her  words  a  problem, 

As  if  she  deem'd  that  mystery  would  ennoble  'em. 

XIV. 

She  liked  the  English  and  the  Hebrew  tongue, 
And  said  there  was  analogy  between^ 'em ; 

She  [iroved  it  somehow  out  of  sacred  song. 

But  I  must  leave  the  proofs  to  those  wno  've  seen  'em 


57 


CYROX'S    POETICAL    WOllKS. 


But  this  I  've  heard  her  say,  and   can  t  be  wrong, 

And  all  may  think  which  way  their  judgments  lean  'em, 
*^  'Tis  strange — the  Hebrew  noun  which  means  'lam,' 
The  English  always  use  to  govern  d — n." 

XV. 

*♦♦♦♦* 
»**♦♦♦ 


XVI. 

In  short,  she  was  a  walking  calculation, 

Miss  Edgeworth's  novels  stepping  from  their  covers, 
Or  Mrs.  Trimmer's  books  on  education, 

Or^Coolebs'  Wife"  set  out  in  quest  of  lovers. 
Morality's  prim  personification. 

In  which  not  Envy's  self  a  flaw  discovers  ; 
To  others'  share  let  '■'■  female  errors  fall," 
For  she  had  not  even  one — the  worst  of  all. 

XVII. 
Oh !   she  was  perfect  past   all   parallel — 

Of  any  modern  female  saint's  comparison  ; 
So  far  above  the  cunning  [lowers  of  hell,  ' 

Her  guardian  angel  h;id  given  up  his  garrison; 
Even   her  minutest   motions  went  ^s  well 

As  those  of  the  best  time-piece  made  by  Harrison  : 
In  virtues  nothins  earthly  could  surpass  her, 
Save  thine  "incomparable  oil,"  Macassar  !^ 

XVIII. 
Perfect  she  was,  but  as   i)erf(;(;tion  is 

Insipid  in  this   naughty  world  of  ours, 
Where  our  first  parents  n(;v!;r   Iciu-nM   to  kiss 

Til'   thev  were  exiled   from  their  earlier  ';o<,v(;rs, 
Where  all  was  peace,  and   innocence,  and  bliss 

(I  wonder  how  they  got  tb.rough  the  twelve  hours), 
Don  .lose,  like  a  hneal   son   of  Eve, 
Went   plucking  various  fruit  without  her  leave. 

XIX. 

He  was  a  mortal   of  the  careless  kind, 

With  no  great   love   for   learning,  or  the  learn'd, 

Who  chose  to  go  where'er  he  had  a  mind, 
And  never  dream'd  his  lady  was  concfa-n'd  ; 

The  world,  as  usual,  wickedly  inclined 

To  see  a  kingdom  or   a  house  o'erturn'd, 

Wiiisper'd  he  had  a  mistress,  some  said  two^ 

But  for  domestic  quan-els  one  will  do. 

XX. 

Now  Donna  Inez  had,  with  all  her  merit, 
A  great  opinion  of  her  own   good   (jualities  ; 

Neglect,  indetid,  retiuires   a  saint  to  bear   it. 
And  such  indeed   she  was   in   her  moralities; 

Bui  then   she   had  a  devil  of  a   spirit. 

And  sometimes  mix'd  up  flincies  with   realities. 

And   let  few   opportunities  escape 

(^f  getting  her  liege   lord  into   a  scrape. 

XXI. 

This  was   an   easy  matter  with   a  man 

Oft   in   the  wrong,  and   never  on   his  guard ; 

And   even  the  wisest,  do  the  best  they  can. 

Have  moments,  hours,  and  ilays,  so   ntiprepared. 

That  you   might  "brain   them  with  their  lady's  fan  ;" 
And   sometimes  ladies   hit  exceeding  hard, 

And  fans  turn   into  falcliions   in   fair   hands. 

And  why  and  wherefore  no  one  understands. 

XXII. 

"Pis  |)itv  learned  virgins  ever  wed 
Witii   persons   of  no  sort  of  education. 


Or  gentlemeo  who,  though  well-born  and  bied, 

Grow  tired  of  scientific  conversation : 
I  don't  choose   to  say  much  upon  this  head, 

I  'm   a  plain  man,  and  in  a  single  station, 
J5nt — oh !   ye  lords  of  ladies   intellectual, 
liif  jrm  us  truly,  have  they  not  hen-peck'd   voi   all  ? 

XXIII. 

Don  Jose  and  his  lady  quarreli'd — why 

Not  any  of  the  many  could   divine. 
Though  several   thousand   people  chose  to  try, 

'T  was  surely  no  concern  of  theirs   nor  mine 
I  loathe   that   low  vice  curiosity  ; 

But  if  there's  any  thing  in  which  I  shine, 
'T  is  in   arranging  al!  my  friends'  affairs, 
Not  having,  of  my  own,  domestic  cares. 

XXIV. 

And  so  I  interfered,  and  with   the  best 

Intentions,  but  their  treatment  was  not  kind  : 

I  think  the  foolish   people  were   possess'd, 
For  neither  of  them  could  I   ever  find. 

Although  their  porter  afterwards  confessM— 
But  that's  no  matter,  and   the  worst's  behintJ. 

For  little  .Juan  o'er  me  threw,  down   stairs, 
i    A  pail  of  housemaid's  water  unawares. 

I  XXV. 

A  little  curly-headed,  goo  l-for-nothing, 
j        And   mischief-making  monkey  from   his   bi.'th  ; 
His   parents  ne'er  agreed  except  in   doting 

Upon   the   most    un(]uiet  imp  on  earth  ; 
Instead  of  quarrelling,  had  they  been   but  both  in 

Their  senses,  rhev'd   have  sent  young   maste'.    f)it,h 
To  school,  or   had   him  wliipp'd    at  home, 
To  teach    hitn    manners   fi.r    the   time,   to   coMie. 

XXVI. 

Don   Jose  and  the   Donna  Inez  led 

For  some  time  an  unhappy  sort  of  life, 
Wishing  each  other,  not   divorced,  but   dead  ; 

I'hey  Hved  respectably  as  man  and  wife. 
Their  conduct  was  exceedingly  well-bred. 

And  gave  no  outward  signs  of  irnvard  strife, 
Until  at"  length  the  smother'd  fire  broke  out. 
And   put   the  business  past   all   kind  of  doubt. 

XXVII. 
For  Inez  call'd  some  drngulsts  and   pliysicians, 

And  tried  to  prove  h<;r  loving  lord  was   rnvf, 
But  as   he  had  some  lucid   intermissions. 

She  next  decided  he  was  only  Ind ; 
Yet  when  they  ask'd  her  for  h(!r  depositions. 

No  sort  of  explanation   could   b-    had. 
Save  that   her  duty  botli   U)  man     nd  God 
Required  this  conduct— which  secMi'd   very  odd. 

XXVIII. 

She  kept  a  journal,  where  his   faults  were   not  >d, 

And  open'd   certain   trunks   of  books  and  letters, 
All  which   miijht,  if  occasion   served,  be  qujled  ; 

And   then  she  had   all   Seville  for  abettors. 
Besides  her  good   old   grandmother   (who  doted)  : 

The  hearers  of  her  case  became  repeaters, 
Then  advocates,  iiKpiisitors,  and  judges. 
Some  for  amusemen!,  others  for  old  grudges. 

XXIX. 
And  then  this  best  and  meekest  woman  borff 

With  such  serenity  her  husband's  woes. 
Just  as  the  Spartan  "ladies  di<l  of  vorc. 

Who  saw  their  spouses  kill'd,  and  nobly  cl>osP 
Never  to  say  a  word  about  tluMU  more — 

Calmly  she  hear>>  each  calumny  that  roso. 


DON    JUAN. 


577 


And  saw /a'.?  atjonies  with  s  ich  suhlimily, 

Thai  al!  the  world  exciaitn'.l,   "What  inagiianiinity !" 

XXX. 

No  (iouot,  this  patience,  whtMi  tlie  world  is  danmiiig  us, 

Is  philosophic  in  our  foniier  friends  ; 
*1  v  also  pleasatil   to   he  dcMMned   ina;inaninu)iis, 

Tde  more  so   in   ohlaiiiiiiu;   our  own   ends  ; 
And  what  the  lawyers  call  a  ^'- nmliift   rt/i//////.*," 

Conduct  like  this   hy  no  means  cotnpr(!henils  ; 
Revenge   in   person  's   certainly  no  virtue. 
But  then  't  is  tiot  /ni/  faull    if  others  hurt   you. 

XXXI. 
Aiul   if  our  quarrels  should   rip  U[)  old  stories, 

And  help  tlieui  with  a   lie  or  two   additional, 
/'//(  not   to  hlanie,  as   you  well  Unow,  no  more   is 

Anyone  else — they  were  heeoie.e   traditional; 
Besides,  their  resurrection   aids  our   glories 

By  contrast,  which  is  what  we  j'lsl  were  wishing  all , 
And  science   profits   hy  this   resiuTection — 
Dead  scandals   f)rni   good   snhjects    tor   dissection. 

XXXII. 
Tlieir  friends  had  tried    at   reconciliation. 

Then   their  relations,  who   made  matters  worse 
I  T  were  hard   to   tell   upon   a   like   occasion 

To  whom   it    niav  he  liesi   to   have   recourse — 
I  can't  say  nuich   for  friend  or  yet   relation)  : 

The   lawytM-s   did   their    utmost   f)r   divorce, 
But   scarce   a  fee  was   |)aid    on    either   side 
Before,  unluckily,  Don  Jose  died. 

XXXIII. 

H;^  died      and   most    unliickilv,  because, 

Accordini:  to  all   hints   I   could   collect 
Pioni  counsel   learned   m   those   kinds    of  laws 

iMtlu'.igh   Mieir   *alk 's   ohscure   and   circumspect), 
liiij  death  contrived   to   spuil   a   channmg  cause; 

4    ih  insand   p.ilies  also  with   respect 
r<.    public   f(;(ding,  which   on   tins   o(;casion 
V\  ^3   niannested   in   a   grc^if   sensation. 

XXXIV. 
But    ah  !    he  died  ;    and    bunc  1  with   him  lay 

Tl.e   pul)lie   feelinu   and   the    lawvers'   fees : 
tlis   house  was  sold,  his  servants  sent   awav, 

A   Jew  took   one  of  his  two  mistresses, 
A   [iric^t    the  other — at   least  so  they  say  : 

I   ask'd   the  doctors   after  Ins  (h-^ease — 
He  died   of  the  slow  fever   calle(J    the  tertian, 
And   left  his  widow  i(>  iier  own   aversion. 

XXXV. 
Yet  Jose  was  an   honourabl'^   man, 

That   I    must    say,  w  ho   knew  him  very  well ; 
Therefore   his   traiftic's    I  "11   no  further  scan. 

Indeed  there  were   not   manv  more  to   tell  ; 
And   if  his   passions   now  and   then   outran 

Discretion,  and  were   nut    so   pi-aceable 
As   Numa's    (who  was    ;iKo   named    Pompilius), 
He   ha(]   been   ill   brneghl    up,  and  was   born   bilious. 

XXXVI. 

White'er  might    be   his   woithlessness   or  worth, 

r  )or  fellow!    he   had    many  tliinns   to  wound  him, 
Let's  own,  since  it   can    do   no   good   on   earth; 

It  was  a  trying  moment    that  ^\!uch    found    him, 
Standing   alone   beside   tiis  desolate   hearth. 

Where  yU  his  householil  2ods  layshiver'd  round  him; 
No  choice   Aas  left   his  feehngs  or  his  pride 
Save  death   or  Doctors'  ('onmions — so   he  died. 

XXXVII. 
Dying  intestate,  Juan  was  soli;  heir 

To  a  cnancerv-suit,  anil   uiessualjes,  atid   lands, 
37 


Which,  with  a  long  minority  and  care, 

Promised   to  tiM-n  out  well  in  propei    hanils . 

Inez  became  sole  guardian,  which  was  fi."-^ 
And  answerM  but  to  nature's   just  demands: 

An  only  son  left  with  an  only  mother 

Is   brought  up   much  more  wisely  than  another 

XXXVIII. 

Sagest  of  women,  e\'en   of  widows,  she 

Resolved   that   Juan   should   be   (juitt   a  pdiagon, 

And  worthy  ol"  the   noblest   pedigree 

(His  sire  was   of  Castde,  his  dam  froia  An  agon) 
I    Then   for   accomplishments   of  chivalry, 

In  case  oAr   lord   the  knig  should   go  to  war  again 

He   learn'd   the   arts  of  riding,  fencing,  guuTiery, 

And   iiow  to  scale  a  fortress — or  a  nuimery. 

XXXIX. 

But   that  which   Donna   Inez   most    desired, 
And   saw  into   herself  each  day   before   all 

The  learned   tutors  uhom   for   iiim   she  hired, 

Was   thiit    his   breeding  siioidd   he  strictly  moral, 

Much   into   all   his    studies  she   imptired. 

And   so   they  were   submitted    lirst   to  her,  all, 

Arts,  sciences,   no   branch  was   made   a   mystery 

To  Juan's  eyes,  excepting   natural   history. 

XL. 

The   languages,  especially  the  dead, 

The  sciences,  an;!   most   of  all   the  abstruse, 

The  arts,  at    least   all  such   as  could  be  said 
To   be  the   niost   remote  from   conunon   use, 

In   all    these    he   was   much   ami   deeply  read  ; 
But   not   a    page  of  any  tlnng   that  's   loose, 

Or  hints   contuuiation   of  the   species, 

Was   ever  sulier'd,  lest   he   should    «£row  vicious. 

XLI. 

His  classic  studies  made  a   little   puzzle, 

Because  of  liltliy  loves  of  iif)ds  and  goddesses, 
Who  in    the  (earlier   ages   raised  a   buslh;, 

But   nev<'r   put  on   [lantaloons  or  botldices ; 
His   reverend   tutors   had   at   times  a  tussle, 
And  for   their   .'I'llneids,  Iliads,  and  Odysseys, 
,     Were  fo-ced  to  make   an  odd  sort   of  apology, 
I    For  Domia  Inez  dreaded  the  mythology. 

I  XLII. 

I    Ovid  's  a  rake,  as  half  his  verses  show  him  ; 
i         Anacreon's   morals   are   a  still  worse  sample ; 
Catullus  scarcely  has  a   decent    poem  ; 

I    daai't    thirds    Sappho's   Ode   a   miod    (>xan'p!e, 
Althouirh'''   I.onginus   tells  u<   there   is   no   l.ynm 

Where  the  sublime  soars  I'Vjrth  on  uiiiiJs  more  ani))10i 
But  Virgil's  songs  are  pure,  except  that  horrid  cr.e 
Beginning  with   '■'■  Fiir//ii)si//ii  pastur    Ciri/ilon." 

XLIII. 

Lucretius'   irrcligion   is  too  strong 

For  early  stomachs,  to   prova;  wholesome  foot', 
I   can't   help   thinkiiii:  Juvenal  \vas  wrong, 

Althoutrh    no   doubt    his   reai   iuft-nt  was  good, 
For   speakiuij  out    so  phunly   in   his  .-oni,'. 

So  much  indeed  as  to  be  downriaiit  rude  ; 
And  then  wiiat  proper  |)erson  em  he  partial 
To  all   those   nausi'ous   epiirrams   of  Martial  '■' 

XLIV. 

Juan  was  taught    from   out    the  best  edition, 
Expurgated   bv  learned   iiii-n.  who   place. 

Judiciously,  fi„m   o\it   the   school-boy's   vision. 
The   grosser   parts;    but,  tearful    to   (U:face 

Too   miKdi   tlnar   modest    bard    by  this  oiruscion. 
And   pitynig  sore  his   nuitilated  ease 


57? 


B  Y  K  O  X '  S    POETIC  A  L    ^Y  0  R  K  S. 


1  hf'v  only  add  tltom  all  in  an  appendix/ 
VV^hich  saves,  in  fact,  the  trouble  of  an   index  ; 

XLV. 

It'or  lliere  we  have  them  all  "  at  one  fell  swoop," 

Instead  of  being  scatter'd  through  the  pages  ; 
They  stand  forth  niarshall'd  in  a  handsome  troop, 

Tr  ifieot  ihft  ingenuous  youth  of  future  ages, 
'i'ill   some  less  rigid   editor  shall   stooj) 

To  call  them  back  into  their  separate  cages, 
Instead  of  standing  staring  altogether, 
f.ike  garden  gods — and  not  so  decent,  either. 

XLVI. 
The  INlissal   too   {it  was  the  family  Missal) 

Was  ornamented   in   a  sort  of  way 
Which  ancient   mass-books  often   are,  and  th/s   all 

Kinds  of  grotes(jues  illumined  ;  and  how  they 
Who  saw   those  figures   on   the   margin    kiss   all, 

Could  turn  their  ojjtics  to  the  text  and  pray 
Is  more  than  I  know — but  Don  Juan's  mother 
Kept  this  herself,  and  gave   her  son  another. 

XLVII. 
Sermons   he  read,  and  lectures  he   endured, 

And  hor.-nhes,  and   lives  of  all  the  saints  ; 
To  Jerome  and   to  Chrysostom   innred, 

He  did  n->t  take  such  studies  for  restraint?  • 
But  how  f-iith   is   acquired,  and  then  insured, 

So  well  not  one  of  the  aforesaid   paints 
As   Saint   Augustine,  in  bis  tine  Confessions, 
Which   make  t!i«   rea-ler  envy  his  transgressions. 

XLVIII. 

'i'his,  too,  was  a  seal'd  book  to  little  Juan — 
I  can't   liul  say  ti.at   his   mamma  was    right 

If  such   an  education  was  the  true  one. 

She  scarcely  trusted  him  from  out  her  sight ; 

Her   maids  were   old,  and  if  she  took  a  new  one 
You   might   be   sure   she  was  a  perfect  fright ; 

She  did  tliis  during  even  her  husband's   life — 

I   lecomsnend  as  much   to  every  wife. 

XLIX. 

Young  Juan  wax'd  in  goodliness  and  grace  • 

At  six   a  charming  child,  and  at  eleven 
With  all  the  promise  of  as  fine  a  face 

As  e'er  to  man's  maturer  growth  was  given : 
Fie  studied  steadily  and  grew  apace, 

And  seein'd,  at  least,  in  the  right  road  to  heaven 
For  half  his  days  were  pass'd  at  church,  the  other 
Between  iiis   tutors,  confessor,  and  mother. 

L. 
At  six,  I   said  he  was  a  charming  child, 

At   twelve,  he  was  a  fine,  but  quiet  boy  ; 
Although  in  infancy  a  little  wild. 

They  lamed  him  down  amongst  them:  to  destroy 
His  natural   spirit  not  in  vain  they  toil'd. 

At  least  it  seein'd  so;  and  his  mother's  joy 
Was  to  declare  how  sage,  and  still,  and  steady, 
Her  young  philosopher  was  grown  already. 

LI. 
(  had  my  doubts,  perhaps  I   have  them  still. 

But  what  I   say  is   neither  here  nor   there; 
I   knew  his   father  \v»;li,  and  have  some  skill 

In  character — but  it  wf)uld  not   be   fair 
From  sire  to  son  to  aui;ur  good   or  ill: 

He  and  his  wife  were  an   ill-sorted  pair — 
But    scandal 's   my  aversion — 1    protest 
Agamst   all   evil   sp,;akiiig,  v.vv.n   in  jesl. 

LII. 
For   mv  [tart    I    sav  nothinj,' — nothing — but 
Thi.1   I  will   say — my  r<'asoiis   are  my  own — 


That  if  I  had   an  only  son  to  put 

To  school   (as  G  >d  be  praised  that  I  have  Tjono," 
'T  is  not  with   Donna  Inez  I  would  shut 

Him  up  to  learn  his  catechism   alone  ; 
So — no — I'd   send  him  out  betimes  to  college, 
For  there   it  was  I   pick'd   up  my  own  know5ed<^e. 

LIII. 

For  there  one  learns — 'tis  not  for  me  to  boast, 
Though   I   ac(iuired — but   I   pass   over  ihut^ 

As  well   as  all   the  Greek    I   since   have   lost: 

I   say  that  there's  the  jilace — but   '■'•  Vtrhum  sui. 

I  think   I   pick'd   up,  too,  as  well  as  most, 

Knowledge  of  iintiers — but,  no  matter  wkai~ 

I  never  married- -bin   I   think,  I   know. 

That  sons  shoulJ   not   be  educated  so. 

LIV. 

Young  Juan  now  v,-as  sixteen  years  of  age. 

Tall,  handsome,  slenier,  but  well  knit;   he  seem'o 

Active,  though   not  so  sprigiitly,  as  a   |>age; 
And  every  body  but   his  mother  deem'd 

Him  almost   man  ;    but  she  f.ew  in   a   rage, 

And  bit  her  lips  (for  else  she  mi^dit  have  screani'd] 

If  any  said   so,  for  to   be  precocious 

Was  in  htr  eyes  a  thing  the  iiDst  atrocious, 

LV. 

Amongst  her  numerous  acquaintance,  all 

Selected  for  discretion  a.nd  devotion. 
There  was  the  Donni    'ulia,  whom   to  call 

Prettv  were  but  to  give  a  fcelile  notion 
Of  many  charms,  in   her   as   natural 

As  sweetness  to  ihe  flower,  or  salt  to  Oi'ean, 
Her  zone  to  Venus,  or  his  bow  to  Cupid 
(But  this  last  simile  is  trite  and  stupid), 

LVL 

The  darkness  of  hiCr  oriental   eye 

Accorded  wiih  her   Moorish   origin: 
(H(;r  blood  was  not   all  Spanish,  by  ihe  bv  ; 

In  Spam,  yoii  knov,-,  t'lis   is   a  sort    of  sin). 
\Y]vn   i-.-oud"  Gn"ii:uia  \Vi],  and,  f  H-ed   to  Hy, 

Hoahdi!  wepi,  of  Donna  Julia's   km 
Some  wciit  to  Africa,  sonic,  stay'd   hi   Spain, 
Her  great-grcal-grandiiianima   chose  to  remain. 

LVII. 

She  married    (I  f  irget    the   pedigree) 

With   an  Hidalgo,  who   transmitted  <iov>-n 
His  blood   less   noble  than  such   blood   should  ber. 

At  such  alliances  his  sires  would  frown, 
In  that  point  so  piecise  in  each  degree 

That  they  bred  in  and  in,  as   might  be  shown, 
Marrying  their  cousins — nay,  their  aunts  and   iiiecta 
i    Which   always  spoils   the   breed,  if  it  increases. 
I  LYIII. 

j    This  heathenish  cross  restored  the  breed  again, 
j         Ruiii'd  its   blood,  but   much  improved  its  tlesh  ; 
1    For,  from  a  root,  the  ugliest   m  Old  Spain, 
i        S])rung  up  a  branch  as  beautiful  as  fresh; 
;    The  sons  no  more  were  short,  fiie  daughters   pla»»>' 
I         But  there's  a  rumour  which  I  *'iin  would  luis?i 
'T  is  said  that   Donna  Julia's  jjrandmamma 
Produced  her  Don  more  heir?   At    ove  than  b^i. 

LIX. 

However  this  might  be,  the  race  went  on 
Improvmg  still   throui:h  every  generation, 

Until  it    ceiiter'd   in  an  only  son, 

Wlio  left   an  (Milv  daughter  ;    my  narration 

Mav  have  sui'iie^ted   that    this   single   one 

Cr.uld  \:v  but    loha    ( \\  bom  on   tins  occasion 


DON    JUAN. 


1  shrill  Inve  mnrh  to  speak  about),  and  she 
W.ii!  iiiari'ievi,  cliariniiig,  chaste,  and  twenty-three. 

LX. 

Ht^r  eye  (I  'm  very  fond  of  liandsotne  eyes) 
\Vas  large  and  dark,  siipprossiiig  half  its  lire 

Until  siie  spoke,  then  through  its  soft  disguise 
Flash'd  an  expression   more  of  pride  tlian  ire, 

And  love  than  either;   and  there  wovild  arise 
A  somethisig  in  them  which  was  not  desire, 

liut  would  have  been,  perhaps,  but  for  the  soul 

Wliich  struggled  throuiih  and  cliasten'd  down  the  whole. 

LXI. 

Her  glossy  hair  was  cluster'd  o'er  a  brow 

Bright  with  intelligence,  and  fair  and  smooth ; 
[ler  eyebrow's  shape  was  like  the  aerial  bow. 

Her  cheek  all  purple  with  the  beam  of  youth. 
Mounting  at  times  to  a  transparent  glow, 

As  if  her  veins  ran  lightning  ;    she,  in  sooth, 
Possess'd  an  air  and  grace  by  no  means  common  : 
Her  stature  tall — I  hate  a  dumpy  woman. 

LXII. 
Wedded  she  was  some  years,  and  to  a  man 

Of  fit'ty,  and  such  husbands  are  in  plenty ; 
And  ye;,  I  thiisk,  instead  of  such  a  one, 

'T  were  better  to  have  two  of  five-and-twenty, 
Esi)ecially  in  countries  near  the  sun  : 

And  nov,'  I  think  on  't,  "  mi  vien  in  mente," 
Ladies   even  of  the  most  uneasy  virtue. 
Prefer  a  spouse  whose  age  is  short  of  thirty. 

Lxiri. 

T  is   i  sad  thing,  I  cannot  clioose  but  say, 
And  all  the  fault  of  that  indecent  sun 

Who  cannot  leave  alone  our  helpless  clav, 
But  will  keep  baking,  broilincr,  burning  on, 

That,  howsoever  people  fast  and  J'ray, 
The  flesh  is  frail,  and  so  the  soul  undone : 

What  men  call  gallantry,  and  gods  adultery. 

Is  much  more  common  where  the  climate  's  sultry. 

LXIV. 

Happy  the  nations  of  the  moral  north ! 

Where  all  is  virtue,  and  the  winter  season 
Sends  sin  without   a  rag  on,  shivering  forth 

('T  was  snow  that  brought  Saint  Anthony  to  reason); 
Where  juries  cast  up  what  a  wife  is  worth, 

Bv  laying  whate'er  sum,  in  mulct,  they  please  on 
The  lover,  who  must  pay  a  handsome  [)rice. 
Because  it  is  a  marketable  vice. 

LXV. 

Alfmso  v.'as  the  name  of  Julia's  lord, 

A  man  well  looking  for  iiis  years,  and  who 
Was  neither  nmch  beloved  nor  yet  abhorr'd: 

Thev  lived  together  as  most  people  do, 
Snff(;riu!i  each  others'  foibles   by  accord. 

And   not  exactlv  either  one  or   tivo ; 
Yet   he  was  jealous,  thou'nh   he  did  not  show  it, 
For  j<;alousy  dislikes   the  world  to  know  it, 

LXVI. 
Julia  was — yet  I  never  could  see  whv — 

With  Donna  Inez  quite  a  favourite  friend  ; 
Between  their  tastes  there  was  small  sympathy. 

For  not  a  line  had  Jul-a  ever  penn'd  : 
Some  people  whisper  (but  no  doubt  they  lie. 

For  malice  still  imputes  some  private  end) 
That  Inez  had,  ere  Don  Alfonso's  marriage, 
Forgot  with  him  her  very  prudent  carria<re  ; 

LXVI  I. 
\nd  that,  still  keeping  up  the  old  connexion, 

Which  time  had  lately  render'd  much  more  chaste, 


She  took  his  lady  also  in  affection. 

And  certainly  this  course  was  much  the  be^t: 

She  flatter'd  Julia  with  her  sage  protection. 
And  complimented,  Don  Alfonso's  taste ; 

And  if  she  could  not  (who  can?)  silence  scandfi., 

At  least  she  left  it  a  more  slemier  handle. 

LXVIII. 

I  can't  tell  whether  Julia  saw  the  affair 
With  oiher  jieople's  eyes,  or  if  her   own 

Discoveries  made,  but  none  could  be  aware 
Of  this,  at  least  no  symptom  e'er  was  shown  ^ 

Perhaps  she  did  not  know,  or  did   not  care, 
Indifferent  from  the  first  or  callous  grown  ; 

I  'm  reallv  puzzled  what  to  think  or  say, 

She  kept  her  counsel  in  so  close  a  way. 

LXIX.  ^' 

Juan  she  saw,  and,  as  a  pretty  child, 

Caress'd  him  often,  such  a  thing  might  bo 

Quite  innocently  done,  and  harmless   styled 
When  she  had  twenty  years,  ami  thirteen  he ; 

But  I  am  not  so  sure  I  should  have  smiled 
When  he  was  sixteen,  Julia  twenty-three: 

These  few  short  years  make  wondrous  aScrations- 

Particularly  amongst  sun-burnt  nations. 

LXX. 

Whate'er  the  cause  might  be,  they  had  become 
Chauued  ;   for  Vhe  dame  grew  distant,  the -youth  shy 

Their  looks  cast  down,  their  greetings  almost  dumb. 
And  much  embarrassment  in  eitlier  eye ; 

There  surelv  will  be  little  doubt  with  so:ne 
That  Donna  Julia  knew  the  reason  why, 

But   as  for  Juan,  he  had    no  more   notion 

Then  he  wlio  never  saw  the  sea  of  ocean 

LXXI. 

Yet  Julia's  very  coldness  still  was  Kind, 
And  tremulously  g(Mitle  her  small   hana 

Withdrew  itself  from   his,  but   left   behind 
A  little  i)ressure,  thrilling,  and  so   bland 

And  slight,  so  very  slight,  that   to  the  mind 

'T  was  but  a  (ioubt ;    but   ne'er  magician's  wand 

Wrouglit   change  with   all  Arnuda's  fiery  art 

Like  what  this   light  touch  left   on  Juan's  heart. 

LXXII. 

And  if  she  met   him,  though   she  smiled  no  more, 
She  look'd  a  sadness  sweeter  than  her  smile, 

As  if  her  ktart   had  deeper  thoughts  in   store 
She  must  not  own,  but  cherish'd  more  the  while. 

For  that  compression  in   its  burning  core  ; 
Even  innocence  itself  has  many  a  wil». 

And  will   not  dare  to  trust  itself  with  truth. 

And  love  is  taught   hypocrisy  fronn  youth. 

LXXIII. 

But  passion   mo^  dissembles,  yet  betrayti 
Even   bv  its  darkness  ;    as   the  blackest  sicy 

Foretells  th.;  heaviest  temjjest,  it  disjilays 
Its  workings  through  the  vainly-guarded  eyb, 

And  in  whatever  aspect   it   arrays 
Itself,  't  is  still   the  same  hypocrisy ; 

Coldness  or  anger,  even  disdain  or   hate, 

Are  masks  it  often  wears,  and  still  too  late. 

LXXIV. 

Then   there  were  sighs,  the  dee[)er  for  suppressioa. 
And    sr.olen   glances,  sweeter  for  the  theft. 

And  burning  blushes,  though  for  no  transgressu  n, 
j         Tremblings  when  met,  and   restlessness  whei    IcK 

All  these  are  bttle  preludes  to  possession. 
Of  which  young  passion  cannot  be  berelt. 


680 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  merely  lend  to  chow  hon  greatly  love  is 
Embarrass'd  at  first  starting  with  a  novice. 

LXXV. 
Poor  .Julia's  neart  was  in  an  awkward  state: 

She  felt  it  going,  and  resolved  to  make 
The  noblest  etTorts  for  herself  and  mate, 

Fr>r  honour's,  pride's,  religion's,  virtue's  sake  : 
Her  resolutions  were  most  truly  great. 

An  1  almost  might  have  made  a  Tarquin  quake ; 
pl»p  pray'd  the  Virgin  Mary  tor  her  grace, 
As  being  the  best  judge  of  a  lady's  case. 

LXXVI. 

S>lie  vow'd  she  never  vroiild  see  Juan  more, 
And  next  day  paid  a  visit  to  his  mother, 

And  look'd  extremely  at  the  opening  door. 
Which,  by  the  Virgin's  grace,  let   in  another ; 

Grateful  she  was,  and  yet  a  little  sore — 
Again  it  opens,  it  can  be  no  other, 

T  is  surely  Juan   now — No!    I'm  afraid 

That  night  the  Virgin  was  no  further  p>ray'd. 

LXXVIl. 

She  now  determined  that  a  virtuous  woman 

Should  rather  face  and  overcome  temptation; 
That  flight  was  base  and  dastardly,  and  no  man 

Should  ever  give  her   heart  the  least  sensation; 
riiat  is  to  say  a  thought,  beyond  the  common 

Preference  that  we  must  feel   u[)on  occasion 
For  people  who  are  pleasanter  than  others, 
But  then  they  only  seem   so  nsany  brothers. 

LXXVHI. 
And  even   if  by  chance — and  who   cnn  tell  ? 

The  devil  'j  so  very  sly — she  should  discover 
T^iat  all  within  was   not  so  very  well, 

And  if,  still  ft." e,  that  such  or  such   a  lover 
Might  please  perhaps,  a  virtuous  wife  can  quell 

Such  thotights,  and  be  the  better  when  th(;y 're  over, 
And,  if  the  man  should  ask,  't  is   but  denial : 
I  recommend  young  ladies  to  make   trial. 

LXXIX. 

And  then  there  are  such   things  as  love  divine, 
Briidit  and  immaculate,  unmix'd   and  [lure. 

Such  as  the  angels  think  so  very  fine, 

And  matrons,  who  would  be  no   Ic^.ss   secure, 

Platonic,  perfect, ''just  such   love  as  mme  ;" 
Thus  Juha  said— and   thought  so,  to  be  sure, 

And  so  I  'd  have  her  think,  were  I  the  man 

On  whom  her  reveries  celestial  ran. 

LXXX. 

Such  love  is  innocent,  and  may  exist 

Between  young  persons  without   any  danger; 

A  hand  may  first,  and  then  a  lip  be  kiss'd  ; 
For  my  part,  to  su.;h  doings  I  'm  a  stranger. 

But  hear  these  fi-eedoms  for  the  utmost   list 

Of  all  o'er  which  such  love  may  be  a  ranger  • 

If  people  go  beyond,  't  is  (piiie   a  crime, 

But  not  my  fault — I  tell  th.em  all  in  time. 

LXXXI. 

«ve,  then,  but  love  withm   its   profier  limits. 

Was  Julia's   iimocent  iletcrniination 
In  young  Don  Juan's  fivonr,  and   to   him   its 

Ex(trMon   might  be  uscfiil  on   occasidu  ; 
And,  lichted   at  too  pure  a   slnirie  to  (\un  its 

Eth(,'real  lustre,  with  what  sweet  persuasion 
He  might  be  taught,  l)y  love  and  her  togelher- 
I   really  don't  know  what,  nor  .lulia  eitlnT. 

LXXXIl. 

Fravgnt  with  this  fine  intention,  and  w(!ll  fenced 
In   mail  of  proof— her  purity  of  soul, 


She,  for  the  future,  of  her  strength  conTincod, 
And  that  her  honour  was  a  rock,  or   mole, 

Exceeding  sagely  from  that  hour  dispensed 
With  any  kind   of  troublesome  control. 

But  whether  Julia  to  the  task  was  equal 

Is  that  which  must  be  nitntion'd   in  vne  sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her  plan  she  deem'd  both  innocent  and  feasible. 
And,  surely,  with   a  stripling  of  sixteen 

Not  scandal's  fangs  could  fix  on  much  that 's  seizab.j^ 
Or,  if  they  did  so,  satisfied  to  mean 

Nothing  but  what  was  good,  her  breast  was  peaceable- 
A  quiet  conscience  makes  one  so  serene ! 

Christians  have  burn'd  each  other,  quite  persuaded 

That  all  the   apostles  would   have  diMie   as  they  did. 

LXXXIV. 

And  if,  in  the  mean  time,  her  husband   died, 

But  Heaven  forbid  that  such  a  thought   should  cross 

Her  brain,  though  in  a  dream,  (and   then  she  sigh'd  I) 
Never  could  she  survive  that  common   loss ; 

But  just  sujipose  that  moment  should   betide, 
I   only  say  suppose   it — inter   nos 

(This  should  be  entrp  nous,  for  Julia   chougbt 

In  French,  but  then  the  rh\me  would  go  fjr  nougiit^. 

LXXXV. 

I  only  say  sup])ose  this  supjiosition  : 

Juan,  behig   then   grown   up  to   man'f  estate, 

Would   fully  suit   a  widow  of  condition  : 

Even  s(\ven   years  hence   it  would  no    be  too  lati;; 

And  in  the   interim   (to  pursue  this  vision) 
The   mischief,  after   all,  could  not    be  great, 

For  he  would  learn   the  rudiments   of  love, 

I  mean  the  seraph  way  of  those  above. 

LXXXVI. 

So   much  f>r  Julia.     Now  we  '1!   turn   to  Juan. 

Poor   little   fellow  !   he   had   no   id<>a 
Of  his  own  case,  and   never  lut   the   true  one; 

In   feelin;;s  quick  as  Ovid's  INIiss  Medea, 
He  puzzled  over  what,  he  found  a  new  one, 

But  not  as  yet  imagined  it  could   he  a 
Thing  quite  in   course,  and   not   at   all   alarming. 
Which,  with   a   little   patience,  might   grow  charmmg. 

LXXX  VII. 
Silent   and  pensive,  idle,  restless,  slow. 

His  home  deserted   for  the  lonely  wood. 
Tormented  with   a  wountl   he  could   not    know. 
His,  like   all  deep  grief,  plunged   in   solitude. 
I'm  fond   myself  of  solitude  or  so. 

But  th.eii   I    beg   it    may  be   understood 
By  solitude  I   mean  a  sultan's,  not 
A  hermit's,  with   a  haram  for  a   grot. 

LXXXVIIl. 
"  Oh  love  !    in   such  a  v.-ilderness   as  this. 
Where   transport   and  security  entwme. 
Here   is   the  empire   of  thy  perfect    Miss, 

And   here  thou   art  a  god   indei;,!  divine." 
The  bard   I   quote  from  does  noi    smg  amiss,* 

VViili   the  excejition   of  the  se<'oud   line, 
For  that   same  twining  "  tran-^port    and   seculty" 
Are  t\vist(!d  to  a  phrase  of  some  obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 
The   po('t  meant,  no  doubt,  aii.-'   thus  appeals 

To  the   irood   sense   and   sens(;s   ol    inankind. 
The  verv  thing  whu  h  every  bo  iy  f'cls, 

As   all    have    found   on   trial,  or   may  fmd. 
That   no   one  likes   to  be   disinrb'd    at    meals 
Or  love: — I  won't  say  more  about  "entwined" 


DON    JUAN. 


58 1 


Or   •  traiispjr.,''   .is  we  know  all  that  before, 
>\  e  b(!g  "se'-uri  y*'  will   holt  the  door. 

XC. 
V  .(.III;,'  Juan  waudcrM   by  the   glassy  brooks, 

TK  iii.iiig   muillerable   things:    he   threw 
Hhnsoif  at   length  within   the   leaty  nooks 

Where   the  wild   branch  of  the  cork   forest  grew  ; 
Tliere   poets   find   materials   for  their   books. 

And  eve.y  now  and   then  we  read  them  througa, 
So  that   their   plan   and   [)rosoily  are  eligible, 
Tnless,  like  Wordsworth,  they  prove   unintelligible. 

XCI. 

He,  Juan,  (and   not  Wordsworth),  so   pursued 
I  lis   selt-cominnnion  with   his   own   high  soul, 

L'litil   his  niighiy  heart,  in   its  great   mood, 
Had   mitigated   part,  though  not  the   whole 

Of  its  disease  ;   he  did  the   best  he  could 
With  things  not  very  subject   to  control. 

And  turn'd,  without  perceivmg  his  condition, 

[>ike  Coleridge,  into  a  metaphysician. 

XCII. 

He  thouglit  about  himself,  and   the  whole   earth, 

Of  man  the  wonderful,  and  of  the  stars. 
And   how  the  deuce  they  ever  could   have   birth  ; 

And  then   he   thought  of  earthquakes  and  of  wars, 
How  many  miles  the  moon  might  have  in  girth, 

Of  air-balloons,  and  of  the  manv  bar* 
To  perfect  knowledge  of  the  boundiess  skies  ; 
And  then   he  thought  of  Donna  Julia's  eves. 

XCIII. 
In  thoughts   like  these   true  wisdom  may  discern 

Longings  sublime,  and   aspirations  high, 
Which  some  are  born   with,  but   the  most  part  learn 

To   plague  themselves  withal,  thev  know  not  why 
'Twas  strange  that  one  so  young  should  thus  concern 

His   brain   about  the  action  of  the  sky  ; 
[f  yitu  think  't  was   philosophy  that  this  did, 
I  can't  help   thinking  puberty  assisted. 

XCIV. 
Ele  pored  upon   the  leaves,  and  on  the  flowers. 

And  iieard  a  voice  in  all  the  winds ;   and  then 
He  thought  of  wood-nymphs  aild  immortal  bowers. 

And   how  the  goddesses  came  down  to  men  : 
He  miss'd  the  pathway,  he  forgot  the  hours, 

And,  when  he  look'd  iqion  his  watch  again, 
He  found   how  much  old  Time  had  been  a  winner — 
He  also  found  that  he  had  lost   his  dinner. 

xcv. 

Sometimes  he  turn'd  to  gaze  \\\)on  his  book, 

lioscan,  or  Garcilasso  ; — by  the  wind 
Even   as  the  page  is  rustled  while  we  look, 

So  by  the  poesy  of  his  own  mind 
Over  the  mystic  leaf  liis  soul  was  shook. 

As  if 'twere  one  whereon  magicians  bind 
Their  spells,  and  give   them  to  the  passing  gale, 
According  to  some  good  old  woman's  tale. 

XCVl. 

Thus  would   he  while   his   lonely  hours  away 
Dissatisfied,  nor  knowing  what   he  wanted  ; 

Nor  glowing  reverie,  nor  poet's   lay, 

Could  yield   his  spirit  that  for   which   it  panted, — 

A  bosom  whereon   he  his  head  might  lay. 

And   hear  the  heart  beat  with  the  love  it  granted, 

With — several  other  things,  which  I   forget, 

Or  which,  at  least,  I  need  not  mention  yet. 

xcvn. 

Those  lonely  walks  and   lengthening  reveries 
('ould  not  escape  the  gentle  Julia's  eyes; 


She  saw  that  Juan  was   not  at  h/s  ease  ; 

But   that  which  chiefly  may  and   must  surprise, 
Iri,  that  the  Donna  Inez  did  not  tease 

H(!r   only  son  with   question   or  surmisi; ; 
Whether  it  was  siie   did    not  see,  or  would  not) 
Or,  like  all  very  clever  peo[)le,  eoiiM   ,>w)t. 

xcvin. 

This  may  seem   strange,  but  yet  't  io  very  connnon; 

For  instance — gentlemen,  whose  ladies  take 
Leave  to  o'erstep   the  written  rights  of  woman, 

And  break  the — Which  coinmandment  is 't  they  break? 
(I  have  forgot  the  number,  and  thhik  no  man 

Should   rashly  quote,  for  fear  of  a  mistake). 
I  say,  when  these  same  gentlemen  are  jealous. 
They  make  some  blunder,  which  their  ladies  tell  us. 

xcix. 

A  real  husband  always   is  suspicious, 

But  still  no  less  suspects   in  the  wrong  place, 

Jealous  of  some  one  who  had  no  such  wishes. 
Or   pandering  blindly  to  his  own   disgrace. 

By  harbouring  some  dear  friend  extremely  vicious ; 
The   last  indeed 's  infallibly  the  case: 

And  when  the  spouse  and  friend  are  gone  off  wholly 

He  wonders  at  their  vice,  and  not  his  folly. 

C. 

Thus  parents  also  are  at  times  shct-sighted ; 

Though  watchful  as  the   lynx,  they  ne'er  discover, 
The  while  the  wicked  world  beholds,  delighted. 

Young  Hopeful's  mistress,  or  Miss  Fanny's  lover. 
Till   some  confounded  escapade  has  blighted 

The  plan  of  twenty  years,  and  all  is  over ; 
And  then  the  mother  cries,  the  father  swears. 
And  wonders  why  the  devil  he  got  heirs. 

CL 

IJut  Inez  was  so  anxious,  and  so  clear 

Of  sight,  that  I  must  think  on  this  occasion, 
Slic  had   some  other  motive  much  more  near 

For  leaving  Juan   to  this  new  temptation ; 
But  what   that  motive  was,  I  shan't   say  here; 

Perhaps  to  finish  Juan's  education, 
f^erhaps  to  open  Don  Alfonso's  eyes, 
In  case  he  thought  his  wife  too  great  a  prize. 

CH. 
It  was  upon  a  day,  a  sumtner's  day  ; 

Simnuer  's  indeed  a  very  dangerous  season, 
And   so   is   spring  about  the  end   of  Mav  ; 

The  sun,  no  doubt,  is  the   prevailing  reason ; 
But  whatsoe'er  the  cause   is,  one  may  say. 

And  stand  convicted  of  more  truth  than  treason, 
That    there    are    months   which   nature   grows   more 

mc-rry  in — 
Marcli  has  its  hares,  and  May  must  have  its  heroine. 

cm. 

'T  was  on  a  summer's  day — the  sixth  of  June : 

I   hke   to  be  particular  in  dates. 
Not  only  of  the  age,  and  year,  but  moon  ; 

They  are  a  sort  of  post-house,  where  the  Fates 
Change  horses,  making  history  change  its  tune. 

Then  spur  away  o'er  empires  and  o'er  states. 
Leaving  at  last  not  much  besides  chronology. 
Excepting  the  post-obits  of  theology. 

CIV. 
'T  was  on  the  sixth  of  June,  about  the  hour 

Of  hall-past  six — perhaos  still  nean^r  seven, 
When  Julia  sate  within  as  prettv  a  bower 

As  ere  held  houri  in  that  heathenish  heaven 
Descrilied  by  Mahomet,  and  Anacreon  Moore, 

To  wJiom  the  lyre  and  laurels  have  been  given, 


682 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WOKKS. 


With  all  t)je  trophios  of  triumphant  song — 
He  won  then  well,  and  may  he  wear  them  long. 

CV. 

She  sate,  but  not  alone ;   I  know  not  well 
How  this  same  interview  had  taken  place, 

And  even   if  I   knew,  I   should  not   tell — 

People  should  hold  their  tongues  in  any  case  ; 

No  matter  how  or  wny  the  thing   befell, 

But   there  were   she   and  Juan   face  to  face — 

When  two  such  faces  are  so, 'twould  be  wise, 

But  very  dilficult,  to  shut  their  eyes. 

CVI. 

How  beautiful  she  look'd  !   her  conscious  heart 
Glow'd  in  her  cheek,  and  yet  she  felt  no  wrong : 

Oh  love !   how  perfect  is  thy  mystic   art, 

Strengthening  the  weak  and  tram[)ling  on  the  strong, 

How  self-deceitful   is  the  sagest   part 

Of  mortals  whom  thy  lure  hath  led  along : 

The  precipice  she  stood  on  was  immense — 

So  was  her  creed  in  her  own  innocer>ce. 

cvn. 

She  thnuifht  of  her  own  strength,  and  .Juan's  youth, 

Anil  of  the  folly  of  all   [)rudish   fears, 
Victorious  virtue,  and  domestic   truth, 

And   then  of  Don  Alfonso's  fifty  years : 
I  \\\>h  these  last   had   not  occurr'd,  in  sooth, 

B(H;ause  that  nimiber  rarely  much  endears. 
And  through  all  climes,  the  snowy  and  the  sunny, 
Sounck  ill  in  love,  whate'er  it  may  in  money. 

cvni. 

When   people  say,  "  I  've  told  yon  Jifty  times," 

Thev  mean  to  scold,  and  very  often  do; 
When  poets  say  "  I  've  written  Jifiy  rhymes," 

They  make  you  dread  that  they  '11  recite  them  too; 
In  ganijs  of  Ti'/Zy,  thieves  commit  their  crimes; 

At  ^^fti/,  love  for  love  is  rare,  't  is  true  : 
But   .hen,  no  doubt,  it  equally  as  true  is, 
A  good  deal  may  be   bought   for  fifty  Louis. 

CIX. 
Juiia  had  honour,  virtue,  truth,  and  love 

For  Don  Alfonso ;    and  she  inly  swore, 
}'y  all   the  vows  below  to   powers   above. 

She  never  would  disgrace  the  ring  she  wore, 
Nor  leave  a  wish  which  wisdom  might  reprove: 

And   while  she  ponder'd   this,  besides  much  more, 
One   hand   on  .Juan's  carelessly  was  thrown. 
Quite   by  mistake — she  thought  it  was  her  own ; 

ex. 

Unconsciously  she  lean'd  upon  the  other, 

Which   play'd   wilhm  the  tangles  of  her  hair; 

And  to  contend  with  thoughts  she  could  *t  smother, 
She  seem'd,  by  the  distraction  of  her  air. 

'Twas  surely  very  wrong  in  Juan's  mother 
To   leave  together  this  imprudent  pair. 

She  who  for  many  years  had  watch'd  her  son  so— 

F 'm  very  cf^rlam  ?niite  would  not  have  done  so. 

CXL 

The  hand   which   still  held   Juan's,  by  degrees 
Gently,  but   palpably,  confirm'd   its   grasp, 

As  if  It  said   "  detain  me,   if  you    [ilease  ;" 

Yet  there  's   no  doubt    she   only   meant  to  clasp 

His   fingers   with  a   pure    I*latonic  squeeze: 

She   would   have  shrunk   as   from   a  toad   or  asp, 

Had   she   imai;lned  such   a   tiling   c(Mild   rouso 

\   feeling  dangiRrous   to   a   prudent  spouse. 

(;xn. 

I   cannot  know   what  Juan   thought  of  this. 

But  wnal  no  did  is  much  what  vou  would  do ; 


His  young  lip   ihank'd   it   with  a  grateful  kiss. 
And   then,   abash'd   at   his   own  joy,   withdrew 

In  deep   despair,   lest  he  had   done  amiss, 
Love  is  so   very   timid   when  't  is  new : 

S!h3   blusli'd  and   frown'd  not,  but  she  strove  to  speak 

And  held  her  tongue,   her  voice  was  grown  so  weak. 

cxin. 

The  sun  set,  and  up  rose   the  yellow   moon : 
Tlie  devil 's  in  the  moon    for   nsischief ;   they 

Who  cali'd   her  chaste,  meth.nics,  began  loo  soon 
Their  nomenclature  :    there   is   not   a   day, 

The   longest,  not  the   twenty-first  of  Ji.iie, 
Sees  half  the  business   in   a  wicked   way 

On   which   three   single   hours   of  moonshine  smile — 

Ami  then  she  looks  so   modest  all  the  while. 

CXIV. 

There  is  a  dangerous   silence  in  that  hour, 

A   stillness  which  leaves  room   for  the  full  soul 

To  open  all   itself,   without  the   power 
Of  calling   wholly  back   its  self-control; 

The  silver  light  which,  hallowing  tree   and  tower. 
Sheds  beauty  and  deep  softness   o'er  the   whole, 

Breathes   also  to  the  heart,  and  o'er  it  throws 
'  A  loving  languor,   which  is  not  repose. 

cxv. 

And  Julia  sate  with  Juan,  half  embraced. 
And  half  retiring  from  the   glowing  arm,* 

Which  trembled  like  the  bosom  where 't  was  placed: 
Yet  still  she  must  have  thought  there  was  no  barn's, 

Or  else  't  were  easy  to  withdraw  her  waist ; 
I?ut  then  the  situation   had    its  cliarm, 

And  then God  knows  what  next — I  can't  go  en; 

I  'm  almost  sorry  that  I  e'er  begun. 

CXVL 

Oh,   Plato!   Plato!   you  have  paved  the  way, 
With  your  confoundefl  fantasies,  to  more 

Immoral  conduct  by  the  fancied  sway 

Your  system  feigns   o'er  the  contr()!less  core 

Of  human  hearts,  than   all  the   long  array 
Of  poets  and   romancers  : — You  're   a  bore, 

A  charlatan,  a  coxcomb— and   have  been, 

At  best,  no  better  than   a  go-between. 

cxvn. 

And  Julia's  voice  was  lost,  except  in  sighs. 
Until  too  late  for   useful   conversation  ; 

The  tears  were   gushing  from  her  gentle  eyes, 
I    wish,  indeed,  they   had  not  had  occasion  ; 

But  who,   alas  !   can  love,  and  then  be  wise  ? 
Not  that  remorse  did   not  ojipose  temptation, 

A  little  still  she  strove,  and  much  repented, 

And  whispering  "I  will  ne'er  consent" — consented 

CXVIII. 

'Tis  said  that  Xerxes  oifer'd  a  reward 

To  those  who  could  invent  him  a  new  pleasura ', 

Methinks  the   re(]uisilion's  rath(;r  hard. 

And  must  have  cost  his  majes.y  a  treasure: 

For  my  part,  I'm  a  moderate-minded  bard, 
Fond  of  a  little  love   (which  I  call  leisure); 

I  care  not  for  new  pleasures,  as  th6  old 

Are 'quite  enough  for  me,  so  they  but  hold. 

CXIX. 

Oh  Pleasure !  you  Ve  indeed  a  pleasant  thing, 
Although  one  must  be  daumM  for  you,  no  douw, 

I  make  a  resolution  every  si>r!ng 

Of  reformation  ere  the  year  run  out. 

But.  somehow,  this  my  vi'stal   vow  takes  wing, 
Ycl  still,  I  trust,  it  may  be  kept   throughout: 


DON    JUAN. 


5as 


I  n»  very  sorry,  very  much  ashamed, 
And  mean,  next  winier,  to  he  (luite  rcclaim'd 

cxx. 

lleie  my  chaste  imtse  a  hberty  nxist  take — 

Start  not!  still  chaster  reader,— siie '11  he  nice  hencc- 

Forward,  and  there  is  no  great  cause  tocjuake: 
This  liberty  is  a  pootic  license 

Whicli  some  irrejiularity   may   make 

In  the  dcsiirn,  and   as  I   have  a  high  sense 

Of  Aristotle  and   the   Rides, 'tis  lit 

To  beg  his   ()ardun  when  I  err  a  hit. 

CXXI. 

This  license  is  to  nope  the  reader  will 

Suppose  from  June  the  sixth   (the  fatal  day, 
Without  whose  epoch  my  poetic  skill. 

For  want  of  facts,  would  all  l>e  thrown  away), 
But  keeping  Julia  and   Don  Juan  still 

In  siirhl,  that  several  months  have  pass'd ;  we'll  say 
'Twas  m  November,  hut  I'm  not  so  sure 
About  tlie  day— the  era's  more  obscure. 

CXX  1 1. 
We'll  talk  of  that  anon.— 'T  is  sweet  to  hear. 

At  nuduigiit  on  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep. 
The  song  and  oar  of  Adria's  gondolier, 

By  distance  melluw'd,  o'er  the  waters  sweep; 
'Tis  sweet  to  see  the  evening  star  appear; 

'Tis  swett  to  listen  as  the  nighl-winds  creep 
From  leaf  to  leaf;    'tis  sweet  to  view  on  high 
luc  rainbow,  based  on  ocean,  span  the  sky; 

CXXIII. 
*I  IS  sweet  to  hear  the  watch-dog's  honest  bark 

Bay  deep-mouth'o  welcome  as  we  draw  near  home; 
'1  It    swcot  to  kno'A    there   is  an  eye   uiU  mark 

Our  connng,  and   look  brii;!it(T   when   we  come; 
'T's  sweet  to  be  awaken'd  by  the  lark, 

Or  lull'd  by  falling  waters  ;  sweet  the  hum 
Of  bees,  the  voice  o(  girls,  the  song  of  birds. 
The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 

CXXIV. 
bjwcct  is  the  vintage,   when  the  showering  grapes 

In   Bacchanal   profusion  reel  to  earth 
Purple   and  gushing  ;   sweet  are  our  escapes 

From  civic  revelry  to  rural  mirth  ; 
Sweet  to  the  miser  are   his  glittering  heaps  ; 

Sweet  to  the  father  is  his  first-born's  birth  ; 
Sweet  is  revenge — especially   to  women, 
Pillage  to  soldiers,   prize-money  to  seamen. 

CXXV. 

Sweet  IS   a  legacy  ;   and   passing  sweet 

The  unexpected'   death  of  some   old  lady 
Or  gentleman  of  seventy   years  complete. 

Who  've  made  "  us  youth"  wait  too — too  long  already 
For  an   estate,  or  cash,   or  country-seat. 

Still   breaking,   but   with   stamina   so   steady. 
That   all   the   l!;raelites   are   fit   to   mob   its 
Next  owner,  for  their  dont.ie-damn'd  post-obits. 

CXXVI. 
'Tis    sweet  to  win,  no  matter  how,   one's  laurels 

By   blood  or  ink  ;   't  is   sweet   to   put   an   end 
To  strife;   'tis  sometimes  sweet  to  have  our  ipiarrels, 

Particularly   with   a  tiresome   friend  ; 
Sweet  is  old  wine  in   bottles,  ale   in   barrels  ; 

Dear   is  the  helpless   creature   we   defead 
Against   the   world  ;   and  dear   the   schooi-boy  spot 
We  ne'er  forget,  though  there  we   are  forgot. 

CXXVII. 
But  sweeter  still  than   this,  than   those,  than   all. 

Is  first  and  passionate  love — it  stands  a  one^ 


Like   Adam's   ;eco.ici  iion  of  his  fall ; 

The  tree  of  knowledge  has  been  pluck  d-ull's  known 
And  life  yields  nothing  further  to  recall 

W^ortiiy  of  'his   ambrosial  sin  so  shown. 
No  doubt  in  fable,  as  the  imforgiven 
Fire  which  Prometheus  (ilch'd  for  us   from  heaven. 

cxxvm. 

Man's  a  strange  animal,  and   makes  strange   use 
Of  his  own   nature  and  the   various  arts. 

And   likes  particularly  to  produce 

Some  new  experiment  to  show   his  parts: 

This  is  the  age  of  oddities  let   loose. 

Where  ditTerent  talents  find  their  ditferent  marts  ^ 

You  'd  best  begin  w  ith  truth,  and  when  you  've  lost  yom 

Labour,  there's  a  sure  market  for  imi)osture. 

CXXIX. 

What  opposite  discoveries  we  have  seen  ! 

(Signs  of  true  genius,  and  of  empty   j)ockets:) 
One  makes  new  noses,  one  a  guillotine. 

One  breaks  your  bones,  one  sets  them  in  their  sockets 
But  vaccination  certainly  has  been 
A  kind  antithesis  to  Congreve's  rockets. 


cxxx. 

Bread  has  been  made   (indifferent)   from  potatoes. 
And   aalvanism  has  set  some  corpses  grinning. 

But  has  not  answer'd  like  the  apparatus 
Of  the   Humane  Society's  beginmng, 

Bv  which  men  are  unsufFocated  gratis  ;  — 

What  wondrous  new  machines  have  late  been  spinning 


CXXXL 


CXXXIL 

This  is  the  patent  age  of  new  inventions 
For  killing  bodies  and  for  saving  souls. 

All  projiagated  with  the  best  intentions  : 

Sir  Hiunphry   Davy's  lantern,  by  which  coals 

Are   safoly   mined   for  in   the   mode   he   mentions; 
Timbuctoo  travels,  voyages  to  the  Poles 

Are  ways  to   benefit  mankind,   as  true, 

Perha[)S,  as  shooting  them  at  Waterloo. 

CXXXIII. 

Man  's  a  phenomenon,  one  knows  not  what. 
And  wonderful  beyond  all   wondrous  measure ; 

'T  is   pity   though,  in   (his  sublime   world,  tnat 

Pleasure's  a  sin,  and  sometimes  sin's  a  pleasure, 

Few  mortals  know   what  end   they   would   be  at. 
But  whether  glory,  power,  or  love,  or  treasure. 

The   path   it     trough   perplexing  ways,  and   when 

The  goal   is   j^iin'd,  we   die,  you   know — and   theiH 

C  XXXIV. 

What  then? — I   do   not   know,   no  more  do  you — 
And   so   good   night. ^Return   we   to  our  story: 

'T  was   in  November,   w  hen  fine  days  are   few, 
And    the  far  mountains   wax   a  little   hoary, 

And   cla()  a   white  cape  on   their   mantles   blue. 
i        Aud  the  sea   dashes  round  tlie   promon  orv 


684 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


•\.nd  the  louc^  breaker   boils   against  the  rocli, 
Ana  sober  suns  -.nust  set  at  five  o'clock. 

cxxxv. 

'Twas,  as  the  watchmen  say,  a  cloudy  ni^rht ; 

No   inoon,  no  stars,  the  wind   was  low  or   loud 
By  gusts,  and   many  a  sparkling  hearth  was  bnghl 

With  the  piled  wood,  round  which  the  family  crowd  ^ 
There 's  something  cheerful   in   ihat  sort   of  light, 

Even   as  a  summer  sky  's  without  a  cloud  : 
i  'ni  fond  of  fire,  and   crickets,   and  all  that, 
A.  lobster  salad,  and  chain[)ague,  and  chat. 

C  XXXVI. 

*Twas  midnight — Donna  Julia   was  in   bed. 

Sleeping,  most  probably, — when  at  her  door 
Arose   a  clatter  might  awake  the   dead, 

If  they  had  never  been  awoke  bef  )re — 
And  that  they  have  been  so  we   all  have  read, 

And  are  to  be  so,  at  the  least,  once  more — 
The  door  was  fasten'd,  but,  with  voice  and  fist. 
First  knocks  were  heard,  then  "INIadam — Madam — histi 

CXXXVII. 
"For  God's  sake,  Madam — Madam — here's  my  master^ 

With  more  than  half  the  city  at  his  back — 
Was  ever  hoard  of  such  a  cursed   disaster  ? 

'T  is  not  my  fault — I  kept  good  watch — Alack  ! 
Do,  .nray,  undo  the  bolt  a  little  faster — 

Tiiev're  on  the  stair  just  now,  and  in  a  crack 
Will  all  be  here ;   perhaps  he  yet  may  fly — 
Surely  the  window 's  not  so  very  high!" 

C  XXXVIII. 
Hv  this  time   Don  Alfonso  was  arrived, 

With  torches,  friends,  and  servants  in  great  number ; 
'I'hc-  major  part  of  them  had  long  been  wived. 

And   therefore  paused  not  to  disturb  the  slumber 
Of  any  wicked  woman,  who  contrived 

By  stealth  ner  husband's  temples  to  encumber: 
Examples  of  this  kind  are  so  contagious. 
Were  one  not  punish'd,  all  would  be  outrageous. 

CXXXIX. 

T  can't  'cU  how,  or  why,  or  what  suspicion 

Could  enter  into  Don  Alfonso's  head, 
But  for  a  cavalier  of  his  condition 

It  surely  was  exceedingly  ill-bred, 
Without  a  word  of  previous  admonition, 

To  hold  a  levee  round  his  lady's  bed, 
And  summon  lackeys,  arm'd  with  fire  and  sword, 
To  prove  hinr^elf  the  thing  he  most  abhorr'd. 

CXL. 

Poor  Donna  Julia  !    starting  as  from  sleep 

^Mmd — that   I  do  not   say — she  had   not  sle^it). 
Began  at  once  to  scream,  and  yawn,  and  weep; 

Her  ni.iid  Aiitoriia,  who  was  an   adept, 
Contrived  to  tiing  the  bed-clothes   in   a  heap. 

As  if  she  had  just   now  from  out  them  crept ; 

can't  tell  why  she  should  take  all   this   trouble 
To  prove  her  mistress  had  been  sleeping  double. 

CXLI. 

But  Julia  mistress,  and  Aiitonia  maid, 

Api)car'd   like  two  ])<)or  harmless  women,  who 
Of  goblins,  but  still  more  of  men,  afraiil. 

Had   thought   one   man  mii;ht   be  deterr'd  by  two, 
And   therefore  side  by  side  were   gently  laid. 

Until   the   hours  of  ansence  should   run   through, 
And  truant    husban  I   should   return,  and   say, 
'*lV]y  dear   I  was  tiie  first  whi;   came  away." 

CXLII. 
Sow  Julia  found  at  longth  a  voice,  and  cried, 

**  In  Heavt  ti's  name  Don  Alfonso,  what  d'  ye  mean? 


Has   madness  seized  you?    would  that   I  had  died 
Ere  such  a  monster's  victim   I   had  been ! 

What  mav  this  midnight  violence  betide, 
A  sudden  fit   of  drunkenness  or  sj)leen? 

Dare  you  suspect  me,  whom  the  thought  would  kill  ? 

Search,  then,  the  room!" — Alfonso  said,  "  I  will." 

CXLIII. 

He  searched,  they  searcli'd,  and  rummaged  every  where 
Closet  and  clothes'-press,  chest  and  window-seat, 

And  found  much   linen,  la.ce,  and  several  pair 
Of  stockings,  slippers,  brushes,  combs,  complete. 

With  other  articles  of  ladies  fair. 

To  keep  them  beautiful,  or  leave  them  neat : 

Arras  they  prick'd  and  curtains  with  their  swords, 

And  wounded  several  shutters,  and  some  boards. 

CXLIV. 

Under  the  bed  they  search'd,  and  there  they  found- 
No  matter  what — it  was  not  that  they  sought, 

They  open'd  windows,  gazing  if  the  ground 

Had  signs  or  foot-marks,  but  the  earth  said  nought . 

And   then   they  stared   each  other's  faces  round : 
'T  is  odd,  not    one  of  all  these  seekers  thought. 

And  seems  to  me  almost  a  sort   of  blunder, 

Of  looking  in  the  bed   as  well   as   under. 

CXLV. 

During  this  inquisition  Julia's  tongue 

Was  not  asleep — "Yes,  search  and  search,"  she  cried, 
"Insult  on  insult  heap,  and  wrong  on  wrong  ! 

It  was  for   this  that  I  became  a  bride  ! 
For  this   in  silence  I   have  sufier'd   long 

A  husband   like  Alfonso  at   my  side  ; 
But  now  I  '11  bear  no  more,  nor  luM-e  remain, 
If  there  be  law,  or  lawyers,  in  all   Spam. 

CXLVI. 

"  Yes,  Don  Alfonso,  husband  now  no  more, 

If  ever  you  indeed  deserved   the  name, 
Is't  worthy  of  your  years? — you   have  threescore. 

Fifty,  or  sixty— it   is  all  the  same- 
Is  't  wise  or  fitting  causeless  to  explore 

For  facts  against  a  virtuous  woman's  i'umel 
Ungrateful,  perjured,  barbarous  Don  Alfonso! 
How  dare  you  think  your  lady  would  go  on  so  ? 

CXLVII. 

"Is  it  for   this  I   have  disdain'd   to  hold 

The  common   privileges   of  my  sex? 
That  I   have  chosen   a  confessor  so  old 

And  deaf,  that   any  other   it  would  vex. 
And  never  once  he  has   had  cause  to  scold, 

But  f  )uiid  my  very  innocence  perplex 
So  much,  he   always  doubted   I  was  married — 
How  sorry  you  will  be  when  I  've  miscarried  ! 

CXLVIII. 

"  Was  it  for  this  that  no  Coi  tejo   ore 

I  yet  have  chosen  from  out  the  youth  of  Seville'? 
Is  it  for  this  I  scarce  went  any  where. 

Except  to  bull-fig'its,  mass,  play,  rout,  and  revel  7 
Is   it  for  this,  whatever  my  suitors  were, 

I  favour'd  none — nay,  was  almost  uncivil? 
Is  it  for  Ih's  that  General  Count  O'Reilly, 
Who  took  Algiers,  ileclares   I   used   him  vilelv?^ 

CXLIX. 

"Did  not  the  Italian  Musico  Cazzani 

Sing  at  my  heart  six  months  at  least  in  vain? 

Did   not  his  countryman.  Count  Corniani, 
Call   me   the  only  virtuous  wife  in  Spam? 

Were  there  not   also   Russians,  English,  many? 
The  Count  Strongstroganolf  I   put  in  pain, 


DON    JUAX. 


585 


And   Lord   "N fount  Coffeehouse,  the  Irish  peer, 
Wlio  k  U'd  himself  for  love  (with  wine)  last   year. 

CL. 

"Have   I   not  had   two   bishops   at   mv  feet, 
The  Duke   of  L-har,  and  Don  Fenian  Nunez? 

And   IS    it   thus    a  faithful  wife  you    treat/ 
I  wonder  in  what  (juarler  now  the   moon    is  : 

1  praise   your  vast  fort  earanre    not   to   heat 
Me  also,  since   the  time  so  opportune   is — 

Oh,  valiant  man!  with  sword  draw  u  and  cock'd  trig>,'or, 

Now   tell   me,  don't  you  cut    a  pretty  ti<'ure  ? 

CM. 

'Was  it  for  this   you   took   your   sud  Ion  journey. 

Lender   pretcMce  of  business    in  lispensabie, 
With   rliat   sublime  of  rascals   your   altoriiev. 

Whom  I  see  standing  tliere,  and  lookitiir  sensible 
Of  h  ivmg  jilay'd  the  fool  ?    though  Ix.ith  I  spurn,  In; 

Deserves  the  worst,  his  conduv't  's   less  defeiisibie, 
Uei.ausi',  no  doubt,  't  was  f  .r    his  dirty  fi;e, 
And   not  for  any  love  to  you   or  me. 

CLII. 
•' If  he   comes  here  to  take  a  deposi'ion, 

Hy  all   UKiaiis   let   the    g(;ntleiiuiii    [iroceed  ; 
You've   made    the   apartment   in  a  tit    con  litiori  : 

There  's   |)en  and    ink  for  you,  sir,  when  you  need- 
Let  every  thing  be    noted  witli   precision, 

I  would   not   you  for   nothiiiif   siiould    lie  fee'd — 
But,  as  my  maid  's  uivlress'd,  pray  turn  vour  spies  out." 
**  Oh!"  sobb'd  Antoma,  "  I  could  tear  t'heir  eyes  out." 

CLIII. 

"There   is  the   closet,  there  the  toilet,  there 

The   ante-chamber— search  them  under,  over : 
There   is   the  sofa,  there   the   great    arm-chair, 

The   chimney — which  uould  really  hold  a   lover. 

wish  to  sleep,  and   beg  you  will   take  care 

And   make   no  further  noise   ull  you  iliscover 
The  secret  cavern  of  this  lurking  treasure — 
And,  when  'tis  found,  let  me,  too,  have  that  pleasure. 
CUV. 

And  now,  Ilidalgc  !    now  that  you  have  thrown 

Doubt  upon  me,  confusion  over  all. 
Pray  have  the  courtesy  to  make  it  known 

IVko  is  the  man  you  search  for?    how  d'  ye  call 
Hiin?    what's  his  lineage?    let  him  hut  be  sho'.vii — 

I   hope  he 's  young  and  handsome — is  he  tail? 
Tell  rne — and  be  assured,  that  since  you   stain 
My  honour  thus,  it  shall   ftot  be  in  vain. 

CLV. 

"  At  least,  perhaps,  he  has  not  sixty  years — 

At  that   age  he  would   be  too  old  for  slaughter 
Or  for  so  young  a  husband's  jealous  fears — 

^Antonia!    let   me   have  a   glass   of  water). 
1  am  ashamed   of  having  shed   these  tears. 

They  are  unworthy  of  my  father's  daughter; 
My  mother  dream'd   not  in  my  natal   hour 
Tliat  I  should  fall  into  a  monster's  power. 

CLVI. 
•*  Perhaps  't  is  of  Antonia  you  are  jealous, 

You   saw  that  she  was  sle(!|)ing  by  my  side 
When  you  broke  in  upon  us  with  your  fellows  : 

Look  where  you  phrase — we 'vt;  nothing,  sir,  to  hide; 
Only  another  lime,  I   trust,  you  '11  tell  us, 

Or  for  the  sake  of  d(!cency  abide 
A  moment  at  the  door,  that  we  may  be 
Dress'd  to   receive  so  much   good  comi)any. 

CLVII. 
**  And  now,  sir,  I  have  done,  and  say  no  more; 

The  little  1   nave  said   may  servo  to  show 


The  guileless  Iicart  in   silcin-e  mav  <;rieve  o'er 
The  wrongs  to  whose  cxjinsure   it    is  slow:  — 

I  leave  you  to  your  conscience   as   hctiirr, 

'T  will  one  day  ask  ymi  u  hi/  vou   used   me   so? 

God   grant  you  feel    not    then   ilic   biiicrcst  arK-.f'  — 

Antonia!    where 's   my  pnckct-handken  hief ?" 

CLvm. 

She  ceased,  and    turuM    ii|ioii    Ikt   |,i'lo\v ;    pale 

She  lay,  her  dark  eyes  tlashiug  through  their  tears 
Like   skies    tliat    rain   and    rigliicn  ;    as    a    veil 

Waved    and  o'.;rshadini;   her  w;.n    chct^k,  appears 
Her  streaming  hair;    l!ie  black  curls  strive,  but  fail, 

'1\)  hide  the  glossy  shoulder  winch  uproars 
Its  snow  through  all  ;— her  soft  lips  Ih:  apart, 
And   louder   than    her   breathing  Ix^als   h(;r    heart. 

CLIX. 
The    Senhor  Don  Alfonso   stoo.l    confused  , 

x\ntoiiia  bustled  rcjund  the  raiisack'd  room, 
And,  turning    up  her   nosc',  with    looks    abiis(;d 

Her  master,  ami   his   mvrmiddiis,  of  uhotn 
N(^t   one,  except    the    attorney,  was   amused  ; 

He,  like  Aciiates,  failiil.d  to  the   tomb, 
So  there  were   (piarr<ds,  c.ired  not  for   the  cause. 
Knowing   they  must    be   settl(;d    by  l!ie   laws. 

CLX. 

With   prying   snub-ni'se,  and    small   eves,  he  stood, 
Foi!(r.vliig  Aiiionia's   motions   in-re   and   there, 

Wiiii    muc-h   suspicion    iii    his    attitude  ; 
Fof  reputation    he    had    little   care  : 

So   tliat    a  suit    or    action  wer<;    made   wiod, 
Small   pity  had    lie  for   t!ie   voim^   and  fair, 

And   ne'er   believe'd   in   iicuativ.-s,  till    these 

Were   proved   by  comp(;teMt  false  wiliiessee, 

CLXI. 

Hut  Don  Alfonso  stood  with  downcast    looks, 
And,  truth   to   say,  he   made   a  foolisii  lisure  ; 

When,  after  searching  in  hve  hundred    nooks, 
And  treating  a  young  wife  wiih  so  much  rigour, 

He  gain'd  no  point,  except  some  self  rehukts, 
Added   to  those  his  lady  with  such  /igour 

Had  pour'd  upon   him  for  the   last   half  hour. 

Quick,  thick,  and  heavy — as  a  thunder-shower. 

CLXII. 

At  first  he  tried  to  hammer  an   excuse. 

To  which    the   sole   re|ily  were  tears   and  sobs. 
And   indications  of  hysterics,  whose 

Prologue  is  always  certain  throes  and  throbs, 
Gasps,  and  whatever  else  tlie  owners  choose:  — 

Alfonso  saw  his  wife,  and   thought  of  Job's ; 
He  saw,  too,  in  persjiective,  her  relations, 
And  then  he  tried  to  muster  all  his  patience. 

CLXIII. 
He  stood  in   act  to  speak,  or  rather  stammer. 

But  sage  Antonia  cut    him   short    before 
The  anvil  of  his  speech  received   the   hammer. 

With  "  Pray,  sir,  leave  the  room,  and  say  no  more. 
Or  madam  dies." — Alfonso  mutter'd  "  D n  her.'' 

But  nothing  else,  the  time  of  words  was  o'er  , 
He  cast   a  rueful   look  or  two,  and  did. 
He  knesv  not  wherefore,  that  which   he  We^s  biu. 

CLXIV. 

With  him  retired  his  '■'■posse  comitat us,^'' 

The  attorney  last,  who  linger'd  near  the  door 

Reluctantly,  still  tarrying  there  as  late  as 
Antonia  let  him — not   a   little   sore 

At  this  most  strange   and  unex])lain'd  '•^hiatus'*' 
In  Don  Alfonso's  facts,  which  just  now  wore 


586 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKfe. 


in  awkward  look  ;    as  he  revolved  the  case, 
The  door  was  fasten'd  in  his  legal  face. 

CLXV, 

No  sooner  was   it   boiled,  than — Oh  shame  ! 

Oh   sin!    oh  sorrow!    and  oh  womankind  ! 
How  can  you  do   such  things  and   kecj)  your  fame, 

Unless  this  woi  Id,  and  t' other   too,  be  bUnil  ? 
Nothhig  so  dear   a'^   an   unlilch'd   good  name  ! 

Bvit  tc   proceed — for  there  is  more   behind  : 
Wi'h  much   heart-feh    reluctance   be   it  said, 
Voung  Juan   siipp'd,  half-smother'd,  from  the  bed. 

CLXVI. 
lie   had   been   hid — I   don't   pretend   to   say 

How,  nor  can   I   indeed  describe  the  where — 
Young,  slender,  and   pack'd   easily,  he   lay. 

No  doubt,  in  little  crmpass,  round  or  square  ; 
But  pity  him  I   neither  must  nor   may 

His  suffocation   by  that   pretty  pair  ; 
'T  were  better,  sure,  to  die  so,  than  be  shut, 
With  maudlin  Clarence,  in   his  Malmsey  butt. 

CLXVII. 

And,  secondly,  I  pity  not,  because 

He  had  no  busmess   to   coimnit  a  sin. 

Forbid   by  heavenly,  fined  by  human  laws, — 
At  least  't  was  rather  early  to  begin  ; 

But  at  sixteen  the  conscience  rarely  gnaws 
So  much   as  when  we  call  our  old  debts  in 

At  sixty  years,  and  draw  llie   accounts  of  evil, 

And  find   a  deuced  balance  with   the  devil. 

CLXVHI. 

Of  his  position   I  can   n'we   no  notion  : 
'T  is  written   in   the   Hebrew  Chronicle, 

How  the  physicians,  leaving  [)ill  and   potion, 
Prescribeii,  by  way  of  blister,  a   young   belle. 

When  old   King  David's  blood  grew  dull  in  motion. 
And  that  the  medicine   answer'd   very  well  ; 

Perhaps  't  was  in  a  dirferent  way  applied. 

For  David   lived,  but  Juan  iic^rly  died. 

CLXIX. 

What 's  to  be  done  ?   Alfonso  will  be  back 
The  moment   he  has  sent   his  foois  away. 

Antonia's  skill  was  put  upon  the  rack, 

But  no  device  could  be  brought  into  play — 

And  how  to  pai  ry  the  rencw'd  attack  ? 
Besidf-s,  it  wanted  but  few  hours  of  day  : 

Anloma  puzzled;   Juha  did   not  speak. 

But  press'd  hor  bloodless  lip  to  Juan's  cheek. 

CLXX. 

He  turn'd  hi'^  lip  to  hers,  and  whh  his  hand 

Call'd   ba;L  the  tangles  of  her  wandering  hair; 
Even  then  t:i.'ir  love  they  could  not  all  command, 

And  half  forgot  their  danger  and  despair: 
Antonia's   (-itience  now  was  at  a  stand — 

"  Come,  come,  't  is   no  time  now  for  foolincr  there," 
She  whispp.  'd  in   gr(;at  wrath — "  I   must  deposit 
This  pretty  gentleman  within  the  closet  ; 

CLXX!. 
"  Pray  kjcp  your  nonsense  for  some  luckier  night — 

lf^ht>  can   have  put    my  master  in   this   mf)0(i  ? 
What  will   become  on  't  /—I  'm   in   such   a  fright ! 

The   devil 's   in  the   urchin,  and   no   good — 
Is  thi.s   a   time  for   g-ggling  ?    this  a   plight  ? 

Wh},  don't  you   know  that    it    may  end   in   blood? 
You  M!  lose   your  life,  an<i   1   shall   lose   my  [)lacG 
Vly  mi.-i.resb  a'.i,  for   that   iialf-girlish   face. 

CLXXII. 
"Had   it   hut  been  for  a  stout  cavalier 

Oi  r  veniydive  or  thirty— (come,  make  haste) 


But  for  a  child,  what  piece  of  work  is  nere  . 

I  really,  madam,  wonder  at  }  our  taste — 
(Come,  sir,  get  in) — tny  master  must  be  neat. 

There,  for  the   present   at   the  least  he  's  fa&t. 
And,  if  we    can   b.it   till   the  morning  keep 
Our  counsel — (Juan,  mind  you  must  not  sleep).'' 

CLxxni. 

Now,  Don  Alfonso   entering,  but  alone, 
Closed  the  oration  of  the  trusty  maid: 

She  loiter'd,  and  he   told   her  to  bo  gone, 
An  order  somewhat  sullenly  obey'd  ; 

However,  present  remedy  was   none. 

And   no  great  good  seein'd  answer'd  if  she  stayM 

Regarding  both  with   slow  and   sidelong  view, 

She  snurt^'d  the  candle,  curtsied,  and  withdrew. 

CLXXIV. 

Alfonso  paused  a  mimito — then  begun 

Some  strange  excuses  for  his  late   proceeding; 

He  would  not  justify  what  he  had  done. 

To  say  the   best,  it  was  extreme   ill-breeding: 

But  there  were   ample  reasons   for  it,  none 
Of  which   he  specified  in   this  his   pleading: 

His  speech  was   a  fine   sample,  on  the  whole. 

Of  rhetoric,  which  the   learn'd  call  '■'■  ri^/narole.'" 

CLXXV. 

Julia  said  nought;   though  all  t!ie  while  there  ros>o 
A   ready  answer,  which   at  once   enables 

A   matron,  who  her   husband's  foible   knows, 
By  a  few  timely  words   to  turn  the   tables. 

Which,  if  it  does   not  silence,  still   must   pose, 
Even  if  it  should  com|)ris('  a  pack   of  fables; 

'T  is  to  retort  with  firmness,  and  wtiei.  he 

Suspects  with  one,  do  you  reproach  with  t/n-ee. 

CLXXVI. 

Julia,  m  fact,  had  tolerable  grounds, 

Alfonso's   loves  with  Inez  were  well  known  ; 

But  whether  'twas  that  one's  own  guilt  confounds— 
But  that  can't   be,  as  lias  been  often  shown; 

A  lady  with   apologies  abounds  : 

It  might  be  that  her  silence  sprang  alone 

From  delicacy  to  Don  Juan's  ear. 

To  whom  she  knew  his  mother's  fame  was  dear. 

CLXXVII. 

There  might  be  one  more  motive,  which  makes  two . 

Alfonso  ne'er  to  Juan  had  alluded, 
Mention'd   his  jealousy,  hut  never  who 

Had   been   the  happy  lover,  he  concluded, 
Conceal'd  among-t  his  premises;    'tis  true, 

His  mind  the  more  o'er  this  its  mystery  brooded; 
To   sjicak  of  Inez   now  were,  one  may  say, 
Like  throwing  Juan  in  Alfonso's  way. 

CLXXVIII. 

A  hint,  in  tender  cases,  is  enough  ; 

Silence  is  best,  besiiies  there   is   a  tact 
(That  modern   phrase   appears   to   me  sad  stuff. 

But    it  will  serve  to   keep   my  verse  com|iact) 
Which  keeps,  when  push'd  by  (piestions  rather  rough 

A   lady  always  distant  from  the  fact — 
The  charming  creatures  lie  with   such   a  graco, 
There's  nothing  so   bec-oming  to  the  face. 

CLXXIX. 

They  blush,  and  we  Ix-iieve  them  ;    at  least   I 
Have  always  done  so;    'tis  of  no   great   use, 

In  any  case,  attempting  a   reply, 

For  then  their  elcKiucnce   grows  quite  profuse; 

And  when   at  l("ngth  they  're  out  oi'  breath,  they  sigh, 
And  cast  their  languid  eyes  down,  and  let  loose 


DON    JUAN. 


587 


A  teat   or  two,  and  then  we  make  it  up  ; 
At  d  iliei'--aii(l  llien — and   then — sit  down  and   sup. 
CI.XXX. 

Ainiii?o  closed   lii:;  speech,  and   hcirtrM   her  pardon, 
Winch  Jnlia    haU"  wiihhcKI,  and   then  half  granted, 

Anci  laiti  eon(Utions,  he   thoUi,dit,  very  liard  on, 
Denying  several    httle  thnigs   he  wanted  : 

We  stood,  like   Adam,  lingeriiiiT   near   his   garden, 
With    U'^eless   p(;nitcnce   per|ilex'd   and    haunted, 

lieseei.dnng  she  no  t'lnMher  wonld  refuse, 

When  lo  !    he  stund)led   o'er  a  pair  of  shoes. 

CLXXXI. 

A   pair  of  shoes  ! — what   then?    not   much,  if  they 
Are  such  as  tit  with   lady's   feet,  hut   these 

(No  one  can   tell   how  much   I    si'icve  to   say) 
Were   masculine  :    lo   see   them    and    to   seize 

Was   but  a   moment's   act. — All  !    well-a-day  ! 
INIv  teeth   begin   to  chatter,  mv  v<'ius  freeze — 

Alfonso  hrst   examim^d  well   their  fashion. 

And  then  tiew  out  into  anotlKu-  passion. 

CLXXXII. 

He  left  the  room  for  his   relinquish'd   sword, 

And  .Julia  instant  to  the  closet  tlew  ; 
"Fly,  Juan,  fly  !    for  Heaven's   sake — not  a  word — 

The  door  is  ojien — you   may  yet  slip   through 
The  passage  you   so  often   have  <'xplored — 

Here  is  the  garden-key — tly — Hy — adieu  ! 
Haste — haste  ! — I   hear  Alfonso's  hurrying  feet — 
Day  has    not  broke — ;there  's  no  one  in  the  street. 

CLXXXIII. 
None  can  sav  that  this  was  not  ijood  advice, 

The  only  mischief  was,  it  came  too  late  ; 
Of  all  experience  't  is  the  usual  price, 

A  sort  of  income-tax   laid  on  bv  fate  : 
Juan  had  reach'd  the  room-door  in  a  trice, 

And  irigiit  have  done  so   by  the  garden-gate, 
but  met  Alfonso  in  his  dressing-gown, 
Who  threaten'd  death — so  Juan  knock'd  him  down, 

CLXXXIV. 

Dire  was  the  scutfie,  and  out  went  the  light, 

Antonia  cried  out   "Rape!"    and  Julia   "Fire!" 
But  not  a  servant   stirr'd  to  aid  the  tight. 

Alfonso,  pommell'd  to  his  heart's  desire, 
Swore  lustily  he  'd  be  revenged  this  night  ; 

And  Juan,  too,  blasphemed  an  octave  higher  ; 
His   blood  was  up  ;    though  young,  he  was  a  Tartar, 
And  not  at  all  disposed   \o   prove  a  inartjr. 

CLXXXV. 
Alfonso's  sword  had  dropp'd  ere  he  could  draw  it, 

And  tliey  continued   battling  hand  to  hand. 
For  Juan  very  luckily  ne'er  saw  it  ; 

His  temper  not  being  under   great  command, 
If  at   that  moment   he  had  chanced   to  claw  it, 

Alfonso's  davs  had  not   been  in  the   land 
Much  longer. — Think  of  husbands',  k)vers'  lives  ! 
And  how  you  may  be  doubly  widows — wives  ! 

CLXXXVI. 
Alfonso  grapp!<;d   to  detain  the  foe, 

And  .Tiian   throttlc'd    him   to   get   away. 
And  blood  ''twas  from  tin;  nose)   begnn  lo  flow  ; 

At  last,  a-;   they  mor<'  faintly  wrestliii^   lay, 
Juan  contrived  to  give  an   awkward    blow. 

And  then   his  only  garment  quite  gave  vvay  ; 
He  tied,  like  Joseph,  leaving   it — but    th<'re, 
I  doubt,  all   likeness   ends   between   tht;   pa  r. 

CLxxxvn. 

ijignts  came  at  length,  and  men  and  mail'^,  who  found 
An  awKward  spectacle  their  eyes  'i(:!;)re  ; 


Antonia  in   hysterics,  .lulia  swoon'd, 

Allonso   leamni.',  breal bless,  hv  lite  eooi  ; 

Soim;    half-torn  drapery  scatter'd    on    tlii;    gro     id. 
Some    blood,  and    several  f  >otsteps,  but    no    /nore  • 

Juan   the   gate   gam'd,  turn'd   the    kev  abouf 

And,  liking  nol   the   mside,  iock'd    the   out. 

CLXXXVHI. 

Here   ends   this  Canto.— Need    I    sing  or  s,  /, 
How  Juan,  naked,  favour'd    by  the    nioln 

(W'ho   favours  what    sl:e   should"  not),  found    bis  way 
And   reach'd    his    home   in   an    imseemly  plight  ? 

The   pleasant   scandal  which   arose  next  da  .-, 

The   nine  days'  wondt.'r  which  was   brou^  ,it  lo   ight 

And   how  Alfonso   sued  for   a  divorce. 

Were   ."n   the  English    newspapers,  of  course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If  you  wonld   like   lo   see  the  whole,  proce  .Jiiiijs, 
The  depositions,  and    the  cause   at  fnll, 

The   names    of  all    tlie  witnesses,  the    |)leadiiigs 
Of  counsel    to   nonsuit    or   to   annul, 

There's   more  than   one   edition,  and   the   readin/c 
Are  various,  but  they  none  of  th'-m    are  dull, 

The    best    is   that    in    short-band,  ta'en    by  iiwn    /, 

Who  to  Madrid  on   pur|)ose   made'   a  journey 

CXC. 

But  Donna  Inez,  to  divert    Ine   train 

Of  one  of  the   most    circulating  scandals 

That   bad  for  centuries   been    known   in  Spain, 
At   least   since   the    retirement   of  the  V^andalj- 

p"'irst    vow'd  (and   never  had   she  vow'd   in  vnin) 
To  Virjjin  Marv  .several    pounds   of  candles  ; 

And    then,  by  the    advi -e    of  sosue   old    kidies, 

She  sent   her  son  to   be  slnpp'd  otf  i'roui  Cadiz 

CXC  I. 

She  had   resolved   that   he  should   travel  through 

All  Euro])ean  climes   bv  land   or  ■.■ea, 
To   mend    his  former   morals,  and   get   new, 

Espe<;iarLy  in  France    and  Ilalv, 
(At   least    this  is  the   thing   most   people  do). 

Julia  was   sent  into  a   convent  ;    she 
Grieved,  but   |)erha[)s.  .ler  feelings  may  be  better 
Shown   in  the  following  copy  of  her  letter  : 

CXCII. 

"  They  tell   me  't  is  det'ided,  you  depart  : 

'T  is  wise — 't  is  well,  but   not   the  less   a   pain  : 

I   have   no  further  claim  on   your  young  heart, 
Mine   is  the  victim,  and  would   be   Again  : 

To  love   too   much   has   been   the   only  art 
I  used; — I  writt;   in   liaste,  and   if  a   slain 

Be  on  this  sheet,  't  is   not  what    it   a[)pears — 

My  eyeballs  burn   and   throb,  but   have  no  tears. 

CXCIII. 

"I   loved,  I   love  you;    for   this  love  have   lost 
State,  station,  heaven,  mankind's,  my  own  esteem. 

And  yet  cannot  regret  what  it   hath  cost, 
So  dear  i?  still  the  memory  of  that  dream; 

Yet,  if  I   name  my  guilt,  't  is  not   to  boast, — 
None  can  deem,  harshiier   of  me   than  I  deen» ; 

I  trace  this  scrawl  because   I   cannot   rest — 

I  've  nothing  to  rejjroach  or  to  request. 

CXCIV. 

Man's  love  is  of  man's   life   a  thing  apart, 
'T is  woman's  whole  existence;    man   may  ranoo 

The  court,  camp,  church,  the  vessel,  and  the  mau, 
Sword,  gown,  gain,  glorv,  otler  m  exchange 

Piide,  fame,  ambition,  lo  fill   up  his  hearr. 

And   few  there   are  whom   these  cannot  esirangei 


)88 


in'T^ON'S    rOETICAL    WORKS 


Alt-n  have   a!!   th(;sp  resources,  we   but   one —  1 

To  love   again,  an:l   be   again   unuone. 

cxcv. 

''  Vo;i  wil    pro-  eeci   in   pleasure   and  in   pride, 

lit'lovetl   and   loving   many  ;   all   is   o"er 
Fur   me  on  ea/tli,  except  some   years  to  hide 

Mv  shame   and   sorrow  deep   m   my  heart's  core 
Ti!cs<?  I  c--..;Id,    t.'ear,  but   cannot   cast   asitle 

The  passion,  which  still  ri;t:es  as  b<.'fore. 
And  so  farewell — torj;ive  ine,  love  me — No, 
That  svord   is   idle   now — hut  let   it   go. 

CXCVi. 

>■'  My  breast   has  been   all  weakness,  is   so   yet ; 

I'.ut    siil!,  I   thiiik,  I   can   collect    my  mind  ; 
Mv  hlooii   still  rushes  where   my  spirit 's   sot, 

As   roll   the  waves  before   the   settled  wind  , 
Mv  li.'art    is   feminine,  nor  can    forfret — 

To    all,  e.\'c<'[)t    one    imatie,  ma^ily  blind  : 
So   shakes   the    needle,  and    so   stands    tlie    pole, 
As  vibrates   my  fond   heart  to   my  hx'd  soul. 

CXCVII. 
"I    have    no   more    to    say,  but    linger    still, 

And  d;ire    not    s(;t    mv  seal    up'in    this   sln^et, 
Aiul   yet   I  may  as  well    the   las'-,   fuitli, 

?>lv  misery  can   scarce    be    more   complete: 
I   had    not    hVed    till    now,  ctu'.^.l    sorrow  kill  ; 

Deaih  shuns  the  wretch  who  tain  the  blow  would  meet 
And    I    must    ev.Mi   survive   this    lasfadi.-u, 
And   bear  with   life,  to   love   and    pray  f^r    vv-ul" 

CXCVIII. 
This   iK.te  was  written    upon    "ill-edged    paper, 

With   a   neat   little   'Tow-Miiill,  slight  and   new  : 
Her  small  white   hand   could   hardiy  reach  the  taper 

[',    trembled    as    magnetic   needles  do, 
And  yet   she  did   n^.t    let  one   t.'ar  e-cape    her; 

Tiie   seal    a    smi-liower  ;    "  A7/^    vods   suit  partout,'' 
The   motto  cut   u  ion   a  white  cornelian, 
Tiie  wax  was   siiperiiue,  its    hue  vermilion. 

CXCIX. 

Tins  was  Don  Juan's  earlu.'st   scrape;    but  whether 

I   shall   proceed  with   his   iuiventure  is 
De-pendent   on   tlu!   public   aitogetht>r  : 

We'll  see,  however,  wliat   they  say  to  this 
(Th.'ir  favour   m   an   author's   cap  's   a  feather. 

And   no  ijreat   misciiief 's  done   by  their  caprice); 
An  I,  if  their   approbation  we  experience, 
Peili,.()s  they'll  have  some  more  about  a  year  hence. 

CC. 
My  poem's    epic,  and    is    meant   to   be 

Divided    in   twelve   books;    each   book   containing, 
With    !..ve,  and  war,  a    h(;avy  gale   at    sea, 

A  list   of  ships,  and   c.iptains,  and   kmgs   reigning, 
Ni-v  characters  ;    the  episodes  arc;  three  : 

A  paiioraaia  view  of  heil's  m  training, 
Afi'-r'  ih.;  style  of  Vir-,'il  and  of  Homer, 
S(,  that    my  name  of  Lpic 's  no  misnoiner. 

CCI. 

All    these  thiui.'^  will   bi;   -p.'Cihed   in   time. 
With    siru-t    reL'ar.l    to  Anviotle's  llules, 

riie    cnd,^    nirriun    of  tlu'    true    sublime, 

Which    makes  so    n.anv  p.xts    an<l    some-   foo.s  ; 

Prose   i)octs   like   b!a.ik-vr,s< — ! 'm  fond  of  rhyme— 
(loi.d  'vorkmcri    never  (piarrel  v,  iih    their   tools; 

I  'v(.   t'ot    new  invthcli.^qeal    maehmerv, 

Au.l  very  handsome   supirnaiural    scenery. 

ecu. 

There's   only  one  slight  dilieM^uce   between 
Mu  -^na   tir\  epic   bretlireii   gone   before. 


And   liere   the   advantage  is   my  own,  I  ,veen, 
(Not  that   I   have   not   several   mer.ls   more), 

But  this  will  more  peculiarly  be  seen  ; 
Thev  so  embelhsh,  that  'tis  quite  a  bore 

Their   labyrinth  of  fables   to   thread   through. 

Whereas  this   story  's   ac;tually  true. 

CCill. 

If  any  ])erson  doubt   it,  I  appeal 

To  history,  tradition,  and   to   facts, 
To  newspapers,  whose  truth  all  know  anc  feei. 

To   plays   in   live,  and   operas   in  three   acts , 
All  thess   confirm   my  statement   a  good  deal. 

But  that  which   more   completely  faith   exacjts 
Is,   that   myself,  and   several   now  in  Seville, 
Saw  Juan's  last  elopement  with  the  devil. 

CCIV. 

If  ever  I    should   condesc-end    to   prose, 
I '11  write   poetical   commandments,  which 

Shall   supersede;   beyond   all  doubt   all   those 
That  went  before  ;    in  these  I   shad    enrich 

My  text  with  many  things   that   no   one  knows. 
And  carry  precept    to   the   highest   pitch: 

I'll    call   the"  work    "  Lonauius    o'er  a  Bottle, 

Or,  Every  Poet   his  own  Aristotle." 

ccv. 

Thou  shall   bcihove   in  Milton,  Drvden,  Pope: 

Thou  shalt  not  set  up  Wor'Isworth, Coleridge, Southcy 

Because    the   first   is  cra/.ed    bcycMid   all   hope. 

The  second  drunk,  the  third  so  ciuaint  and  moulhry 

With  Crabbe    if   may  be  difficult   to  cope, 

And  Ca'ui>beirs  Hi|)pocrene  is  somewhat  droulriy: 

Tlioii   -hah  not    steal   fVom   Samu(;l  Rogers,  nor 

(Jommit — thirty  ion  witli  the  muse  of  Moore: 

CCVI. 

Thou  shalt  I'  )t  covet  Mr.  Sotheby's  Muse, 
Ilis  Pegasi.s,  nor  anything   that's   his: 

Thou  shalt  not    bear  false  witness,  like  "the  Blues," 
j         (There  "s   one,  at   least,  is  very  fond  of  this): 

Thou   shalt    not  write,  in   shcjrt,  but  what  I  choobin; 
This   is   l.-ue   criticism,  and   you  may  kiss — 

Exactlv  as  you   please,  or  not — the   rod. 

But  if  you  dcjii't,  I'h   lay  it  on,  by  G— d  ! 

CCVII. 

If  any  person  should   pr(;sume  to   assert 

The  storv  is   not  moral,  first,  I   pray 
That   thev  will   not  cry  out   before  they're  hurt; 

Then   that   th(;v  '11   read   it  o'er  again,  and  say 
(But,  doubtk'ss,  nobody  will    be  so   jiert) 

That  (hi-j   is  nc:»t  a  moral  tale,  though  gay ; 
Besides,  in  canto  twelfth,  I  mean   to  show 
The  very  place  where  wicked    people  go. 

CCVIII. 
If,  after   all,  thee   should    be   some   so  blind 

To   their   o>vii   good    this  warning  to  despise, 
Led   bv  some   tortuosity  of  mind. 

Not  to  believe  n.y  vc:rs(;   and   their  own   eyes^ 
And  (;rv  that    they  "the    irorai   cannot  find," 

I   t(;ll   him,  if  a  (;lergyman,  he   lies- 
Should  captains  the  remark,  or  critics,  make, 
They  also  lie  too — under   a  mistake. 

CCIX. 

The  public  approbation  I  expect. 

And  bc;i;  thev'U   take   my  word   about  the  nnoral. 
Which   I  with  their  amusement  will  connect 

(So  childr(;n  cnitting  teeth  receive   a  coral); 
Meantime,  they'll  doubtless   please  to  recollect 

My  epical   pi  etensions  to  the  laurel : 


DON    JUAN. 


se'j 


i    ,..,sl- 


■;«,■.   t»  roasl, 
,'   iu;i(le   It    iier, 


H'or  fear  some  prudish  reailer  shoiiU!  grow  skittish, 
I  've  bribed  my  grandiiiulKL'r's  review — the  Kritish. 

ccx. 

I  ^.  111   It    in   a    letle!    U>   die   ediior, 

\'v'!i()   UiaiikM   uie  iluly  liy  reli 
J    III   tor  a  iiai  ilsoiiie   arneir   hi 

Vel,  if  my  ueiilie  Mu^e   he    p 
And   h.-eak  "a  'i.roini.-e   alter   h.. 

DeuviiiJ    tlie    reeei|>t    ni"  what    it    eosi, 
And    ^u^,''ii-   his    page  svilh    -all    instead    of  honey, 
All   I   ran  say  is — that   lie   had   the  money. 

CCXl. 

I   think   tliat  with  this   holy  new  alliance 

I   mav  insure   the   piinhc,  and  d(.-fy 
Al!   other   maija/.ines   ol'  art   or    se.ienee, 

Dailv,  or   monlhlv,  or  three->nonthlv  ;   I 
Have   not   essavM  to   iniiitijily  tlieir  ch(Mits, 

Beeause  they  tell  in(>  't  wtwe  in  vam  to  try, 
And  that  the  Edinburgh  Review  and  Quarterly 
Treat   a  dissenting  author  verv  niaityrlv. 

CCXII. 
"  Non  ego  hoc  frrrem  adida  juienta 

C'jiisule  Planco,^''   Horace  said,  and  so 
Say  I,  by  which  ijuotation  there  is  meant  a 

Hint  thai  some  six  or  seven  good  years  ago 
(Long  ere  I  dreamt  of  dating  from  the  Brenta), 

I  was  most  ready  to  return   a  blow, 
And  would  not  brook  at  all  this  sort  of  thing 
\i   my  hot  youth — when  George  the  Third  was  King. 

CCXIII. 
B  it  now,  at  thirty  years,  my  hair  is  gray — 

(I  wonder  what  it  will  be  like  at  forlv? 

'.hoiight  of  a  peruke  the  other  day,) 

INly  heart  is   not  much  greener  ;    and,  in  sh<jrt,  I 
Have  squander'd  my  whole  summer  wliile  't  was  May, 

And  feel  no  more  the  spirit  to  retort ;   I 
Have  spent   my  lil'e,  both   interest  and  principal, 
And  deem  not,  what  I  deem'd,  my  soul  invincible. 

CCXIV. 
No  more — no  more — Oh  !   never  more   on  me 

The  Ireshness  of  the  heart  can  fall  like  dew, 
Which  out  of  all  the  lovelv  things  we  see 

Extracts   emotions   beautiful   and   new. 
Hived  in  our  bosoms  like  the  bag  o'  the   bee  : 

Think'st   thou  the   honey  with  those  oiijccts  grew  ? 
Alas  !    't  was  not   in   them,  but,  in  thy  power. 
To  double  even  the  sweetness  of  a  Hower. 

ccxv. 

No  more — no   more — Oh  I    iu'ver  more,  my  heari, 
Canst   tliou  Ijc   mv  sole  world,  my  universe  ! 

Once   all   in   all,  but   now  a  tlnnsi  a[)art. 

Thou  canst  not  be   mv  rili  ssjii^r  or   mv  curse : 


!    the   lite   f    lid  do: 
inal    minds   is    >'er ; 
■f    is    f.rl  id,  fooi 
aMlv  v.rr. 


The   illusion  's   gone   for   ev-c-r,  and   thou   art 

Insensible,  I  trust,  but   none  the  worse  ; 
And  in  thy  stead  I  've  got  a  deal  of  juilgincnt. 
Though  Heaven  knows  how  it  ever  found  a  lodgment. 

CCXVI 

My  days  of  love  are  over — me  no  more' 

The  charms  of  maid,  wife,  and  still  less  of  widow, 
Cm    make  the  foo    cf  which  tbev  made  bef'*ry — 


In  short,  I  must  not  h 
The  cr(>d,uious   h-.pe  nf  „ 

The  copious  n^ii  of  c!; 
So,  f^)r  a  good  old  ^r,.,„l,> 
I   thmi(    1    must    take    up  \Mth    a\;;rirf. 

(^("XVil. 

Ambition  was  my  idol,  whiih  was   broken 

Be'f)re   the   slirmes  of  Sor:-.>\v  and   of  I'lea-^urc ; 

Anil  the  two  last   have  left  me   manv  a   token 
O'er  wliiidi   rellectioii   maybe   made  at   leisure: 

Now,  like  Friar  Bacon's    bra/en    head,  I  've  v|,(,|..en. 
"Time  is,  time  was,  time's  past,"  a  chymir  treasui* 

Is   glittering   youth,  which    1    have    spent    betimes — 

IVIy  heart   in    passion,  and   my  head   on   rhymes. 

CCXVIII. 

!    What  is  the  end   of  fajue  ?   'tis  but   to  fill 
\        A  certain   |)oriion   of  uncertain   paper; 
Some   liken   it    to    climbing   ii])   a   luii. 

Whose   summit,  like  ail   liilis,  is   lost   in  vapour ; 
For  this   iiK'H  write,  sp(Ml<,  preach,  aiul    lu/roes  kill  ; 

And  hards  burn  w  hat  they  call  their  "  midhight  taper,' 
To   have,  when   tlie  oriiiinal    is  dust, 
A  name,  a  wretched   piciure,  and  worsf:   Ixist. 

CCXIX. 

^Vhat  are  the  hopes  of  man  /   f)!l  Ei.'vpt's  kiii'T, 

Cheops,  erected   the   lirst  [t\ramid 
I     And  largest,  thinking;   it  was  Ju^l    liie   thing 

To  kec|)  his   memory  whtdc,  and   mummy  hid ; 
But  somebody  or  otlier,  rummagin.:, 

Burglariously  broke  his  coftin's  lid  ; 
Let  not  a  monument   give  you  or  me  hopes, 
Since  not  a  pirch  of  dust  remains  of  Clieops. 

CCXX. 

But  I,  being  fond  of  true  uhilosophy. 

Say  very  often   to  myself,  "  Alas  ! 
All  things  that  have  been   born  were  born  to  die, 

And  flesh  (which  death  mows  down  to  hay)  is  grass 
You've  pass'd  your  youth   not  so   unpleasantly. 

And   if  you  had  it  o'er   aijain — 't  would  jiass — 
So  thank  your  stars  that   r.ifi's   are   no  worse, 
And  read  your  Bible,  sir,  and  mind   your   purse." 

CCXXI. 

But  for  the  present,  gentle  reacier!    and 

Still   gentler  purchaser!    iheiiiard — that's  I — 

Must,  with   permission,  shake  you   l)y  the   hand, 
And  so  your  humble  servant,  and   good  bye! 

We  meet  again,  if  we  should   understand 
Each   other;   and  if  not,  I   shall   not   try 

Vour  patience  fuither  than   by  this  sliort  sample— 

'T  were  well  -f  others  follow'd   my  example. 

CCXXH. 

"  Go,  little  book,  from  this  my  solitude  ! 

I  cast  thee  on  the  waters,  go  thy  ways  ! 
And  if,  as  I  believe,  thy  vein  be  good. 

The  world  will  fin.l   thee  after  manv  davs." 
When   Southey 's  read,  and  Wordsw<rrh  understooo 

I  can't  help  putting  in  my  claim  to  praise— 
The  four  first  rhymes  are  Souihey's,  e\erv  '.inc . 
For  God's  sake,  reader!   take  them  not  f'>r  j  line 


590 


Yi> 


^ 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


CANTO  11.  / 


I. 

Oh  ye !    who  teach  the  ingenuous  youth  of  nations, 
Holland,  France,  England,  Germany,  or  Sj)ain, 

I  pray  ye  Hog  them  upon  all  occasions. 
It  mends  their  morals  ;   never  mind  the  pain  : 

The  best  of  mothers  and  of  educations, 
In  Juan's  case,  were  but  employ'd  in  vain, 

Since  in  a  way,  that 's  rather  of  the  oddest,  he 

Bficame  divested  of  his  native  modesty. 

II. 

»fad  he  but  been  placed  at  a  public  school, 
In  the  third  form,  or  even  in  the  fourth, 

His  daily  task  had  kept  his  fancy  cool. 

At  least  had  lie  been  nurtured  in  the  north; 

Spain  may  prove  an  exception  to  the  rule. 

But  then  exceptions  always  prove  its  worth — 

A  lad  of  sixteen  causing  a  divorce 

Puzzled   his  tutors  very  mucli,  of  course. 

III. 

I  can't  say  that   it  puzzles  me  at  all, 

If  all  tinnirs  be  consider'd  :    first,  there  was 

His  lady  mother,  mathematical, 

A ,  never  muid  ;    his  tutor,  an  old  ass  ; 

A  pretty  woman — (that's  quite  natural, 

Or  else  the  thing  had  hardly  come  to  pass); 

A  husband   rather  old,  not  much  in  unity 

With  his  youiiir  wife — a  time,  and  opi)ortunity. 

IV. 

Well — well,  tlie  world  must  turn  upon  its  axis, 

And   all  mankind  turn  with  it,  heads  or  tails. 
And  live  and  die,  make  love,  and  pay  our  taxes. 

And  as  the  veering  wind  shifts,  shift  our  sails  ; 
Tiie  king  commands   us,  and  the  doctor  quacks  us, 

The  priest   instructs,  and  so  our  life   exhales. 
A  little   breath,  love,  wine,  ambition,  fame, 
Fighting,  devotion,  dust — perhaps  a  name. 

V. 
I  said,  that  Juan   ha4  been   sent  to  Cadiz — 

A  |)i-etty  town,  I   recollect  it   •■.(■11 — 
Tis  there   the   mart  of  the  colonial  trade  is 

(Or  wiis,  before  Peru  Icarn'd   to  rebel); 
And   such   sw(;et   girls — I  mean   such   graceful  ladies, 

Their  very  walk  would  make  your  bosom  swell ; 
I   can't  describe   it,  though   so  much   it  strike, 
N'lr   liken  it — I   never  saw  the  hke : 

VI. 

An  Arab  horse,  a  stately  stag,  a  barb 

New  broke,  a  cameleo|)ard,  a  gazelle. 
So — none  of  these  will  do; — and  then  their  garb! 

Their  veil   and  petticoat — Alas  !    to  dwell 
Ooon  such   things  would  very  near  absorb 

A  canto — tii(.n   their  feet  and   ancles! — well. 
Thank  Heaven   I  've  got  no  mctaplior  (juite  ready, 
\t.d  so,  my  sober  Muse — come  let's  be  steady — 
VII. 
Chaste  Muse! — woll,  if  you  must,  you  must) — the  veil 

Thrown   back   a  moment  with   the  glancing  hand. 
While  In.!  o'erpowering  ey(!,  that    turns   you  pale, 

•^lashes   into   the   heart: — all   sunny  land 
Of  love!    when   I  forget  you,  may  I  fail 

To say  my  prayers— but  .-levcr  was  there  pKuin'd 


A  dress  through  n'hich  the  eyes  give  sud  a  /oU*^ 
Excepting  the  Venetian  Fazzio. 

VIII. 

But   to  our  tale:    the  Donna  Inez  sent 

Her  son   to   Cadiz  only  to  einl)ark  ; 
To  stay  there  had  not  answer'd  her  intent, 

But  why  ? — we  leave  the   reader   in   the  dark  - 
' T  was  for  a  voyage  that  the  young  man  was  mean 

As   if  a   Spanish   ship  were  Noah's  ark, 
To  wean   him  from  the  wickedness  of  earth, 
And  send  him   like  a  dove  of  promise  iorth. 

IX. 

Don  Juan  bade  his   valet   pack  his  things 

According   to  direction,  then   received 
A  lecture  and   some  money :    for  ibur  springs 

He  was  to  travel ;    and,  though   Inez  grieved 
(As   every  kind  of  parting  has   its   stings). 

She  hoped  he  would  improve— perhaps  believed  ■ 
A  letter,  loo,  she  gave  (he  never  read  it) 
Of  good  advice — and  two  or  three  of  credit. 

X. 

In  the  mean  time,  to  pass  her  hours  away. 

Brave  Inez  now  set   up  a  Sunday-school 
For  naughty  chiKlren,  who  would   rather  play 

(Like  truant   rogues)  the  devil   or  the  fool  ; 
Infants  of  three  years  old  were  taught  that  day, 

Dunces  were  whipp'd   or   set   upon   a  stool : 
The  great   success  of  Juan's  education 
Spurr'd  her  to  teach   another  generation. 

XL 
Juan  embark'd — the  ship  got  under  weigh. 

The  wind  was  tliir,  the  water  passing   rough  ; 
A  devil  of  a  sea   rolls   in   that   bay, 

As  I,  who  've  cross'd   it  oft,  know  well  enough 
And,  SI, 1,1  uiig   upon  deck,  the  dashing   spray 

Flies  in  one's  face,  and  makes  it  weather-tough  ., 
And  there  he  stoo;!   to   taice,  ;uid   take  again, 
His  first — [)erhaps  his   last — farewell   of  Spain. 

XII. 
I  can't  but  say  it   is  an  awkward  sight         ^ 

To  .see  one's  native  land   receding  through 
The  growing  watt^rs — it   unmans  one  quite  ; 

Especially  when  Wfa  is  rather  new  : 
I  recollect  Great    Britain's  coast  looks  white, 

But  almost  every  other  country's  blue, 
When,  gazing  on  them,  mystified  by  distance. 
We  enter    on  our   nautical   existence. 

XIU. 
So  Juan  stood  bewilder'd  on   the  deck  : 

The  wind  sung,  cordage  strain'd,  and  sailors  swoit. 
And  the  ship  creak'd,  the  town   became  a  speck. 

From  which  away  so  fair  and  fast  they  bore. 
The   best  of  remedies  is  a  beef-steak 

Against  sea-sickness  ;  try  it,  sir,  before 
You  sneer,  and  I  assure  you  this  is  true. 
For  I  have  found  it  answer — so  may  you. 

XIV. 
Don  .luan  stood,  and,  gazing  from  the  stern» 

Beheld  his  native   Spam  receding  tar  : 
First  partings  form  a  lesson  hard  to  learn, 

Even  nations  feel  this  when  they  go  to  war; 
There  is  a  sort  of  unexpress'd  concern, 

A  kind  of  shock  ttiat  sets  one's  heart  ajar: 
At  l(,'aving  even  the  most  unpleasant  pciplo 
And  places,  one  keeps  looking  at  the  Bl»^eplfc. 

XV. 

But  Juan  had  got  many  things  to  leavo — 
His  mother,  and  a   mistress,  and  m,  wif*}, 


DON    JUAN. 


591 


So  iha.  he  had  much  botler  cause  to  grieve 
Timn    iiKiuy  persons   more   adsance;!   in   life; 

AiKi,  d"  we  iiou  and  tlicii  a  sii;h  must  lieave 
At  ijU'.'tuii;  even   llu)se  we  (juit   in   strife, 

No  d.)ur)t  we  wee[)  for  tliose  Ilie  lieart  endears — - 

'i'liut  is,  till  dee[)(T  grii-fs  coni.'ea    our  tears. 

XVI. 

So  Juan  wept,  as  wept  the  captive  Jc.vs 
By  Hahel's  water,  still  riMneinbering  Sion : 

I  'd  weep,  but  mine   is   not  a  weeping  n\use. 

And   such  light   griefs   are  not   a  thing  to  die  on  ; 

Young  men   should  travel,  if  but   to   amuse 

Themselves;    and  the  next  lime?  tlxir  servants  tie  on 

Hehind   their  carriages  their  new  porimanteau, 

Perhajis  it  may  be  lined  with  this  my  ciiuto. 

XVII. 

And  .Juan  we])t,  and  mu(di  he  sigliM,  and  thout.dit. 
While  his  salt   tears  dropl   into  the  salt  sea, 

■"'  Sweets  to  the  sweet  ;"    (I  likt;  so  niueli  to  (juote  : 
You   must   excuse   this  extract, 't  is  where  she, 

Th.a  Queen  of  Denmark,  for  Ophelia  brouohi 
Fluuers  to  trie   grave,)  and   sobbing  often,  he 

Reile^ted   on   his   present   situation, 

And  seriously  resolved  on   reformation. 

XVIII. 

"  Farewell,  my  Spain  !   a  long  farewell !"  he  cried, 
"  Periiaps   I   mav  revisit   tht^e  no  more. 

Rut  die,  as  many  an   exiled   heart  hath  died. 
Of  its  own   thirst   to  see  airain  thv  shore: 

Farewell,  where  Guadalijuivir's  waters  ghde  ! 
Fr.rewell,  my  mother  I    :uid,  since  ail   is   o'er, 

Fc^rfwell,  too,  dearest   Julia!" — (here  he  drew 

llci    letter   out  again,  and  read  it  through..) 

XIX. 

•'And  oh;  if  e'er  I  should  torget,  I  swear — 
Hut   thuT  "s  impossible,  and  cannot  he — 

Sooner  shall   this   blue  ocean   melt  to  air. 
Sooner  shall  earth   resolve   itself  to  sea, 

Than    I    resign   thme   image,  oh  !    my  fair! 
Or  think   of  any  thing,  excepting  thee; 

A  mind  diseased   no  remedy  can   physic" — 

(Here  the  ship  gave  a  lurch,  and  he  grew  sea-sick). 

XX. 

"  Sooner  shall  heaven  kiss  earth — (here  he  fell  sicker) 
Oh,  Julia!    what  is  every  other  woe!  — 

(For  Gocfs  sake,  let  me  have  a  glass  of  liquor — 
Pedro!     Hattista  !    help  me  down  below). 

Julia,  my  lovf;!  — (you  ra.-eal,  Pedro,  (pucker) 
Oh,  Jiiiial  — (this  cursed  vessid   p*A'di(;s  so)  — 

Beloved  .Julia!    hear  me   still  b(;seeching" — 

(Here  he   grew  inarticulate  with  retching). 

XXI. 

He  felt   that  chilling  heaviness  of  heart, 
Or  rather  stomach,  which,  alas  !    attends, 

Beyond  the  best  apothecary's  art, 

The  loss  of  love,  the  treachery  of  friends, 

Or  death  of  those  we  doat  on,  v.hen  a  part 

Of  us  dies  with  them,  as  each  fond  hope  ends  : 

No  doubt  he  would  have  been  much  more  pathetic, 

Hu    "die  sea  acted  as  a  strong  emetic. 

XXII. 

Love  's  a  capricious  power ;    I  've  known   it  hold 
Out  through  a  fever  caused  by  its  own  heat. 

But  be  much  pu/.zled  by  a  cough  and  cold. 
And  tind  a  ijuinsy  very  hard   to  treat  ; 

Against  all   noble  maladies   he's  bold, 
But  vubjar  illness(-s  don't   like  to   meet. 


Nor  that   a   sneeze   should  interrupt  his  sigh', 
Nor  inilammations   redden  his  blind  eye. 

xxm. 

But  worst  of  all   is   nausea,  or  a  [lain 
About  the   lower  region  of  the  bowel-i; 

Love,  uho   heroically  breathes  a  vein, 

Shrinks  from  the  application  of  hot  tovvelH, 

And  [)urgatives  are  dangerous  to   his  reign. 

Sea-sickness  death:    his  love  was  perfect,  howclfC 

Could  Juan's  passion,  whih.';  the  billows  loar. 

Resist  his  stomach,  ne'er  at  sea  before/ 

XXIV. 

The  ship,  called  the  most   holy  "  Trinidada," 
Vv'as  steering  duly  tor   the  port  Leghorn  ; 

For  there  the  Spanish  family  Moncaila 

Were  s(Mtl(.'d  long  ere  Juan's  sire  was  born. 

They  were  relations,  and  for  them   he  had  a 
Letter  of  introduction,  which  the  morn 

Of  his  departure  had   been   sent  him   by 

His  Spanish  friends  for  those  in   Italy. 

XXV, 

His  suite  consisted  of  three  servants  and 

A  tutor,  the   licentiate  Pedrillo, 
Who  several  languages  did  understand. 

But  now  lay  sick  and  speechless  on  his  pillow, 
And,  rocking  in  his  hammock,  long'd  for  land, 

His  heail-ache  being  increased  by  every  billow ; 
And  the  waves  oozing  through  the  port-hole  made 
His  birth  a  little  damp,  and  him  afraid. 

XXVL 

'T  was  not  without   some   reason,  f()r  the  wind 
Increased  at  night,  until   it  blew  a  gale; 

And  though  't  was  not   much  to  a  naval  mind, 
Some  lan<ismen  would   have  iook'd  a  iitlle  paJe, 

For  sailors  are,  in  fact,  a  dilFerent   kind: 
At   sunset   they  began  to  take   in  sail. 

For  the  sky  show'd  it  would  come  on  to  blow, 

And  carry  away,  (lerhaus,  a  m;ist   or  so. 

XXVII. 

At  o!)e  o'clock,  the  wind  with  sudden   shift 

Threw   the,  ship  rijiht   into  the  trough  of  the  sea 

Whi(di   struck  her  aft,  and   made   an   awkward  rift, 
Started  the  stern-|)ost,  also  shatter'tl  the 

Whole  of  her  stern-frame,  and,  ere  she  could  hfl 
fl(rsi  !!'  from  out   her  present  jeopardy, 

The  ruiMiT  tore  away:   'twas   time  to  sound 

The  pumps,  and  there  were  four  feet  water  found, 

XXVIII. 

One   gaiii:  of  people  iusiantiv  was  put 
Lpon   ilie   pumps,  and   the   roinainder  set 

To  get    u|)   part   of  the   cargo,  and  what   not. 
But  they  could   not  come  at  the  leak  as  yet; 

At   last  they  did   get  at  it  really,  but 
Still  t!ic;ir  salvation  was  an  even  bet: 

The  water  rush'd  through  in  a  way  quite  puzzHng, 

While  they  thrust  sheets,  shirts,  jackets,  bales  of  muslin 

XXIX. 

Into  the   opening  ;   but  all   such  ingredients 

Would  have  been  vain,  and  they  must  have  gone  dow 

Despite  of  all   their  efforts  and   expedi.ents. 

But  for  the  pumps:   I  'm  glad  to  make  them  icnown 

To  all   the  brother-tars  who  mav  have  need  hencfc 
Fur  fil"iy  tons  of  water  were  upthrown 

Byihem   per  hour,  and  they  had  all  bem  cnr^cob 

But  for  the  maker,  Mr.  Man,  of  London.     --.    >, 

XXX. 

As  day  advanced,  the  weather  seem'd  to  abate, 
And  then  the  leak  tHey  reckon'd  to  r'.  duce. 


692 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


And   keep  the  ship  afloat,  though   three  feet  yet 
Kept  two   hand  and   one   cliain  pump  still  in  use. 

T  ho  wind   blew   fresh   aaain :    as   it    ijrew   late 

A  squall  came  on,  and,  while  some  guns  broke  loose 

A   gust — which   all  descri[)tive  y)Ower  transcends — 

Laid  with   one  blast  the  shij)  on   her  beam-ends, 

XXXI. 

There  she  lay  motionless,  and   seem'd  u[)set: 
The  water  left   the   hold,  and  wash'd  the   decks. 

And    made  a   scene   men   do   not   soon  for;iot ; 
For  they  remember   lialtles,  tires,  and  wrecks. 

Or  anv  other  tinmj  that   briiius   regret. 

Or  breaks  their  hopes,  or  hearts,  or  heads,  or  necks: 

Thus  drownings   are   mu^di   taik'd  (if  by  the   divers 

And  swimmers  who  mav  cliaiice  to   be  survivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediately  tlie  masts  were   cut  away. 

Both  main  and   inizen  ;    tirst   the   mizen  went, 

The   main-iuast   follow'd  :    but  the   ship   still   lay 
Like   a   mere   lug,  and   !)allled   our   intent. 

Foremast   atid   bowsprit  were   cut   dowu,  and  they 
Eased   her  at  last    (althouijh  we   never   meant 

To    part  with    all   till   every  ho|)e  was   bli<rhted), 

And  then  uith  violence   the   old   slup   rigliied. 

xxxin. 

It   mav  be   easily  PU[)posed,  while  this 

Was   going  on,  some   people  were   unquiet; 

1  hat   nassencrers  wc,iiU   Imd    it   nuicli   amiss 

To  lose  their  lives,^  as  well   as   spoil  jjieir  diet; 

That  "emnlieiii'le   seauu'M,  deeming  his 

Diiys   nearly  o'er,  wvrjM   be  disposed    to   riot, 

As  upon    such   oci-asinu'^   tars  will   ask 

l\>r   grog,  and  somcUines    drink   rum   from   the  cask. 

xxxiv. 

There's  nought,  no  doubt,  so  much  the  spirit  calms 
As    rum   aiid  true   reliszion ;   thus   it  was, 

Some  piunder'd,  some  drank  spirits,  some  sung  psalms, 
The   high  'Aind   made  the   treble,  and   as   bass 

The  hoarse  hai'sh  waves  ke[)t  time  ;   fright  cured  the 

Of  all  the  luckless  landsmen's   sea-sick  maws  : 
Strange  soun<ls  of  wailing,  blasi)hemy,  devotion, 
Clamour'd  in  chorus  to  the   roaring   ocean. 

XXXV. 

Perhaps  more   mischief  had  been   done,  but  for 
Our  Jiio),  who.  willi  sense   beyond,    his  years. 

Got   to    the  spiiii-room,  and  stood   before 
It  with   a   p'air   of  pistols  ;    and   their   fears, 

As   if  Death  were   more  dreadful  by  his  door 
Of  tire  than  wau;r,  spite  of  oaths    and   tears, 

Ivept  still   aloof  the   crew,  who,  ere  they  sunk, 

Thought  it  would   be   becoming  to  die  drunk. 

XXXVI. 

"  Give   us  more    grog,"  they  cried,  "  for   it  will  bo 
All  one  an   hour   bmce."     .Juan   answer'd,  "  No ! 

*Tis  true  that   death   awaits   both  you   and   me, 
Hut  let   us  die   like   men,  not   sink   below 

Like  brutes:" — and  thus  his  dangerous  post  kept  lie. 
And    none  liked   to   anticipate    the  blow ; 

And  even    Pedrillo,  his   most   reverend   tutor, 

Was  for  some  rum  a  disappointed  suitor. 

XXXVII. 

T  ne  good  old   gentleman  was   ijuitc  aghast, 
And  made  a  loud  and   pious   lat/ientation ; 

R'^!  cnled   all   his  sins,  and   made   a   last 
rirev(>(;al>le  vow   of  r<!formalion ; 


Nothing  should  tenqit  him  more  (this  pen!  paet) 

To  quit  his  academic   occu])ation, 
In  cloisters  of  the    classic  Salamanca, 
To  follow  Juan's  wake  like   Sancho  Panca. 

XXXVIII. 
But  now  there  came  a  tlash  of  hope  once  more; 

Day  broke,  and  the  wind  lull'd  :  ttie  masts  were  qouv. 
The  leak  increased  ;   shoals  round  her.  but   no  shoit- 

The   vessel  swam,  yet  still  she  held  her  own. 
They  tried   the   pumps  again,  and   though   before 

Their  desperate  efforts  seem'd  all  useless  orown, 
A  glhnpse   of  sunshine  set   some   hands  to   bale — 
The  stronger  puinp'd,  the  weaker  thrumm'd  a  sail. 

XXXIX. 

Under  the  vessel's  keel  the  sail  was  pass'd, 
And  for   the   moment   it  had  some   eti'ect ; 

But  with   a  leak,  and  not  a  stick  of  mast 
Nor  rag  of  canvas,  what  could  thev  expect  ? 

■But   still  'tis  best  to  struggle  to  the  last, 
'T  is  never  too  late  to  be  -wholly  wreck'd  : 

And  though 'tis  true  that  man  can  onlv  die  once, 

'T  is  not  so  pleasant  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons. 

XL. 

There  winds  and  waves  had  hurl'd  them,  and  from  tlience, 
Without  their  will,  they  carried  them  awav  ; 

For  they  were  forced  with  steering  to  dispense, 
And   never  had   as  yet  a  quiet  day 

On  which  they  might    repose,  or  even   commence 
A  jury-mast  or  rudder,  or  could  sav 

The  ship  would  swim   an   hour    which,  bv  good  luck^ 

Still  swam — though  not  exactly   like  a  duck. 

XLI. 

The  wind,  in  fact,  perhaps  was  rather  less. 

But  the  ship  labour'd  so,  they  scarce  could  hope 

To  weather  out  much  longer ;   the  distress 

Was  also  great  with  which  they  had  to  cope, 

For  want  of  water,  and  their  solid   mess 
Was   scant  enough  ;    in  vain   the  telescope 

Was  used — nor  sail  nor  shore  ajjpear'd  in  sight, 

Nought  but  the  heavy  sea,  and  coming  night. 

XLIl. 

Again  the  weather  threaten'd, — a;.'ain  blew 
A  gale,  and   in   the  tore   and   after  hold 

Water  a[)i)ear'd  ;    yet,  though  the   people  knew    ■ 
All  this,  the  most  were  patient,  and  some  bold, 

Until  the  chains  and   leathers  were  worn  through 
Of  all  our  pumps: — a  wreck   complete  slie  roll'd. 

At  mercy  of  the  waves,  whose   mercies  are 

Like  human  beings  tluring  civil  war. 

XLIII. 

Then  came  the  carpenter,  at  last,  with  tears 
In  his   rough  eyes,  and   told  the  captain  he 

Could  do  no  more  ;    he  was  a  man   in  years. 

And  long  had  voyaged  through  many  a  stormy  se*. 

And  if  he  wept  at  length,  they  were  not  fears 
That  made  his  eyelids  as  a  wotuan's  be. 

But  he,  poor  fellow,  had  a  wife  and  children. 

Two  things  for  dying  people  quite  bewildering. 

XLIV. 

The  ship  was  evidently  settling  now- 
Fast  by  the  lieati ;    an<l,  all  distinction  gone. 

Some  went  to  prayers  again,  and  ma<ie  a  vow 
Of  candles  to  their  saints — but  there  were  none 

To  pay  them   with;   and  some  look'd  o'er  the  bow, 
Some  hoisted  out  the  boats :    and  there  was  one 

That  begg'd   Pedrillo  for  an  absolution, 

Who  told  him  to  be  dainn'd — in  his  confusion. 


DON    JUAN. 


593 


XLV. 

Some  lasliM  them  in  their  hammocks,  some  put  on 

Th  Mr  best  clothes  ns  if  ijoiiii;  to  a  fair; 
S^me   cursed  the  dixy  on  which  thev  saw  the  sun, 

\n  1  5!iashM  their  teeth,  aii.i,  Uowhiii:,  tore  tlieir  liair  ; 
A    ;!   others  wem   on,  as  they  had   beiiuii, 

(at.ttiii>j   tiie   boats   on',  being  well   aware 
l.iil    a  t:i,ht   boat  wid   live   in  a  roiiirh  sea, 
['ii!(>.-,s  wi:li    brea  ■  Ts   close   iieiieath   her   lee. 

XLVI. 
Tift  worst   of  al'  ivas,  tiiat    in   their   condition, 

Haviiiij  bi'CM   several  days   in   i,n-eat  (iistress, 
'T  was  dilticiih    to   irot  out   sucii    [imvisinn 

As   now  iniLdit    render   tle'ir   long   suthring   less: 
Men,  evt-n  u  ii<  n  dying,  disIiAC   inaniliMii  ; 

Tiieir  srec--;  was  damaged  by  tiie  we.nher's  stress: 
T'.N'o  cask-:   of  l):-;c!!it    and    a   kei;   vl   bu:t;-r 
SVi're  all  ihal  cuiil   be   llirowii   into  the   cutter. 

XLVII. 

But  in  tlie  !ong-ooaf   thev  ronirived   to  stosv 

Some  pounds  of  bread,  !'iuu;:h  injured  by  the  wet; 

^^"ater,  a  twfnt\--gali()!i   cask   or  so; 

Six  Masks  of  wnie  ;    and   th-  v  contrived   to  get 

A  j>ortion  of  their   beef  up  trom   1)(;low, 

And  With   a  pitce  of  pork,  moreover,  met, 

Rut  scarce  enouali   to   s(!rve  them  tor  a  luncheon; 

'I'hen  ih.ere  was  nun,  eight    ira'ions   in   a   j)uncheon. 

XTA'Iil. 

Tlie   vther   boats,  tlie  ya\sl  and   jiinnace,  had 
i5een  stovi;  in   ihe    ix-jjiiunnj  of  the   oule  ; 

.^nd  the   lon^-boal's   couditiou  \vas    but' bad, 
As   there  wen-   but   two   l)!ankets  fu-  a  sail. 

And   one  oar   fir   a  ma>f,  whicfi   a   voong  lad 
I'lirew  in   by  sjood   IncK  over   the  ship's  rail; 

And  two   boats   could   not    hold,  fir  le-'s   be   stored. 

To  save   one   half  the  jn-ople  then   on   board. 

XLIX. 

'7' was  l-.Mlig!u,  fir  die  sunii.'ss  day  went  down 
Over  the  waste  of  waters;    like   a  veil, 

VS'lhch,  if  wuhdrawn,  would   h\'t  disclose   the  frown 
Of  one  s\  ho   hates   us,  so   tlie   night  was   shown. 

And.    grimly  darkled  o'er  thel*-  faces    pale, 

And  liopi'iess   eyes,  which   o'er   the  deep   alone 

G;!zed,  d;uu   and  desolate  ;   twelve  days   had  Fear 

Been    ihe..  lluniliar,  and   now  Death  was   here. 


Some  trial  had   been  making   at  a  raft, 

With  little  hope  in  such   a  rollinii  sea, 
A  sort  of  thing   at  wliich   one  would    hav.;  laughM, 

If  any  iaugliter   at    such    times   could    be, 
Cnless  with  people  wdio  too   mucdi   have  <piafl'\l, 

And  have   a   kind   of  wild    and    horrid   glee. 
Half  epile[)tical,  and    half  hysterical : 
Their    preservation  would    have  been    a   miracle. 

LI. 
A.t  haK  ^ast  ei^ht  oVock,  l)ooiu-^,  hen-cnps,  spars. 

And  ail  things,  f  t  a  cliam  e,  b-.,!  l,.-  n  ca-^t  loose, 
That    still   could    ke^p  alioat    the    stru-;:;;;;;:  tar:>, 

Fo"   yet  they  strovr,  a;?!;<iu::h  >,\'  no  ureat  use: 
Ther(.  was   no   liitlu   in   lieaveu    but   afews4ars; 

'f'h(    boats   put   oti"  o*ercr(judcd  \Mlii   tlu-ir  '■re'.%s  ; 
Sh.e   gave   a   heel,  and   thi'u   a   lurch   to   port, 
And,  gonnj  d(jwn   heail- for<Mnost — sunk,  m  short. 

Lll. 
Then   rose  from    sea  to   sky  I  lie  wild  fire  well ! 

Th«m  sliriidi'd  the  timid,  and  slo(jd  stili  the  brave; 
Then   some  b'ap'd    ovrriioard  ultii  dreaiiiiii  ycl':, 
As  eagf'r  to   anticipate   their  grave; 
38 


And   the  sea  yawn'd  around  her  like   a  he)., 

And  down  she  suckM  witli  her  liie  whirling  wa\e, 
Like  one  who  grapples  with    his   enemy. 
And  strives   to  strangle   him   before   he  die. 

LI  II. 
And  first  one  miiversal  shriek  there  rusjh'd, 

Louder  than   the   loud   ocean,  like   a   crash 
Of  echoinsr  thunder;    and   then   vil  was   hush'd; 

Save   tlie  wild  wind  and   the   remorseless  da^h 
Of  billows  ;    but   at   intervals  there  gii^bM, 

Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash, 
A  solitary  shriek — the  bubbling  cry 
Of  some  strong  swimmer  in   his   agony. 

LIV. 
The    boats,  as  stated,  had  got   olT  before, 

And  in  th(,>m  crowded   several   of  the   crew; 
And,   vet  tlieir  present  hope  was   hardly  more 

Than  what  it  had  been,  for  so  strong  it  blew, 
There  was  si!:_dit  chance  of  reaching  any  shore; 

And  lli'ii  thev  were  too  manv,  though  so  few — 
I    Nine  m   the  cutter,  thirty  in  tlie  l)oat, 
i    \yere  counted  in  them  when  they  "ot  afloat. 

!  LV. 

Al!   the  re~;t   perish'd  ;    near  two  hundred    souls 

Had  left   t'leir  bodies;    *id,  what 's  worse,  ala.^ 
When   over  Cat!n)lics   the  ocean  rolls, 

Thev  icust  wait   several  weeks,  Ik  lore   a  mass 
'    Takes   otf  one   peek    of  purgatorial   coads, 

Ijfcause,  tiil  people  know  what  's  come  to  pass, 
Th(_'y  won't   lav  out  their   inoiicv  on   the  dead — 
It  cosrs   three  francs  for  every  mass   tiiat 's   saicL 

LVL 

Juan   <!ot   mto   tlie  loivT-boat,  and  there. 

Contrived   to   help  Pedrillo   to  a  place} 
It  seein'd   as   if  they  had   excdiansed   their  car.%, 

For  Juan  wore  the  magisteriiil  face 
Which  courage   gives,  wlille   poor  Pedrillo's  pair 

Of  eyes  were  crviu?:  for  their   owner's  case  ; 
Hattista  (t'xngh   a   name  calfd  s'lortly  Tica) 
Was  lost   bv  ijettin^j  at   some  aciua-vua. 

LVII. 

Pedro,  his  valet,  too,  he   tried  to   save  ; 

But  the   sanu!   cause,  coi)luci\e  to   his  loss, 
Left   him   so  tlrunk,  lie  jtimp'd  mto  the  wave, 

As   o'er    the  cutter's    e(L'e    lie   tried   to   cross, 
And   so   he  found   a  wine-and-u a'erv  ai'ave  : 

Tiu-y  could   not    rescue    bim,  ,i!ihoU::h   soclo^f, 
necause   the   sea    r.-:n    biijiicr    <-\vvv  minute. 
And   for   the   boat — t!ie  cri'w  kijit   cro'.'.  dinw  in   it 

LVIII. 

A  small   old  span,.-!,— wbi'di   had   been   Don  Jo^e  ?. 

His  fadirr's,  whon!    he    iovc-d,  ps  ye    may  think, 
For   on    suidi    tiiiui.'s   ihe    me-nory  reposes 

With   ...:,,!ern"<s,— stood   bowluiu  on  the  brink, 
Kno^vin^,    (ioas   Icive   su.di   ii,;e!Uvtual   nos('s  ! ) 

No  elouiil,  tl;c  ves.--el  was    aloul    lo    sjiik  ; 
And   Juan    cauHhl    him   up,  and,  fre   be    stepp'd 
Oli;  thrrw  hiui'm,  then   after   hun    he   leup'd. 

LIX. 

He   also    stutf'd    his    money  where   he   could 
About    Ills    person,  and    Fe.inilo's   too, 

Wlio   let    hmi    <h>,  ill  fu-t,  whau-'er  he  would, 
Xot   knowing  wiiat    lumseh"  !o   say  or  do, 

As   eviTV  ri^i:l^'  wave   his  d.rrad    rene\v"(t  ; 

Bur  Juan,  trn>tim.'   they  nnght    slid    ;.-et    through- 

Aiu!  tlceniuu:  there  weri-    remedi''<  !or   any  ill, 

Thus   re-'-mbark'd   his   tutor  and   his  soaiuei. 


594 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LX. 

Twas  a  rotigii  nighi,  and  blew  so  stiffly  yet, 
Tliat  the  sail  was  becalm'd  between  the  seas. 

Though  on  the  wave's  high   top  too  nuich  to  set, 
They  dared  not  take  it  in  for  all  the  breeze  ; 

Each  sea  curl'd  o'er  the  stern,  and  kept  them  wet. 
And   made  them  bale  without  a  moment's  ease. 

So  uiat  tliemselves  as  well   as   hopes  were  damp'd, 

And  the  poor  little  cutter  quickly  swamp'd. 

LXI. 

Nine  souls  mere  went  in   her;    the  long-boat   still 

Kept   above  water,  with   an   oar  for   inast. 
Two  blankets  stitch'd   together,  answering   ili 

Instead  of  sail,  were  to  the  oar  made  fast ; 
Thouiih  every  wave  roll'd   menacing  to  fill. 

And  present  peril   all   before  surpass'd, 
Thev  griev(;d  for  those  who  perish'd  with  the  cutter. 
And   also  t'or  the   biscuit-casks  and  butter. 

LXII. 
The  sun   rose  red   and  fiery,  a  sure  sign 

Of  the  contin>>ancc  of  the  gale :   to  run 
Before  the   sea,  until    it  shoukl   grow  fine, 

Was  all  that  for  the  present  could  be  done: 
A  few  tea-s[)oonfii!s  of  their  rum  and  wine 

Was  served  out   to  the  people,  who  begvm 
To  flint,  and  damaged  bread' wet  through  the  bags, 
And  most  of  tiicin  Irnd  litViC  clothes   but  rags. 

LXIII. 

Thev  counted  thirtv,  crowded  in  a  space 

Which  left  scarce  room  for  motion  or  exertion:        | 
Thev  did  their  best  to  modify  their  case,  | 

One  half  sate  up,  though  numb'd  with  the  immersion,   | 
While   t'  other  half  were   laid  down   in   their  place,        | 

At  wat.h  and  V. -itch;   thus,  shivering  like  the  tertian 
Ague   in  Its  cold  fit,  they  fill'd  their  boat, 
With  not'iing   but  the  sky  for  a  great-coat. 

LXIV. 

T  is  very  certain  the  desire  of  life 

Prolongs  it  ;    this  is  obvious  to  physicians, 

Wht-p.  patients,  neither  •.lagiied  with  friends  nor  wife, 
Survive  through  very  'Je'-perate  conditions, 

Because  they  still  can   hope,  nor  shines  the  knife 
Nor   shears  of  Atronos   beiore  their  visions  : 

Jespair  of  ail  recovery  spoils  Icngt-vity, 

And  m:ikes  men's  miseries   of  alarming  brevity. 

LXV. 

"1'  is   said   that   persons   living  on  annuities 

Are  longer  lived   than  others, — God  knows  why 
Unless  to  plague  the  grantors, — yet  so  true   it  is, 

That  some,  I  really  think,  do  never   die  ; 
Of/apv  creditors  the  worst   a  Jew  it  is, 
,  \ii(i  that 's  their  mode  of  furnishing  supply : 
In  my  young  days  they  lent  me  cash  that  way, 
Which  I  found  very  troublesome  to   pay. 

LXVI. 
Tis  thus  with  people  in   an  open  boat. 

They  live  upon  the  love  of  life,  and  bear 
More  tlian  can  be  believed,  or  even  thought, 

And  stand,  like  rocks,  the  tempest's  wear  and  tear  ; 
And  hardship  still   has  been   the  sailor's   lot. 

Since  Noah's  ark  went  cruising   here  and  there — 
She  had   a  curious  crew  as  well  as  cargo. 
Like  the  first  old  Greek   privateer,  the  Argo. 

LXV!  I. 
But    man  is  a  carnivorous  production. 

And  must  have  m<-als,  at  least  one  meal  a  day  ; 
He  (;a(mot   live,  like  woo.lcocks,  upon  suction, 

Bu-,  hkf;  mo  shark   and  tij;.^-.  imist  have   prey: 


Although  his  anatomical  construction 

Bears  vegetables   in    i  gruuibling  wny 
Your  labourini:  people  think,  beyond  all  questioji. 
Beef,  veal,  and  mutton,  better  for  digestion. 

LXVIIL 
And   thus  it  was  with  this  our  hapless  cvew  ; 

For  on  the  third  day  there  came  on  a  cchx^ 
And  though  at  first  their  strength  it   nught  renew 

And,  iving  on  their  weariness  like  balm, 
Lull'd  them  like  turtles  sleeping  on  the  blue 

Of  ocean,  when  they  we.<e  they  felt   a  qualm. 
And  fell  all  ravenously  on  their  provision, 
Instead   of  hoarding  it  with  due   precision. 

LXIX. 
The  consequence  was  easily  foreseen  — 

They  ate  uji  all  they  had,  and  drank  their  wine, 
In  spite  of  all  remonstrances,  and  then 

On  what,  in  fact,  rext  day  were  they  to  dine?        ^ 
Thev  hoped  the  wind  wou'J  nse,  these  foolish  men! 

And  cftD-y  them  to  sliore  ;   these  hopes  were  fine. 
But,  as  they  had  but  one  oar,  and  that  brittle, 
It  would  have  been  more  wise  to  save  their  victual. 

LXX. 

The  fourth  day  came,  but  not  a  breath  of  air, 
And   ocean  slumber'd   like   an  tmwean'd   child : 

The  fifth  day,  and  their  boat    lay  fioatnii^  there. 

The   sea  and   sky  were  blue,  and  clear,  and  mild- 

With   their  one  oar   (I   wish  tliey  had   had   a  pair) 
What  could  they  do  /   and  hunger's  rage  grew  w'M 

So  Juan's  spaniel,  spite  of  his   entreating, 

Was  kiil'd,  and  i>ortion'd  out    for   jjrestnit  eating. 

LXXL 

On  the   sixth   day  they  fed  upon  his  hide. 
And  Juan,  who   liad   still  refiised,  because 

The  creature  was  his  father's  dog  that  died, 
Now  feeling  ad   the  vulture   in  his  jaws, 

Whh  scjme  remorse  received  (though  first  denied). 
As  A  gr(iat  fivour,  one   of  the  fore-paws. 

Which  he  divided  with  Pedrlllo,  who 

Devovir'd   if,  longing  f^r  the  other  too. 

LXXII. 

The  seventh  day,  and   no  wind — the  burning  sun 
F^lister'd   and  scorch'd  ;    and,  stagnant    on   the  «f-a. 

They  lav  like  carcasses  .    and   hope  was  none, 
Save   in   the  breeze   that  came  not  ;   savagely 

They  glared   u[)on   each   other — all  was  done. 

Water,  and  wine,  and  food, — and   you  might   see 

The  longings  of  the  cannibal   arise 

(Although  they  spoke  not)   in  their  wolfish   eyes. 

LXXIII. 

At  lenijth  one  whisper'd   his  companion,  who 
Whis[>er\l  another,  and  thus  it  went  round. 

And   then  into  a  hoarser  murmur  grew. 

An  ominous,  and  wild,  and  desperate  sound  ; 

And  when  his  comrade's  thouifht  each  sutferer  knew, 
'T  was  but  his  pwn,  suj)press'd  till  now,  he  found  : 

And  out  they  spoke  of  lots  for  flesh  and  blood, 

And  who  should  die  to  be  his  fellows'  food 

LXXIV. 

Bat  ere  they  came  to  this,  they  that  daj  shared 
Some  leathern  caps,  and  what  temain'd  of  shoes: 

And   then   they  look'd   around  them,  and  despair'd, 
And  none  to  be  the  sacrifice   would  choose  ; 

At  length  the  lots  were  torn  x^  and  prejiared. 
Hut  of  mnterials  that  must  shock   ihe   muse— 

Havinf   no  piioer,  for  the  want  of  better. 

They  t(K>k  i)y  force  from  Juan  Julia's  letter. 


DON    JUAN 


595 


LXXV. 

T^ie  lots  were  c  iidc,  aiul  iiuii-k\l,  and  mix'd,  and  handed 

In  siienl  horror,  and    their  distribution 
Luird  even  the  savage  hur.ijcr  which  deinanded, 

Lilvc  the  Pronieihtnin  vuhnre,  this   polliiiiou  ; 
None   in   particnhar  had  scnsjlit  or   phmn'd   it, 

'T  was  nature  gnawM  them  to  this  resohition, 
Hy  v.hich   none  were   [)eriiiitred   to   he    ntiuler — 
And  the  lot  fell  on  Ju.m's  hieUless  tutor. 

LXXVI. 
He  but  re(]viested  to  be  bled  to  death  : 

The  surgeon  had   his  instruments  and  bled 
PeiiriUo,  and   so  gently  ebb'd   his   breath, 

You  hardly  could  perceive  when   he  was  dead. 
He  died  as  born,  a  Catholic   in  faith, 

Like   most   in  the  belief  in  which  they 're  bred. 
And  first  a  little  crucifix  he  kiss'd, 
And  then  held  out  his  jugular  and  wrist. 

LXXVII. 
The  surgeon,  as  there  was  no  other  fee. 

Had  his  first  choice  of  morsels  for  his  pains : 
But   being  thirstiest  at  the  moment,  he 

Preferred  a  draught  from  the  fast-tlowing  veins : 
Part  was  divided,  part  thrown  in  the  sea, 

And  such  things  as  the  entrails  and  the  brains 
Regaled  two  sharks,  who  fillow'd  o'er  the  billow — 
7'lie  sailors  ate  the  rest  of  poor  Pedrillo. 

Lxxvni. 

The  sailors  ate  him,  all  save  three  or  four. 

Who  were  not  quite  so  fond  of  animal  food  ; 
To  these  was  added  Juan,  who,  before 

Refusing  his  own  spaniel,  hardly  could 
Feel  now  his  appetite  increased  much  more  ; 

'T  was  not  to  be  expected  that  he  should. 
Even  in  extremity  of  their  disaster, 
Dine  with  them  on  his  pastor  and  his  master. 

LXXIX. 
'T  was  better  that  he  did  not ,   for,  in  fact. 

The  consequence  was  awful  in  the  extreme : 
For  thev,  who  were  most  ravenous  in  the  act. 

Went  raging  mad — Lord  !   how  they  did  blaspheme  I 
And  foam  and  roll,  with  strange  convulsions  rack'd, 

Drinking  salt  water  Hke  a  mountain-stream. 
Tearing,  and  grinning,  howling,  screeching,  swearing. 
And,  with  hya;na  laughter,  died  despairing. 

LXXX. 

Their  numbers  v/ere  much   thinn'd  by  this  infliction. 

And  all  the  rest  were  thin  enough,  Heaven  knew*  , 
And  some  of  them  had  lost  their  recollection, 

Hlppier  than  they  wh.'  still  perceived  their  woe«  ; 
But  others  ponder'd  on  a  new  dissection. 

As  if  not  warn'd  sufficxenily  by  those 
Who  had  already  perish'd,  suffering  madly, 
For  havmg  used  their  appetites  so  sadly. 

LXXXL 

And  next  they  thought  upon  the  master's  mate. 
As  fattest ;   but  he  saved  himself,  because. 

Besides  being  much  averse  from  s\ich   a  fate. 
There  were  some  other  reasons :    the  first  was 

Ele  had  been  rather  indisposed  of  late, 

And  that  which  chiefly  proved   his  saving  clause 

Was  a  small   present  made  to  him  at  Cadiz, 

By  oreneral  subscription  of  the  ladies. 

Lxxxn, 

Of  poor  Pedrillo  somt^ihing  stil'   remain'd. 

But  It  was  used  sparingly, — some  were  afraid. 

And  others  still  their  appetites  constrain'd, 
Or  but  at  times  a  littlrj  siipjier  made ; 


All  except  Juan,  who  throughout  a])stain'd. 

Chewing  a  piece   of  bamboo,  and  son^e  lead  : 
At  leiiiith  they  caught  two  boobies   and  a  nodtly. 
And  then   they  left  off  eating  the  d.'ad  body. 

Lxxxin. 

And  if  Pedrillo's  fate  should  shocking  be, 

Remember  Ugolino  condescends 
To  eat  the  head  of  his  arch-enemy 

The  moment  after  he  politely  ends 
His  tale ;   if  foes  be  food  in  hell,  at  sea 

'T  is  surely  fair  to  dine   upon  our  friend?. 
When  shi|)wreck's  short  allowance  grows  too  scanty, 
Without  being  much  more  horrible  than  Dante. 

LXXXIV. 

And  the  same  night  there   fell   a  shower  o*"  rain. 

For  which  their  months  gaped,  like  the  cracks  of  earth 
When  dried  to  summer  dust ;   till  taught  by  pain, 

INIen  really  know  not  what  good  water  's  worth : 
If  you  had  been   in  Turkey  or  in  Spain, 

Or  with  a  famish'd   boat's-crew  had  your  birth, 
Or  in  the  desert  heard  the  camel's   bell, 
You  'd  wish  yourself  where  Truth   is — in  a  well. 

LXXXV. 
It  pour'd  down  torrents,  but  they  were  no  richer, 

Until  they  found  a  ragged   piece  of  sheet. 
Which  served  them  as   a  sort  of  spongy  pitcher, 

And  when  they  deem'd  its  moisture  was  completw 
They  wrung  it  out,  and,  though  a  thirsty  ditcher 

Might  not  have  thought  the  scanty  draught  so  sweet 
As  a  tuil  pot  of  porter,  to  their  thinking 
They  ne'er  till  now  had  known  the  joys  o<"  drinking. 

LXXXVI. 

And  their  baked   Hps,  whh  many  a  bloody  crack, 
Suck'd  in  the  moisture,  which  like  nectar  stream'^I ; 

Their  throats  were  ovens,  their  swoln  tongues  were  black, 
As  the  rich   man's  in  hell,  who  vainly  seream'd 

To  beg  the  beggar,  who  could  not  rain  back 
A  drop  of  dew,  svhen  every  drop  had  seem'd 

To  taste  of  heaven — if  this  bo  true,  indeed. 

Some  Christians  have  a  comfortable  creed. 

LXXXVII. 

There  were  two  fathers  in   this  ghastly  crew. 

And  with  them  their  two  sons,  of  whom  the  one 

^Yas  more   robust  and  hardy  to  the  view. 
But  he  died  early  ;   and  when  he  was  gone. 

His  nearest  messmate   told  his  sire,  who  threw 
One  glance  on  him,  and  said,  "  Heaven's  will  be  done! 

I  can  do   nothing!"   and   he   saw  him   thrown 

Into  the  deep,  without  a  tear  or  groan. 

LXXXVIII.  ^ 

The  other  father  had  a  weaklier  child. 

Of  a  soft  cheek,  and   aspect  delicate  ; 
But  the  boy  bore  up  long,  and  with  a  mild 

And  [)atient  spirit,  held  aloof  his  fate; 
Little  he  said,  and   now  and  then   he  smiled, 

As  if  to  win  a  part  from  otf  the  weight 
He  saw  increasing  on  his  father's  heart. 
With  the  dee[)  deadly  thought,  'hat  the}  must  pmt. 

LXXXIX. 

And  o'er  him  bent  his  sire,  and  never  raised 
His  eyes  from  off  his  face,  but  wiped  the  foano 

From   his  pale  lips,  and  ever  on   him  gazed; 

And  when  the  wish'd-for  shower  at  length  was  emit-. 

And  the  boy's  eyes,  which  the  dull  film  half  gla/.ed. 
Brighten'd,  and  for  a   moment  seem'd  to  rn;im, 

He  squeezed  from  out  a  rag   some  droj)s  of  raij; 

Into  his  dying  child's  mouthj — but   in  vam. 


696 


BYRCN'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XC. 

The  boy  expited — the  father  held  the  clay, 
And  look'd  upon  it  long;,  and  -.vhen  at  1;  st 

Death  left  no  doubt,  and  the  dead  burthen  lay 

Stilf  on  his  heart,  and  pulse  and  hope  were  past, 

He  watched  it  wistfully,  until  away 

'T  was  borne  by  the  rude  wave  wherein  't  was  cast ; 

Then  he  himself  sunk  down,  all  dumb  and  shivering, 

And  give  no  signs  of  life,  save  his   liinbs  (piivering. 

XCI. 

Now  over-hoad  a  rauibow,  bursting  through 

The  scattering  clouds,  siione,  spanning  the  dark  sea, 

ResTuig  its  bright  base  on  the  ([uivering  blue: 
And  all  within  its  arch  appeared  to  be 

Clearer  than  that  without,  and  its  wide  hue 
Wa.x'd   broad  and  waving  like   a  banner  free, 

Then  changed  like  to  a  bow  that 's  beni,  and   then 

Forsook  the  dim  eyes  of  these  shipwreck'd  men. 

XCII. 

It  chansed,  of  course ;    a  heavenly  chameleon, 
The  airy  child   of  vapour  and  the  svm, 

Brought  forth   in   purple,  cradled  in  vermilion, 
Baj.'ized   in  molten   gold,  and  swathed   in  dun, 

Gliiti'ri";j  like  crescents  o'er  a  Turk's   pavilion, 
And   blending   every  colour   into  one. 

Just    like   a   black    eye   in   a   recent   scuffle 

(For  sometimes  we   n^ust   box  without  the  muffle). 

XCIII. 

Our   sliipwrerk'd   scame-i   tho;;oht   it   a   nood   omen — 
it   is  as  well   to   think    so,  now  and  then; 

"T  was   an  old  custom  of  I  he  Greek   and  P.oman, 
Aiul   may  become  of  great   ailvantaije  when 

F'llk'i;  are  discouraged;    and   most  sm-ely  no   men 
Had   L'reater   necfi   to  nerve   tii'Musdves   again 

Thau  these,  and  so  this  rainbow  look'd  like  hope — 

Quite  a  celestial  kaleidoscope. 

XCIV. 

About  this   time,  a  beautiful  white  bird. 
Web-footed,  not   unlike  a  dove  in  size 

■Ind   plumage   (jtrobably  it  might  have  err'd 
Upon  its  course),  pass'd  oft  betbre  thcTir  eves, 

And  tried   tc    perch,  although   it  saw  and   iieard 
The   men  within  the   boat,  and   in  this   guise 

It  c-Ainu:  and  went,  and  tluttcrM  round   them  till 

Night  fed  : — this  seem'd  a  bftter  omen   still. 

xcv. 

But  in  this  case  I  a. so  must  remark, 

'Twasv.-el!   this   bird  of  promise  did   not    perch, 

Beciiuse  the  tackle  of  our  shattered   b;irk 
Was   not  so  safe  f>r   I'oostmg   as  a   flinrrh  ; 

And   I'.ad   it  b(;en  the  dove  frotn  Noah's  .  '-k, 
Helurning   there   from    lier   sncee<-fiil    search. 

Which    m   t!)c!r  way  that   moment   chanced   to  fall, 

Tli(;y  would   have  cat   Ikt,  olive-branch  and   all. 

XCVI. 

Wit!i   twiliL'ht    it   again  caioi!   on   to   blow. 
But    not  uitli  violt.iice  ;    the   stars   shone   out, 

rhe    boat   madi;  way  ;    vd    now  tbcv  were   so    low, 
'J'hcy  knew  not  \\hcr(t   nur  v.bat    tlicy  were   about; 

Si.-me  faucierl   they  saw  l.md,  and    some    «aul    "No!" 
The  f'-etjueiit  f)g-banks    <!;n-e  them  caiwe  to  doubt — 

R>inc-   swi.io   tlial    they  he;.n!    brea.ker-^,  (ilhcrs  guns, 

And    all   mistook    abuut   iIk;   laiter   onec 

x(,'vn. 

^s   niorniiig   broke,  tli.r    liL'iit  \n  iiid  diei!   a'.vav, 

Wben   lie\\hohad    the  wa.l.  !i    sung    out,  and    swore 
C 't  wav   not    land   that   rose  with   the   sun's   rav 
lie  wish'd   thai    land  he   never  niiglit  sec  more: 


And  the  rest  rubb'd  their  eyes,  and  saw  a  bay 

Or  thought   they  saw,  and  shaped   the.r   -'ourse  for 
shore  ; 
For  shore  it  was,  and  gradually  grew 
Distinct  and  high,  and  palpable  to  view. 

XCVIII. 
And  then  of  these  some  part  burst  into  tear;*, 

And  others,  looking  with  a  stuj)id  stare, 
Could  not  yet  separate  their  hopes  from  fears, 

And  seem'd   as  if  they  had  no  further  eaie  ; 
While  a  few  pray'd — (the  first  time  for  some  years)- 

And  at  the  bottom  of  the  bf)at  three  were 
Asleep ;  they  shook  them  by  the  hand  and  head, 
And  tried  to  awaken  them,  but  found  them  dead. 

XCiX. 
The  day  before,  fast  sleeping  on  the  water, 

They  found  a  turtle  of  the  hawk's-bill  kind, 
And  by  good  fortune,  gliding  softly,  caught   her, 
»  Wliich  yielded  a  day's  life,  and  to  thi-ir  mind 
Proved  even  still  a  more  nutritious  matter. 

Because  it  left  encouragement  behind  : 
They  thought  that   in  such   penis,  more  than  chance 
Had  sent  them  tiiis  for  their  deliverance. 

C. 
The  land  appear'd,  a  high  and  rocky  coast. 

And  higher  grew  tlie  mountains  as   th-jy  drew. 
Set  by  a  current,  toward   it:    th(;y  were  lost 

In  various  conjectures,  for  none  knew 
To  what  part  of  the  earth  they  had  been  toss'd, 

So  changeable  had   been  the  winus   tliat  blew ; 
Some  thought  it  was  Mount  iEtna,  some  the  highlunrta 
Of  Candia    Cyprus,  Rhodes,  or  other  islands. 

CI. 
Meantime  the  current,  with  a  rising  srale. 

Still  set  them  onwards  to  the  welcome  shore, 
Like  Charon's  bark  of  spectres,  dull   and   pale: 

Their  living  freight  was   now  reduced   lo   four; 
And  three  dead,  whom  their  strength  ctMild  not  avail 

To   heave  into  the  deep  with  those   belbre, 
Though  the  two  sharks  still  follow'd   them,  and  dash'd 
The  spray  into  (heir  faces  as  they  splash'd. 

ClI. 

Famine,  despair,  c  >ld,  thirst,  and   heat   had  done 
Their  work    on  them   by  turns,  and   thinu'd  them  m 

Such  things,  a  mother  had   not  known   her  son 
Amidst  tiie  skclet(jiis  of  that   gaunt  crtiw  ; 

By  niifht  chill'd,  by  day  scorch'd,  thus   one  by  one 
They  peri-^lrd,  imtii  wiliier'd  to   these    few, 

But  chictly  by  a  species   of  self-slaughter, 

In  washing  down  Pedrillo  with  salt  wa.lcr. 

cm. 

As  they  drew  nigh  the  land,  wliich  now  was  seen. 
Unequal   in   its   aspect  here   and    there, 

They  felt    the   freshness  of  its  growiiii,-    L'reen, 
That  waved    in   forest  tons,  and  sm.K.thM   the  a;r, 

And   fell  upon   their   glazed   ey(-s  as   a  screen 

From  i^li^temn-;  wav(^s,  and  skies  so  !io!  a'ld  ba-'> 

Lovely  seem'd   any  object    tnat   shouki   sweep 

Away  the  vast,  salt,  <!read,  eternal  decji. 

CIV. 

The  shore  look'd  wild,  withmu    the   trace   of  ma!i.. 
And  girt   bv  f  )rnndal)le  waves  ;    Urn    they 

We^emad    for   laud,  and    thus  their  conr-  they  i  an. 
Though  right  aliead   the  roaruiL'  breakers  lay: 

A  reef  between   them    also  now  t)e!:'i'i 

To  show  its    boiling   surf  and   l>oini.ric!i    spray, 

But,  findm-;  no   jilace   for   their   huidin::  belier, 

They  ran  the  boat   for  siiore,  and  oversol   her. 


DON    JUAN. 


597 


CV. 

Hill   in  his  nurive   strcuui,  ilie  Guadalquivir, 
fiiun  to   lave  Ins   ydulhl'ul   liu.js  was  wont  ; 

An<i,  iiaviiig   IcaniM  to   swim   in   that   sweet  river, 
H;u!    often    turuM   tlic    art    to   some   aecount. 

A  nett(T   swininier   you    coiihl    scarce   see   ever, 
Ife  con!,l,  perhaj.s,  have   passM    the  Hellespont, 

As  once    (a   feat   on  which   ourselves  we   pralod) 

Le-ander,  ."Mr.  Ekenhead,  and   1    did. 

CVI 

Jo,  here,  thou<rh   faint,  emaciated,  and   stark, 

lie   hiit;y'd  ins   boyish   limljs,  and   strove   to  ply 

With   fh(,'  (juick  wave,  and   miiu,  ere  it  was  <iark, 
The   heacli  which   lay  before   him,  high   and  dry  ; 

The   crreatest  danger   here  was   from    a  shark, 
Tiiat    earned    o!f  his    neighbour  bv  the   thigh ; 

As  for  liie  otlier  two,  they  could  not  swim, 

60  nobody  arrived   on   shore   l)ut  him. 

CVII. 

Nor  yet   had  he   arrived   biit   fcjr  the  oar, 
\Vliich,  providentially  for  him,  was  wash'd 

lust  as   his   feeble   arms  could   strike   no   more, 

And  the  hard  wave  o'erwhehn'd  him  as  'twas  dash'd 

^Vithin   his   gra^^ji ;    he  ching   lo   it,  and  sore 
The  waters   beat  while  he   thereto  was   lash'd  ; 

At  last,  wiih  swimming,  wading,  scrambling,  he 

Roll'd  on  the   beach,  half  senseless,  from  the  sea : 

CVIII. 

There,  breathless,  \^th   his  diirsing  nails   he  clung 

fast  to   the  sand,  lest  the   returning  wave. 
From  whose   reluctant   roar   his  life   he  wrunj, 

Should  suck  him  back  to  her  insatiate  grave: 
An;I  there  he  lay,  full-length,  where  he  was  flung, 

Before  the   entrance   of  a  clitF-worn  cave, 
With   |ust  enough   of  life  to  feel  its  pain, 
And  deeiii   that  it  was  saved,  perhaps  in  vain. 

CIX. 
\Vi;!i   .-low  and   staggering   eifort   he  arose. 

But   sunk   again   upon   his   bleeding  knee 
And   (luivermg   hand;    and   then   he   look'd   for  those 

Wiio  long  had  been  his  mates  upon  the  sea, 
But  none  of  them  appear'd   to  share  his  woes. 

Save  one,  a  corjise   from  out   the  famish'd   three, 
\^'llO  dieil   two  days  before,  and  now  had  found 
An   unknov.n   barreti  beach  for  burial  ground. 

ex. 

And,  as  he   <jazed,  his  diz/.v  braii;   spun  fast. 

And  down  he  sunk,  and,  as  he  sunk,  the  sand 
Swam   romid   and   round,  and   all  his  senses   pass'd : 

ile  fell  upon  his  side,  and  his  stretch'd  hand 
Droop'd   dripping  on  the   oar    (their  jury-mast), 

And,  like  a  wither'd   lily,  on  the  land 
Hi*   ^!<;!ider   frame  and  pallid  asjject  lay. 
As  t'.iir  a  thmg  as  e'er  was  fornfd  of  clay. 

CXI. 
Ho'v  long  in  his   damp  trance  young  Juan  lay 

He  knew  not,  for  the  earth  was  gone  for  him, 
And   time  had   nolhiiiij  more  of  night  nor  day 

For  ins  congealing  blood,  and  senses  dim: 
And   how  this  heavy  faiutness   pass'd   away 

lit.  knew  not,  till  each  painful  pulse  and  limb. 
And  liu'iimg  vein,  seemM  throbi)iiig  back  to  life. 
For    Death,  though  vanquish'd,  still  retired  with  strife. 

CXII. 

His  (;yes  he  open'd,  shut,  a^ain   unclosed. 

For  all   was  doubt  and  dizzim^ss:  lie  thought 

He  still  was  in  the   boat,  and   had   but  dozed. 
And  fell   again  with  his  despa'>-  o'prwroiight. 


[    And  wisliVl  it  d-atli  in  which  he  had  reposed; 
I        And  ttieii  once  more  his  feeangs  l)uck  were  bro-aght 
'    And  slowly  by  his  swimming  eys  Nsas  seen 
A  lovely  iemale  face  of  seventeen. 

CXHI. 

'Twas  bending  (dose  o'er  his,  and  the  small  mouth 
Seenfd   almost  prying  into  his  i'n]    brealli; 

And   chafing   him,  tiie   soft  warm   hand   of  youth 
,        Recall   his  answciring  spirits  back  from  death: 
I    And,  bathing  his  ^hill  temples,  tried  to  sootne 
i        £a<'h  [lulse  to  animation,  till  beneath 
.    (ts  gentle  touch  and  trembling  care,  a  sigh 
j    To  these  kind  oHi)rts  made  a  low  reply. 

CXIV. 

Then  was  the  cordial   ])our'd,  and  mantle  flung 
Around   his  scarce-clad  hmbs  ;   and  the  fair  arm 

Raised   higher  the  faint  head  which  o'er  it  hung  ; 
And  her  transparent  cheek,  all  pure  and  warm, 

Pillow'd  his  death-like  forehead  ;    then  she  wiung 
His  dewv  curls,  long  drench'd  by  every  storm  ; 

And  watch'd  with  eagerness  each  throb  that  drew 

A  sigh  from  his  heaved  bosom — and  hers  too. 

cxv. 

And  lifting  him  with  care  into  the  cave, 
The  gentle  girl,  and  her  attendant, — one 

Young  yet  her  elder,  and  of  brow  less  grave, 
And  more  robust  of  figure, — then  begun 

To  kmdle  fire,  and  as  the  new  fiames  gave 

Light  to  the  rocks  which  roof'd  them,  which  the  sun 

Had  never  seen,  the  maid,  or  whatsoe'er 

She  was,  appear'd  distinct,  and  tall,  and  fair. 

CXVI. 

Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold, 
That  sparkled  o'er  the  auburn  of  her  hair, 

Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were  roll'd 
In  braids  behind,  and,  though  her  stature  were 

Even  of  the  hi<ihest  for  a  female  m«uld. 

They  nearly  reach'd   her  heel ;   and  in  her  air 

There  was   a  sometiimg  which  bespoke  crrui.and, 

As  one  who  was  a  lady  in  the  land. 

CXVII. 

Her  hair,  I  said,  was  auburn  ;  but  her  eyes 

Were  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same  hue, 

Of  downcast  length,  in  whose  silk  shadow  lies 
Deepest  attraction,  for  when  to  the  view 

Forth  from   its  raven  fringe  the  full  glance  flics, 
Ne'er  with  such  force  the  sw  iftest  arrow  flew ; 

'Tis  as  the  snake,  late  coil'd,  who  pours  his  length, 

And  hurls  at  once  his  venom   and  his  strength. 

C  XVIII. 

Her  brow  was  white  and  low,  her  cheeks'   p'-re  dye 
Like  twilight  rosy  still  with  the  set  sun ; 

Short  up|)er  lip — sweet  lips !   that  make   us  sigh 
Ever  to  have  seen  such ;   for  she  v.as  ont 

Fit  fjr  the  model   of  a  statuary 

(A  race   of  mere  impostors,  when  all 's  done — ■ 

I  've  seen  much  Hnei  women,  ripe  and  real, 

Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal). 

CXIX. 

I  '11  tell  you  why  I  say  so,  for  't  is  jti?^ 

One  should  not  rail  without  a  decent  cause; 

There  was  an   Irish   lady,  to  whose   bust 
1   ne'er  saw  justice    done,  and   yet   she  was 

A  freciuent  model ;   and  if  e'er   siie   must 

Yield  to  stern  Time  and  Nature's  wrinkling  laws, 

Thev  will  destroy  a   face  which   mortal   thought 

Ne'er   coinpass'd,  nor  less  mortal  chisel  wrought, 


598 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


cxx. 

And   such  was   she,  the  lady  of  the  cave  : 

Her  dress  was  very  ditferent  from   the   Spanish, 

Simjiler,  and  yet  of  colours  not  so  grave ; 

For,  as  you  know,  the   S])anish  women   banish 

Bright- hues  when  out  of  doors,  and  yet,  while  wave 
Around   them   (what   I   hope  will  never  vanish) 

The  basquina  and  the  mantilla,  they 

Seem  at  the  same  time   mystical  and  gay. 

CXXI. 

But  with  our  damsel  this  was  not  the  case : 
Her  dress  was  niany-colour'd,  finely  spun  ; 

Her  locks  curl'd  negligently  round   her  face, 

But  through  them  gold  and  gems  profusely  shcjne ; 

Her  girdle   sparkled,  and  the  richest  lace 
Fiow'd  in  her  veil,  and   many  a  precious  stone 

Flash'd  on  her  little  hand  ;   but,  what  was  shocRing, 

Her  small  snow  feet  had  slippers,  but  no  stocking. 

CXXII. 

The  other  female's  dress  was  not  unlike, 

But  of  inferior  materials :   she 
Had   not  so  many  ornaments  to  strike : 

Her  hair  had  silver  only,  bound  to  be 
Her  dowry ;   and   her  veil,  in  form  alike, 

^Yas  coarser ;    and  her  air,  though  firm,  less  free ; 
Her  hair  was  thicker,  but  less  long ;   her  eyes 
As  black,  but  quicker,  and  of  smaller  size. 

cxxni. 

And  these  two  tended  him,  an<l  cheer'd  him  both 

With  food  and  raiment,  and  those  soft  attentions. 
Which   are    (as  I   must   own)    of  female   growth, 

And  have  ten  thousand  delicate  inventions; 
They  made   a  most   superior  mess  of  broth, 

A   thing  which   poesy  but  seldoni   mentions. 
But  the  best  dish  that  e'er  was  cook'd  since  Homer's 
Achilles  order'd  dinner  for  new  comers. 

CXXIV. 
I  '11   tell  you  who  they  were,  this  female  pair, 

l^est  they  should  seem  princesses  in  disguise ; 
Besides  I  hate  all   mystery,  and   that  air 

Of  clap-trap,  which  your  recent  poets  prize  ; 
And   so,   in  short,  the  girls  they  really  were 

They  shall  appear  before  your  curious  eyes. 
Mistress  and  maid ;   the  first  was  only  daughter 
Of  an  old  man  who  lived   upon  the  water. 

cxxv. 

A  fisherman  he  had  been  in  his  youth. 
And  still  a  sort  of  fisherman  was  he ; 

But  other  speculations  were,  in  soolh. 
Added  to  his  connexion  with  the  sea, 

Perhaps,  not  so   respectable,  in  truth: 
A  little  smuggling,  and  some   |))racy, 

Left   liim,  at  last,  the  sole  of  many  masters 

or  an  ill-gotten  nuUion  of  piastres. 

CXXVI. 

A  fisher,  therefore,  was  h*; — though  of  men, 
Likt;  Peter  the   Apostle, — and  he  fish'd 

For  wandering   merchant-vessels,  now  and  then, 
And  sometimes  caught  as  many  as  hewish'd; 

The  cargoes  he  confiscated,  and  gain 

He  sought   in  the   slavomarkcit  too,  and  dish'd 

Full   many  a  morsel    f<^r  that  Turkish   trade, 

By  uhich,  i.o  doubt,  a  good  dt-al   may  be   made. 

CXXVII. 

He  was  a  Greek,  and  on  his  isle  had  built 
(One  of  the  wild   and   sm:d!er   Cyi'lades) 

A  very  handsome  house  from. out  his  guilt. 
And  there   he  lived   exceedingly  at  ease; 


Heaven  knows  what    cash  he   got,  /ir  blood  he  spilt, 

A  sad  old  fellow  was   he,  if  vou   please. 
But  this   I   know,  it  was   a  spacious  buiUling, 
Full  of  barbaric  carving,  paint,  and   gilding. 

txxviii. 

He  had   an  only  daughter  call'd  Haidee, 
The   greatest   heiress  of  the   Eastern   isles  ] 

Besides  so  very  beautiful  was   she. 

Her  dowry  was  as  nothing  to  her  smiles: 

Still   in  her  teens,  and   like  a  lovely  tree 
So  grew  to  womanhood,  and  l)(<tween  whiles 

Rejected   several  suitors,  just  to  learn 

How  to   accept   a   better  in   his  turn. 

cxxix. 

And  walking  out  upon   the   beach   below 

The  clifi",  towards  sunset,  on   that  day  she  found, 

Insensible, —  not  dead,  but  nearly  so, — 

Don  Juan,  almost  fiumsh'd,  and  half  drown'd  ; 

But,  being  naked,  she  was  shock'd,  you  know. 
Yet  deem'd  herself  in   common  pity  bound. 

As  far  as  in  her  lay,  '■'■  to  take  him  m, 

A  stranger,"  dying,  with  so  white  a  skin. 

cxxx. 

But  taking  him  into  her  father's  house 
Was  not  exactly  the  best  way  to  save, 

But  like  convening  to  the  cat  the  mouse. 
Or  people  in   a  trance  hito  their  grave ; 

Because  the  good  old   man   had  so  much  "  vovy," 
Unlike  the  honest   Arab  thieve?  so  brave. 

He  would  have  hospitably  cured  the  straii^-er, 

And  sold  him  instantly  when  out  of  danger, 

cxxxi. 

And  therefore,  with  her  maid,  she  thought  it  beat 
(A  virgin  always  on  her  maid  relies) 

To  place  him  in  the  cave  for  present  rest: 
And  when,  at  last,  he  open'd  his  black  eyes, 
'  Their  charity  increased  about  their   guest : 
And  their  compassion  grew  to  such  a  size. 

It  open'd  half  the  turnpike  gates  to  heaven— 

(Saint  Paul  says  'tis  the  toll  which  must  be  given 

CXXXII. 

They  made  a  fire,  but  such  a  fire  as  they 
Upon  the   moment  could  contrive  with   such 

INlaterials   as  were  cast  up   round  the   bay. 

Some  broken  i)lanks  and  oars,  that  to  the  touch 

Were  nearly  tinder,  since  so  long  they  lay, 
A  mast  was   almost  crumbled  to  a  crutch  ; 

But,  by  God's  grace,  here  wrecks  were  in  such  plenty 

That   there  was  fuel  to  have  furnish'd  twenty. 

CXXXIII. 

He  had  a  bed  of  fiirs  and  a  pelisse. 

For  Haidee  stripji'd  her  sables  off  to  make 

His  couch;   and  that  he  might   be  more  at  ease, 
And  warm,  in  case  by  chance  he  should  awake, 

They  also  gave  a  petticoat  apiece, 

She  and  her  maid,  and   promised  ^  y    -ly-broak 

To   pay  him   a  fresh  visit,  with  a  dish, 

For  breakfast,  of  eggs,  coifee,  bread,  and  tisn. 

CXXXIV. 

And  thus  they  eft  him  to  his  lone  repose: 
.Juan  slept  like  a  top,  or  like  the  dead. 

Who  sleep  at  last,  perhaps   (God  only  knows), 
.Just  for  the   present,  and   in   his  luli'd  head 

Not   even  a  vision   of  his  former  woes 

ThrobhM  in  accursed  dreams,  which  sometimes  spread 

Unwelcome  visions  of  our  former  years. 

Till  the  eye,  cheated,  opens,  thick  with  Urars. 


DON    JUAN. 


590 


cxxxv. 

Young  Juan   slept  all  dremnless: — but  the  maid 
Who  sinoothM   his   pillitw,  as  she  left  the  den, 

Look'd   back   upon   him,  and   a  nioiiu-nt   stay'd, 
And   turiiM,  be!ieviiio[  that    he  cali'd   a<;ain. 

He  skunber'd  ;    yet  she  thought,  at   least    siie  sai({ 
(The   lieart  wil'   slip  even  as   the  tongue  anti  pen), 

He   had   pronounced  her  name — hut  siie  forgot 

That   at  this   moment  Juan   knew  it  not, 

C  XXXVI. 

And  pensive  to  her  father's  Imuse  slie  went, 

Enjoining  silence  strict  to  Zui',  who 
Better  than   her  knew  what,  in  tact,  she  meant, 

Slie   being  wiser  by  a  year  or  two: 
A  year  or  two's  an  age  when  rightly  s]>ent, 

And  Zoe   spent   hers   as   most  women  do. 
In   gaining  all   that    useful   sort   of  knowledge 
Which  is  acquired  in  nature's   good   old   college. 

CXXXVII. 
The  morn  broke,  and  found  Juan  slumbering  still 

F'ast  in   his  cave,  and  nothing  clash'd  upon 
His  rest ;   the  rushing  of  the  neigbouring  rill, 

And  the  young  beams  of  the  excluded   su.i. 
Troubled  him  not,  and  he   might  sleep  his  till; 

And  need  he  had  of  slumber  yet,  for  none 
Had  sutTer'd   more — his   hardships  were  comparative 
To  those  related  in  my  grand-dad's  narrative. 

cxxxviir. 

Net  so  Haidee ;   she  sadly  toss'd  and  tumbled, 
And  started  from   her  sleep,  and,  turning  o'er, 

Dream'd  of  a  thousand  wrecks,  o'er  which  she  stumbled, 
And  handsome  corpses  strew'      upon  the  shore ; 

And  woke  her   maid  so  early  tha.   she   grumbled. 
And   cali'd   lier   father's   old   slav»!S   up,  nlio   swore 

In  several  oaths — Armenian,  Turk,  and  Greek, — 

They  knew  not  what  to  think  of  such  a  freak. 

cxxxix. 

But   up  she  got,  and  up  she   made  them  get. 

With  some  pretence   about  the  sun,  that  makes 
Sweet  skies  Just  when  he  rises,  or  is  set  ; 

And  't  is,  no  doubt,  a  sight  to  see  when  breaks 
Bright  Phoebus,  while  the  mountains  still  are  wet 

With   mist,  and  every  bird  with  him  awakes. 
And  night  is  flung  off  like  a  mourning  suit 
Worn  for  a  husband,  or  some  other  brute. 

CXL. 
I  say,  the  sun  is  a  most  glorious   sight, 

I  'vc  seen  him  rise  full  oft,  indeed  of  late 
I  have  sat  up  on  purjjose  all  the  night, 

Which  hastens,  as  physicians  say,  one's  fate  ; 
And  so  ail   ve,  who  would  be  in  the  right 

In  health  and  purse,  Ix^gin  your  day  to  date 
From  day-break,  and  when  cotfhi'd  at  fourscore. 
Engrave  upon  the  plate,  you  rose  at  four. 

CXLI. 

And  Haidee  met  the  morning  fiice  to  face  ; 

Her  own  was  freshest,  though  a  feverish  flush 
Had  dyed   it  with   the  headlong  blood,  whose  race 

From  heart  to  cheek   is  curb'd   into   a  blush. 
Like  to  a  torrent  which  a  mountain's  base, 

Tiiat  over[)owers  some  Alpine  river's  rush. 
Checks  to  a  lake,  whose  waves  in  circles  spread. 
Or  the  Red  Se? — but  the  sea  is  not  red. 

CXLII 
And  down  the  cliff"  the  island  virgin  came, 

And   near  the  cave  her  (juick  light  fiiotsteps  drew. 
While  the   sun   smiled  on  her  with  his  first  flame. 

And  y'^iing  Aurora  kiss'd  her  lips  with  dew, 


Taking  her  fi^r  a  sister  ;    just  the  same 

Mistake   you  would   have  made  on  seeing  the  tw^ 
Although  the  mortal,  quite   as  fresh   and  fair, 
Had  all  the  advantage   too  of  not   being  air. 

CXLIH. 

And  when   into  the  cavern  Haidt;e  stepp'd, 

All   timi(ily,  yet   rapidly,  she   saw 
riiat   like  an   infant  Juan   sweetly  slept  : 

And  then   she  stop|)'d,  and  stood  as  if  in  awe 
(For  sleep   is  awful),  and  on  tiptoe  cre[)t 

And  wrapp'd   him  closer,  lest  the  air,  too  raw. 
Should  reach  his  blood ;   then  o'er  him,  still  as  death 
Bent  with  hush'd  lips  that  drank  his  scarce-drawn  breath, 

CXLIV. 
And  thus,  like  to  an   ansrel  o'er  the   dving 

Who  die  in   ri<xhteousness,  she  lean'd  ;    and  there 
Al!  tranquilly  th(;  shipwreck'd   b<ty  was   lying, 

As  o'er   him   lay  the  calm   and   stirless   air : 
But   Zoe  the  meantime  some  eggs  was  frying, 

Since,  after  all^ no  doubt  the   youthful   pair 
Must  breakfast,  ami  betimes — lest  they  should  ask  u. 
She  drew  out   her   provision  from  the   basket. 

CXLV. 
She  knew  that  the  best  feelings  ijuist  have  victual, 

And  that  a  shipwreck'd   youth  would   hungry  be  ; 
Besides,  bciuii   less   in   love,  she   yawn'd   a  -little, 

And  felt   her  veins  chill'd  bv  the   neighbouring  sea  ; 
And  so,  she  cook'd  their  breakfast  to  a  tittle  ; 

I  can't   sav  that 'she   gave   them   any  tea. 
But   there  wits;  egirs,  fruit,  cofl^ee,  bread,  fish,  honey, 
Widi   Seio  v.iue, — and   all  for  love,  not   money. 

CXLVI. 
And   Zoc,  when   the  ccjits  were   ready,  and 

Tiie  cotlee  m.'idc,  v>  ou!d  '^lin  iiave  waken'd  Juan  j 
But  Haidee,  stopp'd  her  with  her  quick  small  hand, 

And  without  word,  a  sign  her  finger  drew  on 
Her  lip,  which  Zoe   needs  must  understand  ; 

And,  the  first  breakfast  sp()il'd,.pre[tared  a  new  one, 
Because  her   mistress  would   not   let  her  break 
That  sleep  which  seein'd  as  it  would  ne'er  awake. 

CXLVII. 

For  still  he  lay,  and  on   his  thin  worn  cheek, 
A  purple  hectic  play'd,  like  dying  day 

On  the  snow  tops  of  distant  hills  ;    the  streak 
Of  suffer.-uice  yet  upon   his  forehead   lay, 

Where  the  blue  veins  look'd  shadowv,  slirunk,  and  weak 
And  his  black  curls  were  dewy  with  the  spray, 

Which  weigh'd  upon  them  yet,  all  damp  and  salt, 

Mix'd  with  the  stony  vapours  of  the  vault. 

CXLVIII. 

And  she  bout  o'er  him,  and  he  lay  beneath, 
Hush'd   as  the  babe  upon  its   motiier's   breast, 

Droo[)'d  as  the  willow  when  no  winds  can  breathe, 
LuU'd   like  the  depth  of  ocean  when   at   rest. 

Fair  as  the  crowning  rose  of  the  whole  wreath, 
Soft  as  the  callow  cygnet  in   its  nest ; 

In  short,  he  was   a  very  pretty  fellow, 

Although  his  woes   had  turn'd   him  rather  yellow. 

CXLIX. 

He  woke  and   gazed,  and  would  have  slept   again, 
But   the  fair  face  which   met  his  eves,  forbade 

Those   eyes   to  close,  though  weariness   and    pain 
Had  further  shiep   a  fiiriher  pleasure  made  ; 

For  woman's  face  v.as  never  forii'd   in  vain 
For  Juan,  so  that   even  when   he   p'-  y'd. 

He   turn'd  from   grisly  saints,  and   martyrs   hairv, 
J     To  tiie  sweet   p(>rtraits   of  the  Virgin  iMarv. 


600 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


CL. 

And  tlius  iipun  his  e'bow  ):e  aro-e, 

And  luokd  upnu  the  lady  in  \vji.>,-^e  cheek 

The  pale  contended  with   ilie  puriiie  rose, 
As  with  an  etl'ort  she  began  to  sjteak  : 

Her  eyes  were  elo  juent.  lier  words  wonld  pose, 
AUliou_li  she  told  liiin,  in  .u^ood  m  >dern  Greek, 

TA'ith  an   Ionian  aocent,  !"\v  and  sweet, 

That  he  was  taint,  and  ninst  not   talk,  but  eat. 

CLI. 


Now  .Tnan  could  ii'it  nnd^ 

■stand  a  vrr)ra, 

Being  no  lirecian:    Imt  1 

le  h;id  iu!  ear, 

And  her  voire  was  tli"  wai 

b:e  of  a  bird, 

So  soft,  so  .-«w-('r,  so  di'li' 

at,3ly  clear, 

That  finer.  sinipi^T  niusir 

ne'er  was  heard; 

The  Rort  of  sound  we  ee 

lo  with  a  tear. 

M'ithoiit  knowii;g  wiiy— ai 

ovei-i.owtring  tone. 

Whence  melodv 


L^euds,  as  from  a  throne. 


CLII. 

And  .Juan  gazed,  as  one  v,lio  is   awoke 

By  a  distant  organ,  lioubting  if  he  be 
Not  yet   a  dreamer,  till  tlie  spell  is   broke 

By  the  watcliman,  or  some  such  realitv, 
Or    by  one's  early  valet's  cursed  knock  ; 

At  least  it  is  a  heavy  sound  to  me, 
Vv'ho  like  a  morning  slumber — for  the  ni^ht 
Shows  stars  and  women  in   a  better  light. 

CLIII. 

And  Juan,  too,  was  hel^)"d  out  from  his  dream, 
Or  sleep,  or  whatsoe'er  it  was,  by  fueling 

A   most   prodigious  appetite  :    the  steam 
Of  Zoe's  cookery  no  doubt  was  stealing 

Upon   his  senses,  and  the  kindlincr  beam 

Of  the  new  fire  which  Zoe  kept  u[),  kneeling 

To  stir  her  viands,  made  him  quite  awake 

And  long  for  food,  but  chiefly  a  beef-steak. 

.,       \  ,  CLIV. 

But  beef  is  rare  within  these  oxless  isles  ;     <t/ 

Goats'  flesh  there  is,  no  doubt,  and  kid,  and  nmtton,  -t^ 
And  when  a  holiday  upon  them  smiles,  <^ 

A  joint  upon  their  barbarous  spits  they  put  on  :  ^ 
But  this  occin-s  but  seldojii,  between  whiles,    (X^ 

For  some  of  these  are  rocks  with  scarce  a  hut  on,J^ 
Others  are  fair  and  fertile,  among  which,     ^ 
This,  though  not  large,  was  one  of  the  most   rich.^ 

CLV. 

I  sav  that  beef  is  rare,  and  can't  help  thinking 

That   the  old  fable  of  the  Minotaur — 
From  which   our  modern   morals,  rightly  shrinking, 

Condeiun  the  royal  lady's  taste  who  wc-e 
A  cow's  sha[ie  for  a  mask — was  only  (sinking 

Tiie  ;d!e<,'ory)  a  mere  type,  no  inon^, 
I'liat   Pas!j)liac   [)romoted   breeding  cattle, 
To  make  the  Cretans  bloodier  m  battle. 

CJAT. 

For  we  all  know  that  English  people  are 
Fed  upon   beef — I  won't  say  much   of  beer, 

Be<:aus(;  't  is  liipior  only,  and  being  far 

FVom  this  my  subject,  has  no  business  here:  — 

We   know,  too,  tiiey  are  very  fond   of  war, 
A   pleasure — like  all   pleasures — rath(;r  dear; 

bo  were;  tli<!  Cretans — from  whi(di   I   infer 

Thai    h(  ef  and    battles   iioili  were  owing  to  her. 

CI  ATI. 

But   to  resum(.>.     Tiie   languid  Juan   raised 

His  iiead  upon   his  ellxiw,  and   he   saw 
A  sight  on  which  he  had  not   lately  gazed, 


As  ail  his  latter  meals  had  been  quite  raw, 
Three   or  four  things  for  which  the  Lord  he  praised. 

And,  feeling  still  the  famish'd  vulture  gnaw, 
He  fell  ii|)on  whate'er  was  oifer'd,  iike 
A  priest,  a   shark,  an  alderman,  or  p lie. 

CLVIII. 
He  ate,  and   he  was.;  well  supplied  ,   and  she, 

Wiio  watch'd  him   like  a  mother,  would  have  fe,d 
Him  past  all   bounds,  because  she  smiled  to  see 

Such   appetite  in  one  she  had  deem'd  dead  : 
But  Zoc,  being  older  than  flaidee, 

Knew  (by  tradition,  foi  she  ne'er  had  read) 
That  famish'd  people  must  be  slowly  nursed, 
And  fed  by  spoonfuls,  else  \h^.y  always  burbt. 

CLIX. 
And  so  she  took  the   liberty  to  state. 

Rather  by  deeds  than  words,  because  the  case 
Was  urgent,  that  the  gentleman,  whose  fate 

Had  made  her  mistress  quit  her  bed   to  trace 
The  sea-shore   at  this   hour,  must  leave  his  plate. 

Unless  he  wish'd  to  die  u|)on  the   place — 
She   snatch'd  it,  and   refused   another  morsel. 
Saying,  he  had  gorged  enough  to  make   a  horse  ill. 

CLX. 
Next  they — he  being  naked,  save  a  tatier'd 

Pair  of  scarce  decent   trowsers — went  to  work, 
And   in   the  fire   his   recent   rags   they  scatter'd, 

And  dress'd    him,  for  the  present,  like  a  Turk, 
Or  Greek — that   is,  although  it  not  njuch   matter'd, 

Omitting  turban,  slippers,  pistols,  dirk, — 
They  furnish'd  him,  entire  except  some  stitches, 
With  a  clean  shirt,  and  very  spacious  breeches. 

CLXI. 
And  then  fair  Haidee  tried  her  tonsne  at   sneaking; 

But  not   a  word  could  Juan  comprelicnd, 
Although  he  hsten'd  so  that  the  young  Greek  in 

Her  earnestness  would  ne'er  have   made  an  end ; 
And,  as  he  interrupted   not,  went  eking 

Her  speech   out  to  lier  protege  and  friend, 
Till,  pausing  at  the  last  her  breath   to   take, 
She  saw  he  did  not  understand  Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And  then   she  had  recourse  to  nods,  and   signs, 
And  smiles,  and  sparkles  of  tlie  speaking  eye, 

And  read  (the  only  book  she  could)  the  lines 
Of  his  fair  face,  and  fi)und,  by  sympathy. 

The  answer  eloquent,  where  the   soul   shines 
And  darts  in  one  quick   glance  a   long  reply; 

And  thus   in  every  look   she  saw  express'd 

A  world  of  words,  and  things  at  which  she  guesa'd. 

CLXIII. 

And  now,  by  dint  of  fingers  and  of  eyes,        (^ 
And  words  repeated  after  her,  he  took        v 

A  lesson  in   her  tongue  ;    but   by  surnas(!,  <^ 

No  doubt,  less  of  her  language  than   her  look  :  4- 

As  he  wlio  studies  fervently  the  skies  <^ 

Turns  oftener  to  the  stars   than  to  liis  bcok,    ^ 

Thus  Juan   learn'd   his   alpha  beta   better  C 

From  Haidee's  glance  than  any  graven  letter.*^ 

CLXIV. 

'Tis    pleasing   to   be  school'd   in   a  strange   ic.ngue 
By  female  lips   and   eyes — that  is,  I   mean. 

When   t)oth  the   teacher  and   the   taught  are  young, 
As  was  the  (;ase,  at    least,  wiicre   I   have   be(  n  ; 

They  smile  so  when  one  's  right,  and  wlicu  one  's  wrfnijj 
They  smile  still  more,  and   then  there  intervene 

Pressure  of  hands,  perhaps  evim  a  chaste  kiss  ;•— 

I  learn'd  the  little  that  I  know  by  this : 


DON    JUAN. 


601 


CLXV. 

Tliat  IS,  some  words  of  Spanish,  Turk,  or  Greek, 

Itulimi  not  al  all,  having  no  teachers. 
Much    English  I  cannot   iireteiul   to  >|ieak, 

l.tarnini:  that   language  chielly  from   its  ])ieachers, 
I5arro\v,  Soulli,  Tii'ntson,  whom  every  week 

I  stihiy,  also  Blair,  the   highest   reachers 
Of  el<iv|ueiice  in   piety  ami   inose — 
I  haio   vour   poets,  so   road  none  of  those. 

CLXVI. 
As  for  the  Uuhcs,  I   have   lumuhl  to  say, 

A  uan'.ierer  from   the  British  world  of  fashion, 
Where   I,  like  other  "  dogs,  have   ii;id   e.iy  day," 

Like  otiier   men,  too,  muy  have   ii:;d   uiy  passion- 
But  that,  hke  other  thmg>,  has   pass'd   awav  : 

And  all    iter  fjols  whom  I  cj^ld   lay  tiie   lash   on. 
Foes,  friends,  men,  wo!«.-n,  mnv  arr   nonglit   to   me 
But  dreams  of  what    has  heen,  no  more  lo   be, 

CLXVII. 
Retvr-n  we  to  Don  Juan.      He  begun 

To   hear  new  words,  and  to  repeat  them ;   but 
Some  feeluigs,  universal   as  the  sini, 

Were  such   as  could  not   in  l>is  breast  be  shut 
More  than  witiiin  the   bdsnui  of  a  nun  : 

He  was  m   kne— as  you  would   be,  no  doubt, 
With  a  young  benefactre-s, — so  was  she 
Just  in  the  way  we  very  often   see. 

CLxvni. 

Ar^d  every  day  by  day-break— rather  early 
For  Juan,  wiio  was   somewhat   f  )nd   (jf  rest — 

She  came  hito  the  cave,  but  it  was  merely 
To  see  her  bird   reposing  in   his   nest ; 

And   she  wonui   softly  stir   his   locks  so  curly, 
wl-hAiit   disturbing  her  yet  slumbering  guest, 

Breathing  ail  gently  o'er  his  cheek  and  mouth, 

As  o'er  a  bed  of  roses  the  sweet  south. 

CLXIX. 

And  every  morn  his  colour  Ireshlier  came, 
And  every  day  help'd  on  his  coin'alescence, 

'T  was  well,  because  health  ni  the  human  frame 
Is  pleasant,  besides  bemg  true  love's  essence. 

For  health   and    idleness   to   passion's  Hame 

Are  oil   and  gunpowder ;   and  some  good  lessons 

Are  also  lejirnt  from  Ceres  and   from  Bacchus, 

Without  whom  Venus  v.ili  not  long  attack  us. 

CLXX. 

While  Venus  fills  the  heart   (without  heart  really 

Love,  though  good   alwavs,   is   not   quite  so   good), 
Ceres  [ires<jnts  a  plate  of  vermicelli, 

For  love   must    be  Dustain'd   like   flesh  and   blood. — 
While  Bacchus    [lours   out  wine,  or   iiands   a  jelly : 

Egos,  oysters  too,  are  amatory  f  lod  ; 
But  who  is  ih.eir  ^)urveyor  from  above 
Heaven  knows, — h  may  be  Xeptune,  Pan,  or  Jove. 

CLXXI. 
When  Juan  woke,  he  f  jund  some   good  things  ready, 

A  bath,  a  breakfast,  and  tiie  finest  eyes 
That  ever  made  a  youthful   iieart  less  steady, 

Besides   her  maid's,  as    pretty  for   their  size; 
But   I   have  spoken   of  all   tliis   already— 

And   repetition's   tiresome   and   unwise, — 
Well- luan,  after  batiimi'  in  the  sea. 
Came  a  wavs   back  to  cotfee  and  Haidee. 

CLXxn. 

Bjth  were  so  vonng,  and    one  so  innocent, 

That  bathing  pass'd   for  nothing;   Jiian  secm'd 

Id  her,  as  't  were  the  kind  of  Ixdni.'  sent, 
Of  wiioin  these  two  years  she  had  nightly  dream'd, 


A  something  to  be  loved,  a  creature  meant 

To   be   her   ha|)p  ness,  and  wliDiii   she   deem'u 
To  render  hapi)y  ;   all  who  joy  would  win 
INIiisr  share,  it, — happiness  x- as   born   a  twin. 

CLXXIII. 
It  was  such  pleasure   to   beiioid   him,  such 

Enlariiement  of  existence   to   [laruike 
Nature  with  him,  to  thriil   heuealii   Ifis  touch 

To  watch   him   slumbering,  and    to   see   him  wake. 
To   live  with   mm   tor   ever  were    t<jo   aiuch  ; 

But  then  the  liioughl  cf  parting   madi-  her  quake; 
He  was   her  own,  her   ocean   treasure,  cast 
Like   a  rich  wreck — her  first  k)ve  and    Ser  last. 

CLXXI  V. 
And  thus  a  moon  rolfd  on,  and  fair  Haidce 

Paid  daily  visits  to  her  boy,  and   took 
Such   plentiful   precaulions,  that    still   he 

Remain'd   unknown  witliin   his  (la^'gy  nook; 
At  last  her  father's   prows   put   out   to   sea. 

For  certain  merchaninHn   upon   the   look. 
Not  as  of  yore  to  carry  oti'  an  lo. 
But  three  Ragusan  vess(  Is,  bound   fjr  Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Tlien  came  her  freedom,  f>r  she   !iad   no  mothei, 
So  thai,  her  father  being   at    S'-a,  she  was 

Free   as   a  married  woman,  or  :^u<-h  other 
Female,  as  wha-re  siie  likcjs   may  fa  ely  pass, 

Without   even  the   encumbrance   of  a   brother, 
The  freest   she   that  ever   gazaal   on    ^iuss  : 

I   sneak   of  Christian   [amis   in   lliis  comparison. 

Where  wives,  at  least,  are  seld.om  kept  in   garrison. 

CLXX  VI. 

Now  she  prolotiii'd   her  visits   and  her  t;)'k 

(For  they  must   talk),  and   he   had   learnt   to  cay 

So  much    as   to   propose   to   take  a  walk, — 
For  little   had   he  wander'd   sin:;e  the  day 

On  which,  like  a  young  Ho'.mm-  snapp'd  from  the  stalk. 
Droopini;   and  (iewy  on   the  beach  he   lay, — 

And  thus  they  walk'd  out   in   the  aftern<jon, 

And  sasv  the  sun  set  opposite  the  moon. 

CLXXVII. 

It  was  a  wild   and   brt;aker-beaten   coast, 

•With   ciitfs   above,  ancl  a   broad   sandy  sl'.ore, 
Guarded  by  shoals  and  rocks  as  bv  a  host, 

With   here   and  there  a  creek,  whose  as[iect  wore 
A  better  welcome  to   tiie  teinpesl-toss'd ; 

And  rarely  ceased   the   haughty  billows'  roar,   . 
Save  on  the  dead  long   summer  days,  w  hich   make 
The  outstretch'd   ocean  glitter  like  a   lake. 

CLXXVIH. 

And  the  small  ripple  sjiilt   upon   the   beacn 

Scarcelv  o'erpass'd   the  cream  of  your  champagne. 

Wlien   o'er  tlie   brim   the  sparkling   bumpers   reach. 
That  sprmg-dew  of  the  spirit !   the  heart's  rain  ! 

Few  things   surpass  old  wine :    and  they  may  jireaeh 
Who  please, — the  more  because  they  preach  in  vain,-  • 

Let  us  have  wine  and  women,  mirth  and  laughtei, 

Sermons  and   soda-water  tiie  day  after. 

CLXX  IX. 

Man,  being  reasonable^must  get_clrunk  ;— -,.  ,., 
Tlie  best  of  life  is  but  "Intoxication  :  ^ 

Glory,  the   grape,  love,  g.)l d,  in  these   are^ink 
The   hopes  of  all   m<n,  and   of  every  nation  : 

Without  their  sap,  how  branchless  were   the  trunk 
Of  life's  strange   tree,  so  fruitful   on  occasion  . 

But  to  return, — get  very  drunk  ;    and  when 

You  wake  with  liead-ache,  you  shall  see  wnat  then. 


602 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


CLXXX. 

Ring  for  your  \  alct — bid  him  quickly  bring 

Some  hock  and  soda-water,  then  you  '11  know 
A  pleasure  svorthj'  Xerxes  the.  great  king ; 

For  not  tlie  blest  sherbet,  sublimed  with  snow, 
Nor  the   first  sparkle  of  the  desert-spring, 

Nor  liurguiuly  in  all   its  sunset  glow. 
After  long  (ravel,  ennui,  love,  or  slaughter, 
Vic  with  that  draught  of  hock   and  soda-water. 

CLXXXI. 
The  coast — I   iliiak   it  was  the  coast   that  I 

Was  just  dLScrihnig — Yes,  it  u'«.s  the  coast — 
Lay  at  this   [)eriod   (luiet   as   the  sky. 

The  sands  uKtuaililed,  the  bine  waves  untoss'd, 
And   all  was  stillness,  save  the  sea-bird's  cry, 

And  dolpinu's  leap,  and  little  billow  cross'd 
IJy  some  low  rt)ck  or  slu-lve  that  made  it  fret 
Against  the  boundary  it  scarcely  wet. 

CLXXXII. 

And  forth,  they  waiider'd,  her  sire  being  gone, 

As  I   have  saiil,  upon   an   expedition ; 
And  mother,  brother,  guardian,  she   had   none, 

Save  Zoe,  who,  although  with  due   precision 
She  waited   on   her   lady  with  the   sun, 

Though  daily  service  was   her  only  mission, 
Bringing  warm  water,  wreathing   her   long  tresses, 
And  asking  now  and  then  for  cast-off  dre&sfcs. 

CLXXXIII. 

It  was  the  cooling  hour,  just  when  the  roun.leJ 

Red  sun  sinks  down  behmd  the  azure  hill. 
Which  then  seems  as  if  the  whole  earth   it  b^llJldeu, 

Circling  all  nature,  hiish'd,  and  dim,  and  still. 
With   the   far   mountain-crescent   half  surroimdecJ 

On  one  side,  and   the  deej)  sea   calm  and  chill 
C'pon  vlic  other,  and   the  rosy  sky. 
With  one  star  sparkling  through  it  like  an  eye. 

CLXXXIV. 
And  thus  th.ey  wander'd  forth,  and  hand  in  hand, 

Over  the  shining   pebbles  and  the  shells. 
Glided  along  the  smooth  and  harden'd  sand, 

And   in   the  worn   and  wild   receptacles 
Work'd   by  the  storms,  yet  work'd  as  it  were  plann'd, 

In  hoLow  halls,  with  si)arry  roofs   and  cells, 
They  turn'd  to  rest ;   and,  each   clasped  by  an  arm, 
Yielded  to  the  deep  twilight's  purple   charm. 

CLXXXV. 
They  look'd  up  to  the  sky,  whose  floating  glow 

S[)read  like  a  rosy  ocean,  vast  and  bright  ; 
They  gazed   u])on  the  glittering  sea  below, 

Whence  the  broad   moon   rose  circling   into  sight; 
They  heard  the  waves  splash,  and  the  wiiul  so  low. 

And  saw  each  other's  dark  eyes  darting  light 
fnto  each  other — and,  beholding  this. 
Their  lips  dniw  near,  and  clung  into  a  kiss ; 

CLXXXVI. 
A  long,  long  kiss,  a  kiss  of  youth,  and  love, 

And  beauty,  all   concentrating,  like  rays 
Into  one  focus  kindled   from  above  ; 

Such  kisses  as   l)elong  to  early  days. 
Where  heart,  and   soul,  and  sense,  in   concert  move. 

And  the  blood's  lava,  and  the  pulse  a  bl.aze, 
Eacli  kiss  a  heart-<pi<ike, — for  a  kiss's  strength, 
I  thuik   it  must  be  reckoned   by  its  length. 

CLXXXVII. 
By  icnglh  I   mean  duration  ;   theirs  endured 

Heaven    knows   how    long — no   doubt    they   never 
reckon'.!  ; 
And  if  I  ley  liad,  they  could   not   have  secured 

The  sum  of  their  sensations  to  a  second; 


^     Tliey  hail   not  spoken  •  but  they  felt  allured, 

I         As  if  their  souls  and  lips  each  other  beckon'd, 

'     Which,  being  join'd,  like  swarming  bees  they  chins— ' 

I    Their  h;arts  the  tlowers  from  whence  the  honey  sprun^j 

!  CLXXX  VIII. 

j    They  were  alone,  yet  not  alone  as  they 

j        Who,  shut  in  chambers,  think  it  loneliness ; 

The  silent  ocean,  and  the  star-light  bay, 

The  twilight  glow,  which   momently  grew  less, 

The  voiceless  sands,  and  dropping  caves,  that  lay 
Around  them,  made  them  to  ench  other  press, 

As  if  there  were  no  life  beneath  the  sky 

Save  theirs,  and  that  their  life  could  never  die. 

CLXXXIX. 

Thev  fear'd  no  eyes  nor  ears  on  that  lone  beacti, 
Tliey  felt  no  terrors  from  the  ni<:!it,  they  were 

All  in   all  to  each  other:   though  their  speech 

Was  broken  words,  ihcy  thnuiiht  a  languag*;  there,— 

And  all  Che  burning  tongues  the  passions  teach 
Found  in  one  sigh  the  best  inter[)reter 

Of  nature's  oracle — first  love, — that   all 

Which  Eve  has  left  her  dauiihters  since  her  fall. 

cxc. 

Jaidee  spoke  not  of  scruples,  ask'd  no  vows, 

Nor  olfer'd  any*   she  had  never  heard 
Of  plight  and  promises  to  be  a  spouse, 

Or  perils  by  a  k)ving  maid  incurr'd  ; 
She  was  all  which  pure  ignorance  allows. 

And   Hew  to  her  young  mate  like  a  young  bird 
And,  never  having  dreamt  of  falsehood,  she 
liad  not  one  word  to  say  of  constancy. 

CXCI. 
She  loved,  and  was  beloved — she  adored. 

And  she  was  worshipp'd  ;   a^ter  nature's  fashion. 
Their  intense  souls,  into  each  other  pour'd. 

If  souls  could  die,  had   perish'd   in  that   passion, — 
But  by  degrees  their  senses  svere   restored. 

Again  to  be  o'ercome,  again  to  dash  on  ; 
A.nd,  beating  'gainst  /iis   bosom,  Ilaidee's   heart 
Fell  as  if  never   more  to  beat  apart. 

CXCII. 

Alas  !   they  were  so  young,  so  beautiful. 
So  lonely,  loving,  helpless,  and  the  hour 

Was   that  in  which  the  heart  is  always  lull. 
And,  having  o'er   itself  no  further  puwer. 

Prompts  deeds  eternity  cannot  annul. 

Hut   pays  off  moments  in  an  endless  showej 

Of  hell-fire — all  prepared  for  people  giving 

Pleasure  or  pain  to  one  another  living. 

CXCIII. 

Alas  !   for  Juan   and  Haidee  !   they  were 
So  loving  and  so  lovely — till  then   never. 

Excepting  our  first  parents,  such   a   pair 

Had   run  the  risk  of  being  damn'd  for  evtr; 

And  Haidee,  being  devout  as  well   as  f  lir. 

Had,  doubtless,  heard  about  the  Stygian  river, 

And  hell   and  purgatory — but   forgot 

Just  in  the  very  crisis  she  should  not. 

CXCIV. 

They  look  upon  each  other,  and  their  eyes 

Gleam  in  the  moon-light;   and  ner  white  arm  clasps 

Round  Juan's   head,  and   his  around   hers   lies 
Half  buried   in   the  tresses  which  it  gras])s  ; 

She  sits  upon  his  knee,  and   drinks   his   sighs. 
He  hers  until   they  end   in  brok.'n   s;asi)s  ; 

And  thus  thi;y  f)rin  a  group   that  's  (pule  antique. 

Half  naked,  loving,  natural,  and  Greek. 


DON    .lUAN. 


CO? 


CXCV. 

And  when   those  licup  and   luirriiiig  moment^:  passM, 
Aihi  Juiin  sunk  to  sleep  within    Iier   arms, 

She  sK'pt    not,  but   all   tenderly,  th()u;j;h   fast, 
SustainM    his   lieaii    upon   her   bosom's  charms. 

And  now  and  then   her  eye  to  heaven   is  cast. 

And  then  on  the  pale  clieek  lier  breast  now  warms, 

Pillow 'd  on   her  o'erHowing  iieart,  which  pants 

With   all   it  granted,  and  with  all   it  grants. 

CXCVI. 

An  infiint  when  it   gazes  on  a  light. 

A.  child   the  moment  when   it   drains   the  breast, 
A  devotee  when  soars   the  host  in   siijh.t. 

An  Arab  with   a   stranger  fjr   a  guest, 
A  sailor,  when   the   prize   has  struck   in  fight, 

A   miser  tilling  his   most   h.. Girded  chest. 
Feel  rapture;    but   not   such   true  joy  are  reajjins 
A'-  they  who  svatch  o'er  what  they  love  while  sleeping. 

CXCVII. 

For  tncre  it  hes  so  traiupiil,  so  beloved, 

All  that  it  hath  of  life  with  us  is  living  ; 
So  gentle,  stirless,  helpless,  and  unmoved. 

And  all  unconscious  of  the  joy  'r  is  glvina, 
All   it   hath  felt,  intlicted,  pass'd,  and   proved, 

Husii'd  into  dej)ths  beyond   the  watcher's  diving  ; 
There  lies  the  thing  we  love  with  all   its  errors, 
Ana  all  its  charms,  like  death  without  its  terrors. 

CXCVIII. 
The  ladv  watch'd   her  lover — ami   that   hour 

Of  Love's,  and  Night's,  and  Ocean's  solitude, 
Cerflow'd  her  soul  with  their  united  power  ; 

Amidst  the  barren  sand  and  rocks  so  rude 
She  and  her  wave-worn  love   had  made  their  bower, 

Where  nought  u|)on  their   passion  could   intrude, 
:\nd  all  the  stars  that  crowded  the   blue  space 
Saw  nothing  happier  than   her   glowing  ^ce. 

CXCIX. 
Aias  !    the  love  of  women  !    it   is   known 

I'o   be   a   lovely  and   a  fearfu    thing; 
Foi    all  of  theirs  upon  th.tl  die   is  thrown. 

And  if  't  is  lost,  life  iiath  no  more  to  bring 
To  them  but  mockeries  of  the  past  alone, 

And  their  revenge  is  as  the  tiger's  spring, 
Deadly,  and  quick,  and  crushing  :  yet  us  real 
Torture  is  theirs— what  they  inllict  they  feel. 

CC. 
They  're  right ;   for  man,  to  man  so  oft   unjust. 

Is  alwavs  so   to  women  ;    one  sole   bond 
Awaits  them,  treachery  is  all  their  trust  -^ 

Taught  to  conceal,  their  bursting    hearts  despond 
Over  their   idol,  till   some  wealthier   lust 

Buys   them   in   marriage — and  what   rests  beyond? 
A   thankless  husband,  next   a   faithless   lover, 
Then  dressing,  nursing,  praying,  and  all 's  over. 

CCI. 

Some  takg  a  lover,  some  take  drams  or  prayers, 
Some  mind  their  household,  others  dissipation. 

Some  run  away,  and   but    exchange  their  cares. 
Losing  the  advantage  of  a  virtuous  station  ; 

Few  changes   e'ei  <;an   better  their  aiiairs. 
Theirs   being  an  unnatural  situation^ 

From   the  dull   i>ala'-e  to  the  dirty  hovel  : 

Some  play  the  devil,  and  then  write  a  nvel. 

ecu. 

Haidee  was  nature's  brid*^  and   knew  fmt   this  ; 

Haidee  was   passion's  child,  born  where   the   sun 
Showers   triple  light,  and  scorches  even  the  kiss  , 

01  his  gazelle-eyed  daughters  ;    she  was  one 


Made  hut  to  love,  to  feel  that   she  was  his 

Who  was  her  chosen  :  what  was  siid  c.r  ('one 
Elsewhere  was  nothing— She  had  nought  f.  fear 
Hope,  care,  nor  love   Ix'yond,  her   heart   hex'    here. 

CCIH. 

And  oh!    that  (iui(;kening  of  the  heart,  tb.it   be  .1  ! 

How  much   it  costs  us"    yet   each   rismg   throb 
Is  in   its  cause  as   its  ctfect   so   sweet. 

That  wisdom,  ever  on   the  watch   to  rob 
Jov  of  its  ahrhymy,  and   to   repeat 

Fine  truths  ;    even  conscience,  too,  has   a  '^ugh  job 
To  make  us  understand   each   g./<jd   old    iii.i.v-m. 
So  good — I  wonder  Castlereagh   don't    tax  "en'. 

CCIV. 

And  now  't  was  done — on  the  lone  shore 'vero  plighted 
Their  hearts  ;    the   stars,  their  nuutml  tor.  IseF,  shed 

Beauty  upon  the  beauMful   they  lighted  : 

Ocean  their  witness,  and  the  cave   t'icp    b^d. 

By  their  own   feelings   hailow'd   and  nni'.ed. 
Their  priest  was  solitude,  and    they  -.vere  wed  • 

And   they  were  happy,  for  to  their   voimg    eyes 

Each  was  an  angel,  and    earth   paradise. 

ccv. 

Oh   love!    of  whom    great  Ca-sar  was   tlie   suitor, 
Titus   the    masK-r,  Antony  the   slave, 
1    Horace,  Catullus,  scholars,  Ovid  tutor, 
i         Sappho  the  sage   blue-stocking,  in  wlirjse   grave 
I    All   those   may  leap  who  rather  would   he   ueuler- 

(Leiicadia's    rock   still   overlooks    ih.e  w;ue)  — 
I    Oh  L'.>ve  !    thou  art    tiie  verv  god   of  evil, 
'    For,  after   all,  we  cannot  call  ihee  devil. 
CCVI. 
Thou  makest  the  chaste  connuhia!  state  precarious 
And  jestest  with   the   brows  of  mightiest  men: 
Csisar  and  Pompey,  .Mahomet,  Helisanus, 

Have   much   employ'd   the   muse  <jf  liisiory's   pen  , 
Their  lives   and   fortunes  were  extremely  various, — 

Such  worthies   time  will   never  S(!e   again:  — 
Vet  to  these  four  in  three  things  the  same  luck  holds, 
Thev  all  were  heroes,  conquerors,  and  cuckolds. 

ccvn. 

Thou   makest    philosophers  :    there  's  Epicurus 

And  Aristippiis,  a   material  crew  ! 
Who  to   immoral  courses  would  allure  us 

Bv  theories,  (]uite   practicable   too  ; 
If  only  from  the  devil   they  would   insure  us 

How  pleasant  were   the   ma.xim  (not  quite   new), 
"  Eat,  drink,  and   love,  what  can   the  rest  avail    as!" 
So  said  the  royal  sage,  Sardanapalus. 

CCVIIL 

,  But  Juan!    had  he  quite  forgotten  Julia? 

And  should   he  have  forgotten   her   so   soon  / 
I  can't  but   say  it   seems  to   me  most  truly  a 

Perplexing  question;   but,  no  doubt,  the  moon 
Does   these  things  for  us,  and  wher.ever  newly  a 

Palpitation  rises,  'l  is  her   boon,  X 

Else  how   the  devil  is   it  that   fresh  features 
Have  such  a  charm  for  us   poor  human  creatures  ' 

CCIX. 

I   hate  inconstancy — I  loathe,  detest. 

Abhor,  condemn,  abjure  the   mort;d   lAade 

Of  such  quicksilver  clay  that  in  Ins   breast 
No  permanent  foundation  can  be   laid  ; 

Lo%"e,  constant  love,  has   been   my  constant    guest, 
And   yet   last   night,  being  at   a  masf]  lerade. 

I   saw  the  t)rettiest  creature,  fresh   from  Milan, 

Which   gave  me  some  sensations  liiie  a  villian. 


604 


BYRON'S    POETICAL 


OCX. 
But   soon  pliilosophy  came   fo   lav  iiui, 

And  \vlii-,per'd,  "  tliink  of  everv  sacred  lie  !" 
•'1  will,  my  dear  philosophy  !"  I  said, 

"  But  then  he:  teeth,  and  then,  oh  heaven  !  lier  eye  ! 
I  'U  just  inquire  if  she  be  wife  or  maid, 

Or  neither — out   of  curiosity." 
"Stop!'"    cried    plulosophy,  with   air  so  Grecian 
(Tiiovigfi  she  was  inask'd  then  as  a  fiir  Venetian)  — 

CCXl. 

'**<l,y,i!"   so  I   stop[)M.  —  i>ul   to  return:    t!>at  which 
.Men  call    inconstancy  is  nothing   more 

Than   ad;iiiraiion  due  wiiere   natur<;'s  rich 
Profiisii)n  with   vi)Ui:g   beauty  covers  o'er 

Some   lavourM   oh|ecl  ;    and   as   in   the  niche 
A  loveiv  statui'  we   ahnost    adore. 

Tins    s;);-l  of  adoratioji   of  the   r(;dl 

Is  but  a  heighteemg  of  the  "beau   ideal." 

CCXII. 

Tis  the   perception    of  the   beautiful, 

A  fine  extensiun    of  the   ficulties, 
PhUonic,  univers:i!,  wond(?rfut, 

Drawn  fro:n  tin-  stars,  and  liltt-r'd  through  the  skies, 
Wui'.out  wiiicii    lite  would    be    (:,\tr(,>meiy  dull  ; 

With   (;:ie   or    tuo    smail   senses    ailded,  just. 
'I'o  iiinl    that  lies!!    is   torm'd  of  fiery  dust. 

CCXIll. 
Vet  'tis    a    puuifiil    ft-i/luii,  an  i    unwiiiing, 

F^or   surelv  if  wc  aiwavs  cmiid    perceive 
In   the   same  olij'j.-t    i.-i-a(:es  (juile   as   killing 

As  wlien  she   rosi;  upon  us   like   an  P^ve, 
*T  w(;uid  save  us  m;u!v  a  lieart-acl^e,  many  a  shilling 

(For  we  must    get  them   any  how,  or  grieve), 
VVherras,  if  one   -"ie    ladv  |. leased    for   ever, 
liow  pleasant    f)r   the  heart,  as  well   as  liver! 

CCXIV. 
Tiie,   heart   is   like  the  skv,  a    part  of  heaven, 

out  changi's   night   a.ii<l  .lay  too,  like   the   sky  ; 
No'.v  o'er  it  ciouds   and    tlimider    must    1x3  diaven. 

And  darkness    and  destruction   as  on    high  ; 
But  when  it  hatii  hcdu  scorch'd,  and  pierced,  and  riveii, 

[is  storms   expire   in  water-drop's  ;    the   eye 
Pours  forth  at  last  the  heart's  blood  tnrn'd  to  tears, 
VVhi;;h  make  the   English  climate  of  our  yeara. 
CUXV. 

The  livur  is  tlie  la/.aret  ol'   teie, 

lint  very  rarely  exeniti's  its  Innction, 
For  tiie  iirst  pu^si(>n  stays  th.-re  such  a  while 

Tiiat  all  tilt-  n.-st  creeji  in  and  tbrni  a  junction, 
Like  knots  of  vijieis  on  a  dunghills  s<yil, 

lluj,e,  tear,  liate,  jealousy,  reveng",  compunction. 
So  that  all  nijschiels  siniug  up  from  this  entrail, 
Like  earthiiuakes  from  the  hidden  lire  caU'd  "  ceutraL" 

CCXYI. 

In  the  mean  time,  without  proceeding  more 

In  this  anatoiiiv,  1  'vi-  liMishil  now 
Two  liundn-d  and  u.ld  .^lanza.-,  as  fieforo, 

That  b<dna-  a!, out  ihe  numbt-r  1  Ml  allow 
Eacii  canto  of  the  twolvc,  or  tweniy-ibur; 

And,  laying  down  my  pen,  1  malie  my  bow, 
L-^avmg  l>oii  .luan  ali.i  liai.lce,  to  plead 
I  »r  theiu  ami  tlieiro  with  all  wIjo  deign  to  read. 


"«""  v^ 


CANTO  Itf^ 


/ 


I. 

Haf!.,  ^Inse!   et  cmera. — We  left  Juan   sleeping, 
Pillow'd   upon   a  fair   and   hapi^y  breast, 

And  watch'd   by  eyes  tha»t  never   yet  knew  wcepuig 
And   loved  by  a   young  heart  too  deeply  bless  d 

To  feel   the   poison   through   her   spirit  creeping, 
Or   knew  %.vho   rested   there  ;    a  foe    to   rest 

Had  soil'd  the  current   of  her  sinless  years. 

And   liirn'd   her  pure   heart's   purest   blood  to  tears. 

II. 

Oh,  love!    what  is   it   in  this   world  of  ours 
Which  makes  il  fatal   to   be   loved  ?    Ah,  why 

With  cypress  branches  hast  thou  wreathed  tiiv  bowers 
And   made   thy   best    interprett-r  a   siirh  .' 

As  those  who  doat   on   odours   piu-k    iho  tlowcrs, 
A.'id  |,!ace  tlu.ni  on  tin  ir  br"a.;t — l)ut  place  to  (jie— 

Thiu?   the  fi-ail  IxMugs  ue  vnouM    f>:id!v  rherish 

Are  lairl  within   our  bosnnis    but    to   [)erisli. 

III. 

In   her  first    passion  wodmhi    lovfs  her  lover. 
In  all  the   o(hi;rs   all   she   loses   is   love. 

Which   irrows   a   h;d)it   she  can   n.;"er  get   fiver, 
And  his    her   Iros.l v— like   an   easy  glove. 

As  you    mav  find,  \\hei!e'er   voii    like   to   prove   her! 
One  man   alone   at  lirst    her   liearl  can   move; 

She  ttien   jirefers   him   in   the   plural   number. 

Not  linoing  that   tiie  addiimiis   much   encumber. 

IV. 

I   know  not  'If  the  fu'.ll   be   men's  or  theirs; 

But  one  thing's    pretty  sure  ;    a  woman   planted 
(Unless  at   once   she   plunge   for   life  in    prayers) 

After  a  decent  time   must   be   irailanted  ; 
Althoujih,  no  /ioiiift,  her  Hrst   of  love  atniirs 

Is  that    to  w!fi(di   her  heart  is  wholly  granted  ; 
Yet   there   are   some,  thev  say,  wiio   have   had   nune^ 
But   tli(jse  who  have   ne'er   end  with  only  one. 

V. 
'Tis   mrlancholv,  an<l   a  fearful   sign 

Of  human   frailty,  folly,  also  crime. 
That    love  and  uiarriaire  rarely  can  combine, 

AI'hou2ii   thev  both   are   born   in   tin;  same  ( li'ne 
Marriage  from   l.>ve,  like  vn^'i/ar  from  wine — 

A   sad,  sour,  s'llier   b(,>verair<' — bv  time 
Is   sharpeuM   from   its    hi;rh   ce!(>stial  ilavour 
Down  to  a  very  homely  ho'neliold  savour. 

VI. 

There's  something  of  antii)athy,  as 't  were, 

Bet.veen   their   present   and   th(!ir  future  state; 

A   kind   of  flattery  that's  hardly  fair 

Is  ii^eil,  -intil   the   truth   arrives  too  late — 

Vet  what    can    peo|)l(!   do,  (;xcept   dcsiiair? 

The  sam'>  thing's  (dianjre  their  names  at  such  aral« 

For  instance — [)assion  in  a  lover's  glorious. 

But   in   a  husband   is   pronounced   uxorious. 

VII. 

Men   rrrow  ashamed  of  being  so  very  frnd  ; 

They  sometimes  also  get  .i  little  tired, 
(Bui   that,  of  course,  is  rare),  and  then  despond: 

The  saiiK^  things  cannot  always   be   admired, 
Yfi'tis  "so  nominated   in  the  bond," 

That  both  are  tied  till  one  shall  have  expired. 


DON    JUAN. 


C05 


bad   tho\3glit  !   to  lo-^o  the  spouse  thai  was  adorning 
Oiir  davs,  ■iiki  jiut   .:i!(-':~   servauts  iii'o  liiotirmng. 

VIII. 

'I'ii-To'?   douhtless   soiiicthing   in   daunustic   doings 

Which  tonus,  in  tact,  Hue  love's  ai.!iihe.-is  ; 
Ri.)ii. ances   pamt   al  thil   length   jk-ooIv^'s  uooings, 

Hat  oul"/  give  a   hnst   of  iiKuruiges  : 
F.ir   no   one   cares   tor   inatri!!ue!!;il    coi'.iigs. 

There's  iDihii'g  uroog  \n  a  romnihial  i<isr:  • 
TliKik  you,  if  Laura  had  been  1\  trarelrs  u  lie, 
II.-  wuuid  have  written  sonnets  ail  his  lit'e  / 

IX. 
.■Ml  trairodies  are  tniishM   hy  a  death, 

All  coiiiedies  are  end.ed   by  a  nuirriage  ; 
The  t'ulure  stales  of  l>oth   are   left   to  f.iith. 

For  autfiors  fear  dcscri;)tii>n  mi:.'ht  ddsparage 
Th"  wurhls  to  come  of  hoi::,         '       ':      i-a'h, 

And  then  both  v/orlcls  '.'• .  ■  /.^ir  miscarriage, 

So  leaving  each   their  \»:u:-.   .u,  .   ;.i\iy>"r-Look  ready, 
Thev  sav  no  more   of  Death  or   of  liie   Lady. 

X. 
The  only  two  that  in  my  recollection 

Have  sniiH  of  heaven  and  htH,  or  marriag'    are 
Dante  and   ?*Iilt.K-i,  and  of  both   tj-.e  atf(>ct!on 

Was  hapless  in  their  nuptials,  tor  some  bar 
Of  fault  or  temper  ruin'd  the  connexion — 

(Such  things,  in  fact,  it  don't  ask  much  to  mar)  ; 
But  Dante's   Beatrice  and  Milton's   Eve 
Were  not  drawn  from  their  spouses,  you  conceive, 

XI. 

Some  persons  say  that  Dante  meant  tlieology 

Bv  Beatrice,  and  not  a  mistress — I, 
Although  mv  o]iinion  may  require  apology, 

Deem  this  a  commentator's  phantasy. 
Unless  indeed  it  was  t'rom  his  own  kno\vledge   he 

Decided  thus,  and  show'd  good   reason  \'.hy; 
I  think  that  Dante's  more  abstruse  ecstati'-s 
Meant  to  personify  the   mathematics. 

XII 
Ilaidee  ana  Juan  were  not   married,  but 

The  fauh  was   theirs,  no.  mine:    it    is   not   fair, 
Cliaste  reader,  then,  in   any  way  to  put 

The  blame  on  me,  unless  you  v,  ish  they  were  ; 
Then,  if  you'd  have  them  wedded,  please  to  shut 

The  book  which  treats   of  this  erroneous  pair, 
Before  the  consequences   crow  too   awful — 
'Tis  dangerous  to  read  of  loves  unlawful. 

XIIL 
Yet  thev  were  happv, — happy  in  the  illicit 

Indulgence  of  their  innocent   desires  ; 
But,  more  imprudent   grown  vith   every  visit, 

H-.tidee  forgot  the  island  ^^as  lier  sire's  ; 
When  we   have  w hut  we   like, 't  is   har<i  to   ni;    •   i.. 

At  least   in   the  beginning,  ere  one  tires  ; 
Thus  she  came  often,  not  a  moment  losing, 
W  hilst  her  piratical  papa  v.  as  cruising. 

XIV.        -^ 

Let   not   his  mode  of  raising  cash  se-m   strange, 
Althtuish   he   fleeced  the   tla^rs   of  (very  nation, 

Por   into  a   prime  minister   but    change 
His    tiiii',  and 'tis   nothing  but   taxation; 

But  he,  more   modest,  took   an   hrnnhler  range 
Of  iif',  and    in   an   honester  vocitic^.n 

Pursufti  o'er  ih.e   hi::h  se:i'^   hi- watery  journey, 

\nd   mti.'lv  pract!3(;d  as   a  s(  ;,-attorney. 

XV. 

The   oootl  oil!   i:(!nt!eman   had    been   delain'd 
B\  winds  and  v.a.ves,  and  son-e  important  caplur-'-.. 


And,  in  the  hone  of  more,  at  sea  tenain'd, 

Altiiougli  a  squall  or  two  had  damped  ins  nifr-et 

Bv  swamping  one   (jf  tiie  prizis;    he  iiad   eii;i;n  1 
His    prisoners,  dividing   them   like   idiapter^. 

In  number'd   lots:   they  all  had   cutis   and  coii:••^', 

And  averaged  each  from  ten  to  a   hundred  dolUi-s. 

XVI. 

Some  he   disposed  of  oti   Cape   Matapan, 

Anioiiij  his  friends   the   Mainots  ;   some  he   sold 
To  his   Tunis   correspondents,  save   one   man 
Toss'd   overboard   unsa!eat>le    (being   old)  ; 
The   rest — save   here   and   there  some  riciier  one, 
Reserved   f.)r  future  ransom   in   the   holil, — 
j    Were   link'd  alike;   as   for  the  common   people,  lie 
■    Had  a  large  order  from  the   Dey  of  Tripoli. 

XVII. 

The  merchandise  was  served  in  the  same  way. 
Pieced  out  for  ditferent  mans   in   the   Levant, 

Exf-ept  some   certain   portions   of  the   prey, 
Liiriif   classic  articles   of  female  want, 

French  stutis,  lace,  tweezers,  tootlii)icks,  tea[)Ot  tr-.iy 
Guitars   and    castanets  from   Alicant, 

All  wliich   selected  tmm   the   s[)oil   he   gatliers, 

Robb'd  for   his   daughter  by  the   best  of  fathers. 

XVIII. 

A  m(.nkev,  a  Dutch  mastitf,  a  mackaw. 

Two  parrots,  with   a   Pt  rsian   cat    and   kittens, 

He  chose  from   several   animals  he   saw— 

A   terrier  too,  wliich  oiice   had   been  a   Briton's, 

Who  dving  on   the   coast   of  Ithaca, 

The  peasants  eave  tiio  ii-mr  dumb  thing  a  jiittano:.  , 

These   to  secure  in   this  strong  blowing  weather, 

He  cased  in  one  huge  hamper  alti>gethor. 

XIX. 

Tiien   having  settleii   his   marine  affairs. 

Despatching  single   cruisers  here   and   there. 

His  vessel  having  need  of  some   reiiairs, 

He   shaped  his  course  to  where  his  daughter  farr 

Continued   still,  her  hospita' '"   ct-es; 

But  that   part  of  the  coasi  bem^'   shoal  an  '.   bare 

And  rough  with  reefs  which   ran  out  many  a  mile, 

His   port  lay  on  the  other  side   o'   the  isle. 

XX. 

And  there  he  went   ashore  with  ut   delay, 
Having  no  custom-house  or  quarantine 

To  ask  him   awkward   (juestioiis   on    liie  v.ay 
About  the  time  and   place  wh-Te  he  had   been : 

He  left  his  ship  to  be  hove  down   next  day. 
With   orders  to  the  people  to  careen  ; 

So  that   all  hands  were  busy  beyond   measure. 

In  getting  out   goods,  ballast,  ginis,  and   treasure. 

XXI. 

Arriving  at  the  summit  of  a  hill 

W'liich  overlnok'd  the  white  walls  of  iiis  home. 
He  stojip'<l. — What   sinsnlar  s.-niotions  till 

Their  bosoms  who  ha\  e  been  indmced  to  roam! 
With    tlultering  doubts    if  ail  be  well   or  ill  — 

With   love   for  inaiiy,  and  with  f.-ars  tor   some  , 
All  leeliiiijs  which  o'erleap  the  vears   loiiir  i'>sl, 
And   bring  our  hearts  back   to   their   starting-posi, 

XXH. 

The  ai)i)roach  of  home   to  husbands  and  to  siret. 

After  long  travelling  by  land   or  waU.r, 
.Mos*   naturally  some  small   doubt  inspires—- 

A   female   t'aniily 's  a   serious  mai'er  ; 
(None  trusts  the   sex   more,  '^r  so  inn; di   adm';rf;s — 

But  they  hate  flattery,  so  I  never  thitter) ; 


606 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Wives  in   their  husbands'   absences  grow  subtler, 
And  danghlers  sometimes  run  off  with   the  butler. 

XXIII. 

An  honest  gentleman  at  his  return 

May  not  have  the  good  fortune  of  Ulysses : 

Not  all  lone  matrons  for  their  husbands  mourn, 
Or  show  the  same  dislike  to  suitors'  kisses; 

The  odds  are  that  hj  finds  a  handsome  urn 

To  his  memory,  and  two  or  three  young  misses 

Born  to  some  friend,  who  holds  his  wife    and  riches. 

And   tiiat  his  Argus  bites  him  by — the   breeches. 

XXIV. 

If  single,  probably  his  plighted  fair 

Has  in  his  absence  wedded  some  rich  miser  ; 
But  all  tlie  better,  for  the  happy  pair 

May  quarrel,  and  the  lady  growing  wiser, 
He   may  resume  his   amatory  care 

As  cavalier  servente,  or  despise  her ; 
And,  that  his  sorrow  may  not   be  a  dumb  one. 
Write  odes  on  the  inconstancy  of  woman. 

XXV. 
And  oh !   ye  gentlemen  who  have  already 

Some  chaste  liais^on  of  the  kind — I  mean 
An   honest  friendship  with   a  married  lady — 

The  only  thing  of  this  sort  ever  seen 
To  last — of  all  connexions  the  most  steady. 

And   the  true  Hymen   (the  first 's  but  a  screen) — 
Vet  for  all   that  keep  not  too  long  away  ; 
( 've  known  the  absent  wrong'd  four  times  a-day. 

XXVI. 
Lambro,  our  sea-soli(Mtor,  who  had 

Much  less   experience  of  dry  land  than  ocean, 
On  seeing  his  own  chimney  smoke,  felt  glad; 

Hut  not  knowing  metaphysics,  had  no  notion 
Of  tiie  true   reason  of  his  not  being  sad, 

Of  that  of  any  other  strong  emotion  ;■ 
He  loved  his  child,  and  would  have  wept  the  loss  of  her. 
But  knew  the  cause  no  more  than   a  philosopher. 

XXVII. 
He  saw  his  white  walls  shining   in  the  sun, 
His  garden  trees  all  shadowy  and  green ; 
He  heard  his  rivulet's  light  bubbling  run, 

The  distant  dog-bark;   and  perceived  between 
The  uiubrage  of  the  wood,  so  cool  and  dun. 

The  moving  figures  and  the  sparkling  sheen 
Of  arms   (in  the  East   all  arm),  and  various  dyes 
Of  colour'd  garbs,  as  bright  as  butterflies. 

XXVIII. 
And   as  the  spot  where  they  appear  he  nears, 
Surprised   at  these  unwonted  !^^ns  of  idling. 
He  hears — alas !   no  music  of  He  spheres. 

But  an  unhallow'd,  earthly  sound  of  fiddling! 
A  melody  which  made  him  doubt  his  ears, 

The  cause  being  past  his  guessing  or  unriddling; 
A   pipe  too  and  a  drum,  and,  shortly  after, 
A   m  >st   unoriental  roar  of  laughter. 

XXIX. 
\nd  still  more  nearly  to  the  ])lace  advancing. 

Descending  rather  (juickiy  the  d('<;livity, 
Tiirough  the  waved  branches,  o'er  the  greensward 
glancing, 
'Midst  other  indications  of  festivity. 
Seeing  a  troop  of  his  douKjstics  dancing 
Like  derviscs,  who  turn  as  on  a  pivot,  he 
Perceived   it  was  the    Pyrrhic   dance  so   martial, 
Co  wlurl'   'he    LevanUnes  arc  very  partial. 

XXX. 
,\iid    iii!-h';r   on    'i    <rr()ii;t    of  ('<;-r'ci  i;i    'Ar\<^ 

riic   lir-l    am)    \n\\%^\    her  whi'".    krrcluef  wavmg, 


Were  strung  logethcr  like  a  row  of  pearls ; 

Link'd  hand  in  hand,  and  dancing ;   each  too  liavm^ 
Down  her  white  neck  long  floating  auburn  curls - 

(The  least  of  which  would  set  ten  poets  raving); 
Their  .leader  sang. — and  bounded  to  her  song. 
With  coral  step  and  voice,  the  virgin    hrong. 

XXXI. 

And  here,  assembled  cross-legg'd  round  their  trays^ 
Small  social   parties  just  begun  to  dine , 

Pilaus  and  meats  of  all  sorts  met  the  gaze. 
And  flasks  of  Samian   and  of  Chian  wine. 

And  sherbet  cooling  in  the  porous  vase ; 
Above  them  their  desert  grew  on  its  vine, 

The  orange  and  pomegranate,  nodding  o'er, 

Dropii'd  in  their  la;)s,  scarce  i)luck'd,  their  mellow  store, 

XXXII. 

A  band  of  children,  round  a  snow-white   ram. 
There  wreathe   his   venerable  horns  with   flowers ; 

While   peaceful  as  if  stdl   an  unwean'd  lamb, 
The  patriarch  of  the  flock  all  gently  cowers 

His  sober  head  majestically  tame. 

Or  eats  from   out   the   palm,  or  playful  lowers 

His  brow  as   if  in   act  to  butt,  and  then. 

Yielding  to  their  small   hands,  draws   'jack   agam. 

XXXIII. 

Their  classical  j)rofiles,  and  glittering  dresses, 
Their  large  black  eyes,  and  soft  seraphic  cheeks, 

Crimson  as  cleft  pomegranates,  their  long  tresses. 
The  gesture  which  enchants,  the  eye  that  speakS; 

The  innocence  which   liap[)y  childhood   blesses. 
Made  (piite  a  picture  of  these  little   GreeKg  ; 

So  that   the   philosophical   beholder 

Sigh'd  for  their  sakes— that  they  should  e'er  grow  older 

XXXIV. 

Afar,  a  dwarf  buffoon   stood  telling  tales 
To  a   sedate   gray  circle  of  old  smoiiers, 

Of  secret  treasures  found   in  hidden   vales, 
Of  wonderful  replies  from  Arab  jokers, 

Of  charms  to  make  good   gold  and  cure  bad  ails, 
Of  rocks  bewitched  that  open  to  the  knockers, 

Of  magic  ladies,  who,  by  one  sole  act, 

Transfonn'd  their  lords  to  beasts  (but  that's  a  fact) 

XXXV. 

Here  was  no  lack   of  innocent  diversion 

For  the  imagination  or  the  senses, 
Song,  dance,  wine,  music,  stories  from  the  Persian, 

All  pretty  pastime  in  which  no  ottence  is  ; 
But  Lambro  saw  all  these  things  with  aversion, 

Perceiving  in   his   absence  such  expenses. 
Dreading  that  chmax  of  all  human  ills, 
The  inflammation  of  his  weekly  bills. 

XXXVI. 

Ah!   what  is  man?   what  perils  still  environ 
The  happiest  mortals  even  after  dinner — 

A  day  of  gold  from  out  an  age  of  iron 
Is  all  that  life  allows  the  luckiest  sinner; 

Pleasure   (whene'er  she  sings,  at  least)  's  a  sireo, 
That  lures  to  flay  alive  the  young  beginner ; 

Lambro's  rece[)tion   at  his  people's  banquet 

Was  such  as  fire  accords  to  a  wet  blanket. 

XXXVII. 

He — being  a  man  who  seldom  used  a  word 
Too  much,  and  wishing  gladly  to  surprise 

(In  general   he   surprised    men  with  the  sword) 
His  daughter — had   not  sent   bef)r«  to  ativiso 

Of  his  arrival,  so  that  no  one  stirr'd  ; 

And  long  lie  jiaused  to  reassure  his  eyra. 


DON    JUAN. 


607 


fti  fact  much  more  astoriiyliM  than  delii,'!ittcl 
To   linJ    so   inucli  gooj    comnany  invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He  did  not  know — (ai-as!    how  nuM)  will   lie)  — 
That   a  report — (especially  the  Greeks) — 

Avouch'd  his  death    (siieh   people   never  die), 
And   put   his   house   in   mournuii:  several  weeks. 

But  now  their  eyes  and  also  lips  w!>re  dry ; 

The   hlooni  too  liad   returnM   to  ITaidee's  cheeks; 

Her  tears  too   hein<:  ri'tiirnM   into  their  fiuiir, 

She  now  kept  house   upon   her  own   account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence  all  this  rice,  meat,  daucmg,  wine,  and  fiddliuir. 
Which   turn'd   the  isle  into  a  j)lace  of  jileasiu-e  ; 

The   servants  all  were   gettinij   tlrunk  or   idlinij, 
A  lite  wli'.ch  made  them   hap[)y  Ix^yofid  measure. 

H.-;r  f'ither's  hospitality  seeniM   middlinir, 

(Jom[)areil  with  what  Haidee  <lid  with  his  treasure ; 

1  'fas  wonderful  how  thiii<r3  went   on    improviuir, 

While  she  had  not  one  hour  to  sj)arc  from  lovine. 

XL. 

Perhaps  you  think,  in  stumhliiitr  on  this  feast 

He  flew  into  a  passion,  and  in  fact 
There  was  no  mi<rhty  reason  to  be  pleased  ; 

Perhaps  you   prophesy  some   sudden  act, 
The  wliip,  the  rack,  or  dungeon  at  the  least, 

To  teach  his  j)eople  to  be  more  exact. 
And  that,  proceeding  at  a  very  hifjh  rate, 
He  shosv'd  the  royal  penchants  of  a  pirate. 

XLI. 
Von 're  wrong. — He  was  the  mildest-manner'd  man 

Tliat  evoi   scuttled  ship  or  cut  a  throat ; 
With  such  true  breeding  of  a  gentleman, 

You  never  could  divine  his  real  thon^rht  ; 
No   (■ourut-r  could,  and  scarcely  woman   can 

(lird  more  deceit  v.ithin  a  petticoat; 
Pity  iie  loved  adventurous  life's  variety, 
He  was   so  great,  a  loss  to  good  society. 

XLII 

Advancing  to  the  nearest  dumer-tray, 

Ta[)ping  the  shoulder  of  the  nighest  guest. 

With  a  peculiar  smile,  whi<;h,  by  the  way 
Boded  no  good,  whatever  it  exprcss'd, 

He  ask'd  the  meaning  of  this  holiday? 

The  vinous  Greek  to  whom   he  had   addre.-s'd 

His  question,  much  too  merry  t<j  divine 

The  questioner,  fiU'd  up  a  glass  of  wine, 

XJ.IH. 

And,  without  turning   his   ficttious   head, 

Over  his  shoulder,  with  a  Hacchant  air, 
Presenteil   the  o'ertlowing  cup,  and  said, 

" Talking 's  dry  work,  1   have  no  time  to  spare." 
A  second  hiccup'd,  "  Our  old  master 's  dead, 

You'd  better  ask  our  mistress,  v>ho 's  his  heir.'' 
"  Ourtr.istress!"  quoth  a  third  :  "  Our  mistress! — pooh! 
You  mean  our  master — not  the  old,  but  new." 

XLIV. 
These  rascals,  being  new  comets,  knew  not  whom 

They  thus  address'd — and  Lambro's  visage  fell — 
And  o'er  his  eye  a  momentary  gloom 

Piiss'd,  but   he   strove  quite  courteously  to  que!) 
The  expression,  and,  endeavouring  to   resume 

His  smile,  requested  one  of  them  to  tell 
The  name  and  quality  of  his  new  patron, 
V\"ho  seein'd  to  have  turn'd  Haidee   into  a  matron. 

XLV. 

»*1  know  not,"  quoth  the  fellow,  "who  or  what 
He  is,  nor  whence  he  came — and   little  cure  ; 


But  this  I  know,  t  laf  this  roa.^t  capon  3  fat. 

And  that  good  wine  ne'er  wash'd  down  better  tart*; 

And   if  you  are  not  satisfKnl  with   that, 

Direct  your  questions  to  my  neighbour  there  ; 

He  '11   answer  all  for  better  or  f  )r  worse, 

For  none  likes  more  to  hear   himself  cenveme.'' 

XLVI. 

I  said  that  Lnmbro  was  a  man  of  pati  mce. 

And  certainly  he  show'd   the   best  ol  breedinj^, 

VVhich   sc:u-ce  even  France,  the    parat:(.')   "f  nationa. 
l'?cr  naw  her  most   polite  of  sons   liXceedinw  ; 

He   bore   these  sneeis  against   his   near  relations. 
His  own   anxiety,  his   heart  too   bleeding. 

The  insults  too  of  every  servile  glutton. 

Who  all  the  time  were  eating  up  his  mutton. 

XLVII. 

Now  in  a  person  used  to  much  command — • 

To  bid    men    come,  and   go,  and   come   again — 
To  see  his   orders  done  too   out  of  hand — 

Whether  the  word  was  death,  or  but  the  chain- 
It  may  seem  strange   to  find   his  manners  bland  j 

Yet  such  thuigs  are,  which  I  cannot  ex[)lain, 
Thou;:h  doubtless  he  wiio  can  command  himself 
Is  good   to  govern — almost  as  a  Guelf. 

XLVIII. 

Not  that  he  was  not  sometimes  rash   or  so, 
But  never  in  his   real   and   serious 'mood  ; 

Then  calm,  concentrated,  and   still,  and   slosv. 
He  lay  coil'd   like  the  boa  in  the  wood  ; 

With   htm   it  never  -vas  a  wortl   anfl  blow. 

His  angry  -word  once  o'er,  he  shed  no  blood. 

Rut  in   his  silence  there  was  much  to  rue, 

.\nd   his  one  blow  left  little  work   for  two. 

XLIX. 

He  ask'd   no  further  questions,  and  proceeded 
On   to  the    house,  but  by  a  private  way. 

So  that  the  few  who  met   him   hardlv  heeded. 
So   little   they  exi>ected   him  that  day; 

If  love  paternal  in   his  bosom   pleaded 

Fur  ilai.iee's  sake,  is   more   than  I   can  say, 

But   certainly  to  one,  deem'd  dead,  returning, 

Tins  revel  seein'd  a  curious  mode  of  mourning. 

L. 

If  all  the  dead   coiikl   now  return  to  life, 

(Which  God  forbid!)   or  some,  or  a  great  man) 

For  instance,  if  a   husband  or   his  wife 
(Nuptial   examples   are   as  good   as  any), 

No  douiit  whate'er   iiiight   be  their  former  strife. 
The  present  weather  would   be  much  more  rainy  • 

Te.is  s'icd   into  the  grave  of  the  connexion 

Would  share  most  probably  its  resurrection. 

LI. 

He  ent<:r*d   in  the  house  no  more  his   home, 
A  thin^'  to  human   feelings  the  most  trying, 

And  harder  for  the  heart  to  overcome 

Periiaps,  than  even  the  mental  pangs  of  dying, 

To  find  our  hearthstone  turn'd  into  a  tomb, 
And  round  its  once  warm  precincts  palely  lyifg 

The  ash(!s  of  our  hopes,  is   a  deep  grief. 

Beyond  a  single  gentleman's  beUef 

L-II. 

He  enter'd  in  the  house — his  home  no  more. 
For  v\iihout  hearts  there  is  no  home — and  felt 

The  solitude  of  passing  his  own  door 

Without   a  welcome ;   there  he  long  had  dwell. 

There  his  few  peaceful  days  Time  haa  swept  o'e», 
Tiiere   his  worn   bosom  and   keim   eye  would  melt 


608 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Over  the  innocence  of  that  sweet'  child, 
his  only  shrine  of  feelings  undehled.     . 
LIII. 

Be  was  a  man  of  a  strange  teni!)erame!it, 
Of  mild  deineanciiir   ihoiigh  of  savage  mood, 

Moderate  in  all   his  habits,  and  content 
With   temjjerance   in    pleasure  as   in  food, 

Qnick   Lo  perceive,  and   slron2  to  hear,  and   nie.Tnl 
For  somethins   hctior,  if  not  \vh-)l!}'  good  ; 

His  country's  wrongs   and   his  despair   to  save  her 

Flad  Slung  him   l>.)in   a  slave  to  an   enslnver. 

LIV. 

The   love   of  [»   .v(;r,  iiid    i-apid    gain   of  gold, 
The  hardness  hv  ioir_'  habitude   produced, 

The  dangerous  life  in  svhich   he  liad   grown   old, 
The  mercy  he  had   granted  oft  abused, 

The  sights  he  was  accusiom'd   to   behold, 
The  wild   seas  and  wild   men  with  whom  he  cruised, 

Elad  cost  his   enemies    a  long  repentance, 

And   made   him   a  good   friend,  but  biui   ac(inamfance. 

LV. 

But   som'.'fhing  of  the  spirit  of  old  Greece 
Flash'd  o'er  !iis   soul   a   few  heroic  rays, 

Such   as  lit    onward    to  the   iroldcn   lleece 
Ilis   predeci.'ssors   m   the  Colchian   davs : 

'T  is   true   be   ba.d   no  ardent   love  iiir  peace; 
Al:!<!    I'is   counlry  show'd   no   path   to   praise: 

flate  to  the  world  and  war  with   every  nation 

He  wag"d,  in  vengeance   of  her   dcgrariiUion. 

LVI. 

Still   o'er  his  mind   the  inlluence  of  tlie  chine 
Siied   its   Ionian  er.'gance',  which  show'd 

(ts  [lower  unconsciously  ful!  many  a  time, — 
A  tastf:  seen   in  the  choice  of  his  abode, 

A  love  of  music  and  of  scenes  sublime, 

A  p]e;ssure   in  t!ie  gentle   stream   that   fiow'd 

Past    him   in   crystals,  and   a  joy  in  flowers, 

Bedew'd   his   spirit  in   his  calmer  hours. 

Lvn. 

Bot  whatsoe'er  he  had  of  love,  reposed 
On    (hat    b.:inv..d    daughter;    she   had    been 

The  only  thing  which   kept    his  heart   unclosed 
Amidst  the  savage  deeds   he  had  doiu;   and  seen, 

A  lonely  pure  affection  unopposed- 

There  wanted  but  the  loss  of  this  to  wean 

His  feelings  fi-om   all   milk  of  human   kindness, 

And   turn  him,  like   the  Cyclops,  mad  with   blindness. 

LVIH. 

The  cnbless  ti;:rf..'^   \u   her  jungle  ragmg 
Is  dreadful    to  tb.e  shepherd   and   flu;   tlock  ; 

The  oecan  when   its  yeasty  war   is  waging 
Is  a'.vdu!   to   ih(;  vessel  near  the   rod;  : 

But  vioh'iM    tilings  v\ili   sooner  bear  assuaging — 
Their   fury  being  spent  by  its  own   shock, — 

I'han  the   st(,rn,  suiLd-',  deep,  and  wordless  ire 

Of  a  strong  hunia.n   heart,  and   in  a  sire. 

LIX. 

[i  is  a  hard,  a!thon::h  a  common  case. 

To  find   our  (diildren   running  restive — they 
Iiuhom   our  iirightest  days  we  would   retrace, 

Our  hitle   selves   reform'd   in   finer   clay; 
lu -t    as  old   agt!   is  creeping  on   apace, 

And   clouds  <;()me  o'er  the  sunset   of  our  day, 
I'hev  kmdlv  leave  us,  though  not  (|uite   alone, 
[?ut   in   good   company — the  gout   and    stone. 

LX. 
S'et    a  fine  family  is   a  fine  tiling, 

(B'ovided  they  don't  come  in  after  o.nDcr); 


'T  is  beautiful  to  see  a  matron  bring 

Her  children   up   (if  nurskig  them  don't  thin    V,r»_ 
Like  cherubs   round   an   altar-piece  they  :;liiig 

To  the  fireside   (a  sight  to  touch  a  sinner^. 
A  iady  with  her  daughter  or  her  nieces 
Shine  like  a  guinea  and   seven-shilling  pieces. 

LXI. 

Old  Lambro  pass'd  unseen   a  private   gate 
And  stood  withm   his  hall  at  eventide; 

Meantime  the   lady  and  her  lover   sate 

At  wassail  in   their  beauty  and   their  pride: 

An  ivory  inlaid   table  spread  with   state 

Before  them,  and  fair  slaves  on   every  side ; 

Gems,  gold,  and   silver,  form'd   the   service  mostly. 

Mother-of-pearl  and  coral  the  li;ss   costlv. 

LXII. 

The  dinner  made  about  a  hundred  dishes  ; 

Lamb   and   pistAchio-nuts — in   short,  all  meats, 
And  satlron  soups,  and  sweetbreads  ;   and  the  fisht-b 

Were  of  the  finest  that  e'er  tioimcevd  in  nets, 
Dress'd   to   a  Sybarite's  most  pamper'd  wisiies  , 

The  b(;verage  was  various  sherbets 
Of  raisin,  orange,  and  pomegranate  juice, 
S(}ueezed  through  the  rind,  which  makes  it  best  t1,f  uso. 

LXIII. 

These  were  ranged  round,  each  in  its  crystal  ewer, 
And   t>uits  and  date-bread  loaves  closed  the  repa.?t, 

And    Mocha's  berry,  from  Arabia  pure, 

In   small  line  China  cu|)S  came   in    at   last — 

Gold  cups  of  filigree,  made   to  secure 

The  hand  from  burning,  undernealh  them  placeri; 

Cloves,  cinnamon,  and  saffron  too,  were  boil'd 

Up  with  the  coiiee,  which   (I  think)  they  spoil  J. 

LXIV. 

The  hangings  of  the  room  were  tapestry,  made 
Of  velvet  panels,  each  of  diiferent  hue. 

And   thick  with  damask  flowers  of  silk  inlaid: 
And  round   them  ran  a  yellow  border  too  ; 

The  ut)per  border,  richly  wrought,  display'd, 
Embroider'd  dehcately  o'er  with  blue, 

Soft  Persian  sentences,  in   liiac  letters, 

From  poets,  or  the  moralists  their  betters. 

LXV. 

These  oriental  writings  on  the  wall. 

Quite  common  in  those  countries,  are  a   Kind 

Of  monitors,  adapted  to  recall. 

Like  skulls  at  Memphian    banquets,  to  the  mind 

The  words  which  shook   Helshaz/.ar  m  his  hall. 
And  took  his   kingdom  from  him. — You  will  fine'.. 

Though  sages  may  pour  out   their  wisilom's  treasur-v 

There  is  no  sterner  moralist   than   pleasure. 

LXVI. 

A  beauty  at  the  season's  close  grovrn   hectic, 

A  genius  who  has  drunk  himself  to  death. 
A  rake  turn'd  methodistic  or  eclectic — 

(For  that's  the  name  they  like  to  jiray  beneath)- - 
But  most,  an   alderman  struck  apoplectic. 

Are  things   that  reallv  lake  away  the  brextli, 
And  show  that  late  hours,  wine,  and  love,  are  able 
To  do  not  much   less  daimige  than  the  table. 

LXVII. 
Haidee  and  Juan  carpeted   their  feel 

On  (Crimson   satin,  border'd  with   pale  blue-, 
Th(;ir  s(^fa  occupied   three   jiarts  complete 

Of  Ihe   apartment — and  appear'd  (]uite  new;         , 
The  velvet  cushions — (for  a  ilirone  more  meet)— 

Were  scarlet,  from  whose  a'owing  centre  grow 


DON    JUAN. 


C09 


A  sun  eniboss'd  m  gold,  whose  rays  of  tissue, 
Meridian-like,  were  seen  all  light  to  issue. 
LXVIII. 

r-rystal  and  niarble,  plate  and  jiorrclain, 

U-dd  (lone  their  work  of  splendour,  Indian  mats 
And   Persian  carpels,  which   tiie  heart  bled  to  stain, 

Over  the  tloors  were  spread  ;    fra/elles  and  cats, 
And  dnarfs  and  blacks,  and  such  like  tbini;s,  that  iiain 

'J  iieir   bread   as  ministers   anil    Ijivotn-ites— (that 's 
To  say,  by  degradation) — mingled  there 
As   Dlentifii.  as   in  a  court  or  fair. 

LXIX. 
Theie  was  no  want   of  loftv  mirrors,  and 

The   tables,  most  of  ebony  inlaid 
\A'itli   mother-of-pearl  or  ivory,  stood  at  hand. 

Or  wen>   ol'  tortoise-shell   or   rare  woods  made, 
*^reft(<d  Willi   gold   or  silver:    by  command, 

'I'lie   greater   part  of  thes';  w(>re  readv  spread 
^^  ith   viands,  and   sherbets   in    ict;,  and  wine — 
Kep«   for  all  coiners,  at  all  hours  to  dine. 

LXX. 

Of  all   the  dresses  I   select   Haidce's  : 

She  wore  two  jelicKs — one  v.as  of  j)ale  yellow  ; 

Of  a7:urc,  pink,  and  .vhite,  was   lier  clK'mise — 

'Neath  v.hi'-h  her  hn-A^X   heaved  like  a  litde  billow  ; 

^^  lUi   bulions  forinM  of  pearls   as  large   as   peas, 
All    ii^ld    and  crimson   shone   her  jelick's   fellow, 

And  the  striped  white  gauze  baracati  that  bound  her, 

Like  Ikecy  clouds  about   the   moon,  flow'd   round  her. 

LXXI. 

On(>   large    gold   bracelet  clasp'd   each   lovelv  arm, 
Luckless — so  pliable   from   the  pure  ijold 

That   the  hand   stretch'd   and   shut  it  without  harm. 
The  Knib   which  it  adorn'd  its  onlv  moukl ; 

S<^   beautiful — its  verv  snape  v.ould  cliarm, 
AikI  elinsing  as   if  loth  to  lose  its   hold. 

The   purest  ore  inclosed  the  whitest   skin 

That  e'er  bv  precious   metal  was  held  in.* 

LXXIL 

Around,  as   princess  of  her  father's   land, 
A  like   gold  bar,  above  her  instep   roll'd,' 

Ann.>utie(,'d  her  rank  ;   twelve  rings  were  on  her  hand  ; 
H'r  hair  was  starr'd  with    gems  ;   her  veil's  fine  fold 

Below  her  breast  '.vas  fisten'd   with   a   band 

Of  lavisli  i^earls,  wh'v-^e  worth  cnul.l  scarce  be  told  ; 

Her  orange   silk  full  Turkish  trowsers  furl'd 

About  the  prettiest   ankle   in   the  world. 

LXXIH. 

Her  hair's  long  aidjurn  waves   down   to   her  heel 

Flow'd   like   an  Alpine  torrent  which   the  sun 
Dyes  with  his  mnrniuir  li^hf, — and  would  C(Miceal 

Her  person  *  if  allowM    at   larije    to   run  ; 
And  still   they  seem   reseutfullv  to   feel 

The  silken   fillet's  curb,  and  sought  to  shun 
Their  bonds  whene'er  some  zephyr  <;aught  began 
To  offer  his   young   j)inioii    as   her  fan. 

LXX  IV. 
Round  her   sue  made  an   atmosph(>re   of  lifi.', 

Th'-  very  air  se'ein'd   lighter  from   her   eyes, 
Tiey  .vere   so  soft   and    beautiful,  and   rife 

Will   al.  we  can   imagiiu:   of  the  skies, 
\:!d    pure   as    Psvrbe    ere   she  grew  a  wife — 

Too  j)ure   even  for  the   purest   human   ties  ; 
Her  e,verj)owering   presence   made  you   feed 
It  would   not   be   idolatry  lo   kneel. 

LXXV. 
Her  eyelashes,  though  dark  as  night,  were  tinged 

'It    is  the  country's  custom),  but   in  vain; 
3y 


For  those  l^irge   black  eyes   were  so  blackly -fVingod, 
The  glossy  rebels   mock'd  the  jetty  slain, 

And  in  their  native  b(;autv  stood    avenged: 

Her  nails  were  toucliM  with   henna  ;   but  a^ain 

The  power  of  art  was  turii'd   to  nothing,  for 

'I  h(!y  could  not  look  more    rosy  than   before. 

LXXVI. 

The  henna  sliould  be  deeply  dyed  to  make 
The  skin   ridieved   appear   more  iliirly  fur  . 

She   had   no  need   of  this — day  ne'er  will   break 
On  mountain  tops  more  heavenlv  white  than  lifr 

The  eye  might  doubt   if  it  were  well   awake, 
She  was  so   like  a  vision  ;   I   might  err, 

Bu:    Shaksiieare  also  savs  't  is  verv  sillv 

"•To  gild  refined   gold,  or  paint   the   lily." 

LXXVII. 

Juan  had   on   a  stiawl  of  i)laek   and    gold, 
Hut   a  while  baracan,  anu   so  transparent, 

The   s|»arkling   gems   beneath   voii    might    bfdiold. 
Like  small   stars   th-ough  the  milkv  wav  appari  ni 

['is  turban,  furl'd    m  manv  a   graceful  fold. 
An    emerald   aigrette  with    Haidee's  hair   in  't 

Surmnmifed    as    its  clasp — a    glowing  crescent, 

Whose  rays  sinnie   (;v(,'r  iremli'uig,  but    incessant. 

Lxxvin. 

And    now  thev  were  diveiteil    hv  their   suite, 

Dwarfs,  dancmg  girls,  ble.ck    eunuchs,  and    a    f>opt; 

Whi'di   made   their  new  <'stablishmeiit  complete  ; 
The    last  was    f)f  grejit  tl.me,  and   liked  to   show  it: 

His   verses   rarely  wanted   ilu'ir  due  feet — 

And  lor   his   thenn; — he    seldom   sung   below  n^ 

He  being   paid   to   satiriz*!  or  ilalter, 

As  f!:o  psalm  says,  "  inditing  a   good  matter." 

LXX  IX. 

He  prai-^ed  the  present   and   abused  the  past, 
Reversing  the  good  custom   of  old  days, 

An  eastern   ant;- jacobin  at   last 

He  turn'd,  prefrring  [tudduig  to   no  praise — 

For  some  few  years   his   lot    hail    been   o'ercast 
By  his  seeming  independen     in   his   lavs. 

But  now  he  sung   the   Sultan  and   the    Pacha, 

With  truth  like  Southey,  and  with  verse  like  Crashaw 

LXXX. 

He  was  a  man  who  had  seen   many  changes. 

And   always  changed   as   true   as   any  needle. 
His   polar  star  being   one  which   ratb.er   ranges. 

And   not  the  fix'd — h(>   knew  ihi^  way  to  wheedle; 
So  vile  he  'seatied   the  doom  which   oft  avenges  ; 

And   being  fluen*    (sav(;  indeed  when  fee'd    ill). 
He   lied  with   siudi   a   fe-vour  of  intention — 
There  was  no  doubt   he  earn'd   his  laureate   jiensior. 

LXXXi. 
Btit  he  had  genius — when  a   li'rncoat  has  it 

The  "  vates    irritabilis"   take?,  care 
Tliat  without  notice   few  full    momiii  shall   pass  it  ; 

Evr'ii   good   iiKJii  like  to  make  the  public  stare  t — 
Bui   to   my  subie(;t — let   me  see — wha"  was   i'  / 

Oh! — ftie   third  canto — and   the    preti\  iiiir- 
Tlu  ir  loves,  and  feasts,  and  house,  and  dress,  and  mo,,e 
Of  living   ill   their   insular   abode. 

LXXXIL 

Their   poet,  a  sad    trimnier,  but    no   less 

In  company  a  very  pleasant  fellow. 
Had   been   the  fivourite  of  full   many  a   mess 

Of  men,  and  made  them  speeches  when  half  mellow 
And    though   his   meaning   they  could    rare  Iv  c'less, 

Vet   still  they  dt.-ign'd   lo   hiccup   or  to   bellow 


610 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


The  g'onous  meed  of  popular  applause, 

Of  which  the  first  ne'er  knows  the  second  cause. 

LXXXIII. 

But  now  being  lifted  into  high  society, 

And  having  pickM  up  several  odds  and  ends 

Of  free  thoughts   in   his   travels,  for  variety, 

He  deern'd,  being  in  a  lone  isle  among  friends, 

That  without   any  danger  of  a   not,  he 

Might  for  long  lying  make  himself  amends  ; 

And,  singing  as  he  sung  in   his  warm  youth, 

Agree  to   a  short  armistice  with   truth, 

LXXXIV. 

He  had  travell'd  'mongst  the  Arabs,  Turks,  and  Franks, 
And  knew  the  self-loves  of  the  different  nations  ; 

And,  having  lived  with   people  of  all   ranks, 
Had  something  ready  upon   most  occasions — 

Which  got  him  a  few  presents   and  s<>me  thanks 
He  varied  with   some  skill  his  ailuiations  ; 

To  "do  at   Rome  as  Ronians  do,"  a  piece 

Of  conduct  was  which  he  observed  in  Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus,  j;suaHy,  when   he  was   ask'd   to  sing. 

He  ijave  the  ditferent  nations  something  natioral; 
'Twas  all  the  same   to  him— "  God  save  the  Kng," 

Or  "  Ca  ira,"  according  to   the  fashion  all  ; 
His   mose   made   increment  of  any  thing. 

From   the   high   lyrical   to  the   low  rational : 
If  Pnidar  sang  horse-races,  what   should   hinder 
Himsiilf  from   being  as  pliable   as   Pindar? 

LXXXVT. 
In  Fraii'-f,  f()r  instance,  fie  would  write  a  chanson  ;    \> 

In    Rtii.'iiin(!,  a  six-canto  cjuarto  tale;  \^ 

in  Spaip,   'u;  M   make  a   bal'jul   or  romance  on  (v 

The  ia--!  war — ii'iucli  the  same  in  Portugal  ;  ^ 

In  Germany,  the   Pe^'asiis  he  'd   prance   on  '*^ 

Would  be  old  Gofthe's— (see  what  says  de  Stael);  Vf 
In   Italy,  he 'd   a[)e  the  "  Trecentisti  ;*'  C 

In  Gieece,  he  'd  sing  some  sort  of  hymn  like  this  l'  ye.t^ 


The  isles  of  Greece!    the  isles  of  Greece!  ffi 
Wh.i'i-e   burning   Sappho  loved    and  sung, —  <f 

Where  grew  ihe   arts  of  war  and   peace, —        ^ 
Where   Delos   rose   and   Phrcbus   sprung! 

Eternal  summer  gilds   the-m   vet,  0- 

But    all,  except   their  sun,  is  set. 

The   Scian   and   the  Teian   muse, 

Tin;   hero's   harp,  the  lorer's  lute. 
Have  fiund   the   fame  your  shores  refuse; 

Their   place   of  birth   alone   is   mute 
To  sounds  which   echo  further  west 
Than   your   sires'  "  Islantis  of  the  Bless'd." 

The   mountains  look  on   Marathon — 
And    Marathon   looks  on   the   sea  ; 

And    musing  there  an   hour  alone, 

I  drcam'd   that  Greece  might  still   be  free  ; 

For,  slatidiiig  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could   liol  deem  myself  a   slave. 

A   kin^  sate  on   the   rocky  brow 

\Vhich   looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis ; 

And   ships,  by  tlioiisands,  lav  below. 
And    men   in   nations  ; — all  were   his  ! 

H»   counted   them  at  break  of  day — 

And  >;hen  the  sun  set,  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they?    and  where   art  rnou, 
Mv<-ountrv?    On^  thy  voicel.'ss   short 

Ptie   heroic    lay  is    Iimele-^s    now — 
The   heroic    VK»soin   beats   no   more! 


And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate   mlo  hands   like   mine? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame. 
Though   liuk'd   among   a   fetter'd   race. 

To  feci   at    least   a   patriot's  shame. 
Even    as  I  sing,  suti'use  my  face  ; 

For  what   is   left  the   poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  bles?' 
Must   we  but  blush  / — Our   fathers   bler^ 

Earth!  render  back  from  out  thy  breasi 
A  remnant   of  our   Spartan   dead ! 

Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 

To  make   a  new  Thermopylae. 

What,  silent  still  ?   and   silent  all  ? 

Ah  !    no  ; — the   voices  of  the   dead 
Sounti   like   a  distant  torrent's   fall. 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head. 
But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come!" 
'Tis  but  the   livmg  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain — in  vain  •    str'ke  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cu[>  w>th  Sumian  wine! 
Leave   battles   to  the   Turkish   hordes. 

And  shed   the  liiooti   of  Scio's   vine! 
Hark!   rising  to  the   i^jnoble   call — 
How   answers  each   bold  bacchanal  ! 

You   have  the   Pyrrhic  dance   as  yet, 
Where   is  the   Pyrrhic  [)nalanx  gone? 

Of  two  such   lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the   manlier  one? 

Y''ou   have   the   letters   Cadmus   gave — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them   for  a  slave? 

Fill   highfthc   bowl  with   Samian  wmc ! 

Wo  will   not   think   of  themes    like   thes« 
It    made   Anacreon's   song  divine: 

He   served — but   served    Polycrates — 
A   tyrant  ;    bu!    our   masters  then 
Were   still,  at   least,  our   couiiSryinen. 

The   tyrant   of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's   best   and    bravest  fncia? 
That    tyrant  was   Miltiades  ! 

Oil!    that   ihe  present   hour  wouKl  lend 
Another  despot  of  the   kind! 
Such   chains   as  his  were  sure   to   bhid. 

Fill  high   the   bowl  with    Simian  wine' 
On   Suli's   rock,  and    Parga's   shore. 

Exists  the   remnant   of  a   line 

Such  as   the    Doric   mothers   bore  ; 

And   thf^re,  perhaps,  some   set'd   is  sown. 

The  Heracleidan    blood   miglit   own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells. 

In   native   swords,  and   native   ranks. 
The   only  hope   of  courage   dwells  ; 

But  Turkish  force,  and    Laim   fraud, 

Would    break   your   shield,  liowtwer   broad. 

Fill   high  the  bowl  wit  !i  SaimaT^  wine ! 

Our   virgms   daia-e  beneath   me  shade  — 
I   see   their  j/lorioiis   black   eyc:^  shine; 

But,  gazmg  on  eaidi  glowing  maul, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-droj)  laves, 
To   think    sucii   breasts    must    suckle   slave.'-: 

i'lace  me  on  Suiiium's  marbled  stee)) — 
Where   nofhiuir,  save    the  waves    and   f. 

Mav  hear  our  mutual  nuirmurs  swei;p  ; 
Th'Tij    sv<ai;-[ike,  U;l    me   sing  and    (tiff- 


DON    JUAN. 


611 


A  land   of  slaves   shall   ne'er  be   mine — 
Dash  duvai  yon   cui>  of  Samian  wine! 

LXXXVII. 

Thus  suno,  or  would,  or  eould,  or  should  have  sung, 

riio   modern  Greek,  in   tolerable  verse; 
If  not  like  Orpheus  (juite,  when  Greece  uas  \<v,nii;. 

Yet  in  these  limes  he  niiglil  have  done  nnich  \vor>e : 
Elis  strani  display'd  some   feeling — right  or  wrong  ; 

And   feeling,  in   a  poet,  is   the  source 
Of  others'   feeling  ;    but  they  are   such   liars, 
And   take   all   colours — like   the   hands  of  dyers. 

LXXXVIII. 
But  words   are  things,  and   a   small   drop   of  ink, 

Falling  like   dew  upon    a  thought,  produces 
Tliat  whicli  makes  thousands,  pirhaps  niilii^.n-s,  ihiiik  ; 

'T  is  strange,  the  shortest  letter  which  man  uses, 
Instead  of  speech,  may  form   a  lasting  link 

Of  ages  ;  to  what  straits  old  Time  reduces 
Frail  man,  when  paper — even  a  rag  like  this, 
Survives   himself,  his  tomi),  and  all  that 's   liis. 

LXXXIX. 
And  when   his  bones  are  dust,  his  grave  a  blank, 

HivS   station,  generation,  even    his   nation, 
Become   a  thing,  or  nothing,  save  to  rank 

In  chronological   ('(jinmemoration. 
Some   dull   MS.  oblivion   long  has   sank. 

Or  graven   stone   found   in   a    barrack's   station, 
[n  digging  the  finuidation   of  a  closet, 
INIay  turn   his  name  up  as  a   rare  deposit. 

XC. 
And  glory  long  has  made   the  sages  smile; 

'T  is   something,  nothing,  words,  illusion,  wind — 
Depending  niore  ujion   the   historian's  style 

Than   on  th(;   name   a   nerson   leaves  behind: 
Troy  owes   to   Homer  what  whist  owes   to   iioyle; 

The   present  century  was   gnnving  blind 
To  the  great  Marlborough's  skill  in   giving  knocKs, 
Until  his  late  Life  by  Archdeacon  Coxe. 

XCI. 

Milton  's  the  prince   of  [toets — so  we  say  ; 

A  little   heavy,  but  no  less  ilivine; 
An   ind(;pendeiit  being   in   his   day — ■ 

Learn'd,  pious,  temiierate  in  love  and  wine ; 
But  Ins  life   falling  into  Johnson's  way, 

We're  told  this  greaj.  high   priest  of  all  the  Nine 
Was  whipt  at  college — a  harsh  sire — odd  spouse, 
For  the  first  Mrs.  3Iiilon  left  his  house. 

XCII. 

All  these   are,  cfr^e.?,  c  ntcrtaining  facts. 

Like  Shakspeanrs  stcarnig  dc.(;r'.  Lord  Bacon's  bribes; 
Like   'I'iins'    voKfh,  and    C;::-^:n-'s  earliest  ads; 

Like   Bm-iis    (v.!,o;n  Do.-tor  Cnrnc  weli  describes); 
Like   Croinw'-ii's    priuiks  ; — ':)\:\   ;d-!iong!i  truth    exacts 

These  amiable  des'Tip'ions  li'om  the  scribes, 
.\s   tnost    ess(Miti;d    to  tiieir   hero's  story, 
Thev  do   not  much  contriiiute  to  his   glory. 

XCI  1 1. 
All  are  not  moralists  like   Southey,  when 

He  prated  to  the  world  of  "  Pantisocraey  ;" 
Or  Wordsworth   unexcised,  nnhired,  who  then 

Si'LisonM  his  pedlar  |)oems  with  democracy  ; 
Oi    Colerid.ge,  !(.!ig  before  his  (liglity  i)en 

Let  to  the   Morning  Post   its  aristocracy  ; 
When   he   and   S(ju!!iey,  following  the  same  path, 
Espoiiseil  two   partners   (milliners  of  Bath). 

XCIV. 
Such   names  at   prc'^ent  cut  a  convict  figure, 

The  very  Botany  Bay  in  moral  geogra[>hy ; 


Their  loyal  treason,  renegado  vigour, 

Are  gooii  manure  tiir  their  more  bare  biography 

Wordsworth's   last  tpiarto,  by  the  way,  is  bigger 

Than   any  since  the  birth-day  of  tvpography:  ^ 

A   clumsy  frowzy  poem,  call'd  the  "  Kxcursion,"  \    i-        ,  > 

Writ   in  a   manner  which   is  my  aversion.  '        ') 

xrv. 

He  there  builds  up  a  formidable  dyue 

Between  his  own  and  others'   intellect; 
But  Wordsworth's  poem,  and  his  followers,  \me 

Joanna  Southcote's  Shiloh  and   Uvr  sect. 
Are  things  which  in  this  century  don't  strike 

The  public  mind,  so  few  are  the  elect  ; 
And  the  new  births  of  both  their  stale  virginities 
Have  [jroved   but  dropsies  taken  for  divinities. 

XCVI. 

But  let  me  to  my  story  :   I  must  own. 

If  I  have  any  fault,  it  is  digression  ; 
Leaving  my  people  to  proceed   alone. 

While  I   soliloquize  beyond  expression ; 
But   these  are  my  addresses  from  the  throne, 

Which  put  otF  business  to  the  ensuing  session: 
Forgetting  each  omission   is  a  loss  to 
The  world,  not  quite  so  great  as   Ariosto. 

XCVII. 

I  know  that  what  our  neighbours  call  ^''  lort^ucu.i'' 
(We've  not  so  good   a  word,  but  have  the  tkin% 

In  that  complete  perfection  which   insures 
An  e|»ic  from  Bob  Southey  every  spring) — 

Form   not  the  triMi  temptation  which   allures 
The  reader;   but 'twould  not  be  hard  to  bring 

Some  fine  examples  of  the  epopee^ 

To  prove   its   grand  ingredient  is  ennui, 

XCVTIL 

We  learn  from  Horace,  Homer  sometimes  sleeps; 

We  feel  without  him,  Wordsworth  sometimes  wakes, 
To  show  with  what  conijjlacency  he  creeps, 

With   his  dear  "  IVasgoner^,''''  around  liis  lakes; 
He  wishes  for  "a  boat"  to  sail  the  deeps — 

Of  ocean  ? — no,  of  air  :   and  tlien  he  makes 
Another  outcry  for  "  a  little  boat," 
And  drivels  seas  to  set  it  weil  afloat. 

XCIX. 

If  he  iniist  fain  sweep  o'er  the  ethereal   plam, 
And  Pegasus  runs  restive  in  his  "  waggon," 

Could  he  not  beg  the  loan  of  Charles's  wain? 
Or  pray  Medea  for  a  single  dragon? 

Or  if,  too   classic  for   his   vulgar  brain. 

He  fear'd  his  neck  to  venture  such  a  nag  on, 

And  he   must  needs   mount  nearer   to  the   moon, 

Could  not  the  blockhead  ask  for  a  balloon? 

C. 

"Pedlars,"  and  "boats,"  and  "waggons !"  Oh  !  ye  shades 
Of  Poj)e  and   Dryden,  are  we  come  to  this  ? 

That  trash  of  sucli   sort  not  alone  evades 
Contempt,  but   from  the   bathos'  vast   abyss 

Floats  scum-lik(,'  upjiermost,  and  these  Jack  Cades 
Of  sense  and  song  above  your  graves  may  hiss— 

The  "little  boatman"  and  his  "Peter  Bell" 

Can  sneer   at  him  who  drew  "  Achitophe  I" 

CL 

T'  our  tale. — The  feast  was  over,  the  slaves  gonp 
The  dwarfs  and  dancing  girls  Inid  all  retired; 

The  Arab  lore  and  poet's  song  were  done, 
And  every  sound   of  rev(;lrv  expired  ; 

The  lady  and   her  lover,  Utt  alone. 

The  rosy  Hood  of  twilight  sky  edniiren;  — 


612 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Ave  Maria!  o'er  the  earth  and  sea. 

That  heavenliest  h'>r,r  of  Heaven  is  worthiest  thee! 

CII. 
Ave  Maria!  blessed  be  the  hour! 

The  time,  the  chme,  the  spot,  where  I  sc   oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 

Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and   soft, 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower, 

Or  the  faint  dying  duy-hjinn  stole  aloft, 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the   rosy  air, 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves   seem  stirr'd  with   prayer. 

cm. 

Ave  Maria  I  't  is  the  hour   of  prayer  ! 

Ave   Maria  I  't  is  the  hour  of  love ! 
Ave  Maria!   may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's   above! 
Ave  Maria!   oh   that  face  so  fair! 

Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  almighty  dove — 
What  though 'tis  but  a  pictured  image  strike — 
That  painting  is  no  idol,  't  is  too  like. 

CIV. 
Some  kinder  casuists  are  pleased  to   say, 

In  nameless  print — that  I  have  no  devotion  ; 
But    set  those   persons  down  with  me   to   pray, 

And  you  shall  see  who  has  the  properest  notion 
Of  getting  into   heaven   the  shortest  way ; 

Mv  altars  are   the  moinitains   and   the  ocean, 
Earth,  air,  stars, — all  that  spriuL's  from  the  great  whole, 
Who  hatn  produced,  and  will  receive  the  soul. 

CV. 

Sweet  hour  of  twili<jht  ! — in  the  solitude 

Of  the  i)ine  forest,  and   the  silent  shore 
Which  bounds   Ravenna's  inunemorial  wood, 

Rooted  where  once  the   Adrian  wave   tlow'd  o'er. 
To  where  the   last  C;esarean   fortress  stood, 

Ever-green  forest !    which   Roccaccio's  lore 
And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, 
How  have  I  loved  tlie  twilight  hour  and  ihee! 

CVI. 
The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

INlaking  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song. 
Were  the  sole  echoes,  save   my  steed's  and  mine, 

And   vesper-bell's  that  rose   the  houghs  along  ; 
The  spectre   huntsman  of  Onesti's  line, 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair  throng, 
Which  learn'd  from  this  example   not   to  tiy 
From  a  true  lover,  shadow" d   my  mind's   eye. 

CVII. 

Oh  Hesperus!^    thou  briiiget   all 

Home  to  the  weary,  to  th-j   hm  ^ 
To  the  young  bird  the  parent's    l.r<jOiiing  wings, 

Tlie  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlab'iur'd   steer; 
Whate'er  of  peace   about   our   b.earthstone  clings, 

Wliate'(;r  our   household   gods   jirotect  of  dear, 
Are  gather'd   round  us   by  thv  look   of  rest ; 
Thou   bring' St   the  child,  tcto,  to   the   mother's   breast. 

CVIII. 

fnih  hour  !*   which  wakes  tin:  uisli  and  melts  the  heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  sens,  on  the  fir.-t  day 

Wlieii  they  from  ihfir  sweci   tVieiius   are   torn  apart; 
Or  fills  with   love   the    pil;;rii!i   on    his  u  av, 

Ah   the  far   boll    of  vesper  'u.;d."s    lum    s!art, 
.Seeming   to  weep  th<;  dying  dav's  iic;-av  ; 

[s  this   a  fancy  which  our   na^on  sc(.rns  / 

Ah  I    sur'-Iv  nothing  dies   but  s<iui(-ihi"g   moirtis! 


things— 
leer. 


CIX. 

When  Nero  pensh'd  by  the  justest  doom 
Which  ever  the  destroyer  yet  desiroy'd. 

Amidst  the  roar  of  liberated   Rome, 

Of  nations  freed,  and  the  world   overjoy'd, 

Some  hands  unseen  stresv'd  flowers  upon  his  tomt> : 
Perhaps   the  weakness  of  a  heart  not   voiu 

Of  feeling  for   some  kindness  done,  wh(  n  power 

Had  left  the  wretch  an  uncorrupted  he  ur. 

ex. 

But  I  'm  digressing :   what  on  earth  has  Nero, 
Or  any  such  like  sovereign  buffoons, 

To  do  with   the  transactions  of  my  hero, 

IMore  than  such  madmen's  fellow-man — the  moonV/ 

Sure  my  invention  must   be  down  at  zero, 
And  I  grown  one  of  many  "  wooden  spoons  " 

Of  verse  (the  name  with  which  we  Cantabs  please 

To  dub  the  last  of  honours  in  degrees). 

CXI. 

I  feel  this  tediousness  will   never  do — 

'T  is   being  too  epic,  and  1   must  cut  down 

(In  copying)   this   long  canto  into  two : 
They  '11   never  find  h  out,  unless   I  own 

The   fact,  excepting  some  experienced   i^ew  ; 

And   then   as   an   improvement  'twill   be  shown: 

I'll   prove  that  such  the  opinion   of  the   critic   is, 

Fro!n  Aristotle  passim. — See   lloiriTiKiji, 


CANTO  lY 


Nothing   so  difficult  as  a  beginning 

In   poesy,  unless   perhaps  the   end  : 
F'or  oftentimes  when   Pegasus   seems  winning 

The  race,  he  sprains  a  wing,  and  down  we  tem*, 
Like  Lucifer  when  hurl'd  from   heaven  for  sinning  ; 

Our  sin   the  same,  and  hard   as   his  to  mend. 
Being  pride,  which   leads  the   mind  to  soar  too  fat, 
Till  our  own  weakness   shows  us  what  we  are. 

n. 

But  time,  which  briiiirs   all  beings  to  their  level, 
And  sharp   adversitv,  will  te;ich    at  last 

Man, — and,  as  we  would   ho[)e, — perhaps  the  devil. 
That  neither  of  their  intellects  are  vast : 

While  youth's  hot  wishes   in   our   red  veins   revel, 
We  know  not  this — the  blood  flows    on   too   fasi  ,• 

But  as  the  torrent  widens   towards  the   ocean, 

We   ponder  deeply  on  each  past  emotion. 

III. 

As  boy,  I  thought   myself  a  clever  fellow, 

And  w'ish'd  tliat  others   held  the   same  opinion  : 

They  took   it  up  when   my  davs  grew  more  mellow, 
And   other   minds    acknovvled;£cd    mv  douinion  ■ 

Now  mv  sere   faiK'v   "tails    into  tlie   yt'llow 


L. 


on  .1 


roo| 


IS     h 


lu!|, 

And  the   sad    truth  which   hovers   o'er    my  desk 
'I'lin-.s  what  was   onet    roinaii!!C    to    liiirle-()U»^ 


DON    JUAN. 


618 


A.ml  if  I  laugh  at 
'T  is  that   I   may 

Tis  that  oi!r  iiati; 
Itself  to   apathv, 


fV. 

any  mortal    lliiufl, 
not  weLj) ;    and   if  I  \veo[), 
re  caiiiiot    always   bring 
which  we   must    steeo 


irst   111  the  icy  (lejtlhs  of  Lctlui's  s|)rms 
Ere  what  we  least  wish  to   heliold  will 
l*lietis  baptized   Iter  moital   son   in    Sty\ 
A    mortal  mother  would   on  Lethe  fix. 


leep  ; 


Some   have  accused   me   of  a   strange  design 

Against   the  creed   and   morals   of  the   land, 
And  trace   it  in  this   poem  ev(^ry  line  : 

I  don't  pn'tcnd  tliat  I  (juite  understand 
Mv  own   meaning  when  I  would  be  very  fine  ; 

But  the   tiiet  is  that  1   have  nothing  plann'd, 
Unless  it  was  to  be  a  moment  merry, 
\  novel  word   in  my  vocabulary. 

VI. 
To  the   kind  reader  of  our  sober  clime 

'lliis  way  of  writing  will  appear  exotic ; 
Puici  was  sire  of  the  half-serious   rhyme, 

Who  suns  when  chivalry  was  more  Quixotic, 
And   revcird   in  the  fancies  of  the  time, 

True  kmghts,  chaste  dames,  huge  giants,  kings  des 
potic  ; 
But  all  these,  save  the  last,  being  obsolete, 
I  chose  a  niodorn  subject   as  more  meet. 

VII. 
How  I   have  treated   it,  I  do  not  know — 

Perhaps  no  better  than  they  have   treated  me 
Who  have  imputed  such  designs  as  show, 

Not  what  they  saw,  but  what  they  wish'd  to  see  ; 
Hut  if  it   gives  them  pleasure,  be  it   so, — 

This  is  a  liberal   age,  and  thouwlits   are  free: 
Meantime  Apollo  plucks  me  by  the  ear, 
Ar.u  tells   me  to   resume   my  story  \\evQ. y^ 

VIH. 
Young  Juan   and   his   ladv-love  were  left 

To   their  own   hearts'   most  sweet  society; 
Even  Time  the   pitiless  in  sorrow  cleft 

With   his  rude  scvthe   such  gentle  bosoms  ;    he 
SiuhM   to  Ixjhold   them  of  their' hours   bereft, 

Though   foe  to  love  ;    and  yet    they  could   not  be 
Meant    to   grow  ol'.l,  l)ut  die   in  happy  spring. 
Before  one  charm  or  hope   had  taken  wing. 

IX. 

Their  taces  were  not  made  for  wrinkles,  their 

Pure  blood   to  stagnate,  their   great   hearts  to  fail  ; 
The  blank   gray  was   not    made  to   blast  their  hair, 

But,  like  the  climes  that  know  nor  snow  nor  hail, 
f hey  were   all   summer:    liiihtning  might   assail 

And  shiver  them  to  ashes,  but  to  trail 
A  lont;  and  snake-lik»;  life  of  chdl  decay 
Was  not  for  them — tiiey  had  too   little  clay. 

X. 
Thev  w(;re    J.one  once  more  ;    for  them  to  be 

Thus  was  anc)ther   Eden  ;    they  were  never 
Wearv,  unless  when    separate  :    the   tree 

Cut  from   its  forest    root  of  years — the  river 
Damm'd  from  its  fountain — the  child  from  the  knee 

And  breast  maternal  wean'd   at  once  for  ever, 
Would  wither  less  than    these  two  torn   apart ; 
Alas  I    there  is  no  instinct  like  the   heart — 

XI. 

The  heart — which  may  be  broken  :    happv  thev  ! 

Thrice   fortunate  !     who,  of  that  fragile  mould, 
The  precious   porcelain  of  human  clay. 

Break  with  the  first  fall :  they  can  ne'er  behold 


The  long  year  link'd  witli   neavy  da)   pn  day, 

And   ail  which   must    be   oorne,  and   never  told  ; 
While  life's  strange  principle  will   ol'ten   he 
Deepest    in  those  who  long  the  most    to  die. 

XII. 
♦'  Whom  the  gods  love  die  youiio:,"  was  said  of  yoit. 

And   manv  dc'aths  do  they  escape   livllus; 
The  death  of  friends,  and,  that  whicli  slays  even  more— 

Tlie  death   of  friendsliip,  love,  youlh,  all  tliat  is. 
Except   mere   breath  ;   and   since  the   silert   shore 

Awaits  at  last   even  those  whom  longest  miss 
The  old  archer's  shafts,  perhaps   the   early  grave 
Which   men  weep  over  may  be  meant  to  save. 

XIII. 

Haidee  and  .Juan  thought  not  of  the  dead  ; 

The  heavens,  and  earth,  and  air,  seem'd  made  for  thein; 
They  found  no  fault  with  time,  save  that  he  tied  ; 

Tliey  saw  not  in  themselves  aught  to  condemn  : 
Each  was  the  other's  mirror,  and   but  read 

•Joy  sparkling  in  their  dark  eyes   like  a  gf^m. 
And  knew  such  brightness  was  but  the  reflection 
Of  their  exchanging  glances  of  atlection. 

XIV. 
The  gentle  pressure,  and  the  thrilling  touch, 

Tlie  least  glance  better  understood  than  words, 
Which  still  said  all,  and  ne'er  could  say  too  much  , 

A  language,  too,  but  like  to  that  of  birds, 
Known  but   to  them,  at  least  appearing  such 

As  but  to  lovers  a  true  sense  affords  ; 
Sweet  playful  phrases,  which  would  seem  absurd 
To  those  w  ho  have  ceased  to  hear  such,  or  ne'er  heard  . 

XV. 

All  these  were  theirs,  for  they  w(!re  children  still, 
And  children  still  they  should  have  ever  been  ; 

They  were  not  made  in   the   real  world  to  fill 
A  busy  character  in  the  dull  scene  ; 

But  like  two  beings  born  from  out  a  rill, 
A  nym])h  and  her  beloved,  all   unseen 

To  pass  their  lives  in  fountains  and  on  Howers, 

And  never  know  the  weight  of  human  hours. 

XVI. 

Moons  changing  had  roli'd  on,  and  changeless  found 
Those  their  bright  rise  had  lighted  to  such  joys 

As  rarely  they  beheld  throughout  their  round : 
And  these  were  not  of  the  vain  kind  which  cloys 

For  theirs  were  buoyant  spirits,  never  bound 
By  the  mere  senses  ;   and  that  whicli  destroys 

Most  love,  possession,  unto  them  appear'd 

A  thing  which  each  endearment   more  endear'd. 

XVII. 

Oh  beautiful !    and  rare  as  beautiful ! 

But   theirs  was  love   in  which  the  mind  delights 
To  lose  itself,  when  the  whole  world   grows  dull, 

And  we  are  sick  of  its  hack  sounds  and   sights, 
Intrigues,  adventures  of  the  common  school, 

Its  petty  passions,  marriages,  and  flights. 
Where  Hymen's  torch  but  brands  one  strumpet  morui 
Whose  husband  only  knows  her  not  a  wh — re. 

XVIII. 

Hard  words  ;  harsli  truth  ;   a  truth  which  many  know 
Enough. — The  faithful   and  the   fairy  pair, 

Who  never  found   a  single   hour  too  slow, 

What  was  it  made  them  thus  exempt  from  care 

Young  innate  feelings  all  have  fell  below, 
Which  perish  in  the   rest,  but  in  them  were 

Inherent  ;   what  we  mortals  call  romantic. 

And  always  envy,  though  we  <'eem  it  trantic. 


614 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


XIX 

This  is  in  others  a  factitious  state, 

An  opium  dream  of  too  much  youth  and  reading, 
But  was   in  them   their  nature   or  their   fate  ; 

No  novels  e'er  had  set  their  young  hearts  bleeding 
For  Haidee's  knowledge  was  by  no  means   great, 

And  Juan  was  a   boy  of  saintly  breeding, 
So  that  there  was  o  reason  for  their  loves, 
More  than   for  those   of  inghtingales  or  doves. 

XX. 
They  gazed  upon   the  sunset;   'tis   an  hour 

Dear  unto  a.l.  but  dearest  to   their  eyes, 
For  It   had   made   •hem  what  they  were  :    the  power 

Of  iove  hail  first  o  t^whelin'd  them  from  such  skies, 
VN^'hen  happiness   had    0>  -^n    their  only  dower. 

And  twilight  saw  them   ..-'k'd  in  passion's  ties; 
Charm'd  with  each  other,  all  thmgs  charm'd  that  brought 
The  past  still  welcoms  as  the  present  thought. 

XXI. 

I  know  not  why,  but  in  that  hour  to-night. 
Even  as  they  gazed,  a  sudden   tremor  came. 

And  swejjt,  as  't  were,  across  their  hearts'  delight, 
Like  the  wind  o'er  a  harp-string,  or  a  tiame, 

When  one  is  shook  in  sound,  and  one   in   sight ; 
And  thus  some  boding  Hash'd   through  either  frame. 

And   call'd   from  Juan's  breast  a  faint   low  sigh, 

While  one  new  tear  arose  m  Haidee's  eye. 

XXIL 

That   large  black  prophet  eye  seein'd  to  dilate 

And  follow  far  the  disappearing  sun, 
As  if  their  last  day  of  a  happy  date 

With  his  broad,  bright,  and  dropping  orb  were  gone  ; 
Juan   gazed   on  her  as  to  ask   his  fate — 

He  feh  a  grief,   but  knowing  cause  for  none. 
His  glance  inciuired  of  hers  for  some  excuse 
For  feelings  causeless,  or  at  least  abstruse. 

XXIII. 

She  turn'd  to  him,  and  smiled,  but  in  that  sort 
Which  makes  not  others  smile ;   then  turn'd  aside: 

Whatever  feeling  shook  her,  it  seeni'd  short, 
And  master'd  by  her  wisdom  or  her  pride  ; 

When  Juan  spoke,  too— it  might  be  in  sport— 
Of  this  their  n  itual  feeling,  she  replied — 

"  If  it  should  be  so, — but — it  cannot  be — 

Or  I  at  least  shall  not  survive  to  see." 

XXIV. 

Juan  would  question  further,  but  she  press'd 

His  lips  to   hers,  and  silenced   him  with  this, 
And   then  dismiss'd   the  omen  from   her  breast, 

Defying  augury  with  that  fond  kiss; 
And   no  doubt  of  all  methods  'tis  the  best: 

Some  [X'ople  j)refer  wine — 'tis  not   amiss: 

liave  tried   both  ;   so  those  who  wotild  a  part  take 
May  choose  between  the;  head-ache  and  the  heart-ache. 

XXV. 
Orrf;  of  the  two,  according  to  your  choice, 

Women  or  wine,  you'll   have  to  undergo; 
Both  maia<iies  are  taxes  on  our  joys  : 

liut  which  to  choose  I   really  hardly  know ; 
And  if  I   had  tr  give   a  casting  voice. 

For  lioth  Siues  I   could   many  reasons  show. 
And  then  decide,  without   <jreat  wrong  to  either. 
It  were  much   netler  to  have   both   than  neither. 

XXVI. 
Juan   and  Haidee  gazed  upon  each  other, 

Wita  swimming  looks  of  s])eechl('ss  tc^nderness, 
A''hich   mix'd   all  feelings,  friend,  child,  lov(!r,  brother, 
All   that  the  best   can  mingle  and  express, 


\\  hen  two  ))ure  heart.,  are  pour'd  in  one  ar  itnei 

And  love  too  much,  and  yet   can   not  love  less  , 
Bjt  almost  sanctify  the   sweet  excess 
Ily  the  immortal  wish  and  power  to  bless. 

XXVII. 

M'x'd  in  each  other's  arms,  and  heart  In  heart 

'    Why  did  they  not  then  die  /—they  had  lived  too  long 

Should  an  lio,.'.r  come  to  bid  them  breathe  apart ; 

Years  could  but  bring  them  cruel  things  or  wrong 
The  world  was  not  fo.-  then.,  mr  the  world's  art 

For  beings  passionate  as  Saj-pho's  song  ; 
Love  was  born  vnth  them,  in  them,  so  inlevse. 
li  was  their  \ery  spirit — not   a  sease. 

XXVIII. 

They  should  have  hved  together  deep  in  woods. 

Unseen  as  sings  the  nightiuirale  ;   they  were 
Cnht  to  mix   in   these  thick   solitudes 

Cal'.'d  social,  where  all  vice  and  hatred  a'-e : 
How  'onaly  every  freeborn  creature  brooils  ! 

The   sw,"'etost  song-birtls  nestle  in  a  pair  ; 
The  eogio   soarj  alone  ;   the  eull  and   crow- 
Flock  o'er   their  carrion,  just  as   mortals  do. 

XXIX. 
Now  pillow'd,  cheek  to  cheek,  in  loving  sleep, 

Haidee  and  Juai:  tiieir  siesta  took, 
A  gentle  slumber,  bui,  it  was  not  deej). 

For  ever  and  anon  a  something  shook 
Juan,  and  shuddering  c'ei    his  frame  Aould  creep ; 

And  Haidee's  sweet  lips  rnurmnrd  hue  a  brook 
A  wordless  music,  and  her  face  so  fair 
Stirr'd  with  her  dream   as  rose-'eaves  with  the  air: 

XXX. 

Or  as  the  stirring  of  a  deep  clear  stream 
Within  an  Alpine  hollow,  when  the  wind 

Walks  over  it,  was  she  shaken  by  the  dream, 
The  mystical  usurper  of  the  mind — 

O'erpowering   us  to  be  whate'er  may  seem 

Good  to   the  soul  which  we  no  more  can  bind , 

Strange  state  of  being!    (for  'tis   still  to  be) 

Senseless  to  feel,  and  with  seal'd  eyes  to  see. 

XXXI 

She  dream'd  of  being   alone  on   the  sea-shore, 
Chain'd   to  a  rock;   she  knew  not  how,  but  stir 

She  could  not  from  the  s})ot,  and  the  loud   roar 
Grew,  and  each  wave  rose  roughly,  threatening  her  , 

And  o'er  her  upper  lip  they  seem'd  to  pour,  ! 

Until  she  sobb'd  for  breath,  and  soon  they  were    • 

Foaming  o'er  her  lone  head,  so  fierce  and   high 

Each  broke  to  drown  her,  yet  she  could  not  die. 

xxxn. 

Anon — she  was  released,  and  then  she  stray'd 
O'er  the  sharp  shingles  with   her  bleeding  feet, 

And  stuuibled  almost  every  step  she  made ; 
And  something  roU'd  before  her  in  a  sheet, 

Which  she  must  still   pursue  howe'er  afraid  ; 
'T  was  white  and    jidistinct,  nor   stopp'd  to  meet 

Her  glance  nor  grp.sp,  for  still  she  gazed  and   grasp'ri. 

And  ran,  but  it  escaped  her  as  she  clasp'd. 

XXXl.. 

The  dream  changed  :    in  a  c„-      .he  stovd,  its  walls 

Were  hung  with  marble  icicles  ;  the  work 
Of  ages  on   its  water-fretted   halls, 

Wliere  waves  might  wash,  and  seals  might  breed  and 
lurk  ; 
Her  hair  was  drii)pmg,  and   the  very  bails 

Of  her  black  eyes  seein'd  turn'd  to  tears,  an<l  mmk 
The  sharp  rocks   look'd  below  each  ('n.p  lliev  <  aughl, 
i    Which  froze  to  marble  as   it  fidl,  she  ;houghl. 


DON    JUAN. 


616 


XXXIV. 

Anl  wet,  ant'.  coU,  aii.l   lif.li'ss   at   lier  feet, 

Pale   as   iho    foaiu  tha;   frotliM  on  his  .l.-a,!   hrow, 

VVhicli   she   essay'd    in  vain   to  ckuir,  (how  sweet 
\V<!ro  once   her  ('ar(;s,  how  idUt  seciiiM   tlicv  now!) 

Lav  Juan,  n(»r   couKi   an>;ht  renew  the   heat 

Oi  his  (];(ea('h'ii   heart  ;    and  tJie   s<'a-dirj,M's  htw 

Kaiig   in   her   sa<{    ears   like    a   niermaiii's   ^on^r, 

And  that  brief  dream  apittarM  a  hte  too  long. 

XXXV. 

And  gazing  on  the  dead,  she   thought   his   face 
Faded,  or   alier'd   into  soiniithiiig  new — 

Like   to    her   father's    featnr(>s,  till   eaeh  trace 

.More    like   and    like;   to  Lainhro's    aspect   gr'nv — 

With    all   his    keen  w.irn    look    an!  Grecian    jjrace; 
And    startiiii;-,  she   awoke,  and  what    to  view! 

Oil!  Powers  of  Heav<-n!  what  dark  eye  meets  she  there? 

''J' IS — 'tis  her  father's — ti.v'd   npou   the   |)air ! 

xxxvr. 

Tiien   sliriekin^j,  she   arose,  and   shriekiii<z  fell. 
With  joy  and  ^sorrow,  iiope   and   fear,  to  sec 

Hiiii  whom   she   .ieeiu'd   a   liabitanl  where    dwell 
The  ocean-hiirutd,  risen   from  death,  to  he 

Perchance   (he   death   of  one  she  loved  too  well; 
Dear  as   her  father   had   l)e(!n  to  Haidee, 

It  was   a  ntoinent  of  that  awful   kiiul 

I   have  seeii   such — hut   must  not  call  to  mind. 

XXXVII. 
Up  Juan  sprung  to  [Jaidee's   bitter   sliriek, 

An.i  caught    her  falling,  and   from  otf  the  wall 
Snatch'd   down   Ins    sabre,  in   hot  haste  to  wreak 

Venoeance  on  him  who  was  the  cause  of  all: 
Then  Lainbro,  who  till   now  f  irhore  to  speak, 

Smiled  scornfully,  and  said,  "  Within  my  call 
A  thousand  scimitars  await   the  word  ; 
Put  up,  young  man,  put   u|.>  your   silly  sword." 

XXXVIIL 

And  Haidee  ckmg  around  him;   "Juan, 'tis — 
'TisLambro — 'tis   my  father!    Kneel  with  nic — 

He\>ill  forgive  us — yes — it   must  he — yes. 
Oh      deai-est   fatlier,  in   this  agoiiv 

Of  pieosm-e  and  of  pain — even  u  hue  I  kiss 
Thy  garmeiit's  hem  with  transport,  can  it  he 

That    doubt   siioulJ  mingle  with  my  filial  joy  ? 

Deal  with  me  as   tiiou  wilt,  but  spare  this   boy." 

XXXIX. 

High   and   inscrutable   tlie  old  man  stood. 

Calm   in   his  voice,  and   calm  within   his   eye — 
N^ot   always   signs  with   him  of  calmest   mood: 

He    look'd    upon    her,  but  gave   no   reply  ; 
Thr.n   turn'd  to  Juan,  in  whose  cheek  the  blood 

Oft   came   and  went,  as  iIktc   resolved   to  die; 
In   arms,  at   least,  he   stood,  in  act  to  spring 
On    liie  tirsl  foe  whom  Lambro's  call  migln   bring. 

XL. 
"Voung  man,  vour  sword  ;"  so  Laiiibro  once  more  said: 

Juan   replied,  "  N(.t  while  this   arm  is   ba-e." 
'J'he  old   luaii's  che<-k   -rrew  pale,  but   not  with  dread. 

And    drawing  from   his   belt   a   pistol,  he 
Replied,  "Vour    lilood   be   then  on  your  own  head." 

Then   look'd   close   at   the  tlint,  as  if  to  see 
'Twas  fresh— tor  he  had  lately  used   the  lock — 
And  next   [irocecded  quietly  to  cock. 

XLI. 
Il  has    1  strange  (piick  jar  upon  the  ear. 

That   cocking  of  a  pistol,  when   you  know 
A  moment  more  will    bring  the   sight   to   bear 

Upon  your  person,  twelve  yanls  off,  or  so; 


A  g(aitlemanly  distance,  not    too   near. 

If  you    have   got    a   f.rmer   tiiend    f>i    foe, 
Hut   after   being   tired   at  oiu'e   (jr   twice, 
The  ear  becomes  more  Irish,  and   less  incc. 

XLIl. 
Lambro   presented,  and   one   instant   more 

Had    stopp'd   this  canto,  and  Don  Juan's  breith, 
Wh.-n  Hai.lee   threw  herself  her   boy  b.dore, 

.Stern  as  her  sire :   "  On  me,"   she  cried,  "  let  deatl 
Descend — the   fault    is    inme  :    this   fatal   shore 

He  found— but  sough:  not.     I  have  pledged  my  faith; 
I   love   him— I  will   die  with   him  :    I    knew 
Vour  nature's  tirmness — know  your  daughter's  t<>o.'' 

XLIII. 

A  minute   past,  and   she   had  been   all  tears. 
And   tenderness,  and    mf  uicy  :    but    now 

She   stiti.d    as  one    wlio   champion'd    liiiiiian   f<ia!S — 
Pal<!,  slatue-lik<!,  and   st<!rn,  she  woo'd   the   blow; 

And    tall   beyond    her   sex    and    their   compeers, 
She  drew  up  to  her   Inight,  as   if  Ut  show 

A  fain-r   mark  ;    and  wii!>    a  fix'd  eve  scann'd 

Her  father's  face — bm    never   st(,,.p'd   his    hand. 

XLIV. 

He  ga/.ed  on   iier,  atid  she  on   liiii!  ;   'l  was  strange 
How  like  they  look'd!  the  expression  was  the  same 

Serenely  savasie,  with   a   little   change 

Iri  the  lariie  dark  eve's   mutual-darted   flame  , 

For  she  too  was  as  one  who  could   aveng<i, 
If  cause   should   l>e — a   lioness,  though   tame: 

Her  frher's  blood  before  her  father's  face 

Boil'd   up,  and  proved  her  truly  of  his  race. 

XLV. 

I   said   tliey  were  alike,  their  teatures  and 

Their  sta'urf;   ditfermj;   but  in   sex  and  y^iars; 

Even  to  the  delicacy  of  their   hands 

There  was   r(;semblance,  such  as  true  blood  wears, 

And  now  to  see   them,  thus  di\uled,  stand 
In   lix'd  ferocity,  when  joyous   tears, 

And  sweet   smisations,  should   have  welcomed   both. 

Show  what  the   passunis   are   in  thuir  lull  growth. 

XLVI. 

The  father  paused  a  moment,  then  withdrew 
His   weapon,   and   replaced   it ;   but  stood   still. 

And  looking  on  her,  as  to  look   her  ihroiiiih, 

"Not/,"  he  said,  "have  sought  this  stranger's  ill; 

Not  J  have  made  this  desolation  :    few 

Would   bear  such  outrage,  and  forbear   to   kill ; 

But  I  must  do   my  duly — how  thou   hast 

Done  tlime,  the  present  vouches  for   the  past. 

XLVII. 

"  Let  him  disarm  ;   or,  by  mv  fither's  head, 
His  own  shall   roll  before  you   like  a  ball  !" 

He   raised   his  whistle,  as  the  word   he  said, 
And   blew  ;   another  answer'd  to  the  call, 

And    rushin;;   in  disorderly,  though  led. 

And  arm'd  from   boot   to  turban,  one  and   all, 

Some  twenty  of  his  train  came,  rank  on  rank ; 

He  gave  the  word,  "  Arrest   or   slay  the  Frank." 

XLVIII. 

Then,  with   a   sudden    movement,  he  withdrew 
His  daii<rhter  ;   while  coinpress'd  wiihin    his  grasp 

'T  wixt   her  and  Juan   interposed  the   crew  ; 
In  vain  she  struggled   in  her  father's  grasp, — 

His  arms  were  like  a  ser[)ent's  coil  :    then  (lew 
Upon  their  prey,  as  darts   an   angry  as[». 

The  file  of  pirates  ;   save  the  foremost,  who 

Had  t'allen,  with   his  right  shoulder  half  cut  Ihroi.t;!' 


•*5 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    AYORKS. 


XLIX. 

The  second  had  his  cheek   laid   open ;    but 
The  third,  a  wary,  cool  old  swonler,  took 

The  blows  U|>on  his  cutlass,  and  then  put 
His  own  well   in:   so  well,  ere  you  could  look, 

His  man  was  fioor'd,  and  helpless  at  his  ftjot. 
With  the  blood  running  like  a  little   brook 

From  two  smart  sabre  gashes,  deep  and   red — 

One  on  the  arm,  the  otlier  on  the  head. 

L. 

And  then  they  bound  him  where  he  fell,  and  Iwre 
Juan  from  the  a|)artmeiit :    with  a  sign 

Old  Lambro  bade  them  take  him   U>  the  shore, 
Where  lay  some  sb.:].s  which  were  to  sail  at  nine. 

riiey  laid  him  in  a  boat,  and  plied   the  oar 

Until  they  reach'd  some  galliots,  placed  in  line; 

On  board  of  one  of  these,  and  under   hatches, 

Tliey  stow'd  him,  with  strict  orders  to  the  watclies. 

LI. 

I'he  world  is  full  of  strange  vicissitudes. 
And  here  was  one  exceedingly  unpleasant; 

A  gentleman  so  rich  in  the  world's   goods, 
*     Handsome  and  young,  enjoying  all  the  present, 

Just  at  the  very  time  when  he  least  broods 
On  sncn  a  thing,  is  suddenly  to  sea  sent. 

Wounded  and  chain'd,  so  that   he  cannot  move, 

And  all  because  a  lady  fell  in  love. 

LII. 

Here  I   must  leave  him,  fir  I   grow  pathetic. 

Moved  bv  llie  Chinese  nymph  of  tears,  green  tea! 

Than  whom  Cassandra  was  not  more  prophetic; 
For  if  my  pure  libations  exceed  three, 

I  feel  my  heart  become  so  sympathetic. 

That  i  must   have  recoutse 'to  black   Boliea: 

'T  IS  pity  wine  should  be  so  deleterious, 

For  tea  and  cotfee  leave  us  much  more  serious. 

LIII. 

[■'^nless  when  qnalifie'  with  thee.  Cognac! 

Sweet  Naiad  of  the   Phlogethonlic  rill ! 

All!    why  the  liver  wilt  thou  thus  attack, 

An<i  make,  like  other  nymphs,  thy  lovers  ill? 
I  would  take  refuge  in  weak  punch,  but  rack 

(In  each  sense  of  the  word),  whene'er  I  till 
My  mild  and  midnighl  beakers  to  the  brim. 
Wakes  me  next  morning  with  its  synonym. 

LIV. 
I  leave  Don  Juan  for  the  present   safe — 

Not  sound,  tioor  fellow,  but  severely  wounded ; 
Yet  could   his  corjioral  pangs   amount  to  half 

Of  those  with  which  his  Haidee's  bosom  hounded? 
She  was  not  one  to  weep,  and  rave,  and  chafe. 

And  then  <:ive  way,  subdued  because  surrounded; 
Her  mother  was  a  Moorish   main,  fr<jin  Fez, 
Where  al!  is   Eden,  or  a  wilderness. 

LY. 
There  the  large  olive  rams  its  amber  store 

In  marble  fonts;    there  grain,  and  flower,  and  fruit, 
Gush  from  the  earth  itntil  the  land  runs  o'er; 
lint  the're  loo  many  a  poison-tree  has  root, 
And   mi.lmgtit  listi;iis  to  the  lion's  roar, 

And   long,  long  des(;rts  scorch  the  camel's  foot, 
Or  heaving  whelm  tlie  helpless;  caravan, 
Au'.'  as  the  soil  is,  so  the   heart  of  man. 

LYI. 

Alii  ;  is  all  tne  sun's,  and  as  her  earth 
Her  human   ckiy  is   kindl(;d :  full  of  power 

f\)r  gooil   or  evil,  burning  from    its   birth, 

1  u:  Moorish  blood   nartakes   the  planet's  hour, 


And  like  the  soil  beneath   it  will  brmg  forth : 

Beauty  and  love  were  Hainee's  m<jther's  dower ; 
But  her  large  dark   eye  show'd  deep  passion's  force 
Though   sleei)ing  like   a  li(m  near  a  source. 

LVII. 

Her  daughter,  teniper'd  with   a  milder  ray, 

Like  summer  clouds  all  silvery,  smooth,  and  fau' 

Till   slowly  charged  with  thunder  they  display- 
Terror  to  earth,  and  tempest   to  the  air. 

Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  way ; 
But,  overwrought  with   passion   and  despair, 

The  fire  burst  forth  from  her  Numidian  veins, 

Even   as  the  simoom  sweejis  the   blasted  plains 

LYIII. 

The  last  sight  which  she  saw  was  Juan's  gore, 
And  he   himself  o'erinaster'd   and  cut  down  ; 

His  blood  was  running  on   the  very  floor 

Where   late  he  trod,  her  beautiful,  her  own : 

Thus  much  she  view'd  an  instant  and  no  inore,- 
Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convulsive  groan  ; 

On   her  sire's   arm,  which  until  now  scarce  held 

Her  writhing,  fell   she   like   a  cedar  feird. 

LIX. 

A  vein  had  burst ,^  and  her  sweet  h])s'  pure  dyes 
Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which  ran  o'er  . 

And   her  head  droop'd   as  when  the   lily  lies 

O'ercharged  with  rain:  her  summou'dt^andmaidsborw 

Their  lady  to  hei    couch  with  gushing  eyes  ; 

Of  herbs   and   cordials  they  produced   tlieir  storo. 

But   she  defied   all   means  they  could  employ. 

Like  one   life  could   not  hold,  nor  death  destroy. 

LX. 
Davs  lay  she  in  that  state  unchanifed,  though  chili, 

VVith  nothin::  livirJ,  sti'l  her  lij)s  were  red; 
She  had  no  pulse,  but  death   seem'd   absent  still  j 

No  hideous  sign  proclaim'd  her  surely  dead  : 
Corruption  came  not,  in  each  mmd  to  kill 

All  hope  ;  to  look  u[)on  her  ssveet  face  bred 
New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seem'd  full  of  soul. 
She  had  so  much,  earth  coiiid  not  claim  the  whole. 

LXI. 

The  ruling  passion,  such   as   marble   shows 
When  exquisitely  chiselFd,  still   lay  there, 

But  fix'd  as  marble's   unchanged   aspect  throws 
O'er  the  fair  Yenns,  but  for  ever  fair  ; 

O'er  the  Laocoon's  all   eternal  throes. 
And  ever-dying  Gladiator's  air. 

Their  energy  like  life  forms  all   their  fame. 

Yet  looks  not  life,  for  they  are  still  the  same. 

LXII. 

She  woke  at  length,  but  not  as  sleejiers  wake, 
Rather  the  dead,  for  life  seem'd  something  new, 

A  strauize  sensation  which  she  must  partake 
Perforce,  since  whatsoever   met   her  view 

Struck   not  on   memory,  though  a  heavy  ache 
Lav  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  beat   still  true 

Brouizht  back  the  sense  cf  pain  without  the  cause. 

For,  for  a  while,  the  furies  made  a  pause. 

LXIIL 

She  look'd  ,on   many  a  face  with  vacant  eye, 
On   manv  a  token  without   knowing  what ; 

She  saw  thein  watch  h(*r  without  isking  why. 
And   reck'd   not  who   around  h(!r  pillow  sal , 

Not   speechless,  though  she  spoke  not  :   not   a  sig>. 
Reveal'd  her  thoughts;   dull  silence  and  (luick  cliai 

Were  tried   in  vain  by  those  who  served  ;   she  gave 

No  sign,  sa\e  oreatli,  of  having  left  the  grave. 


DON    JUAN. 


617 


LXIV. 
rier  haniimaids  tended,  but  she  heeded  not; 

Her  father  w.itfh'ci,  she   tiirii'd   her  eyes  away; 
She   recognised  i  o  l)eini:,  ;Mid    no   spot, 

Ilowe^-er  dear   or  chenshM    in   their  (hiy  ; 
Thev  chanaed   from  room  to   room,   but   all  forj^ot, 

Gentle,  but  witliont    memory,  she   lay; 
And  vet  those  eves,  which  thev  wouM  fain  be  weaning 
Back  10  old  ihoiignts,  secmM  tiill  of  fiarfnl  meaning. 

LXV. 

At  hist   a  sla\e   hethou<rht   her  of  a   harj)  ; 

The   harper  came,  and   tuned   Ins   nistrument  ; 
At   the    lirst    notes,  n'regular    and   sharp, 

On   hnn    her   tlashmg   eyes    a   niomeni    bent. 
Then   to   the  wall  she   tm-n'd,  as   if  to  warj) 

Her  thou:;hts  from  sorrow  throu^ili  her  heart  re-seiu. 
And   he   be^Mn  a  loiii:  low  islaiui   song 
Of  ancient  days,  ere  tyranny  gresv  strong. 

LXVI. 

Anon   her  tliin  wan   fingers  beat  llie  wall 

In   time   to  his  old  tuue  ;    he   changed   the   theme. 

And  snna  of  love — the  fierce  name  struck   through  all 
Her   recollection;    on   iier   tlash'd    tlie  dream 

Of  what   she  was,  and    is,  if  ye   could  call 
To   be  so   beniiT  ;    ni   a   gushing   stream 

The  tears  rush'd   fjrth   from  her  o'erclouded  brain, 

Like  mountain  mists  at  length  dissolved  in  rain. 

LXVH. 

Short  solace,  vain  relief! — thought   came  too  quick, 

And  whiri'd   her   brain   to   madness  ;   she   arose 
As  one  who  ne'er  had  dwelt  among  the  sick, 

And  flew  at  all  she  met,  as  on  her  foes  ; 
But   no  one   ever  heard  her   speak   or  shriek. 

Although   her  paroxysm  drew  towards  its  close: 
Hers  wiis  a   fn;n/.y  winch  disdaiuM  to   rav<», 
Even  when  they  smote  her,  in   the   hojie  to  save. 

LXVHI. 
Yet  she   betravM  at   times   a   gleam   of  sense  ; 

Norni.i2   could  make  her  meet   her   father's  face, 
Thouijh   on  all  other  things  with  looks   intense 

She  gazed,  but  none  she  ever  could  retrace  ; 
Food  she   refused,   and   raiment  ;    no   pretence 

Avail'd  for  ei'hrr;  neither  change  of  place, 
Nor  time,  nor  f;l:Jl,  nor  remedy,  could  give  her 
Sens(!s  to  slecp-the  power  seeni'd  gone  for  ever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve  days  ;'r.d   niijhts   she  wither'd  thus;    at  last, 

Without    a    ^r.oan,  or   sinh,  or  glance,  to  show 
A  parting   p.T*.',  the  spirit   from  her   pass'd  : 

And   they  \\liO  watch'd  her  nearest  could  not  know 
Ti)0  very  inft.mt,  till   the  change  that  cast 

Her  sv/e-y.  face    into  shadow,  dull    and  slow, 
G'azed  o'(,r  f.er  eyes— the  beautiful,  the  hlack— 
Oh  !    to  i-of.r.ess  such  lustre— and  then  lack ! 

LXX. 
She  died,  hut  not   alone  ;   she  helfl  within 
A  second    principle  of  life,  which   might 
Have  onwii'd   a  fair  and   sinless   child   of  sin  : 

But  closed  its  little   being  without  li',tit. 
And  vvf;nt  down  to  the   grave  unborn,  .vherein 

Bloysom    md   bouirh  lie  wither'd  with   one   blight; 
In  vain  the  .lews  of  heaven   descend   above 
The  bleeding  flower   and  blasted  fruit  of  love. 

LXXI. 
Tlius  lived— thus  died  she  :   never  more  on   her. 

Shall  sorrow  light   or  shame.     She  was  not  made 
Through  y«;ars  e-  moons  tlie.  inner  weight  to  bear. 
Which  ojlder  h»-aiis  endure  till  they  are  laid 


Hy  age  in  earth  ;  her  days  and   pleasures  were 
Brief,  but  dedghtful— such   as   IkkI   not   stay'd 
Long  with   her   ilestiny ;    but    ^lic   sleeps  ucU 
Hv  the   sea-ihore  whereon    she   loved    lo     iwe'.l. 

LXXIl. 

That   isle   is    now  all    desolate    and    bare. 

Its   dwellmgs   down,  its   tenants    passM    away, 

None   but    her   own   and    ''aih-r's    grave    is   there. 
And   nothing  outward    tells  ol'  human   clay  : 

Ve  could   not    know  where   hes   a    ihr  g   so   tiiir. 
No  stone   is  there  to   show,  no   longm;  to   say 

What  was  ;    no    dirge,  except    the    l.oiiow  sea's, 

Mourns  o'er   the   beauty  of  the  Cyclades. 

LXXIII. 

But   many  a  (J reek    maid   in    a    loving   song 
Siiihs  o'er   h(;r    name,  and    many  an    islander 

With   her  sire's   story  makes  the  m-!il  N-sloiig; 
Valour  was  his,  and    beauty  dwell  uith  h(-r  ; 

If  she  loved  rashly,  her  life   paid   for  wroni; — 
A  heavy  l)rice  must  all    pay  who  thus  err. 

In  some  shape  ;    let    none  think  to  tiy  \\:c  ;langer, 

For  soon  or  late  Love  is  his  own   avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But   let   me  chauije  this  theme,  which  ifrows  too  sad, 

And   lav  this   sheet   of  soirow  on    tlie    shelf; 
I  don't   much   like   describing   jieopli;   mad, 

For  f 'ar  of  seeming  rather  tuuch'd   myself — 
Besides,  I  've    no    niore   on   this    h(!ad    to   a<ld  : 

And   as   my  Muse   is   a  capricious  elf. 
We'll    put   about    and   try  aiK^tiier   tack 
With  Juan,  left  halt-kiird  some  stanzas  back. 

LXXV. 
Wounded   and  fetter'd,  "  cabm'd,  cribb'd,  confined,'' 

Some   davs   and   nights  elapsed   before   that  he 
Could   altogether  ca''   the   p.ast   to  mind; 

A.iid  when    he  did,  he  found   himself  at   sea, 
Sailing  six   knots   an   hour  before  the  wind  ; 

The   sh(jres  of  liion  lay  beneatii   their  lee — 
Another  time   he  might   have  liked   to  see  'em, 
But  now  was  not  much  pleased  with  Cajie  Siga^um. 

LXXVI. 

There,  on  the  green  and  viilage-cotted  hill,  is 
(Flank'd  by  the  Hellespont  and  by  the  sea) 

Entomb'd  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  Achilles : 
They  sav  so— (  Bryant   says   the  contrary): 

And  further  downward,  tall  and  towering,  still  is 
The  tumulus — of  whom  /   Heaven  knous  ;  \  may  te 

Patroclus,  Ajax,  or  Protesilau.^,— 

All  heroes,  who  if  living  still  would  slay  us. 

LXXVII. 

Hiizh  borrows,  without   marble  or  a   name, 
A  vast,  untill'd,  and  mountain-skirted  plain, 

And   Ida  in   the  distance,  still   the   same. 
And  old  Scamander  (if 'tis   he),  remain  ; 

The  situation   seems  still  form'd  for  fame — 
A  hundred  thousand   men  might  fiijht  again 

With  ease  ;   but  where  I  sought  for  Ilion's  walls, 

The  quiet  sheep  feeds,  and  the  tortoise  crawls  ; 

LXXVIIl. 

Troops  of  untended  horses  ;    here  and  ther*} 
Some  little   hamlets,  with   new  names  uncoutH , 

Some  shepherds   (unlike  Paris),  led  to  slare 
A   momenl  at  the   European  "outli- 

Whom   to  the  spot  their  schooi-boy  feelings  bear 
A  Turk,  with  beads  in  hand  and  pipe  in   tnouth. 

Extrenielv  taken  w;lh   his  own  religioti, 

Are  what'  I  found  there— but  the  devil  a  Phrygian. 


618 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LXXIX. 

Don  Juan,  here  permitted  to  emerge 

From   his  dull  cabin,  found   himself  a  s^ave  ; 

Forlorn,  and  gazing  on  the  deep-blue   surf;e, 
O'ershadow'd  there   by  many  a  hero's  grave  : 

Weak  still  with  loss  of  blooil,  he  scarce  could  urge 
A   few  brief  questions ;    and   the   answers   gave 

Nn  very  satisfactory  information 

About  his  past  or   present   situation. 

LXXX. 

He  saw  some  fellow-captives,  who  appear'd 
To  be  Italians — as  they  were,  in  fact; 

From  them,  at  least,  their  destiny  he  heard, 

Wliich  was   an   odd   one  ;    a   troop   gomg  to  act 

[n  Sicily — all  singers,  duly  rear'd 

In  their  vocation, — had  not  been   attack'd. 

In  sailing  from   Livorno,  by  the  pirate, 

But  sold  by  the  impresario  at  no  high  rate.^ 

LXXXI. 

By  one   of  these,  the  bufFo  of  the   party, 
Juan  was  told   about  their  curious  case  ; 

For,  although  destined   to  the  Turkish   mart,  tie 
Still  kept   his  spirits   u|)— at  least  his  face  ; 

The   little  fellow  really  look'd  quite   hearty, 
And   h  )re   him  with  some   gaiety  and   grace, 

Showing  a  much   more   reconciled   demeanour 

Than  did  the  jirinia  donna  and   the  tenor. 

LXXXII. 

In   a  few  words  he  told   their   hapless  story, 
Saving,  "  Our   Machiavelian   impresario, 

Makiuir  a   signal   otf  some   promontory, 

Hail'd   a  strange  brig;    Corpo  di  Caio  Mario  ! 

We  were  transferr'd   on   board    her  in   a  hurry, 
Witiiout  a  smgle  scudo   of  salario; 

But,  if  the   sultan  has  a  taste   for  song. 

We  will   revive  our  fortunes   before  long. 

Lxxxni. 

•'  The  prima  donna,  though    a  little   old. 

And  haggard  with   a  dissijiated   life. 
And  subject,  when   '.he   house  is   thin,  to  cold, 

Has  some  good  notes;   and  thei"  the 'tenor's  wife. 
With  no  great  voice,  is   pleasing   to  behold  ; 

Last  carnival  she  made  a  deal   of  strife, 
By  carrying  off  Count  Ciesar  Cicogna, 
From  an  old  Roman  princess  at  Bologna. 

LXXXK. 
"  And  then  there  are  the  dancers  ;   there  's  the  Nini, 

With  more  than  one  profession,  gains  by  all 
Then  there  's  that  laughing  slut,  the  Pellegrini, 

She  too  was  fortunate  last  carnival. 
And  made  at  least  five  hundred   good  zecchini. 

But   spends  so  fast,  she  has  not  now  a   paul  ; 
And   then  there's  the  Grotesca — such   a  dancer ! - 
Where  men  have  souls  or  bodies,  she  must  answer. 

LXXXV. 

"As  fjr  the  fig'iranti,  tli(;y  are  like 

The  rest   of  all  that  tribe  ;   with   here  and  there 
A  pretty  |>erson,  which   perhaps   may  strike. 

The  rest  are  hiirdly  fi!l(>(l  for  a  fair; 
There's  one,  though  tall,  and  stitfer  than  a  pike, 

Yet   has   a  sentimental   kind   of  air, 
Wlfnh  miglit  go  far,  but   she  don't  dance  with  vigour; 
The  more's  the  pity,  with  her  face  and   figure. 

LXXXVI. 

"As  for  the  men,  lln^y  arc;  a  middling  set; 

'I'he   i\lusi(;o  is  1ml  a  crack'd  old  basin, 
Hut,  being  qualified   in   one  way  yet, 

i\lav  the  seraglio  do  to  set  Ins  face  in, 


And  as  a  servant  some  preferment  got  , 

His  singing  I   no  fmther  trust  can  place  u:  : 
From  all  the  pope  *  makes  yearly,  't  would   [)^r[>[iit 
To  find  three  perfect  pipes  of  the  third  srv. 

LXXXVII. 

"  The  tenor's  voice  is  spoilt  by  affectation, 
And   for  the  bass,  the   beast  can  only  bellow  ; 

In  fact,  he   had   no  singing  education, 

An  ignorant,  noteless,  timeless,  tuneless  fellow, 

But   being  the  |)rima  donna's  near  relation, 

\Vliu  swore  his  voice  was  very  rich  and  mellow, 

They  hired  him,  though  to  hear  him  you'd  believe 

An  ass  was   |)raclising  recitative. 

LXXXVIII. 

''  'T  would  not  become   myself  to  dwell  upon 

INiy  own  iiK^rits,  am!  tlioui;!i  young — I  see,  sir — you 
Have  got   a  travell'd   air,  which  shows  you   one 

To  whom  the  opera  is  liy  no  means  new  : 
You  've  heard  of  llaucocanti  ? — I  'm  the  man  ; 

The  time  may  come  when   you   may  hear  me  too 
You  was  not  last  year  at  the  fair  of  J^ugo, 
But  next,  when  I  'm  engaged  to  sing  there — do  go 

LXXXIX. 
"  Our  barvtone  I   almost  had  forgot, 

A  ])retty  lad,  but  bursting  with  conceit ; 
With   graceful  action,  science   not   a  jot, 

A  voice  of  no  great  compass,  and   not  sweet, 
He   always  is  complaining  of  his  lot. 

Forsooth,' scarce  tit  for  ballads   in  the  s'reet; 
In   lovers'   parts,  his  passion   more  to  breathe, 
Havino-  no   heart   to   show,  he  shows   his   teeth." 

XC. 
Here  Raucocanti's  eloquent    recital 

Was  interrupted  by  the  pirate  crew, 
Who  came   at  stated   moments  to   iiivile  all 

The  captives  back  to  their  sad  births;    each  thievv 
A   rueful   glance  upon   the  waves  (which   bright  all, 

From  the   blue  skies  derived   a  double   blue. 
Dancing  all   free  and   happy  in   the  sun). 
And  then  went  down  the  hatchway  one  by  one. 

XCI. 

They  heard,  next  day,  that  in  the   Dardanelles, 
Waiting  for  his    sublimity's  firman — 

The   most   imiierative  of  sovereign  spells, 
Which  every  body  does  without  who  can, — 

More  to  secure  them   in  their   naval  cells. 
Lady  to  lady,  well  as  man  to  man. 

Were  to  be  chained  and  lotted   out   p<'r  cor.ple 

For  the  slave-market  of  Censtantinopie. 

XCII. 

It   seems  when  this  allotment  was  made  out. 

There  chanced,  to  be  an  odd  male  and  odd  fenialo 

Who  (after  some  discussion   and   some  doubt 
If  the  soprano  might    be  dooin'd   to  l)e   male. 

They  placed   him  o'er  the  women   as   a  scout) 
Were  link'd   together,  and    it   hap|>en'(l   the   male 

Was  Joan,  who — an  awkward   thing  at   Ins   age — 

Pair'd  off  with  a   Bacchante's  blooming  visage. 

XCIII. 

With  Raucocanti   lucklessly  was  chain'd 
The  tenor  ;   these  tv.o  hated  with   a   hate 

Found   only  on   the   stage,  and   each   mort;  p..in'J 
With  this  his  tun(;ful   neighbour  than   his   fate; 

Sad   strife   arose,  lor  thcv  v\.mc   so  cross-grain'd, 
Instead   of  bearing    up  without   debate, 

I'hat   each  jiiillM  dilFerenf  ways  with  many  an  oatii, 

•'  Arcades  ambo,"  id  est — blackguards   both. 


DON    JUAN. 


619 


XCIV. 

Tnaii's  companion  was  a    lioniagiiole, 

Bill   bred  w  -hill    tlie    Marcli   of  old  Ancoiui, 

With   eyt's  thai   lookM    into  the  vory  s  )iil, 

{And  other  chief  i)()ints   of  a  "  helhi  donna"), 

Briirhl— and   as   hiack  and  bnrninij   as   a  coal  ; 

And  thi-ou^di  her  clear  brunelie  oonii>le.\ion   shone  a 

IJreat  wish  to   please— a   most    attractive  dower, 

Espeorilly  when  added   to  the   power. 

xcv. 

But    all   that    power  was  wasteci  npon  him, 

For  sorrow  o'er  each   stMise   lield   stern  command  ; 

Iler   eye   miuht  flash   on    his,  Itiit    found    it   dim  ; 
And   thoULdi    thus  chamM,  as    natural    Iter   hand 

Toncird    his,  nor   that— nor   any  handsome  limb 
(And   she   iia.i  some   not   easy  t,,  uithsiand) 

Could    stir   his   |)iilse,  or   makt>   Ins   fiith   fe.d    brittle; 

Perhaps  his  recent  wounds   mi^dtt    lielj"   a  little. 

XCVI. 

No  matter;   we   should   n(-'er  too  much   inqtiire. 
But  facts   are   facts, — no  kniiriii  could  be  more  true, 

And  firmer  faith   no   ladye-lov(;  de-^ire  ; 

We  will   omit   the   proofs,  save  one  or   two. 

'Tis  said    no  one  in   hand   "can   liold   a  tire 
Bv  thought  of  t>o<ty  Caucasus,"  but.  tew 

I   reallv  think  ;    yet   Juan's    then    ordeal 

Was  more  triumphant,  and   not   much  less   real. 

XCVII. 

Here  I  mi^ht    enter  on    a   chaste  description, 
Havinir  wiih.stoiul   temptation   in   mv  youth. 

But  hear   tliat    several  people   take  •  x^cption 
At   the  first   two  books   having   too   much    truth ; 

Therefore  I  '11  make   Don  Juan   leave  the  ship  soon, 
Because  the    publisher  declares,  in   sooth. 

Through  needles'  eyes  it  easier   for  the  camel   is 

To  pass,  than  those  two  cantos  into  families. 

XCVIII. 
'Tis  all   the  same  ic   nut,  I'm  fond  of  yieMing, 

And   therefore  leave  them   to   the    purer   page 
Of  Smollet,  Prior,  Arios'  >,  Fielding, 

W  nc  sav  strange   things  for  so  correct  an  age  ; 
I  once  had   great    alacrity  in  wielding 

My  pen,  and    liked    poetic  war  to  wage, 
And  recollect  the   time  when   all  this   cant 
Would  have   provoked   remarks  whicti   now  it  shan't. 

XCIX. 

As  boys  love  rows,  mv  boyhood   liked    a  squabble; 

But   at   this   hour  I  wish   to   part   in    peace, 
Leaving  such  to  the  literary  rabble. 

Whether  my  verse's  fame  be  doom'd   to  cease 
While  the  riglit   ban  1  which  wrote  it  stiil  is  able, 

Or  of  some  centuries  to   take   a   lease, 
Th.T  i^rass  upon  my  grave  will   grow  as   long. 
And   sigh   to  midnight  wintls,  but    not  to   song. 

C. 

Of  poets,  who  cotne  down   to   us  throui^h  distance 
Of  tiiiK!  and   t./i!inies,  the   f  )ster-babes  of  fame, 

Life  seems  the  smallest   iiortion   of  existence  ; 
Where  twentv  awijs  gather  o'er  a  name, 

T  is   as   a  snowball  which  derives   assistance 
From   every  tUike,  and   yet    ro!!<  nn    the   same. 

Even   till   an   iceberg   it    may  c!i..ii   r   to    grow, — 

But   aftei    all  'lis   notliinii   but  cold   snow. 

CI. 
And  so  great  names  are  noilnng  more  than  nominal, 

And   bve  of  glory 's   l)Ut    an    any  lust, 
1\)0  often  in  its  fury   overcoming  all 

Who  would,  as  't  were,  identify  iheir  dusl 


From   out   the  widi  destrncticn,  which,  entombing  al 

Leaves  nothing  (ill  the  comiiii;  of  the  jnsi— 
Savechaime:  I've  stood  upou  ArhiJIes'  lomn. 
And   heard  Trov  doubted  :    time  will  doubt  oi   Rome 


The  very  generations  of  the  dead 

Are   swept   aw  av,  and   tomb   inherits  toml , 
Fntil   the   memory  of  an  ai;e   is  fled. 

And,  buried,  sinks   l)eneath   its  otrspnng's  doom : 
Where  are   the  epitaphs  our   fathers   read? 

Save  a  few  gh-an'd  l>om  the  sepulchral  gloom, 
Wnich  once-nameil    myriads  nameless  lie  beneath. 
And   lose   their   own   in   universal   death. 

CHI. 
I  canter  bv  the  spot   each   afternoon 

Where   perish 'd   in   his   tiime   the   hero-boy. 
Who    lived   too   lon<.'   for    men,  but    died   too    soon 

For  human  vanity,  the   youtii;   De   Foix  ! 
A  broken   pillar   not    iincouthly  hewn. 

But  which   neo-ject   is   hastcnnii;  to  destroy. 
Records   Ravenna's  carnaire   on   its   face, 
While  weeds  and  ordure  rankle  round  the  base. 

CIV. 

I  i)ass  each  day  where    Dante's  bones  are  lata  ; 

A    little  cupola,  more  neat   than   solemn. 
Protects   his  du<t,  but    revrence    here   is   paid 

To   the   bard's   tomb,  and  not   the  warrior's  column, 
The   time   must   come  when    lioih,  alike  decav'd,^ 
The   chieftain's   trophy  and    the  poet's  vnluine. 
Will   sink  where   lie   the   sonirs   and  wars   of  earth, 
Before   Peiides'    death  or   Homer's    birth. 

CV. 
With  human   bloo  I    that   column  wiis  cemented. 

With   human   filth   that   column   is  defiled. 
As   if  the  peasant's  coarse   contempt  were  vented. 

To  show  his  loathing  of  ihe  spot   iie   spoil'd ; 
Thus  is  the   trophy  used,  and   thus  lamented 

Should  ever  be  those  blood-hounds,  from  whose  wild 
I    Instinct  of  gore  and   glory  earth   has  known 
!    Those  surterings    Dante  saw  in   hell  alone. 
i 

I  CVI. 

I     Yet  there  will  still    be  bards;   though  fame  is  smoke, 
i         Its  fumes  are  frankincense  to   human   thought; 
I    And   the   uiKpiiet   feelings,  which    first  woke 
i         Sona  in  the  world,  will  seek  what  then  they  sought; 
As  on  the  beacli   the  waves   at  last  are   broke. 

Thus  to  their  extreme  verge  the  jjassions  brought 
Dash   into   poetry,  wir.cli   is  hut    passion. 
Or  at  least  was  so  ere  it   grew  a  fashion. 

CVII. 

If  in  the  course  of  such  a  life  as  was 
At   once  adventurous  and  contemplative, 

Men  who  partake  all  passions  as  they  pass, 
Ac(|Uire  the  deep  and  hitter  |)ower  to  give 

Their  images  again,  as  in   a  glass. 

And  in  such  colours  that  they  seem  to  live ; 

You  mav  do  right  forbidd.iui  them  to  show  'em, 

Bui  spoil   (I  think)   a  very  pretty  poem. 

CVIII. 

Oh  !    ye,  who  make  .  the  fortunes  of  all  books  ' 
Benign  cernleans  of  the  second   sex  ! 

Who  advertise  new  poems  V)y  your  looks. 
Your  "imprimatur"   will  ye  not   annex/ — 

What,  must   I   go  to  the  oblivious  cook--,— 

Those  Cornish   plimd'rers   of  Parnass.an  wrecks? 

Ah!   must  I  then  the  only  minstrel   be 

Proscribed  fiom  tastmg  ^our  Castalian  lea/ 


620 


BYRON'S    POETICaL    WORKS. 


CIX. 

What  car.  I  prove  "a  lion"  then  no  more? 

A  ball-room  bard,  a  foolscap,  hot-press  darling, 
To  ht-ur  the  complhueuts  of  many  a  bore, 

And  Pi<;li  '•  1  can't  get  out,"  like  Yorick's  starling. 
Why  then  I'll  swear,  as  poet  Wordy  swore 

(Because  the  world  won't  read  him,  always  snarling), 
TJiat  taste  is  go:)e,  that  fame  is  but  a  lottery, 
Drawn  by  the  biue-coat  misses  of  a  coterie. 

ex. 

Oh.  '-darkly,  deepiy.  beautifully  blue," 

As  some  one  somewhere  sin<?s  about  the  sky, 

And  I,  ye  learned  ladies,  say  of  you; 
They  say  your  stockinjis  are  so  (Heaven  knows  why, 

I  have  examiiud  few  pair  of  that  hue); 
Blui-  as  the  garters  wliich  serenely  lie 

Hound  the  patrician  left-legs,  which  adorn 

The  festal  midniiiht  and  the  levee  morn. 

CXI. 

Vet  some  of  you  are  most  sera]thio  creatures — 
But  rimes  are  alter'd  since,  a  rhyming  lover, 

Von  r.'ad  my  stanzas,  and  I  read  your  features: 
And — but  no  matter,  all  those  things  are  over; 

Still  I  hav(>  no  dislike  to  learned  natures. 

For  sometimes  such  a  world  of  virtues  cover; 

I  know  one  woman  of  that  purple  school, 

The  loveliest,  chastest,  best,  ))ut — quite  a  fool. 

cxn. 

Humboldt,  "the  first  of  travellers."  but  not 

The  last,  if  late  accounts  be  accurate, 
Invented,  by  some  name  I  have  for;iOt, 

As  Well  as  the  sublime  diseovei-y's  date. 
An  airy  instrument,  with  which  he  sought 

To  ascertain  the  atmospheric  state, 
By  measuring  "the  iiUcjisiti/  "fhlue:" 
Oh,  Lady  Daphne  1   let  me  measure  you  I 

CXTTI. 
But  to  the  narrative. — The  vessel  bound 

With  slaves  to  sell  off  in  the  capital. 
After  the  usual  proc(\-;s,  might  be  found 

At  anchor  under  the  seraglio  wall ; 
Her  cargo,  from  tin;  plague  being  safe  and  sound, 

Were  landed  in  ihe  market,  one  and  all. 
And  there,  with  (Jeorgians,  Ilussians,  and  Circassians, 
Bought  up  f(ir  diO'ereiit  pur{)Oses  and  passions. 

OX  IV. 

Some  went  olf  dearly:  fifteen  hundred  dollars    t\ 
for  on(!  Circassian,  a  swei^t  girl,  were  given,    ^ 

Warranted  virgin;  beauty's  brightest  colours      ft 
Had  deckd  her  out  in  all  the  hues  of  heaven:   f) 

Her  sale  sent  home  some  di<,appointed  bawlin-s,       rt 
Who  bade  on  till  the  hundreds  reach'd  eleven;    *^ 

Cut  when  the  oiler  went  beyond,  they  knew  C 

Twa-  for  the  sultan,  and  at  once  witiidrew.  (_^ 

CXV. 
Twelve  negresses  from  Nul)ia  brought  a  price 

AVhich  the  West-Indian  uiarket  .^c;,ice  would  bring; 
Theu:'.b  Wilberforce,  at  hist,  has  made  it  twice 

Whrtl    I  was  ere  ali'dition;  and  the  thing 


Need  not  set'm  very  wonderful,  for  rice 

Is  always  much  mon^  splendid  than  a  king 
The  virtues,  vvou  the  nu)st  exalted,  charity. 
Are  saving — vice  spares  uotlaing  for  a  rarity. 

CXVI. 

But  for  the  destiny  of  this  young  troop,  >^ 
IIow  some  were  bought  by  pachas,  some  by  Jews,  \ 

How  some  to  burdens  were  obliged  to  stoop,     ) 
And  others  rose  to  the  commaud  of  crew^s 

As  renegadoes  ;  while  in  hapless  group. 
Hoping  no  very  old  vizier  might  choose, 

The  females  stood,  as  one  by  one  they  picked  'em, 

To  make  a  mistress,  or  fourth  wife,  or  victim. 

CXYII. 
All  this  must  be  reserved  for  further  song; 

Also  our  hero's  lot,  howe'er  unpleasant, 
(Because  this  canto  has  become  too  long), 

Must  be  postponed  discreetly  for  the  present ; 
I'm  sensible  redundancy  is  wrong. 

But  could  not  for  the  muse  of  me  put  less  in  't: 
And  now  delay  the  i)rogress  of  Don  Juan, 
Till  what  is  call'd  in  Ossian  the  fifth  Duan. 


CANTO  Y. 


When  amatory  poets  sing  their  loves 

In  liquid  lines  mellifluously  bland, 
And  praise  their  rhymes  as  Venus  yokes  her  Jovo8» 

They  little  think  what  mischief  is  in  hand ; 
The  greater  their  success  the  worse  it  proves. 

As  Ovid's  verse  may  make  you  understand; 
Even  Petrarch's  self,  if  judged  with  due  severity, 
Is  the  Platonic  pimp  of  all  posterity. 

II. 

I  therefore  do  denounce  all  amorous  writing, 
E.xcept  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  attract; 

Plain — simple — short,  and  by  no  means  inviting, 
But  with  a  moral  to  each  error  tacked, 

Form'd  rather  for  instructing  than  delighting. 
And  with  all  passions  in  their. turn  attatik'd; 

Now,  if  my  Pegasus  should  not  be  shod  ill, 

This  poem  will  become  a  moral  model. 

III. 
The  European  with  the  Asian  shors 

Sprinkled  with  palaces  :  the  ocean  stream,* 
Here  and  there  studded  with  a  seventy-Jour; 

Sophia's  cupola  with  golden  gleam; 
The  cyjiress  groves;  Olympus  high  and  hoar, 

The  twelve  isles,  and  the  more  than  I  could  dreaiu 
Far  less  describe,  present  the  very  view 
Which  charm'd  the  charming  Mary  Montagu. 


DON    JUAN. 


021 


'.^:  of  fairy, 
<   to   be  ; 
last    to  vary, 
am  not  (luilo  free: 
now  cold, 
.1,1. 


IV. 

r  have  a   pas  aoii   for  the   iiaiuc-  of  "  .M; 

Foi    once   il  was   a    inaiiii;    smiinl  to   iii 
And  still  il    half  culls  up   the   re;-.!. 

Wlu-re   I    lirhcKl  wluit    never  ua 
Al!   feelinas   elian^j.Ml,  i.ut    this  was 

A  spell  from  which  ev(;n  ,«  t  I 
But  1  gn  X  vid— and  let  a  "tale 
•Vhich  must    not    be   pathetically  I 

V. 
The  wind  swept    down   the   Eiixiiie  and   the  wave 

liroke   foamiiii;  o'er   the   blue  Svmpleizades, 
'Tis  a  grand  sii;ht,  from  oil"  "  the  Giant's  Grave,"'- 

To  watch   trie    progress   of  those    rolling  seas 
Between   the    Bospltorus,  as    they  lash    and   lave 

Europe   and   Asia,  you  being  (piite  at   ease; 
I'here 's   not  a  sea  the  passenger   e'er  pukes   in 
Turns   U[)   more  dauiierous  breakers  than  the  Ku.viiK!. 

VI. 

'T  was   a  raw  da\  of  Aiitumn's  l)!e;ik  hegitining, 
When  nights   are  equal,   but  not   so  the  days; 

The  Parcii'  then  cut  short   the  further  spimiing 
Of  seamen's  f.ites,  and   the   loud   tempests   raise 

The  waters,  and  reiientance  for  past   snming 

In   all  who  o'er  the   great  deep  take   their  ways : 

They  vow  to  amend  their  lives,  and   yet    they  tlon't : 

Because  if  drown'd,  they  can't — if  spared,  they  won't, 

VII. 

A  crowd  of  shivering  slaves  of  everv  s'ation, 
And  age,  and   sex,  were  in  the  market  ranged  ; 

Each  bevy  with   the   merchant  in   his  station  : 

Poor  creatures  !  their  good  looks  were  sadly  ehanired 

AU   save  the   blacks   seeni'd  jaded  wiih  vexation. 
From  friends,  and  home,  and  freedom  far  estrasiiTed  ; 

The  negroes   more   philosophy  display'd, — 

Used  to  it,  no  doubt,  as   eels   are   to   be   tiay'L 

VIII. 

Juan  was  iuvenile,  and  thus  was  full. 

As   most  at  his  age  are,  of  hope,  and  health  ; 

Vet  I   must  own   he   look'd   a  little  dull. 

And  now  and  then   a  tear  stole  down  by  stealth, 

Perhaps  his  rec(mt  loss   of  blood   might   |)ull 
His  spirit  down  ;   and   then   the  lt)ss  of  wealth, 

A   mistress,  and  such   comfortable  quarters, 

To  be  put  up  for  auction  amongst  Tartars, 

IX. 

^Vero  things   to  shake  a  stoic  ;   ne'ertheless, 
Upon   the  whole   his  carriage  was   serene : 

His   figure,  and   the   splcnilr^nr  of  his    dress. 

Of  winch    some    gilded   renman'ts   still  were  seen, 

Mrcw  all   eyes  on   him,  i^iviiia  them   to   guess 
He  was  aln)ve  the  vulj^ar  by  his   mien  ; 

Ami   then,  though   pale,  he  was  so  very  handsome ; 

And   then — they  calculated   on   his   ransom. 

X 

Like  a  back^aninion-board  the  place  was  dotted 

With  whites  and  blacks,  in  tjroups  on  show  for  sale. 

Though   rather   more    irrcijuliiriv  spottcnl : 

Some   bought   the  jet,  while   others  chose  the  pale. 

It  (  hanced,  annnsst   the  oilv<r   people   lotted, 
A   man   of  thirtV,  ratlici    sto-.i!   and    h;de. 

With   resf>lution   in   his  d  irk-^rav  eve. 

Next   .I'lan    stood,  till   some    rnij^ht    choose   to   buy. 

XI. 

He  liad   an   Eni^hsh   look  ;    that   is,  was   sijuare 
In  make,  of  a   complexion  'Ahite   and   rutldy, 

(lood   *e('th,  with    cuiTiiii;    raiher   dark-brown    hair, 
Anj,  it    migijl    be   from    'houirnf,   >r   toil,  ir   study, 


:it! 


re  . 

■ather   blr;oily  ; 
n::-f,ii/l,  that  greaioi 
■  a   mere   spectator 


An  open  brow  a  little   niark'd 

One  arm  bad  on   a  baiidair( 

And  there  he  stood  with  such 

Could   scarce  be  shown   even 

XII. 

But  seeing  at  his  elbow  a  mere  lad, 

Of  a  high  spirit  evidently,  though 
At    present  weigh'd   down   by  a  doom  which   had 

O'erthrown  even   men,  he   soon    bciian   to  show 
A   kind  of  blunt  coni|.assion  for  the  sad 

Lot   of  so  young    a    partner   in   the   noe, 
Which  for  himself  he  seem'd    to  deem  no  worsr* 
Than  any  other  scrape,  a  thing  of  course. 

xni. 

"  My  bny  !" — said  he,  "amidst  this  motley  crew 
Of  Georgians,  Russians,  Nubians,  and  what  not 

All   ragamuffins  differing   but   in   hue. 

With   wh<im  it   is  our  luck   to  cast  our  lot^ 

The  only  gentlemen  seem   I  and  you. 
So   let  us  be  ac(]uainted,  as  we  ought: 

If  I   could   vield   you  any  consolation, 

'T  would  five  me  pleasure. — Pray,  what  is  your  nation?' 

XIV. 

SVhen  Juan   answer'd   "Spanish!"  be  replied, 
"  I  thougb.t,  in  fact,  yoti   could   not    be   a  Greek  ; 

Those   servile  dogs   are  liot   so  proudly  e}  ed  : 
Fortune  has   play'd  you   here   a   pretty  freak, 

But   that's    her  way  with  all   men   till   they're   tried: 
But  never  mind, — she  '11  turn,  perhaps,  next  week  ; 

She    has   sorvet!  me   also   much  the   same  as  you. 

Except   that   I    have   found   it   nnthiiii,'  new." 

XV. 

"  Prav,  sir,"   said  Juan,   "  if  I  may  presunie, 

IVka/  brought  you  here?" — "Oh!  nothingvery  rare- 
Six  Tartars  and  a  drag-chain "—"To    his  doom 

Bv  what   conducted,  if  the  question's  fair, 
Is   tliat  which  I  would    learn."— "I    served    for   some 

jMonlhs  with  the  Russian   army  here   and   there. 
And  taking  lately,  by  Suwarrow's  bidding, 
A  town,  was  ta'en  myself  inst 


of  Widm. 


,bv  God's  blessing 
1  lately.      Now 
without   pressing, 
show." — 
iistressing, 
really  so, 
d   vour  tongue 


XVI. 

"Il^veyounofriends?"— "Ihad— but 

Have  not  been  troubled  with  ihei 
I   have  answer'd  all  your  questions 

And  you  an  equal  courtesy  si.oul 
"Alas!"   said  Juan,  "'twere  a  tale 

And  long  besides."—"  Oh  !  tf  't 
You're  right  on  both  accounts  lo  h 
A  sad  tale  saddens  doubly  when  't  is  long. 

XVII. 

"  But  droop  not :    Fortune,  at    your  time  of  life. 
Although   a   female   moderately  tickle, 

Will  hardly  leave  yo«   (as  s!ic 's   not  your  wife) 
For  any  length   of  days  in   such   a  pickle. 

To  strive   too  with   our  late  were   such   a  strife 
As   if  the   corn-sheaf  should  o[)pose   the  sickle 

iMeii   are  the   sport   of  circumslaiH  es,  wlien 

The   circumstances  seem  the  sport   of  men." 

XVIII. 

"'Tis  not,"  said  Juan,  "for  my  pr( 

I  mourn,  but  for  the.  past  ; — I  lo\ 
FIc  paused,  and  his  dark  eye  grew  fu 

A  single  tear  upon  his  eyelash  si 
A  moment,  and   then  .Iropp'd  ;   "  but 

'T  is  not  my  present  lot,  as  I  ha\ 
Which  I  lieplore  so  much  ;  for  I  h 
Hardsbii»s  which  have  the  hardiest 


■sent  doom 
■ed   a  maid  : 

!!   of   irlooill  , 
■aid 
to  r(;suine, 

ave  borne 
oveiworiu 


622 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XIX. 

"  On  the  rongli  deep.     But  this  last  blow — "  and  here 
He  stoppM  again,  and   turnM   away  his  flice. 

"  Ay,"  quoth  his  ll-iend,  "  I   thought  it  would   appear 
Tliat  there  hn'J   been   a  lady  m   the  case  ; 

And  these   are  things  which  ask   a  tender  teai 
Such  as   I  too  would   slicd,  if  in  your  [ilace  : 

1  cried  upon  my  first  wife's   dying  day, 

Antl   also  when  my  second  ran   away : 

XX. 

" My  third"— "Your  third !"  (juoth  .Juan,  turning  round  j 
"You  scarcely  can  be  thirty:   have  you  three?" 

"No — only  two  at  present  above  ground: 
Surely 'tis  nothing  wonderful  to  see 

One   perscMi  thrice  in  holy  wcillock  boinid  !" 

"Well,  then,  your  third,"  said  Juan;  "what  did  she? 

She   did   not    run  away,  t.io,  did   she,  sir  ?" 

"No.  faith." — "  What  thoii/"'— "I  ran  away  from  her." 

XXI. 

"  You  take  tilings  coolly,  sir,"  said  Juan.     "  Wny," 
Replied  the  other,   "what  can   a  man   do? 

Thc'-e  still   are  many  rambows  in  your  sky, 

liut   umu:  have  viinishM.     All,  wb.en   life  is  new, 

Conmience  witli  feelings  warm   and  rirospects   liigh ; 
But   time  strios  our  illusions  of  their  hue, 

And  one  hv    >n(;  m   turn,  some  grand  mistake 

(/asts  olF  Its  bright   skin  y^urly,  like  the  snake. 

XXII. 

" 'T  is  true,  it   gets   anolheM-   bright   and   fresh, 

Or  fresher,  briiililer  ;    but,  the  year  wjue  through. 
This  skill   must   go  the  way  too  of  all   desh, 

Or  sometimes  onlv  wear  a  week  or  two  ;  — 
love's  the   first   net  which  sfireads  its  deadly  mesh  ; 

Ambition,  avarice,  vengeance,  glory,  glue 
i\he   i,nitteriiiir  Imie-twicrs  of  our  latter  days, 
Whe:>.  sail  y-n   tiuit(;r  on   fir  pence  or  praise." 
XXIII. 
A!!   this   is  ver\  fine,  and   may  be  true," 
Said  Juiiii  ;    "  but    1   really  don'*   see  how 
[t   betters   present   times  with   me  or  you." 

"No!"  (pioih   the  other;    "yet   you  will   allow, 
6v  --ettiiig  thiiiiTs   in   their  ri:rht   point  of  view, 

[Cnuw  ledge,  Kt    least,  is  gain'd  ;    for  instance,  now, 
We   know  what    slavery  is,  jind  our  disasters 
Miy  teach   us   better  to   behave  when   masters." 

XXIY. 
"  Would  we  were  masters  now,  if  hut  to  try 

Their  present   lessons  on  our  pagan  friends  liere," 
S  lid  Ju:ui — swallowiiiiT  a  lieari-buri.ing  sigh  : 

"  Heav'ii  hel[)  the   scholar  w  horn   his  fortune  sends 
here  V 
^'  Perhaps  we  shall   be  one  <lay,  by  nnd   by," 

Ucjoin'd  the  oth<>r,  "  wlien  our  bad  luck  mends  here, 
INleantiiiie  (you  old  black  eunuch  seems  to  eye  us) 
(    wish   to  G-d   that  somebody  wou'd   buy  us  1 

XXV. 
^  But  after  all,  what  is  our  present  state  ? 

'T  is   had,  and   maybe   betl«;r — all    men's  lot: 
Most  men  are  shives,  hoik;   ir.ore   so  than   the  great. 
To  their  own  whims  and   passions,  and  what  not, 
S  ^ciety  Itself,  whi<  !i   .s-iouM   create 

Kindness,  destroys  what  little  we   had   got: 
I'o  fe<;l  for  none  is  the  true  social  art 
Vf  the  world's  stoics — men  without  a  lieart." 

XXVI. 
list    now  a  black   old   neutral    personagi; 

Of  the   liiird    sex    stepp'd    up,  and    peering   over 
Pe   captives,  seem'd   to  niiuk   iheir  lo<,ks,  an<!  age, 
\r.d   canab-ililiis,  ;;s    I'     d  scovcr 


If  they  were  fitted  for  the  purjiosed  cage 

No  lady  e'er  is  ogled   ijy  a  lover, " 
Horse   by  a  blackleg,  broadcloth   by  a  tailor.^ 
Fee   by  a  counsel,  felon   by  a  jailor, 

XXVII. 
As  is  a  slave  by  liis  intended  bidder. 

'T  is  pleasant   purchasing  our  fellow-creatures; 
And  all  are  to   be  sold,  if  you   consider 

Their  passions,  and  arc  dext'rous  ;  some  by  fealuie 
Are   bought   up,  others  by  a  warlike  leader. 

Some   by  a  place — as  tend  their  years  or  natureh 
The  most  by  ready  cash — but  all   have   prices. 
From  crowns  to  kicks,  according  to  their  vices. 

XXVIII. 

The  eunuch  liaving  eyed  them  o'er  with  care, 
Turn'.i  to  the  merchant,  and  began  to  bid 

First  but   for  one,  and  after  for  the   pair  ; 

They  haggled,  wrangled,  swore,  too — so  they  did  ! 

As  though  th(.'y  were  in  a  mere   Christian  fair, 
Cheapening  an  ox,  an  ass,  a  lamb,  or  kid; 

So  that  their  bargain  sounded  like  a  battle 

For  this  sujierior  yoke  of  human  cattle. 

XXIX. 

At  last  they  settled  into  simple  grumbling. 
And   pulling  out   reluctant   purses,  and 

Turning  each    [)iece  of  silver  o'er,  and  tumbling  . 
Some  down,  and  weighing  others  in  their  hand, 

Avd  bv  mistake  secpuns  with    laras  jumbling. 
Until   the   sum  was   accurately  scann'd, 

And   then  the   merchant,  giving  change   and  signing 

Receipts  in  full,  began   to  think   of  dining. 

XXX. 

I  wonder  if  his  appetite  was   good ; 

Or,  if  it  were,  if  aho   his  dii^esticm. 
Methinks  at  meals  some  odd  thoughts  might  inti-udo, 

And  conscience  ask  a  curious  sort  of  (piestioi., 
About    the  right  divine   how  far  we  should 

Sell  flesh  and  blood.    When  dinner  has  oppress'd  one-. 
I  think   it  is   perhajis  the   gloomiest  hour 
Which  turns   up   out   of  the   sad  twenty-four. 

XXXI. 

V^oltaire  savs  "No;"  he  tells  you  that  Candide 
Found  life  most  tolerable   after   meals  ; 

He  's  wrong— unless   man   was   a  pig,  indeed. 
Repletion   rather  adds   to  what   he  feels  ; 

Unless   he's   drunk,   and   then   no   doubt  he's  freed 
From   his   own   brain's  oppression   while   it  reels. 

Of  food   I   think   with   Philip's   son,   or  rather 

Amnion's    (.ill  pleased  with  one  world  and  one  father) 

XXXII. 

I   think  with  Alexander,  that    the   act 

Of  eating,  with  another  act  or  two, 
iNIakes  us  feel  our  mortality  in  fact 

R('douhled  ;   when  a  roast  and  a  ragout. 
And   fish  and   soup,  by  some  side  dishes  back'i, 

Can  give  us  either  pain  cr   pleasure,  who 
.Would  pique  himselt  on  intellects,  ^vhose  use 
Depen(ts  so  much  upon  the  gastric  juice? 

XXXIII. 

The  other  evenins;  ('twas  on  Friday  lasO.— 
'I'liis  is  a  fact,  and   no  poetic  fable — 

Just    as  my  great  coat  was   about  me  cast, 
Mv  hat   and   jji'ives  still   lying  on  the  table. 

I   lieard   a  shot — 'twas  eight   o'<dock   scarce;   past— 
And   runninii  out   as  fast   as   1  was  able,' 

I    found   the   militaiy  commandant 

Strel  h'd   m   the  street,  and   able  scarce   to  pant. 


DON    JUAN. 


623 


XXXIV. 

Pti  »i   kV:  >w !   for  some  reason,  surely  bad, 

Thfcy  hud  slain  him  with  hvo  shigs  ;  aixl  U;ft  him  there 
To  perish   on   the   pavement :    so  I   had 

llim  home   into  the   house   and   up   the  stair, 
And   stripp'd,  and  lookM   to lint  why  sl^ould  I  ad'd 

More  cirenmstanees  ?  vain  was  every  care  ; 
Th(!  man  was  2^me  :  in  some  Italian  ([I'.arrel 
Kill'd   by  tive   bullets   from   an   old    guu-b;urel.* 

XXXV. 
I  jrazed   upon  him,  for  I   knew  liim  we!!  ; 

And,  thougli  I   have  seen  iiKUiy  eorps<,'s,  never 
Saw  one,  uhom  sueh  an   aceident   h(  fell, 

So   calm;    ihou;^h   pierced  through   stomach,  lieari, 
and   liver, 
He   seemM  to  sleep,  for  you  could  scarcely  tell 

(As   he  bltul  inwardly,  no  hideOus  river 
Of  gore   divulu'cd  tlie   cause)   that   he  was  dead:  — 
So   as  I   sa/.ed  on   him,  1   lhoui;ht  or  said — 

XXXVI. 
"Can   this  be  death?   then  what  is  life  or  death? 

Speak  !"  l)ut  he  spoke  not ;  "wake  !"  but  still  he  slept: 
But   yesterday,  and  who  had   mightier  breath? 

A  thousand  warriors  by  his  word  were  kept 
In   awe:    he  said,  as  the  centurion   saith, 

'Go,' and   lie   noeth ;   'conie,'and   fort!   he  stepp'd. 
TIk;  trurup  and   bugle  till   he   spake  were   dumb— 
And   now  nought  left  him  but   the   mut'led  drum." 

XXXVII. 
And   thev  who  waited    once   and  worshipp'd — they 

With   their  rou-jh   faces  thronirM   about  the   bed, 
Tm  iraze  once  more  on   the   comnianding  clay 

Wliieh  for  the  last  though  not  the  first  time  bled  ; 
And   sucn  an   end  !   that  he  who   many  a  day 

Hi.d   ficed  Xaiioleon's  f^K;s  untd  they  Hed,— 
71ie  f,feinost  in  the   cliarije  or   in  the   sally 
Should  now  be  'n'tchei-'d  in   a  civic   alley. 

XXXVIII. 

The  scars  of  his  old  wounds  were  near   his   new. 

Those  honourable  scars  which  brouglit  him  fame; 
xAiid   horri;!  was   the   contrast   to  th.e  view — 

But  let  me  (juit  the  theme,  as  such  things  claim 
Perhajis   even   more   attention   tlian   is  due 

From   me  ;  I   sazed    (as  oft  1  iiave  gnz-d  the  same) 
To  try  4f  I   could  wrench   aunht   out  of  death. 
Which  should  confirm,  or  shake,  or  make   a   faith  ; 

XXXIX. 
But  it  was   f'a   a  mystery.      Here  we  are. 

And  there  we  2'): — but  ichn-f;?  five  bits  of  lead. 
Or  tlu-ce,  or  two,  or  cue,  send  very  fir! 

And  is  this  Idood,  then,  form'd  but  to  be  shed? 
Can   ev(/rv  element   our  e'lcments  mar? 

An. I  air — earth — water — fire  live — and  we  dead? 
JV(,  whose  minds  comprehend  all  things  ?  No  more 
But  let  us   to  the  story  as  before. 

XL. 
The    [jurchaser  of  Juan  and   acquaintance 

Bore  olf  his  bargains  to  a  gilded   boat, 
Embark'd  himself  and  tliem,  and  off  they  went  thence 

As  llist  as  oars  could  j)ull  and  water  float ; 
rhev  look'd   like  persons  lieing   led  to  sentence, 

Wondering;  what  next,  till  the  caique  was  brought 
Uii   in  a   little   creek   below  a  wall 
O'ertop;)'d  wil  i  cvpresses  dark-green   and  tall. 

XLI. 
Here  their  conductor  tapping  at  the  wicket 

Of  a  small  iron  door,  't  was  open'd,  and 
He  led   them   onward,  first   thnuigh  a  low  thK-kcit 

Flanli'd  by  large  groves  whicli  IovvltM  on  eilh<  r  hand; 


Thev  ilmost  lost   their  way,  and   had   to  pick  it— 

For   mght  was  closing  ere   they  cune   to   land. 
The  eunuch   made  a  sign   to   those    i^i   board, 
Who  row'd   otf,  'caving  them  without  a  word. 

XLII. 
As  thev  were  plodding  on   their  winding  way, 

Through  orange   bowery  and  jasmnie,  and  so  forth 
(Of  winch    I    might   have  a  good    U(;al   to  say. 

There  being  no  such  proilision  in  llie  North 
Of  oruntal    plants,   "  et  ca!tera," 

But  that  of  late  your  scribblers  think  it  worth 
Their  while  to  rear  whnle  hotbeds  m  </(,';i/-  woikt., 
Because  one  [)oel  IravellM  'inongst   the  Turks)^ 

XLIII. 

As  they  were  threaomg  on  their  way,  there  came 

Into   Don  Juan's  head  a  thought,  which   he 
Wliisper'd   to   his  companion  : — 't  was  the   same 

Which   might    have  then  occurr'd   to  you  or  me. 
«*  Methinks," — said  he — "  it  would  be  no  great  shame 

If  we  should  strike  a  stroke  to  set  us  free  ; 
Let  's  knock  that  old  black  fellow  on  the  head. 
And  march  away — 't  were  easier  done  than   said." 

XLIV. 
"Yes,"  .-<aid  the  other,  "and  when  done,  what  then? 

How  sft  out?    how  the  devil   got  we  in? 
And  when  we  once  w(;re  fairly  out,  and  \\hen 

Fro?r.  Saint  Bartholomew  we  have  saved  our  skin, 
T(>-!nurrow 'd  see  us  in  some  othc- den, 

And  worse  olT  than  we   hitherto  have   been  ; 
Besides,  I  'm  hungry,  and  just  nov>-  would  tako, 
r/ike   pjsau,  for  mv  birthright,  a  beef-steak. 

XLV. 
"  Vv''e   must   be   near   some   place  of  man's   ahoi'o  5 

For   the   old    negro's    confidence    in  cre<n>in2, 
With   his  two  captives,  by  so  queer  a  road, 

Siiows  tluit  he  thinks  his  friends  have  not  been  slttping 
A   sini:le  r-ry  w^ould   bring  them  all  abro.id  : 

'Tis   therefore  better  looking  biTore  leaping — 
And  thcr;',  you   see,  this  turn   has  brought  us  thtough. 
By  Jove,  a  noble  palace  !— lighted  too." 

XL  VI. 

It   was  ir>deed  a  wide   extensive  building 

Which  open'd  on   their  view,  and   o'er  the  fron' 

There  seem'd   to  lie   !)esprent  a  deal  of  gilding 
And    v-iriMiis   hues,  as   is  the  Turkish  wont, — 

A    rraudv  taste;    for   th.ey  are  little   skill'd   in 

'I'lie   .'uis  of  wliich  these  lands  were  once  the  fort; 

E-,i-h  v/'a   on   the  Bosphorus  looks  a  screen 

New  pi'.iired,  or  a   pretty  opera-scene. 

XLVII.       • 

Aiiii   n-  irer  as   they  came,  a   genial   savour 

Of  c(  riain  stews,  and  roaot-meats,  and  pilaus. 
Tilings  winch   in   hungry  mortals'   eyes  find   favour, 

?»lad(>  Jiian   in   his   harsh  intentions   pause. 
And   put   hinself  upon   his   good   b(diaviour  ; 

Flis  fiend,  too,  adding  a  new  saving  clause, 
.Said,   "  In  ilcaven's  name  let's  get  some  su[)per  nov 

And   :hen   I 'en  with  you,  if  you 're   for    i   row.~ 

XLVIIL 

Some   trilk  of  an  appeal  unto  some  passion. 
Some  to   men's  feelings,  others  to  their  reastr. , 

The  la-^f   of  these  was   never  much   the  fashion, 
For  reason  thinks   all  reasoning  out  of  season. 

Slime  speakers  whine,  and   others   lay  tlie    lash  on. 
Hut   more  or  less  continue   still   to   tea3e  on 

With  arguments  according   to  their,"  forte  ;* 

Rut   no  one  ever   dreams  of  bein"   rhrrt. 


524 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 


XLIX. 

Bu    I  digress :    of  all   a[)peals, — although 
I  jjrant  tlie   power  of  pathos,  and  of  gold, 

Of  beauty,  flattery,  threats,  a  shilling, — no 

jMelhod  's   more   sure   at   nionviils  to  take   hold 

Of  the  best   fpiiliniis  of  iiiaMkituI,  which   grow 
."Mure  tender,  ds  we   evyry  day  behold, 

Th;ui   that    al!->!)fte(iiiig,  u'trpowfiriii'.'    kncU, 

The   tocsin   of  the    soul — the  diiiner-beH. 

L. 

Tirkev  contains   iin   bel's,  ami  yet  men   dine  : 
And  Juan   and   his  friend,  albeit    they  heard 

No  Christian   knoll  to   tal)le,  saw  no   line 
Of  lac(jMeys  usher  to   the  feast   prepared, 

Vet   smell   roast-moat,  beheld   a  hii^ie  tire  shine. 
And  cooks   in   motion  with  their  clean  arms  bnrea, 

And   gazed   around  them   to  the  left   and   righ* 

With   the   prophetic   eye   of  appetite. 

LI. 

And  giving  up  all   notions   of  resistance. 

They  f  )liow'd  close   behind   their  sable    guide, 

\Y!i.i  liule    thongbt  that    his   own   crack'd   existence 
Was    on  tlie   point   of  beuig   set   aside  : 

He   motionM   'hem   to  stop  at   some   small  distance. 
And  knocking  at  the   ga'e,  'l  was  open'd  wide, 

And   a  magnificent   large   hall   display'd 

The  Asian   pomp   of  Ottoman   parade. 

Lll. 

I  won't  describe;    description   is   my  forte, 
liul  everv  fool  describes  m  these  bright  days 

His  wond'rous  journey  to  some   foreign   court, 

And  spawns  his  quarto,  and  demands  your  praise- 
Death   to  his   publisher,   to   him   'tis   sport; 
While  nature,  tortured   twenty  thousand  ways, 

Resigns  herself  with   exem[»lary  patience 

To  guide-books,  rhvnies,  tours,  sketche-^,  illustrations. 

LIII. 

Along  this  hall,  and  up   and   down,  soiue,  squatted 
Upon  their  hams,   were  occupied  at   chess  ; 

Others  in   monosyllable   talk   chatted, 

And  some  seiMii'd  much  in  love  with  their  own  dress," 

And   divers   smoked   superb   pipes  decorated 
W'ith  amber   mouths  of  greater   price   or  less  ; 

And  several   strutted,  others   slept,  and   some 

Prepared  for  supper  with   a  glass  of  runi.^ 

LIV. 

As  the  black  eunuch   enter'd  with   liis   brace 

Of  purchased   iniidels,  some  raised  their  eyes 
A   mornctit  witliout  slackening   from   their   pace  ; 

Hut  those  who  sate   ne'er   stirr'd   in   anywise: 
One  or  two   stared   the  captives   in  the   fice. 

Just  as  one  views  a  hors-e  to  guess  his  price  ; 
Some  nodded  to  the   negro  from  their  station, 
But  no  one  troubled  him  with  conversation. 

LV. 
He  leads  them  through  the  hall,  and,  without  stopping 

On   throiijli    a   farther   range  of  goodly  rooms, 
plendid    but   silent,  'ave    in   o//r,  where,  dropping,^ 

A    marble    foiintam    eeho(;s   ihroiigli    the    glooms 
or  niglit,  which   rol.e    th<;   (diainber,  or  where   popping 


Some  female  head  most  cu 
To  thrust  its  black  eyes  thn 
\s  wondering  what    the  devil 

LVI. 


isU 


.Some   fii 

It   lamps   gleaming 

Gave 

ight   enough    to   hii 

Hut   not 

■noiiiib    to  show   tl 

In   all 

•he  llasbing  of  the 

tlu 

dour  or  lattice 

i    t 

lat    .'^. 

the 

lofty  walls 

r    f; 

.-tber  way, 

■ri; 

1    halls 

arr 

IV  ; 

Perhaps  there  's   nothing — I '!!   nor   sav  appall, 

Hut  saddens   more  by  night    as   \e!l  as  day, 
Than  an   enormous   room  without   a   soul 
To   break  the   lifeless   S|)lendour  of  the  wholfe» 

LVTI. 
Two  or   three   seem  so  little,  one  seems  nothing 

In  deserts,  forests,  crowds,  or  by  the  shore, 
There  solitude,  we   know,   has  her  full  growth   iii 

The  spots  which  were   her  realms  f)r  evermcrt; 
But  in   a  mighty  hall   or  gallerv,  both   in 

More   modern    buildings   and   those   built   of  vom.. 
A  kind  of  death  comes  o'er  us   ail   alone. 
Seeing  what 's  meant  for  many  vvith   but  one. 

LVIII. 

A   neat,  snug  study  on  a  winter's  night, 
A  book,  friend,  single  lady,  or  a  glass 

Of  claret,  sandwich,  and  an  appetite. 

Are  things  which   make  an   English  evening  pass 

Though   certcs  by  no  means  so  grand    a   siglit 
As   is   a  theatre   lit   ut)   by   gas. 

I  pass  my  evenings  in   long   galleries   solelv. 

And    that's  the   reason  I'm   so  nielancholy. 

LIX. 

Alas  !   man  makes  that  great  v,lii(di  rn;ikes  him  little; 

I  grant  you   in   a  church   't  is  very  well  : 
What  speaks  of  Heaven  should  by  no  means  be  brittle 

But  strong   and  lasting,  till  no  tongue  can  tell 
Their  names  who  rear'd  it ;    but'huge  houses  ht   ill— 

And  huge  tombs  worse — mankind,  since  Adam  fell 
Methinks  the  story  of  the  tower  of  Babel 
Might   teach  them   this   much  better   than   I'm   able. 

LX. 

Babel  was   Ximrod's   hunting-seat,  and  then 

A   town  of  gardens,  v,-;iHs,  and  wealth   amazing, 

W^here  Nabuchathaiosor,  king  of  iiien, 

Reign'd,  till   one   summers  day  he  took  to  grazing, 

And   Daniel   tamed   the   lions   in   their  den. 
The  people's  awe   and   admiration   raising  ; 

'1'  was  famous,  too,  for  Thisbe  and  for  Pyranuis, 

And  the  calumniated  Queen   Semiraims. 

LXI. 


LXII. 

But  to  resume,— should   there  be  {what  may  not 
Be   in  these   days?)    some   mlidels,  who  duii't. 

Because  they  can't  liiid  out  the  very  spot 
Of  that  'same    Balxd,  or  because  they  v.on't 

(Though  Claudius  Bich,  esquire,  some  bricks  has  gof 
And  written   lately  two  memoirs   upon  't). 

Believe  the  Jews,  those  unbi'lievers,  who 

Must  be  believed,  though   they  believe  not   you  :  — 

LXIII. 

Vet  let   them   think   that    Horace   has  exprcss'd 
Shortly  and   sw(M!tly  the  masonic  filly 

Of  those,  f  )rgettiiig  the  gr(!at    |il;n-e  of  rest, 
\Vlio  give  themsfdves   to  architecture  wholly  ; 

We  '-.now  uhere  things   and   men   must   end   at  last, 
A  moral  (like  all   morah)  nu-iarudioly. 

And   "  Et   sepulcri  immemor  striiis   domos" 

Shows  that  we  build  when  we  should   but  entomb  iw 


DON    JUAN. 


625 


LXIV. 

At    ;i«r   they  rPAcIT  i   n  (]uai:;T  most   retiroa, 
Wli^TC  echo -vo.^e   as   if  t>otn   a    loii^   shiiiihrr  : 

Tho„^'h   full    ..fall   things  win.'i,   r,,u!:l   ho  dus.rc.l, 
()iio  won.lcrM  'vhal   to   ilo  with    such    r.   ihhiiIkt 

Of  articles  -.vhi.^l,   i,:,l,„.|y  n.-qmrcl  ; 

llcrt  wcu'ih.   iuid  (Ii):ic   its  lUiiiost   to  ciicuiiiber 

\v  ilti    fiiriiKurc   ail    fxijiiisiie   ujiartmeiit, 

Which  ini/;dt-i!  nature  ikmcIi  to   know  what  ;irl   meant, 

LXV. 

J    secrnM,   liovve\'er,    l)iit   to   op.cn   mi 

A    ran;re   or   suite   of  fn-tiicr  .-haiuhers,  wliich 

Miirlit   lt>a(!  to   heaven    Unows  w'ler- :    hut    in  this  one 
The  nioveahles  were    prodi-ally  n.-li  ; 

>oris   "t  s\as    half  a    sin    to    sit    iiuon, 

So  costly  were   t'lev  ;    carpels   es'erv  stitch 

Of  workinaiishij)    so   rare,  th.tt    male    vo;i  wish 

Vou  could   irlii!,;  u"er   iheiii   like   a   i:n'.!t..ii  lish. 

LXVI. 

Tile   h'ack,  however,  witliout   hardlv  (!ei;rnin£ 

A  ii'.ance  at  ih:;,'  wliich  wraiit   the  slaves  in  wonder, 

Trainiiled  what,  tiicy  scarce  trnd  for  fear  of  staininir, 
As   if  the  milky  way  llieir  fe^t  was   under 

With   ai!    i's  stars  :    and  with   a  stre'c!:   attiiininii 
A    certain    pres-;   or  eupl.'oard,  niched    in    vonder 

[ti  ih:V    n^uiote    recess  wliicli    ^•ou    t;iav   see — 

f)r  if  you  don't,  tiie  fault   is  not   in   me  : 

LXVII. 

I  v/ish  to  he   per-;|)icuous  :    and  the  black, 

I   say,  imlock!;:2  the  recess,  pullM   f.irth 
A    (juantitv  of  clotlies   (it   tor  the  back 

Of  any  Mu-suhnan,  wliate'er  his  worth  ; 
And  of  variety  ther«!  was  no   lack — 

And  yet,  tlvjutili   I   havi;   said  there  was  no  dearth, 
Ht  cl:ose  hiinseif  to   point   out  what   he   tiiouirht 
Most  pr  l)er  fur  the  Christians    he   had    boughit. 

^XVIII. 
Th<i  1.1111  he  thought  nK.st  suitable  to  each 

Was,  for  the   elder   and   the   stouter,  first 
A  Candiote  cloak,  wh.ich   to  the   knee  niijiht   reach, 

And   trowsers   not    so  tight   that   thfiv  would   burst, 
But  such   as  fit    an    Asiatic   breech.; 

A  shawl,  whose  folds  in  Cashmire  had  been  nur&t, 
.">'ipper<  of  saiiron,  dai^irer  rich   and   haiiflv  ; 
In  short,  all  things  which   n>rin  a  Turkisii   dandv. 

LXIX. 
While  he  was  dre-siniT,  Haba,  their   bl:;ck  Odend, 

Hinted  the  vast  adva!ita<:es  which   tl.cv 
^^i2ht   probably  attain   boih   in   the   end. 

If  tliey  would  but    pursue  the   proper  wav 
Which  fortune   plainly  seeni'd  to  recommind  ; 

And  then  he  added,  that  he  needs  mu-t  sav, 
*' 'T  would  greatly  tend  to  better  their  condition, 
\l  they  would  condescend  to   circumcision. 

LXX. 

"For  his  own  part,  he   rcailv  should   rejoice 
To  see.  tliem  true  beiievi-.-s,  b.ut    no  !.->s 

Would  leave  his   proposition   to   their  (dioice." 
The  other,  thanking   liim   fnv  this  e.vc(..ss 

«)f  goodness  in   thus  leaving  tliem   a  voice 
In  smdi   a  triHe,  scarcelv  could  express 

^*  Sufticiet  riv  (he  said)    his   a[)nroba!ioii 

Of  ill  th-    customs  of  this   jioii-lfd   nation. 

LXXI. 

"  For  his   own   share — lie   saw  but   small  objection 

To   so   re-iiect;i!)Ie   nil    ancient    rite, 
\nd   after   ^^wrdlnAing   <\><\vu    a   sli^jlit    r'.f!  ctioii, 

For  which    lie   owti'd    a   pri-ent   H|.pi;tile, 
4U 


He  doubted  not    a  few   lionrs  of  refli-cli  m 

Woulil    reconcile    tiim   to   tiie    bu-iness   (pule." — 
"Will   it?"  said  Juan,  sharply  ;    "Strike  me   dead, 
lint   they  as  soon  shall   circumcise  my  head — 

LXXII. 

"Cut  otfa  thousaiul  !ieads,befi)re " — "Now  pray  " 

lli])iie(i   the  oilier,  "do   not   interriijit : 

\'n\i    put    me   out    in  wliat   I   had   to  say. 

Sir  I — as   I   said,  as   soon   as    1    have   supp'd, 

I   shall   perpend   if  your   proposals  may 
Vtt'  such   as   I  can   proj)eriy  accept : 

Provid'd   alwavs    vour  great   gocxiness   still 

llemits   the  matter   to  our  own   free-v.ili." 

LXXIII. 

H.iba   eyf;d  Juan,  and   said  "  Be  so  good 

A-  dress  yours(;lf — "  and  pointed  out  a  suit 
I  In  wli!"h  a  princess  wdth  great  phnisure  would 
1  Arrav  her   limbs;    but  Juan   sTand;:;g   niiire, 

'     As   u'li    bring   in   a  mast]ueraiiing   lauod, 
j         i;  ive   it    a   slight    kick  with   his  Christian  f jot  ; 
An  i    wlifii   the  old    negro   told   him   to  "Get    -eady 
lleuiied,   "Old    gentleman,   I'm   not  a  latly." 
j  LXXIV. 

!     "Whvt  y,iM   m  IV  be,  I    nei'.her   know  nor  capf,.^" 
i  Said    H;.ba,   "but    pruy  do   as    i    .lesire, 

I   hive   ii'i   more;  time   iht  nianv  words    to   spare." 

"At   lta<t,"   said   Juan,   "sure    I    may  innuire 
T'lc   r;ui<f  of   idlis  odd   Irav.'stv/" — "Forbear," 
Said    Balia,   "to  be   curiuu<  :    'twill   transpire, 
No   doubt,  in   proper  |)lace,  and  time,  and   season- 
[  have   no  authority  to   tell  the  reason." 
LXXV. 

"  Then  if  I  do,"  sai  1  Juan,   "  I  '11  be "    "Hold    ' 

riejoiu'd   the   negro,  "  pray  be   not   provoking  ^ 
This  spirit 's  well,  init  it  mav  wax  t<io   bold. 

And  you  will   tint]   us  not    too   f)nd   of  joking." 
"What,   sir,"    said  Juan,  "shall   it  e'er  be  told 

That  I  unscx'd  my  dress  .'"  i^ut  Baba,  stroking 
The  things  down,  said — "Incense  me,  and  I  call 
Those  who  will   leave  you   of  no  se.v  at  all. 

LXXVI. 

"  I  otfer  you  a  handsome  suit  of"  clothes  : 
A  woman's,   true  ;    but  tlieii  there  is  a  cause 
I     Why  you  should  wear  them." — "  What,  though    iii> 
'  soul  loathes 

The  eireminate  garb  ?" —Thus,  after  a  short  pause 
j     Sigii'd  Juan,   muttering   also   sume   slioht   oaths, 
i         "What    the  devil   shall   I  do  with  all   this   gauze?' 
j     Thus  he   profanely  tcrm'd   tb.e   linest   lace 
I     Wiiich  e'er  set   utf   a  marriage-morning  face. 

j  LXXVII. 

I     \nd  then  he  swore  ;   and,  sighing,  on  he  sliup'd 

I         A  pair  of  trowsers  of  liesh-coljur'd  silkj 

I     Next  with   a  virgin  zone   he  was   equipp'd, 

j         Wiiich   girl  a  slight  chemise  as  white  as    i.iik  ; 

j     i)u;,  tugging  on  his  pettic(>at,  he  tripp'd, 

Whidi — as  we  say — or  as  the  Scotch  say,  vhu'k 
(The   rhyme  obliges  me  to  this  : — sometimes 
Kings   a-e   not   more    imperative  than   rhymes)  — 

LXXVIII. 

Whiik,  wiiich    (or  wliat  you   please)  was  owing  to 
IIi<   garuK'ut's  noveltv,  and   his  being   a\\k\vard 

And    yet    at    last   he   managed    to   get   throui;h 
{!>>  toilet,  thouidi   no   doi   »t   a   little   backward; 

The    negro    Haba  li.dp'd    a   hrile    too, 

Wiien  some  untoward   part  <if  raiiiu-nt   stuck   hairf 

And,   wre-tlmg   !)oih   .his   arms   into   a    gown. 
I     He  paused   and   took   a  survey  up  and  dowr. 


626 


BYRON'S    rOETTCAL    WOEKS. 


LXXIX. 

Une  difficulty  still  remaiifd, — liis  hair 

\yas   hardly  long   enoiiiih  ;   but    Baba  f(3und 
So  niauy  false  long  tresses  all  to  spare, 

Tiiat  soon  his  head  was  most  completely  crown'd. 
After  the   manner  then  in   fasliion   there ; 

And   this   addition  with   such    ticms  was   bound 
As  suited   the   insertthle  of  his  tii.lct, 
While  Baba  made   him   comb   his   head   and   oil  it 

LXXX. 
\nd   now  being  femininely  all   array'd. 

With    some    small    aid    from    scissors,    paint,    and 
tweezers. 
He  look'd  in  almost  all  respects  a  maid, 

And   Baba  stnllinglv  exelaim'd,  "You   see,  sirs, 
A  perfect    transtormation   here   displayM  ; 

And  now,  then,  von  mu?t  come  along  with  me,  sirs, 
That  is — tiie   ladv:" — chipping  his  hands   twice. 
Four  b.acks  were   at  his  elbow  in   a  trice. 

LXXXI. 
"  You,  sir,"   said    Baba,   noddiiig  to  the   one, 

"Will    ])lease  to  accom[)anv  those  gentlemen 
To  supper  ;   but   you,  worthv  Christian  nun, 

Will  follow  me  :    no  tritlmg,  sir:   for  when 
I   s:iv  a   thing,   it    mu-t    at  once   be  done. 

What    fear   vou  ?   think   vou   this   a  lion's  den? 
Wiiv  'l  is  a  palace,  where   the   truly  wise 
Anticipate   the   Prr)[)het's   i)aradise, 

LXXXII. 
"You   f lo! !    I  tell   vou    no  f)ne   means   vou   harm." 

"So   much  the   better,"  Juan   said,  "for  th.em  r 
Else  tiicv  shall   fee!   the  weight    of  this   my  arm, 

Whi.''h  is   not   quite   so   light    as  you   may  deem. 
I   vield   llius  far  ;   but  soon  will   break   the   charm, 

Ff  ativ  take  me  fir  that  which   I   sei.-m  ; 
So   that   1    trust,  f)r   every  body's   sake, 
That   ilus  disguise   may  lead  to   nu  nnstake." 

LXXXIII. 

"  Biockiiead  !    come  on,  and   see,"  (juoth  Baba  ;    whi'e 
Do;i  Juan,  turning   to   his   comrade,  who, 

'J'Iioul!!!  somewhat  griev(ed,  could  st;arce  forbear  a  smile 
Upon  the   metamorphosis  m  view, 

"  l-'ar(\vcil !"  tiiey  mutually  exclaim'd  :    "this  soil 
Sccnis   fertile   in   adventures   strange  and   ii(3w ; 

()iie"s   'iini'ii   haif  Mussulman,  and   one  a  in;iid. 

By  lies  oiii   black  enchanter's  unsougiit   aid." 

LXXXIV. 

"Farewell!"   said  .Juan  ;    "  sl)ould  we   meet   no  more, 

1  wish  _vou   a   good   appetite." — "Farewell!" 
Il":i!ie'l   the   other;   "though   it    grieves  me   sore; 

When  wi!   next   meet  we'll    have   a   tale  to  tell; 
VY(;    needs   tiiusl  follow  when  Fate   puts   from  shore. 

K'  ep  vour  good  name;  though  Eve  herself  once  fell." 
"  Nay  ,'"(|uot  lit  he  maid,  "the  Sultan's  self  shan't  carry  m<>, 
Unless  his  higlmess  promises  to  marry  me." 

LXXXV. 
And   thus  they  |)art(!d,  each   by  sc'parate  doors  ; 

H  "la   led   .Inan  onward,   room   bv  room, 
'I'hnngh    glittfTing   galleries   and   o'er  marble   floors. 

'i'lll   a   gigantic   jiortal    through    tin;   gloom, 
llaughlv  and    hugi',  alung   the   distance  towers  : 

And  uafted   fir    arose   a  rieh   perfume: 
It   .>eeiir,|   iis   though   Ihev  came   upon   a    shrine, 
h'or   all  was  vast,   still,   lr;igr:int,   and   divme. 

LXXXV  I. 

Tb.e  ginnt   door  was  broad,  and   bri^dif   and   hiidi, 
Oi    glided    bronze,   and    cai-v.-l    in   curmus    a,,is..  ; 

Waniurs   'Imtcmmi  were    battling   furi.aislv  : 

lii:re   sialks   the  victor,  tln-re   the  vaiKiui^hM    lies; 


There  captives  led  in  triumph   droop  the  eye, 

And   in  perspective   many  a  s(;uadren  flies 
It  seems   the  work   of  times   before  the  line 
Of  Rome  transplantcfl  fel.  with  Constantuie. 

LXXXVII. 

This  massy  portal  sto(;d  at  ilie  wide  close 
Of  a  huge  hall,  and  on  Us  either  side 

Two  liule   dwarfs,  the  least  you   could   suppose , 
Were  sate,  like  ugly  imps,  as   if  allied 

In   mockery  to   the   enormous   gate   which  rose 
O'er  them   in   almost   |)yrami(iic   pride: 

The   gate;   so    splendid   was   in  all    its  fraturoi,'' 

Vou  never  thought   about   these  little  ereaiurt..s, 

Lxxx\  in. 

Until  you   nearly  trod   on   them,  and  then 
You   started   bacdv   in   horror  to  survey 

The  wondrous   hideousness  of  those  small  men. 
Whose  colour  was   not  black,  nor  uhite,  nor  grav. 

But    an    extraneous   mixture,  which  no  pen 

Can   trace,  although   [lerhaps   the   pencil   may; 

They  were    misshapen  pigmies,  deaf  and  dumb — 

Monsters,  wlio  cost  a  no  less  monstrous  sum. 

LXXXIX. 

Their  duty  was — for  they  were   strong,  and  thougn 

Tliey  look'd  so  little,   ditl   strong   things  at  limes— 
To  ope  this  door,  which  they  could   rf;ai!y  do, 

The  lunges  being  as  smooth  as  Rogers'  rhymes  ; 
And   now   uid   then,  with   tough   strings  of  the  bow 

As  is  the   custom  of  tiiose  eastern  climes, 
To  give  some  rebel   Pacha  a  cravat  ; 
For  mutes  are  generally  used  for  that. 

XC. 
They  spoke  by  signs — that  is,   not  spoke   at    a'J : 

And,  looking  like  twf)  liicubi,   tliev  L-lared 
As   Baba  wiih   his  fingers  made   t!a;m   fall 

To   heaving   back    :he   portal  fuids  :    it   scared 
Juan    a    moment,   as  tliis   pair  so   small 

With   shrinking  serp<!nt  optics   on   liim  stared, 
It  was  as   if  tlK'ir  little  looks  could   [x.ison 


Or 


iscinate  \\l 


thev  lix'd  their  eves  on. 
XCI. 


Before  they  enter'd,  Raba   paused  to   hiiit 
To  .Juan    some   slight   lessons   as   his   guide: 

"  !f  you   could  just  contrive,"   he   said,  "to  stint 
That    somewhat    manly  niajesty  of  stride, 

'T  would    be  as  well,  and— (though   there's  not  much 
in  't)  — 
To  swing  a  little  less  from  side  to  side. 

Which   has  at  times  an  aspein   of  the   oddest  ;       , 

And   also,  couki  you   look   a  little   mod.cst, 

XCII. 

'T  ^vou'il   be   convenient;   for  th(>se   mutes  have  cvcg 
Like  needles,  which  might  [iierce  tho>e    petlicoiitr. ; 

And   if  they  should   discover  your  disguise, 

You  know  how  near  us    the  deep  liosphorus   floats 

And    vou   and    I    mav  (d'anee,  ere    morning   rise, 
'I'o   lind    oiir  way  to  Marmora  without   boats, 


ip  n 


sacks— a   mod;^   of  navigation 


A  good  de;d   practised   h('re  ujion  occasion.' 

XCllI. 
With   this  encouragement,   he   led   the  way 

Into   a   room   still   nobler  than   the    last  ; 
A  rieli   confusion   form'd   a   disarrav 

In   smdi    sort,  that    the   ey(;   along   it    cast 
Could    hardlv  carrv  an\-  tiling   awav. 


ibiect    liash'd    so   bright    and   f;i«t 


A  da/./lmg   ma<s   of  gems,  and    g.-ld, 
.\i;.:.milieentlv  miuiiled   ill    a   litter. 


!littt: 


DON    JUAN. 


G27 


XCIV. 

V%  oallli  ha.I  iliine  woiiiltrs — nisi-  not  imirli ;  such  tiling's 

()ci:ur   u     cu'icnl    [   viuccs,   and    men 
In   tli<i    mure  chustenM   ilomcs    of  western    1-in^^-, 

(Of  u.uch  I've  also  s<'eu  s.)iu<-  six  or  seven), 
Wlier-   I    can't    say   o-    cr,,l>l   or   .iiamnn.l    Hums 

.Mncli    hr;tre,  t!ier.:   is   much   to   he   foraivn  ; 

On  which   1   cuiuiul    [)aiise  lo   make   my  strictures. 

xcv. 

[ri   this  imperial  hall,  at   liistaiice  lay 

Under   a  canoi'V,   and   there   rechned 
Quite    m   a   contideiitial   (juc-nly  way, 

A  1-idv.      Halia  sionpM,  und  "kiieJlmi:,  siguM 
To  Juan,  who,  thotiiih    not    much    used   to   pray, 

Km  It    down    hv  instinc!,  wontlerinij  in    his   mind 
What  all  this  meant:    wliile  Iialni  IhiwVI  and  hended 
His   head,  until   the   ceremony  ended. 

XCVI. 
The  iady,  rising  up  with    such  an  air 

As  Venus  rose  witli   tiom   the  wave,  on  them 
Heiit    like   an   anteiope   a   Papliian   pair 

Of  eves,  \' Inch  put  out  each  surrouii'lin^  gem: 
And,  raisiMii  up  an   arm  as  moonlight  tair. 

She   siiiii'd  to    IJaha,  who  firsi   kiss'd  the  h'jni 
Of  her   .i-ep-purj.h   rube,  and,  speaking   low, 
PoHiied  to  Juan,   who  remaiuM   below. 

XCVII. 

Iler  presence  was  as  lofty    as   her  state; 

Her   beauty  of  that    overpowering   kind, 
Wiiose  iitrce  description  only  would   abate  : 

I'd   rather  leave  it    mucli   to  your  own   mind, 
Than    lessen   it   bv  what   I   could  relate 

, Of  forms  and   features;   il  would  strike  you  blind. 
Could    1    do  ju.->tice   lo   ijie   fud   ueUii!  ; 
S.},  luckilv  for  both,   my  jihrases  fail. 

XCVHI. 
This  muc-h  however  I   may  add — her  years 

Were  ripe,  they  might  make  six  and  twenty  springs, 
But   there   are   fjrnis  which  Time   to   touch   forbears, 

And   turns   aside   his  scythe   to   vulgar  things. 
Such   as  was  Mary's,  Queen  of  Scots  ;   true — tears 

And  love  destroy  ;  and  sapping  sorrow  wrings 
Charms  from  the  charmer — ye-t  some  never  grow 
(Jglv  ;    for  instance — Ninon  de  TEiiCios. 

XCIX. 

She   spake   some  words  to   her   attendants,  w!io 
Conip(!sed   a  choir   ef  ;:irls,  ten   or  a  dozen, 

And  were  all  clad   alike;    like  Juan,  too, 
Who  wore  their  uniform,  hy  Haba  chosen : 

They  formM   a  very  n;.mp!i-like  looking  crew, 

Whicli  mi^fp.t   have  caiPd  lOiana's  chorus  "cousin," 

As  far   as   outnard   show  may  correspond ; 

I  won't   be   bail   for  any  thing  beyond. 

C. 

rhev  bow'd   o])eisance  and  with(h-ew-,  retirinir. 

Rut    not   bv  the    s.-ime   door   thron^rii  whudi  came   in 

Raba   and  Juan,  wliudi    last    stood    admirin;^. 
At   some  «mall  distance,  all   he   saw  within 

Tliis   stratiire   saloon,  much  lilted  for   inspiring 

Marvel  and   -praise:    f)r   b():h  or  none   things  win ; 

An-i   1   must   s;iy  I    ne'er  could   see   tiie  very 

Great  happiness   of  the  "Nil  admirari." 

CI. 

"Not  to   admire  is  all   the  art   I  know, 

( Plain  truth,  dear  .Murray,  needs  few  flowers  ofspeech) 
To  make   men   tia[)ny,  or  to  keep  tliem  so;" 
(So  take  it   in  the  very  words   of  Cree&h.) 


Thus  Horace  wrote,  we  all   know,  long  ago 

And  thus    Pope  quotes   the   precept,  lo   re-leach 
From  Ins    translation  ;    but   liad    /ev/,c  a'////;r.w, 
Would    Pope  iiave  simg,  or   Horace   l)een   inspired 

CH. 

Haba,  when  a'    the  damsels  were  withdrawn, 

Motion'd    to  Juan   to   approacii,  and    tlier 
A   second   time    desired    him   to   kneel   down 

And    kiss   the   lady's   foot,  which   maxim  when 
He   heard  repeated,  Juan  with   a  tro\\ii 

Drc'w    himself  up   to    his   full    tuu-ht    again, 
And    said   "•  It  grieved    him,  hut  he  couM    not  slooD 
To  any  shoe,  unless  il  shod   the    Pope." 

CHI. 
Raba,  indignant   at  this  ill-timed    pride. 

Made  lierce   remonstr:i!!ces,  ami    then    a   threat 
He  mutter'd  (!)ut   the   last  was  given  aside) 

About   a  b<»wstring — (juite   in  vam  ;    not   yet 
Would  Juan  stoop,  though  'twere  to  Mahomet's  bride 

There's   no'hing   in  the  world    like   etijutUe^ 
In  kmglv  cha.nbers  or  imperial  halls, 
As  also  at  the   race  and  county  balls. 

CIV. 

He  stood   like  Atlas,  with   a  world   of  words 

Ab'Hit  his   ears,  and   nathless  would  not  bend; 
The  blood  of  all   his   line's  Casiilian   lords 

Hoii'd   in   his  veins,  and   rather  than  descend 
To   stain  his   pedigree,  a   thousand  swords 

A  thousand  times  of  him  had   made    an  end ; 
At   length    jierceivmg  the.  "./o'vi!"  could   not   stand, 
Raba   proposed   that  he  should  kiss   the   hand. 

CV. 
Here  was  an  honourable  compromise, 

A   half-wav  house  of  diplomatic  rest, 
Where  tliey  might  meet  in  much  more  peaceful  gUiSe: 

And  .Juan  n(jw  his  willingness  express'd 
To  use  all   fit   and  proper  courtesies, 

Adding,  that  this  was  commonest  and  best, 
For  through  the  South  the  custom  still  command? 
The  geiulemaii   lo  kiss  the  lady's  hands. 

CVI. 

And  he  advanced,  though  with  but  a  bad  grace. 
Though   on   more  thorough-bred  **  or  fairer  fingers 

No  lips  ere  left  their  transitory  ti  ace : 

On  such  as  these  the  lip  too  f  mdly  lingers, 

And  lor  one  kiss  would   fain  imp/inl  a  brace. 
As  you  will   see,  if  she  you  love  will  bring  hers 

In   contact  ;    and  sometimes   even  a  fair  stranger's 

An  almost  twelvemonth's  constancy  endangers. 

cvn. 

The  lady  eved  him  o'er  and   o'er,  and   bade 
Raba   retire,  which   he  obcv'd  in   style, 

As  if  well  used   to  the   retreating  trade; 

And  taking  hints  in   good  pari  all  the  while. 

He  t\  hisper'd  Juan   not  to  be  afraid. 

And,  looking  on   him  with  a  sort  of  smile, 

Took  leave  with  such  a  face  of  satisfaction, 

As  good  men  wear  wiio  have  done  a  virtuoiis  actian. 

cvin. 

When   he  was  gone,  there  was   a  sudden  change . 

I   know  not  what   might   be  the  lady's  thought. 
Rut   o'er   her  bright  brow  llash'd   a  tumult  strango. 

And  into  her   clear  cheek  the   blo<;d   was  brought- 
Rlood-red  as   sunset   sinnmer  clouds  \^hich   range 

The  verge  of  heaven  ;    and  in  her  large  eyes  wrought 
A   mixture  of  sensations   might   be  scaini'd 
Of  half  voluptuousness   anJ   ii-'.lf  cunimand. 


t>28 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


CIX. 

Her  form  had  all  the  softness  of  her  sex, 
Her  features  all  the  sweetness  of  the  devil, 

^Vjien  he   put  on  the  cherub  to  perplex 

Eve,  and  paved  (God  knows  how)  the  road  to  evil, 

I'he  sun  himself  was  scarce  more  free  from  specks 
Than  she  from  aught  at  which  tlie  eye  could  cavil  , 

^et  somehow  there  was  something  somewhere  wanting, 

As   if  she  rather  order'^d  than  was   grunting. — 

ex. 

Something  imperial,  or  imperious,  threw 
A  chain  o'er  all  she  did  ;    that  is,  a  cliain 

Was  thrown,  as  'twere,  about  the  neck  of  you, — 
And  rapture's  self  will  seem  almost  a  pain 

With  aught  which  looks  like  despotism  in  view  : 
Our  souls  at  least  are  free,  and  't  is  in  vain 

W^e  would  against  them  make  the  flesh  obey — 

The  spirit  in  the  end  will  have  its  way. 

CXI. 

Her  very  smile  was  haughtv,  though  so  sweet ; 

Her  very  nod  was  not  an   inclination  ; 
There  was   a  self-will  ev(>n  in   her  small   foet, 

As  though  they  were  (juite  conscious  of  her  station — 
They  trod   as  upon  necks  ,   and  to  complete 

Her  state  (it   is  the  custom   ol  her  nation), 
A  poniard   deck'd  her   girdle,  as    the   sign 
She  was  a  sultan's  bride  (tliank  Heaven,  not  mine). 

cxn. 

''To  hear   and  to  obey"   had   been    from   birth 

The   law  of  all   around  her  :    to  fult'il 
All  phantasies  which  yielded  jov  or  mirth, 

Had  been   her  slaves'  chief  pleasure;,  as  her  will  ; 
Her  blood  was  high,  her   beauty  scarce   of  earth  : 

Jf.Jge,  then,  if  her  caprices  e'er  'stood  still ; 
Ha  !  slie  but  been  a  Christian,  I  've  a  notion 
W'v   fhjud  have  found  out   the   "perpetual  motion." 

CXHI. 

vVhale'er  she  saw  and   coveted  was  brought; 

Whate'er  s.ie  did  not  see,  if  she  su[)p<>sed 
It  might  be  seen,  with  diligoice  was  sought, 

And  when 't  was  found  straightway  the  l-argain  close  !. 
Tliere  was  no  end   luito  the  things  she   bought, 

Nor  to  the  trouble  which  her  fancies  caused  ; 
Vet  even   her  tyranny  had  such  a  gi"vce, 
Tiie  women   pardon'd  all  except   her  face. 

CXfV. 

Juan,  Ini!  latf:st  of  her  uhis.is,  had  caught 
Her  eye  in   jiassing  on  his  way  to  sale  ; 

She  order'd  him  directh'  to  he  bouitht. 

And    liaba,  who   had   ne'er  been   known   to   fail 

In  any  kind  of  mischief  to  be;  wrought, 

Had  his  instructions  where  and   how  to  deal : 

She  had   no  [irudence,  bist  he   had  ;    and   this 

Explains   ^a ;   garb  wliich  .Tuan  took  aiuiss. 


His  youth  and  fe 
And  should    yoi 

Could  risk  or  con 
'Il.is   1    must  le 


CXV. 

ires   favonr'd   the   disguise, 
u;k    bow  she,  a  sultarTs  bride, 
iSH   sueh    ;:1r:'.n<,'e    phantasies, 


Emperors  are  only  hu<l>;uHls   in  wives'   ev(^s, 
An'l   kings   and   consMrts   oft    ure   mystilicd, 
\s  we:    may   ascertain  wiib    lim;    pri'c:s;'i;i, 
Some   by  ex]<erience,  others    by  tradition. 

CX\  I. 

Sui  10  the  main  point,  where  we  b;ive  been  fending; 

She  now  conceived  all   dilbculiies  past, 
%nd   d(<'iii'd  herself  extremely  condescending 

Wiitii  beii  g  made  her  property  at  last, 


Without  more  preface,  in  her   blue  eyes  '■"lend.iiy 

Passion  and  [jower,  a  liiance  on  liim  sne  cast,, 
And  merely  saying,  ''Christian,  canst  thou  ove  ? 
Conceived  that   phrase  was  (piite  enough  to  move. 

CXVII. 
And  so   it  was,  in   proper   time  and   place  ; 

Hut  Juan,  who  had  still  his   mind   o'erlic.wing 
With   Haidee's  isle  and  soft  Ionian  face, 

Felt  the  warm  blood,  which  in  his  face  was  glowirg, 
Hush   back  upon   his   heart,  which   iill'd   apace. 

And  left  his  cheeks  as  pale  as  snow-dror/s  blowing  . 
These  words  went  through  his  soul  lilve  Arab  spear.*, 
So  that  he  spoke  not,  but  burst  into  te;>rs. 

CXVHI.    " 

She  was  a.  good  deal  shock'd  ;   not  shock'd  at  tea. », 

For  women  shed  and  use  them  at  dieir  /iking  ; 
But  there  is  something  when   man's  eye  appears 

Wet,  still  more  disagreeable  and  striking  : 
\  woman's  tear-drop  melis,  a  man  hnlf  sears. 

Like  molten   lead,  as   if  you   thrust  a   pike   in 
His  heart,  to  force  it   out,  for    (to  be  sliorter) 
'I'o  th(;m  'tis  a  relief,  to   us   a  torture. 

CXIX. 
And   she  would  have  consoled,  but   knew   not    how; 

Having  no   equals,  nothing  which  had   e'er 
Infected  her  with  sympathy  till   now. 

And   never  having  dreamt  wliat  't  was  to  bear 
Augl^  of  a  serious    sorrowing  k.ind,  although 

There  niiijht  arise   some  pouting   petty  care 
To  cross  her  brow,   she  wonder'd  how  so  ne;\r 
Her  eyes   another's   eye   could   shed  a  tear. 

CXX. 

But  nature  teaches  morf^  than   power  can  spoil, 
And  when   a  stran,^   all  hough   a  strange  sensaliOB 

Moves — female   hearts  are  such    a   genial   sod 
For   kinder  feelings,  whatsoe'er  tii(-ir  nation. 

They  naturally  pour  the  "  wine   and  oil," 
Samaritans   in  every  situation  : 

And  thus  Gulbeyaz,  though  she  knew  not  \vhy, 

Felt  an  odd   glistening   moisture  in   lier  eye. 

CXXI. 

But  tears  must  stop  like   all  things   else;    and  s'-on 
Juan,  who  for  an   instant  had    been   moved 

To  such  a  sorrow  by  the  intrusive  tone 

Of  one  who  dared   to  ask   if  "  he   h-nl  loved,'' 

Call'd   back   the  stoic   to  his  eyes,  which  shont 
Jiright with  the   very  weakness   he  reproved; 

And   although  sensitive  to   IxNMUty,  he 

Felt  most  indignant  still  at  not    being  free. 

CXXII. 

Gulbeyaz,  for  the  first  time   in   lier  days, 
Wiis  much  embarrass'd,  never   having  met 

In   all    her  life  with   aught  save  prayers  and   pra!>;t 
And  as   she   also   risk'd   her   liii;   to   get 

Him  whom  she  meant  to  tutor   in   love's  ways 
Into  a  comfortable  tete-a-tct«>, 

To  lose   the  hinir  would   make   her  e,iiit(^   a   manyrj 

And   they  ha<l  wasted   now  almost   a   (luater. 

cxxin. 

I  also  would   sugijest  the   fiUing   time, 
To    g(,'ntlemei!    in    ;u)v  such    lih"   I'ase, 

That    is   to    sav — in   a  m(>riiuan   chmc  ; 

With  us   there   is   more   law  given   to  'he  case, 

But   bt^re   a   small   delay  forms  a    <.;reat  crime  ; 
So  recoll<!ct   that   the   extremest    giju  (■ 

Is  just  two  minutes  for  your  declaration — 

A  moment  more  would  hurt   v  mr  re'>uiatiou. 


DON    JUAN. 


029 


CXXIV. 

inaii'>:  w,--;  ijodd  ;   ami  inii;iii   have  been  slill  better 
iiul    he    ha.l    iTol   JIauiee    int„    his    head: 

H.)-.v("(:r  slrau'M',  he  eouid    nut    v<'t   fo-get    her, 
Wliich   made    him   seem    exeeedmaly  'ill-bred. 

Gnilicya/,,  who   lo^ikM   on   him   as   her  debtor 
Fer   having  li.id    !iim    to    the   |ialace    1(m1, 

Be_ran    to   blush   nj»   to   ii\e   eyes,  and   then 

Gii>w  deadly  jiale,  and   then   blush    baek   a^ain. 

cxxv. 

At  length,  ni   an   imperial  wav,  she   laid 

Her   baud   on    his,    and    bi-i:dinii  on    his   eyes, 
\Vhu-h    ne<'ded   not    an    empire    to    p' rsuade, 


LookM 


IS  for   love,  wh. 


replies  ; 


Her   lirow  irrew    black,   but    s!ie  would    iit)t    upbraid, 

That  b(;ui-^  the  last  tiling  a  pr(md  woman  tries  ; 
8l:e  rose,  and,  pausing  one  chaste  moment,  threw 
Herself  upon  iiis   brenst,  and   lliere  she  grew. 

CXXVI. 
This  was  an   awkward   test,  as   Juan   fi^und, 

Hu'i   ho  was  steel'd  by  sorrow,  wrath,  and   pride; 
With   gentle   force   her  white   arms   he    unwoun.d, 

And   seated   !ier  all  (h-ooping  by  his  side. 
Then   rising  hauijhtily  he  ;jlanced   around, 

And  looking  co!(ily  in   her   face,  he   cried, 
"'Idle   (irison'd   eagle  will   not   pair,  nor  I 
Serve  a   suUaua's  sensual    phantasy. 

CXXVII. 

•'  Thou  ask'st   if  I  can   love  /   be  this  the  proof 
How  niiH  h   I   /iai'€  loved— that  I   love   not  t/ice ! 

\n   tins  vile  L-arb,  the  riislalf's  web  and  woof 
Were   f.tier  for  me:    love  is  for   the  free! 

I   am   not  daz/.led   by  thi.>   splendid   roof. 

What  e'er  thv   power,   tiini   great  it   seems  to   be — 

ileads   bow,  knees   bend,  eyes  watcli  aromid  a  throne, 

And   hands   obey — our   iiearts   are   still   our  own." 

CXXVIII. 

Tir;<  was  a    truth   to    us   <-\lremely  trite. 

Not   so    to   her  wditj  ne'er   h;ul  heard   such  thin<is  ; 
She   dei'uiM   her   least   command   nmst   yield   delight. 

Eartii    iieiiig  only   made   for  queens   and  kings. 
If  hearts   lay  on   the   letl.  side  or  the  right 

She   hardly  knew,  to   such  perfection   brings 
Legitimacy  its   born   votaries,  when 
Aware  of  their  due   royal  riiihts  o'er  men 

CXXIX. 
Be:--i(les,  as   has   been   ?;iid,  she  was  so  fair 

As   even    in   a   much   hum:>lrr   lot   had   made 
A   kin^jiom    or  confusion    any  wsiere  ; 

And   also,  as   may  lie   presuiniul,  she   laid 
Sotrie   str(;ss   upon    those   charms   wdiich   seldom  are 

i5y  liie    itossessors    llirowu    into   the   shade;  — 
She   tlxiUirht   liers   gave   a   double   "right   divine," 
And   half  o'   'J>al  opinion 's  also   mine. 

CXXX. 

ReiiKMnber,  or   (if  you   cannot)    imagine, 

Ye  I    wii)   h;ive  kept  your  chastity  when  young, 

While  sorn<'  more  desnerMK;  dowager  has  been  waging 
Lose'  Willi   vou,  anil   Ik^cu   in   the   dog-days  stung 

By  your  r'  fiisal,  recollect    her  raging! 
Or    r(;collect    all    that  was   said   or   sung 

On  such   a   siibji'(:t  ;   thi;n   sup[)ose  the   face 

Of  a   young   downright   beauty  in   this  case. 

CXXXI. 

Suppose,  but  you  already  have  supposed, 
The   s[)<)iise  of  Potiphar,  the   Ladv  Hooby, 

Phedra  an  1  all  wbifdi  storv  has  disclosed 
Of  good   e.vatni  les ;    pitv   that  so  (nw  by 


Poets   and   private  tutors   are  exposed. 

To  educate — ye  youth  of  Europe — you  by! 
Huf  when  you    have  supposed    the   few  we   know 
Vou   can't   suppose  (julhevaz'   angry  brow. 

CXXXII. 
A  tigress   rohb'd   of  )oung,   a  lioness, 

Or   any  niter<;slmg   beast    of  prey, 
Are    similts    at    hand    for    the   distriiss 

Of  ladies  who   Ciuinot   have   thv;ir  own  way  ; 
But  though   my  turn  will   not  be  served  with   less. 

These  don't   express  one  half  what  I   should   si 
For  what  is   stealniir   yoiiiii'  one 


ly: 


or   many. 


'J'o    CUltl 


tlr 


any 


hojies  of  bavin 
CXXXHL 
The   love  of  oifspring  's   nature's   genera!  law, 

From   ti;:resses   and   cubs   to  ducks  and  ducklings , 
There's   nothing   whets  the   beak  or   arms  the  claw 

Llkt!   ;in   invasion  of  their   babes  and  sucklings ; 
And   all   who   have  seen   a   human   nursery,  saw 

How  mothers  love  their  children's  scjualls  and  chuck- 
lings  ; 
And  tills  strong  extreme  effect   (to   tire  no  longer 
Your  patience)  shows  the  cause  must  still  be  stronger. 

CXXXIV. 
If  I   said   fire  flash'd  from   Guibeyaz'  eyes, 

'T  were  nothing — for  her  eyes  tlash'd  always  fire, 
Or  said   her  cheeks  assumed  the  deepest  dyes, 

I  should  but  bring  disgrace  upon  the  dyer. 
So  supernatural  was   her  passion's  rise ; 

For  ne'er  till  now  she  knew  a  check'd  desire: 
Even  you  who  know  what  a  check'd   woman  is, 
(Enough,  God  knows!)  would  much  fixll  short  of  this. 

CXXXY. 
Her  race  was  Init  a  minute's,  and  'twas  well — 

A   moment's   more  iiad   slain   her ;   but   the   vvhi'.e 
It  lasted,  't  was  like  a  short  glimpse  of  hell : 

Nought's  more  sublime  than  energetic  bile, 
Thouifh   horrible   to  see   yet  grand   to   tell. 

Like  ocean   warring   'gainst  a  rocky   isle  ; 
And  the   deep  passions  tlashing  through  her  form 
Made  her  a  beautiful  embodied  storm. 

CXXXVI. 

A  vulgar  tempest  't  were  to  a  Typhoon 
To  inatcdi   a  common  fury  with  her  rage, 

And  yet  she    did   not  want    to  reach  the  moon, 
Like   moderate  Hotspur  on  the   immortal  page, 

Her  an<rer   pilch'd   into  a   lower  tune. 

Perhaps  the  fault  of  her  soft  sex   and   age — 

Her  wish  was  but  to  "  kiU,  kill,  kill,"  like  Lear's, 

And  then   her  thirst  of  blood  was  quench'd  in  tears 

CXXXVII. 

A  storm   it  raged,  and  like   the   storm   it  pass'd, 
Pass'd  without  words — in  fact  she  could  not  sjieak 

And   then    her  sex's   shame   broke  in  at   last, 
A   se.itin  ent  till   then   in    her  but  weak. 

Hut  now  it    'low'd    in   natural   and   fast. 
As  water   through   an   unexpected  leak, 

For  she  felt  humbled — and  humiliation 

Is  sometimes  good  for  people  hi  her  station. 

cxxxvni. 

If  teaches  them  that   they   are   flesti   and  biooQ, 
It  also  gently  hints  to  them   that  others, 

Although  of  clay,  are  not  yet  (juite  of  mud  ; 
That   urns  and   pijikins  are  but  fragile  brothers. 

And    works  of  the  same  pottery,   bad  or  good, 
Though  not  all  born  of  the  same  sires  and  mothers. 

If   tenches— Heaven  knows  or/ly  wdiat  it  teacnes. 

But  somelimes  it  may  mend,  and  often  read  es. 


630 


r.yrtoN'S  roETiCAL  works. 


CXXXIX. 

Hor  first  thought  was  to  cut  off  Juan's  liead ; 

Her  Sf.corifl,  to  cut  only  his — ac(]uaintance  ; 
Iler  third,  to  ask  him   where  he  liad   been  bred; 

Her  fourth,  to   rally   him   into  repentance  ; 
Her  fifth,  to  call  her  mauls  and  go  to  bed  ; 

Her  sixth,  to  stab  herself;   her  seventh,  to  sentence 
The  lash  to  Baba ; — but  her  grand  resource 
Was  to  sit  down  again,  and   cry  of  course. 

CXL. 
She  thought  to  stab  herself,  but  then  she  had 

The  d'dsscr  close  at  hand,  which  made  it  awkward  ; 
For  eastern  stays  are  little  made  to  pad, 

So  that  a  poniard   pierces   if  't  is  stuck  ha,  1  ; 
She  thought  of  kilhng  Juan — but,  |)Oor  lad ! 

Though  he  deserved  it  well  for  being  so  backward, 
The  cuttinjj  otT  his   head  was  not  the  art 
M'jst  likely  to  attain  her  aim — his  heart. 

CXLI. 

Juan  was  moved  :   he  had  made  up  his  mind 
To  be  impaled,  or  quarter'd  as  a  dish 

For  do2s,  or  to  be  slain  with  pangs  refined. 
Or  thrown  to  lions,  or  made  baits  for  fish, 

And   thus  heroically  stood  resign'd. 

Rather  than  sin — except  to  his   own  wish : 

But  all  his    great  jireparatives  for  dying 

Dissolved  hke  snow  before  a  woman  crying. 

CXUI. 

As  through  his  palms   Hob  Acres'  valour  oozed, 
So  Juan's  virtue  ebb'd,  I  know  not  iiow  ; 

And  first  he  wonder'd  why  he  had  refiised  ; 
And  then,  if  matters  could  be  made  up  now ; 

Ajid  next  his  savage  virtue   he  accused, 
Just  as  a  friar  may  accuse   his  vow, 

Or  as  a  dame  repents  her  of  her  oath, 

Which  mostly  ends  in    some  small  bread    of  both. 

CXLHI. 

So  he  began  to  stammer  some  excuses  ; 

But  words  are  not  enough   in   such  a  matter, 
Although  you  borrow'd   all  that  e'er  the   muses 

Have  sung,  or  even  a  dandy's   dandiest  chatter, 
Or   all  the  figures   Castlereagh  abuses; 

Just  as  a  languid  smile  began   to  flatter 
His   peace  was  making,  but  before  he  ventured 
Further,  old   Baba  rather  briskly  enler'd 

CXLIV. 

*'  Bride   of  the   Sun  !   and   Sister  of  the  Moon  !" 
('T  was  thus  he  spake)  "  and  Empress  of  the  Earth  ! 

Whose  frown  would  put  the  splieres  all  out  of  tune, 
W  hose  smile  makes  all  the  planets  dance  with  mirth, 

Youi-  slave   brings  tidings — he  hopes  not  too  soon — 
\S  hich  your   sublime  attention  may   be  worth  ; 

The  Sun   himself  has  sent  me  like  a  ray 

To  ^inl  tliat  he   is  coming  up  this  way." 

CXLV. 

"Is  '♦^'^   exclaim'd   Gulheyaz,  "as  you  say? 

I  v-'sh  to  heaven   he  would   not  shine  till  morning! 
But   iMd   my  women   form   the  milky   way. 

He-^ce,  my  old  comet!  give  the  stars  due  warning — 
\nd,  Christian!    mingh;   with  them   as   you  may; 

Ai   I,  as  you'd  have  m(>  pardon  your  ])ast  scorning — " 
Here   y\u:y  were   inlcrruptcd   by   a  hununing 
Soun.i,  and  then  by  a  cry,  "  the   Sultan's   coming!" 

CXLVI. 

f'nst    ".ame  her  damsels,   a  decorous   file, 

And  then  his  highness'  eumidis,  l)lack   and  white ; 
riie  tci.in  might  reach   a  (juarlcr  of  a  mile* 
His   majeslv  was   always  so  jjolite 


As  to  anno\ince   his   vj-^'N  a  long  \\m\s 

Before  he  ca;ne,  especially  at  night ; 
For  being  the  last  rite  of  the  emperor, 
She  was  of  course  tiie   fivoiirite   of  the   Piur. 

CXLVII. 
His  highness   was  a  man   of  solemn   port. 

Shawl'd   to   the   nose,  and    bearded   to  the  eyes, 
Snatch'd   from  a   prison   to   preside  at   court- 

His  lately  bowstrung   brother  caused   Ins  rise  ; 
He  was   as  good  a  sovereign  of  the  sort 

As  any  mention'd   in   the   histories 
Of  Caiitemir,   or    Knolles,   wliere   few   shine 
Save   Solyman,  the   g.ory  of  their  Ime.' 

CXLVIII. 

He  went  to  mosque  in   stale,  and  said   his   prayers 
With   more  than   "orienlul  scrupulosity;" 

He   left  to   his   vizier  ai!   stale   aHairs, 
And   show'd   but   little   royal   curiosity:    ■ 

I  know   not  if  he  had   dt)me-tic  cares — 
No   process   proved   connubial   animosity ; 

Four   wives  and  twice   five   hundred    maids,  u>iseen. 

Were  ruled   as   calmly   as   a   Christian   queen. 

CXLIX. 

If  now   and   then  there   happen'd   a  slight  slip. 
Little  was   heard   of  criminal   or  crune  ; 

The   story  scarcely    pass'd   a  single   lip — 
The  sack    and  sea  had   settled   all    in  time, 

From  which  the   secret   nobody  could    rip: 

The   public   knew  no  more   than   does  this   rhyme; 

No  scandals   made   the   daily   press   a  curse — 

Morals  were  better,  and   the  fish   no  worse. 

CL. 

He  saw  with   his  own   eyes   the   moon   was  rf)nnd, 
Was   also   certain   that    the   earth   was   s(inare. 

Because  he    had  journey'd   fifty   miles,  and   found 
No  sign  that   it  was   circidar   any   where  ; 

His   empire   also   was   with(Mil   a  bound: 
'Tis   true,  a  little  tronhleil   here   and    there, 

By   rebel   pachas,   and   encroaching    giaours^ 

But  then  they  never  came   to  "the   Seven  Towers,* 

CLI. 

Except  in   shape  of  envoys,   who   were   sent 

To   lodire  there   when   a   war  broke  out,   according 

To  the   true   law  of  nations,  which   ne'er  meant 
Those  scoundrels  who  have   never  had  a   sword  in 

Their  dirty   diplomatic  hands,  to  vent 

Their  s])leen   in  making   strife,  and   safely   wordit.ij 

Their  lies,  yclept  despatches,  without   risk  or 

The  singeing  of  a  single   inky  whisker. 

CLII. 

He  had  fifty  daughters   and   four   dozen   sons, 

Of  whom  all  such   as   came   of  age   were   ^low'd. 

The   former  in   a  [lalace,  where   like  nuns 

They   livcid   till   some   bashaw    was   sent   abroao. 

When  she,   whose   turn    it   was,   wedded   al   once. 
Sometimes   at  six  y(;ars  old— thmigh  this  seems  oiki- 

'Tis   true;    the    re:ison   is,  that    the   basiiaw 

Must  make   a  present  to  his  sire   in   law. 

CLin. 

His  sons   were  kept  in   prison   till   they   gre-.v 
Of  years   to  fill   a  bowstring   or  the    thro.io, 

One  or  the  other,  but    wliich   of  the  two 
Could   yet  be   known   unto  the   fates  al(,i;e  , 

Meantime    tiie   education    ilicy    went    d.r  -  uh 

Was   princely,  as   tlu;   proofs   liav^  alwnys  shown 

So   that  th.!  heir    apparent    slill   was   f.^i'"'. 

No  less  deserving  to   be   hang'd   th;ni  erovnd 


DON    JUAN. 


GJJI 


CUV. 
Flis   n'.ajrsly  sal>,ittul    his  foiirth  spouse 

With   all   iho  (•<"n'moiiics  of  his  rank, 
Who  cU'arM  her  sparkliiij;  t-yes  and  siiioothM  lu!r  brows, 

As  s-.iits  a  inatroii  who  has   |i!ayM    a   prank  : 
These  must  scvm  .lonUlv  iiiiii(irui  of  their  vows, 

To   >'ivu   the   cre.Ut    of  ih-i     hreakin<r   i)ank  ; 
To   no    •lieu    are    such    conhal    LTfctinHS   <;iv<;ii 
As  »-hose  wh.ose  wives  hav(t  made  tiieiii  fit  for   heaven. 

CLV. 

Ills   rashness   cast   around    his   ^rrcat    hhu'.k  eves, 
And' lookuKj,   as  lie  alwavs  lookM,  pere('ived 

J.ian   ainoiiijsl   the  daiiiscvls   in    (lisruisc. 

At  which  lie  seemM  no  whit  surprised,  nor  ^I'lcvci 

But  Just    reinark'd    with  air   sedate   and  v.isc, 
While  slill   a   rtiittering  siiih  Gnlliey;;/.  heaved, 

'*  I  see   von 've   hoie.dit   another  jrirl  ;    'tis   pitv 

That   a  mere  Clirisliai.i  should   be  half  so  pretty." 

CLVI. 

This  comjdirnent,  which   drew  all   eves  upon  . 

The   new-bouf;h'  virgin,  made   her  blush  aiul  shake, 
[ler  comrades,  also,  t!Kiiii;:ht  themselves  undone: 

Oh,  Mahomet  !   tlia.    his  inajestv  should   take 
Such  notii'e  of  a  rriaour.  while  scarce  to  one 

Of  tiiem   his   lips   imperial   ever  spake! 
There  was  a    General  whisper,  toss,  aiifl  wrigt^le, 
But   etiquette  forbade  them  all   to  giggle. 

CLVII. 

The  Turks  do  well   to  shut — at  least,  sometimes — 
The  women   uji — because,  in   sad   reality, 

Th(;ir  chastitv  in  these  imhappv  climes 
Is  not   a   thiii2  of  that  astriiti{(^,iit  quality, 

Whicli  in  the  north    prevents  precarious  crimes, 
Ai:d   makes   our  snow  less  pure  than  our  morality ; 

The  sun,  which  yearly  molls  the  polar  ice, 

Has  quite  the   contrary  eliect  on  vice. 

CLV  II  I. 

Thus  far  our  chronicle  ;   and   now  we  pause, 
ThouiJh   not   for  want  of  matter  ;    bat   'tis   time, 

According  to  the  ancient  epic   laws. 

To  slacken   f*;iil,  and   anchor  with  our  rhyme. 

Let  this  fifth   cauto  me.et  with  due  applause. 
The  sixth   shall  have  a  touch   of  the   sublime  ; 

Meanwhile,  as  Homer  sometimes  sleeps,   jierhaps 

You'll  pardon  to  my  muse   a  few  short  naps. 


PREFviCE 


CANTOS  VI.  VII.  VIII. 


The  details  of  the  sie^e  of  Ismail  in  two  of  the  fol- 
4owmg  cantos  [i.  c.  th<3  Tlii  and  eighth)  are  taken  from  a 
Frendi  work,eiitiil(id  "Histoire  de  laNouvelle  Kussie." 
Some  of  till'  incidents  attributed  to  Don  .Juan  really 
occurred,  partu^iilarly  the  circumstance  of  his  saving 
the  mt^tnt,  which  was  the  actual  case  of  the  late  Due 
de  Richelieu,  then  a  young  vohmteer  in  the  Russian 
service,  and  afierwards  the  founder  and  benefactor  of 
Odessa,  where  his  name  an<l  memory  can  nev(!r  cease 
to  be  regarded  with  reverence.  In  rhe  course  of  th.'se 
cantos,  a  stanza  or  two  will  be  found  relative  to  the 
late  Manjuis  of  Londonderry,  but  written  some  time 
oefore  his  decease.     Had   that  person's    iligarchy  died 


with  him,  tliey  would  have  bcim  Mip]>ress(  d  ;  as  it  is, 
am  aware  of  nothing  in  the  manner  (if  his  de'atli  or  ( f 
his  life  to  prevent  the  free  <'X|(ression  uf  the  opinions 
of  all  whom  his  whole  existence  was  consumed  in  en- 
ileavouiing  to  <Mislave.  That  he  was  an  amiable  man 
in  7;nrr//c  life,  may  or  may  not  Int  tru(; ;  but  with  .his 
tie'  puiilic  hav(t  nothing  to  do:  and  as  to  l.-unenlmg  hid 
death,  it  will  be  time  enoiii:h  whi'ii  Ir.daiid  has  ceased 
to  mourn  f  .r  les  iiirlli.  As  a  minister,  i,  Ibr  oik;  of 
millions,  looked  upon  him  as  the  most  despotic  in  in- 
tention, and  ;Ih!  weakest  in  intell<;ct,  that  ever  tyrati- 
ur/.v.d  over  a  country.  It  is  the  first  time  indeed  since 
the  Normans,  that  Kiiiihind  has  been  insulted  by  a  min- 
i.'^/n-  (at  le;isi)  v.ho  couki  not  speak  KnijlisM,  and  that 
Parliament  permitted  itself  to  he  dictated  to  m  !he  lan- 
guage of  Mrs.  Malaprop. 

Ot'  the  maimer  of  Ins  deiith  lilth;  need  be  said,  ex- 
cept that  if  a  poor  radical,  such  as  Waddinglon  or 
\Vatson,  had  cut  his  throat,  he  would  have  been  buried 
in  a  cross-road,  with  the  usual  a|)|iurtenanc(;s  of  the 
stake  and  mallet.  Hut  the  minister  was  an  elegant 
I'.iiiatic — a  sentimental  suicide — he  merely  cut  thfi 
"carotid  artery"  (blessings  on  their  learning;  I  j — and 
Jo!  the  pageant,  and  the  abbey,  and  "  the  syllables 
of  dolour  yelled  forth"  by  the  newspapers— and  the 
harangue  of  the  coroner  in  an  eulogy  over  the  bleed- 
ing body  of  the  deceased — (an  Antony  worthy  of  such 
a  Ca;sar) — and  the  naiist^ius  and  atrocious  cant  of  a 
degraded  crew  of  C(jiispirators  against  all  that  is  sincere 
or  honourable.  In  his  death  he  was  necessarily  one  of 
two  things  by  tlie  law — a  felon  or  a  madman — and  in 
either  ca^-e  no  great  subject  for  [lanegyric. '  In  his  life 
Re  was — what  all  the  world  knows,  and  half  of  it  \\  ill  feel 
for  years  to  come,  unless  his  death  [irove  a  "moral  les- 
son" lo  the  surviving  Sejani^  of  Europe.  It  ma}' at  least 
serve  as  some  consolation  to  the  nations,  that  their  op- 
pressors are  not  hapfiy,  and  in  some  instances  judge  so 
justly  of  their  own  actions  as  to  anticipate  the  sentence 
of  mankind. — Let  us  hear  no  more  of  this  man,  and  let 
Ireland  remove  the  ashes  ofherGrattan  from  the  sanc- 
tuary of  Westminster.  Shall  the  Patriot  of  ilumanily 
repose  by  the  Werther  of  Politics !  !  ! 

With  regard  to  the  objections  which  have  been  made 
on  another  score  to  the  already  published  cantos  of 
this  poem,  I  shall  content  myself  with  two  quotations 
from  Voltaire:  — 

"  La  pudeur  s'est  enfuie  des  canirs,  et  s'est  refugiee 
sur  les  K'vres." 

"  Plus  les  mamrs  sent  depravees,  plus  les  expressions 
devienneiit  mesurees  ;  on  croit  regagner  en  langage  ee 
(pron  a  perdu  en  vertu." 

This  is  the  real  fact,  as  apiilicable  to  the  degraded  ana 
hypocritical  mass  which  leavens  the  present  English 
generation,  and  is  the  only  answer  they  deserve.  The 
hackneyed  and  lavished  title  of  blasphemer — whicii 
\Mth  radical,  liberal,  j;icobin,  reformer,  etc.,  are  the 
changes  which  the  hirelings  are  daily  ringing  in  the 
ears  of  those  who  will  listen — should  be  welcoiiu;  to 
all  who  recollect  on  ii-hoiii  it  was  originally  bestowed. 
Socrates  and  Jesus  Christ  were  put  to  death  publicly 
as  hl'i!<phc/tiers,  and  so  have  been  and  may  lie  many 
who  dare  to  oppose  the  most  notorious  abuses  of  the 
name  of  God  and  the  mind  of  man.      But  uersecution 


1  I  say  liy  llie  l<nc  ()t'lhi;  Irmil — tiie  laws  ot'luiii  ini;y  jmljie 
more  jiciiily.  Ixit  as  the  ii.i:itiiiiates  have  itiwavs  tiie /uw  in 
tlieir  moiillis,  lei  tlie.ii  iiere  make  the  iiiosi  of  il. 

•2  rreiii  this  iiiiiiilier  imisi  lie  excepted  Caimii  iz.  Canning;  isn 
genius,  alnio^i  a  iiTiivt-rsal  one:  an  orator,  a  wit,  a  poet,  a 
statesman  ;  atui  no  man  of  talent  can  loiiK  imrsiie  tito  path  ol 
his  la.e  predecessor,  I/ord  C  If  ever  man  saved  his  i:ountr7 
Canning  can;  l>ut  will  tie  ?    I,  f(  r  oik;,  liopa  so. 


632 


BYPvON'S    POETICAL    WOUKS. 


is  noi  refutanon,  nor  even  tfiiimph  :  the  wretfhc'!  irifi- 
d(  i,  as  ne  is  called,  is  [ji-obahly  liappicr  iii  his  prison 
tliaii  (i.e  proudest  of  his  assailants.  With  his  opuiioris 
I  have  nothing  to  do— they  may  be  right  or  wron;,'— 
htit  he  has  sutFered  for  inein,  and  that  very  siifftrnio 
fur  conscience  sake  will  make  more  proselytes  to  Deism 
fhan  the  example  of  heterodox'  prelates  to  Cin-istv.mty, 
omcide  statesmen  to  oppression,  or  overpensioned  iiom- 
ic.des  to  the  impious  alliance  which  insults  the  world 
with  the  name  of  "  Holy  !"  1  liave  no  msn  to  irampUi 
on  the  dishonoured  or  the  dead ;  but  it  would  be  well 
if  the  adherents  to  the  classes  t>om  whence  those  per- 
sons sjiruno  sliould  abate  a  littb  of  the  cunt  which  is  the 
crying  sm  of  this  double-dealing  and  false-speakmgtime 
of  seltish  spoilers,  and — but  enough  for  the  nresenl. 


IV. 


CANTO  yi. 


'•  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood" — you  kiK>w  the  rest, 

Ar.d  most  of  us  have  found  it,  now  and   then  ; 
At  'east  we  tliink  so,  though  but  few  have  gucss'd 

The  moment,  till  too  late  to  come  again. 
But  no  doubt  every  thing  is  for  the  best — 

Of  which  the  surest  sign  is  in  the  end  : 

When  things  are  at  the  worst,  they  sometimes  mend. 

II. 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  women 

"Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads" — God  knows 
where : 

Those  navigators  must  be  able  seamen 

Whose  charts  lay  down  its  currents  to  a  hair ; 

Not   all  the   reveries  of  Jacob  Hehnien 

With  its  strange  whirls  and  eddies  can  comiiare  : 

Mer,with  their   heads,  reflect  on   tliis  and  tliat — 

But  women,  w  ith  their  hearts,  on  Heaven  knows  what ! 

III. 

And   yet  a  headlong,   headstrong,  downright  she, 
Young,  beautiful,  and  daring — who  would  risk 

A  throne,  the   world,  the  universe,  to  lie 

Beloved   in  her  own  way,  and  rather  whisk 

The   stars  from  out  the   sky,  than   not  be  free 
As   are  the  billows   when  the   breeze   is  brisk — 

Though   such   a  sin; 's   a  devil    (if  that  there  be  one), 

Vet  she  would   make   (iill   many  a  Manichean. 

1  VVIif-n  Lord  Sanrvich  said  "  Ik;  did  not  know  tlio  diU'cr- 
cuc.i'.  I)(!tw<!(:n  ortliodi  .y  and  lioUirodoxy," — VV^irlfurton,  Iho 
l)isli(ip,  ropiiiid,  "Ortl.  nloxv,  my  lord,  is  itn/  iloxii,  and  liclo- 
••odovy  is  iniol/iCr  m.iii'.^  doxy." — A  i)rilat(!  of 'Ik;  present  day 

Tiis  discov.Ted.  It  s( i>,  a  t/iin/  kind  of  doxy,  winch  has  not 

yeatly  ,.\alled   in  the  e.es   of  iho  cle"..  Uiul  vWiicli  Bciithum 
5u'lt      Chmcl)  ..>!-Kni;hin.liMn" 


Thrones,  worlds,  et  cetera,  are  so  oft  upset 
By  commonest  ambition,  that  when    passion 

O'erthrows  the  same,  we  readily  forget, 

Or  at  the  least  forgive,  the   loving  rash   one. 

[f  Antony  be  well   remember'd  yet, 

'T  is  not  his  conciuests   keep    his  name  in  fashit  n 

But  Actium,  lost  for  Cleopatra's  eyes, 

Outbalance  all  the  Cajsars'   victories 


He  died   at  fifty  for  a  queen  ot  forty  ; 

I  wish  their  years  had   been  fifteen   and  twenty. 
For  then  wealth,  kingdoms,  worlds,  are  but  a  sport — I 

Remember  when,  though  I   had   no  great   pieniy 
Of  worlds  to  lose,  yet  still-  to  pay  my  court,  I 

Gave  what  I   had — a  heart :   as  the  world  went,  I 
Gave  what  was  worth  a  world  ;   for  worlds  could  never 
Restore   me  those   pure  feelings,  gone  .for  ever, 

VI. 

'T  was  the  boy's  "  mite,"  and,  like  the  "  widow's,"  may 
Perhaps  be  weigh'd  hereafter,  if  not  now  ; 

But  whether  such  things  do,  or  do  not,  ueigh, 
All  wdio  have,  loved,  or  love,  will  still  allow 

Life  has  nought  like  it.     God  is  love,  they  say 
And  Love  's  a  god,  or  was  before   the  brow 

Of  Earth  was  wrinkled  by  the  sins   and   tears 

Of — but  chronology  best  knows  the  years. 

VII. 

We  left  our  hero  and  third  heroine  in 

A  kind  of  state  more  awkward   than   unc-mmcn, 
For  gentlemen  must  sometimes   risk   tlieir  skin 

For  that  sad   tempter,  a   forbidden   woman  : 
Sultans  too  much  abhor  this  sort  of  sin, 

And  don't  agree  at  fill  with  the  wise  Roman, 
Heroic,  stoic  Cato,  the  sententious, 
Who  lent  his  lady  to  his  friend  Hortensius. 

VIII. 
I  know  Gulbeyaz  was  extremely  wrong  ; 

I  own  It,  I  deplore  it,  I  condemn  it ; 
But  I  detest  all  fiction,  even  in  s(jng, 

And  so  must  tell   the  truth,  howe'er  you  blame  il. 
Her  reason  being  weak,  her  passions  strong, 

She  thought  that  her  lord's  heart  (even  could  she  claim 

Was  scarce  enough;   for  he  had  fifty-nine 
Years,  and  a  fifteen-hundredth  concubi-.ie. 

IX. 
I  am  not,  like  Cassio,  "an  arithmetician," 

But  by   "the   bookish   theonc"  it  appears, 
If  'tis  summ'd  up  with  feminine  precision. 

That,  adding  to   the  account  his  Highness'   years, 
The  fair  Sultana  err'd   from  inanition  ; 

For,  were  the   Sultan  just  to  all  his   dears, 
She  could  but  claim  the  fifteen-hundredth   part 
Of  what  should   be  monopoly— the   heart. 

X. 
It  is  observed  that  ladies  are  litigious 

Upon  all  legal  objects  of  possession, 
And  not  the  l(;ast   so  when  they  are  religious. 

Which  doubles  what  they  think  of  the  transgres?iou 
With  suits  and   prosecution  they  besiege  us. 

As   the   tribunals  show  through  many  a  session, 
When  they  suspt^ct  lliat  any  one   goes  shares 
In   that  to  which  the  law  makes  them  sole  heirs. 

XI. 
Now,  if  this  holds  good   in  a  Christian  kind, 

The  heathens   also,  though  with   lesser   latitude, 
Are  apt  to  carry  things  with   a   hii;h   hand. 

And  take  what  kings  call  "  an  mvposing  attitude  ;'> 


DON    JUAN. 


038 


And  for  their  rights  conmihial  make   a  starui, 

When  theirliegehusbaiulsli-fat  thtni  witli  iiiizraliliuie; 
And   as  four  wives   niiisl   liave   tjuaihuple  claims, 
The  Tigris   luis   its  ji.'alousies   like  Thames. 

XII. 

Gullteyaz  was  ihe  foii-th,  ami    (as  I   said) 

The   favourite  ;    but    what  's   tavour   amongst    four  ? 

Polygamy   may  well    he   held   m  dread, 
Not  only  as   a  sm,  but  as   a  hun; ; 

ISlost  wise   m(!n,  with   one  moderate  woman   wed, 
Will   scaret'ly   Hnd   j>!nloso])hy  Ibr   more; 

And   all    (except    Mahometans)"  forbear 

To  make    the   iiuplial   eou(,:h   a  "  lied  of  Ware." 

XUI. 

His   highness,  the  sublimest  of  mankind, — 
So   styled    aecording   to   the    nsiud   forms 

Of  every  monarch,  till   they  are  consigned 
T(j  those  sad   hunnry  jaeohms,  the  v, onus, 

Who  on   the  very  I'jftiest  kinijs   have   dined, — 
His  highness   gazed   upon  Gnlbeyaz'   charms, 

Expecting  all  the  welcome  of  a  lover, 

(A  "  Highland  welcome  "  all  the   wide  world  over) 

XIV. 

Now  liere  we   should  distinguish  ;    for   liowe'er 

Kisses,   sweet  words,   embraces,  and    hH   that, 
Mav  look   like  what  is — neither  here   nor  there: 

Tiiey  are   pvit  on    as  easily  as   a   hat. 
Or   rather  bonnet,  which   the  fair  sex   wear, 

Trimm'd   either  heads  or  hearts   to  decorate, 
Which   form    an    ornament,  but   no   more   part 
Of  heads,  than  their  caresses  of  the  lu;art. 

XV. 
A  slignt  blush,  a  soft  tremor,  a  calm  kind 

Of  gentle  fennnine  deliidit,  and  shown 
More   m    the   eyelids   than    tlie    eyes,    resign'd 

Rather   \o   hide   what    pleases   most  imknovvn. 
Are  the  best  tokens   (to   a  modest   mind) 

Of  love,   when  seated   on  his   loveliest   throne, 
A  sincere  woman's  breast, — for  over  warm 
Or  over  cold  ar.nihilates  the  cliarm. 

XVI. 

For  over  warmth,  if  false,  is  woree  tlian   truth  ; 

If  true,  't  is  no  great  lease  of  its  own  hre ; 
For  no  one,  save  in  very  early  youth. 

Would  like   (I  think)  to  trust  all  to  desire, 
Which   is  but  a  precarious  bond,   in  sooth. 

And  apt   to  be  transferr'd  to  the  first  buyer 
At   a  sad   discount  :    while  your  over  chilly 
Women,  on  t'  otiier  hand,  seem  somewhat  silly.— 

XVII. 

That  is,  we  cannot  pardon  their  bad  taste. 
For  so  it  seems  to  lovers  swift  or  slow, 

Who  fain   would  have  a  mutual  tianie   confess'd, 
And  see  a  sentimental  passion   glow. 

Even  were   St.  Francis'   paramour  their  fuest, 
In   his   Monastic   Concubine  of  Snow ;  — 

In   short,  the  maxim  for  the  amorous  tribe  is 

Horatian,  "  Medio  tu   tutissimus    ibis." 

XVIII. 

The  "  tu  "  's  too  much, — but  let  it  stand — the  verse 

Requires  it,  that  's   >o   say,  tlie   F2ng!ish  rh3rne, 
And  not   the   pink   of  old    Hexameters  ; 

But,  after  all,  there 's   neitlier  tune  nor   time 
£n   the   last  line,  which  cannot   well  be  worse. 

An  J  was  thrust   in   to  close  the  octave's  chime: 

own  no  jirosody  can   evrsr  rate    it 
As  a  rule,  but  Truth  may   if  vou  translate  it. 


XIX. 

If  fair  Gnlbeyaz  overdid  her  pari, 

I  know  not — it  succeeded,  and  success 

Is   much   in  most  things,   not    le^^•   m   the   hesLTl 
Than  ether   articles    of  female    dre:+s. 

Self-love   in    man    too   beats   ail   i'emale   art  ; 
They  lie,  wo   lie,  all    lie,  but    love   no   less: 

And    no   one   virtue  y(;t,  '■X(-<ipt   starvation. 

Could   stop   that  W(jrsl   of  vi(;es — propagatioK. 

XX. 

We  leave  this  royal  coup  e   to   repose  ; 

A  bed   IS  not   a"  thro. u^   and   they  may  sle(;p, 
Whate'er  their  dr('ams   be,  if  oi' joys  or  woes  j 

Yet  disap[)omted  joys   are  wotis  as  deep 
As   any  inaifs  clay  mixture   undergoes. 

Our  least  of  sorrows  are  sn«-h  as  we  weep  ; 
'T  IS  ihe  vile  daily  drop  on  droi)  whic-ti  wears 
The  s(jul   out  (like  the  stone)    with   i)etty  cares. 

XXI. 

A  scoldmg  wife,  a  sullen  son,  a  biil 

To  jiay,  unpaid,  protested,  or  discounted 

At  a  per-centage  ;    a  child  cross,  dog  ill, 

A  favourite  horse  fallen  lame  just  as  he's  mounted,' 

A  bad  old   woman   making  a  worse  \m11, 

Which  leaves   you   minns  of  the  cash  you  counlcd 

As  certain  ;— these  are  paltry  things,  an<l   yet 

I  've  -arely  seen  the  man   they  did   not  fret. 

XXII. 

I  'm  a  philosopher  ;    confound   them   all  I 

Bills,  beasts,  and  men,  and — no  !   not  womankind! 

With  one  20od   hearty  curse  I   vent  my  gall. 
And  then   my  stoicism  leaves  nought   behind 

Which   it  can   either   |)ain   or   e-il  call. 

And  I  can  give  my  whole  soul   up   to  ntitid  ; 

Though  what   IS  soul   or  mmd,  I  heir  birth   or  growl/i^ 

Is   more  than   I   know— the  deuce   take  them   both. 

xxm. 

So  now  all  things   a-e  d — ii'd,  one  teels  at  ease, 

As   after  reading  Athanasius'   curse, 
VVhicli  doth  your   true  believer  so  much   please : 

I   doubt  if  any  now  could   m.ake   it  worse 
O'er  his  worst  enemy  when  at  his  knees, 

'T  is  so   sententious,  [lositive,  and  terse, 
And  decorates  the  book  of  Coimnon  Prayer, 
As  doth  a  rainbow  the  just  clearing  air. 

XXIV. 
Gulbeyaz  and  her  lord  were  sleeping,  or 

At  least  one  of  them— Oh  the  heavy  night ! 
When  wicked  wives  who  love  some  bachelor 

Lie   down  in   dudgeon  to  sigh   for  the  light 
Of  the  gray  morning,  and  look  vainly  for 

Its  twinkle  through  the  lattice  dusky  quite, 
lo  toss,  to  tumble,  doze,  revive,  and  quake. 
Lest  their  too  lawful  bed-fellow  should  wake. 

XXV. 

These  are  beneath  the  canopy  of  heaven, 

Also  beneath  the  canopy  of  beds, 
Four-posted  and  silk-curtam'd,  which  are  given 

For   rich  men  and   their  brides  to  lay  their  heads 
Upon,  in  sheets  white   as  what  bards  call  "diivor 

Snow."    Well!  'tis  all  hap-hazard  when  one  weds 
Gnlbeyaz  was  an  empress,  but  had  been 
Perha[)s  as  wretched  if  a  peasant'' s  quean. 

XXVI. 

Don  .Juan,  in  his  feminine  disguise. 

With  all  the  damsels  in  their  long  array, 

Had  bow'd  themselves  before  the  imperial  eyes. 
And,  at  the  isual  signal,  t^'en  their  wav 


634 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Back  to  cneir  c/iaiuUers,  tl.ose  long  galleries 

In   tlie  seraglio,  whore  the  ladies  lay 
Tlieir  delicate  limbs;    a  thoiisati<l  bosoms  there 
Beating  for  love,   as  the   cngeJ   bird's  for  air. 

XXVII. 

I  love   the   sex,   atul   somelimes  would  reverse 
The  tyrant's  wisii   "  that    mankind   only  had 

One  neck,  which  he  with  one  fell  stroke  niiuht  pierce:" 
INIy  wish  is  (|uite   as  wide,  'nit    not  so   bad. 

And  much   more   tender  on  the  whole  than  fierce: 
It    l)eing    (not    non-^  but   on  y  while   a    lad) 

That  wonKUikmd   had    but   one   rosy  mouth, 

To   kiss  them   all  at  once   from   North   to  South. 

xxvm. 

Oh  enviable   Briareus  !    with   thy  hands 

And   heads,   if  thou    hadst    all   thni'is   multiplied 

In  such  proportion! — Hut    my  muse  withstands 
Th(!   giant    thoui;hl    of  being  a  Titan's  bride, 

Or  travellini?  in    Pata^onian   lauds  ; 
So   let   us   back   to    Lilliput,  and   guide 

Our   hero  through  the   lahvrinlh  of  love 

In  which  we  left  lum  several   lines   above. 

xxix. 

He  went    firth  with  the   lovely  Odalisques, 

At   the  iriven   signal  join'd    to   their  array; 
And   though   he  certainly  ran   many  risks. 

Yet  he  could  not  at  times  keep  by  the  way, 
^Althou^h   the  consequences  of  such  frisks 

Arc  worse    tliaii  tlie  worst  damages   men  pay 
In   moral    England,  where  the  thing's   a   tax), 
Frctm  ogling  all  their  charms   from  breasts  to   backs. 

XXX. 
Still  he   forwt   not   his   disguise  : — along 

Fhe   sail. TICS   f,on.   ro.-m   to   i-()<,m    they  walk'd, 
A   virsiti-like   and   edifvmg  throng, 

By  eunuchs  tlank'i.l  ;   wliile  at  their  head  there  stalk'd 
A  dame  wlio   k(;pt   up   discipline   among 

The  female  ranks,  so  that   none  stirr'd   or  talk'd 
Without   hf:r  sanction   on  their  she-parades  : 
Her  title  was  "the  Mother  of  the  Maids." 

XXXI. 

Whether  she  ^vas  a  "  mother,"  I  know  not. 

Or  whether  they  were  "maids"  who  call'd  her  mother; 

But   this   is  her  seraglio  title,  got 

I  know  not  how,  but  good  as  any  other  ; 

So   Cantemir  can   tell   you,  or  De  Tott : 
Her  otlice  was  to  kee|)   aloof  or  sniothier 

All   bad    propensities   in   fifteen  hundred 

Fouiig  women,  and  correct  them  when  they  hlunder'd. 

XXXII. 

A  goodly  sinecure,   no  doubt  !    but  made 
More  easy  by  the  absence   of  all   men 

Except  his    M:ii(wty,  who,  with   her  aid, 

And  guards,  and  bolts,  and  walls,  and  now  and  then 

A   sii<rht  example,  just   to  cast  a  shade 

Along  the   rest,  contrived  to   keep  this  den 

Of  beauties   cool   as   an   Italian   convent, 

Where  all  tiie   passions  have,  alas  !    but  one  vent. 

XXXIFI. 

And  what  is   that  ?    Dcvotiun,   doubtless — how 
Could  you  a-^k   su'-li    ;i  (picstion  ? — but  we   will 

Contmue.      As   I    said,  this    i:oodly  row 
Of  ladies   of  all   conntnes   at   the  will 

Of  one  good   m.ui,  with   sia'i-lv  march   and   slow, 
Like  water-lilies  lloalm;:   .l..wn   a    rill, 

Or  ralli<!r  lake— for    ri/U  ,\n   not  run   sl,nrl>/,~ 

Pacoil  on  most  niaiden-like  and   melancholy 


XXXIV 

But  when  they  reacli'd  their  own   p pari  men's,  thereit 
Like  birds,  cr  boys,  or  bedldir.ives   broke   loose, 

Waves   at  spring-tide,  or  uoti.f-n   .my  where 

W^hen  freed  from  bonds  (which  are  of  i.o  great  est, 

After  all),  or   like   Irish   at   a   fiir, 

Their  guards   beinir  gone,   and,  as  it  were,  a  truce 

Estalilisird    bets'  e(!n    tiiera    and    bondage    they 

Began  to   sing,    'aiice,  (diatter,  smile,  and  play. 

XXXV. 

Their  talk   of  course  ran    most  on    he   new  comer, 
Her  sha[)e,  her  air,  her  hair,  her  evtiry  thinff : 

Some  thought  her  dress  did  not  so  much  be(;(jme  hei, 
Or  wonder'd   at   her  ears  without  a   ring; 

Some  said  her  years  were  getting  nigh  their  summer 
Others  contended  they  were  but    in  spring  ; 

Some  thought  her  raiher  masculine  in   height, 

While  others  wish'd   that   she   had   bteii  so  (piite. 

XXXVI. 

But  no  one  doubterl,  on   the  whole,  that   she 
Was  what  her   dress   bespoke,  a  damsel   fair. 

And    fresh,  and   "beautit'i!    exccedinglv," 

Who  with  the   brightest  Creorgians  might  compare 

They  wonder'd   how  Gulbev;!/,   too  could   be 
So  silly  as   to    buy  slaves   who   might    sliare 

(If  that   his  Highness  weaned   of  his   hndc) 

Her  throne   and   jiower,   and  every  thing  beside. 

XXXVH. 

But  what  was   strangest    m   tliis  virgin   crew, 

Although   lier   beautv  was   enough   to   vex, 
At"ter   the    first    investigating  view, 

They  all  fiund  out  as   few,  or   fewer,  speclis. 
In    tlie  ^fair  form    of  tludr  companion    new, 

Than    is   the   (■.•-'•. .,1    cf  tlie    gentle    scx. 
When  they  survey,  with  Christian   eyes  or  Heathen. 
In  a  new  face  "the   ugliest  creature   breathing." 

XXXVIII. 
And  yet  they  had   tlieir   little  jealousies, 

Like  all  the   rest ;    but  upon   this  occasion, 
Whether   there  are   such   things   as   svmpathies 

Without  our  knowledge  or  our    a|)probatioii. 
Although  they  could   not   see   through  his   disguise, 

All  felt  a  soft  kind  of  concatenalion. 
Like  magnetism,  or  deviiism,  or  wliat 
You   please — we  will   not   (luarrel  about  that : 

XXXIX. 
But  certain  't  is,  they   all   felt   for  tlieir  new 

Companion   something  nev/er  stili,  as   'twere 
A  sentimental   friendship  through   and   through, 

Extremely   pure,  which  made   them  all  concur 
In  wishing   her  their  sister,  save   a   few 

Who  wish'd  they  had   a  brother  just   like  her. 
Whom,  if  (hey  were   at   home   in   sweet  Circassia, 
They  would  prefer  to  Padisha  or  Pacha. 

XL. 

Of  those  who  had   most   genius  for  this  si  rt 
Of  sentimemai  friendship,  there   were   three, 

Lolah,  Ivatinka,  and  Dudii  ; — in   short, 

(To   save  description),  fair  as  fair  can  be 

Were   they,  according  to   the  best   teport, 
Though  differing   in   stature    and    degree. 

And  clime  and   time,  and  (■oiintry  and   complexion; 

They  all  alike  admired   tlunr  new  coiuiexion. 

XLL 

L  (lab  was   dusk    as   India,  and    as  warm  ; 
Katinka  was   a  Oeorgiau,  w  nitc    and    red, 
I     With    great   bm..   eyes,  a    lovely  liand    and    arm, 
J        And  feet  so  small  they  scarce  see-m'd  made  to  tread 


DON    JUAN. 


m5 


Hut  rather  ^kim   tlie  eartlj      whi'.e  Dinlu's  form 

Ldok'd   mure  a(l;i|,tf,l   t      k-    put    lo    Ii.mI, 
Hoiii;^  soincwhiit    lai-iTc    ai).i    huinrsiishinij   and    lazy, 
Yet  of  a   beauty  that  would   diive  you   ma/.y. 

XLII. 
A  kind  of  shM^py  Vetms  s.'eui'd    Du.lii, 

Yet  very  lit  to  "  murder  sleep"  in  those 
Who   crazed    upon    her   eheek's    transcen.leut    hue, 

Her  Attic    forehead,   and    h(>r   I'hidian    nose- 
Few   aiii:les    \ver(;    tlu:re   ui   her   form,   't  is   true, 

Thinner  slie  nni;ht    hav<-  lieen,  and   yet  scarce  lose  ; 
Yet,  afi<'r  all,  't  would   puzzle   to  sav  where 
It   would  not  spoil  some  sepiirate  charm  lo  pare. 

XLIII. 
Siie  was  not  violently  livelv,  hut 

Stole  on  your   spirit    liki;  a  May-day  hreakliiCT  ; 
Eler  eyes  we'/e   not  too   sparklnii.',   vet,  half  shut, 

They  put  bchol  lers  in  a  tender  tal'iiii:  ; 
She   look'd    (this  simile's   (juite   ncnv)  just   cut 

From    ii'arhle,  like   PyiTuialion's   statue  waking 
The   mor'al  aiul   the    marhle   still   at   strife, 
And  timidly  e.xjianding   into   lite. 

XLIV. 
Lolah  demanded  tlie   new  damsel's  name — 
"Jiianna." — Well,  a  pretty  name   eriouiih. 
Katinka   ask'd   her  also  whence  she   canii! — 

"From  Spam." — "Hut  where  «  Spam/" — "Don't  ask 
such  stiitf, 
Nor  show  your  Georoian  iirnorance — for   shame!" 

Said  Lolah,  with  an  accent  rather  rouirh, 
To  poor  Katinka:  "  S[)a!n 's  an  island  nca 
Morocco,  betwixt  Egypt   and  Tangier." 

XLV. 
Dudu   said   notliinij,   hut    sat    down   beside 
Jiianna,   ["liLvinc;  with   her   veil  or   hair  ; 
And,  looking  at   her  stedfastly,  she  sigh'd, 

As  if  sne  pitied   her  for   beini;  there, 
.A.  pretty  stranger,  witliout   friend   or   guide. 

A:x'.   -ill   abash'd   too   at  the  general   stare 
Which  welcomes   hapless   strangers   in    all    |)laces, 
With  kind   remarks   upon  their  ir.'eu  and   faces. 

XLYI. 

Bui  here  the  Mother  of  the  Maids  drew  near, 
With   "Ladies,  it   is   time  to   go   to   re.>„ 

I'm    puzzle<l  what    to  do  with   you,  mv  dear," 
She   added   to  Juanna,  tiH;ir   new  guest  : 

"Your  coming   has   Ixieii   unexpected  here, 
And   every  couch   is  occupied  ;   you   had   best 

Partake  of  mine  ;    but    by  to-morrow  early 

We  will   have  all   thnisis   settled   for  you  fai'-ly." 

xL\n. 

Here  Lolah   interposed — "Mamma,  you    know 

You   don't   sl(!ep  soundlv,  and   I   cannot  bear 
That   any  bodv  should    disturb   you  ;    so 

I'll    take   Juanna;    we're    a   sl<:nderer   pair 
Than   you  would    make  the  half  of ; — don't  say  no. 

And  I  of  vour  voim<;  charge  will  take  due  care." 
But   hfTC  Katinka  interfered    and   said, 

"  She  djso   had  compassion   and    a  bed." 

XLVIII. 

••Besides,  I   hate   to  sleep  aloin;,"   fjuoth   she. 

The  mairon   frown'd  :    "  Why  so  .'" — "For   fear  of 
2hosts," 
Replied  Katinka ;   "I   am   sure   I   see 

A  phantom  ujion  each  of  the  f  )ur  [losts  ; 
And   ihen    I  have  the  worst  dreams   that  can   be. 

Of  Guebres,  Giaours,  and  Ginns,  and  Gouls  in  hosts." 
IITie  dame  replied,  "  Between  your  dreams  and  you, 
I  fear  Juanna's  dreams  would  ne   out   tew. 


XLIX. 

"  You,  Lolah,  musK  roniiniK^  still   t)   iic 

Alone,  for   reasons  winch    don't    mailer;   you 

The    same,  Kalmka,  until    bv  and    bv  ; 
And    I  shall    place   Juanna  with  Dudii, 


W 


lo  's   (jUie 


isiv.;,  silent,  shy, 


And  will   not   loss   and   chatter   ibe  mirhl   throjgn 
What  sav  you,  child  ?" — Dudu   said    nothing,  as 
ILir  talents  were  of  the   more  silent  class  ; 

L. 

But  she   rose  up   and   kiss'd   the  matron's  hrow 

Betw(!en   the   eyes,  and   Lolah   on   both   cheeks, 
[    Katinka  too;    and  with   a   sr<aitl(!   how 

(Curtsies   are  neither   used    by  Tinks  nor  (ireeks). 
She   took  Juanna   by  the  hand  "to  shov 

'I'licir   place   of  rest,  and    lefl    to   both  tiieir  piques, 
The   others   pouting   at    the   matron's   [ireferencc; 
Of  Dudu, though  ihey  held  their  tongues  from  deference 

LL 
It  was  a   spacious  chamber    (Oda   is 

The  Turkish   title),  and    ranged   rouriv,   the  wall 
Were  coiichcs,  toilets — and    much   more   than   this 

I  niiirht   describe,   as   I    have  seen   it  all. 
But    it   sulTices — little  was    anas^;  ; 

'T  was  on  the  whole  a  nobly  furnislrd  liail. 
With  all  thin::s  ladies  want,  save  one  or  two, 
And   even  those  were   nearer  than   they  knew, 

LII. 
Dudu,  as   has   been   saiu,  w,ip  a  sweet   cr<'ature, 

Not  very  dashing,  hut   extreni(dv  winning, 
With   the  most    regulat(>d   charms  of  feature. 

Which   i^aiii'ers  cannot    catch   like   faces   sinning 
Ac'i-Uist    |)roportion — the  wild    strokes   of  nature 

Which   tliev  !ut    olT  ;it    once    in    the   beginning, 
Full  of  expression,  riijht  or  wrons,  that    slriKe, 
And,  pleasing  or  unpleasing,  still   are  like. 

LIII. 

But   slie  was  a  soft    landscajie    of  mild   earth, 

NVliere   all   was   harmonv  and   calm   ami   (piiet, 
Luxuriant,  budding  ;    cheerful  witliout    mirlh. 

Which,   if  not    happiness,   is   much   more   nigh  it 
Than   are  your   mighty   [)assions  and  so  firth, 

^Vhich  some  call  "  the  sublime :"  1  wish  they  'd  try  it 
I  've  seen  your  stormy  seas   and  stormy  women. 
And   pity  lovers  rather  more  than  seamen. 

LIV. 
But   she  was   pensive  more   than   inelaiicholv. 

And   serious   more   than   pensive,  and   serene, 
It   may  he,  more   than   either — not  unholy 

Her  thoughts,  at  least  till  now,  appear  to  have  been. 
The  strangest  thing  was,  beauteous,  she  was   whollj 

Unconscious,  albeit  turn'd  of  (juick   seventeen, 
That  she  was  fair,  or  dark,  or  short,  or  tall ; 
She  never  thought  about  herself  at  all. 

LV. 

And  therefore   was   she   kind  and    gentle  as 

The  Age  of  Gold    (when  gohl  was  yet  unknown. 
By  which    its   nomenclature  came  to  pass  ; 

Thus  most   appro[)riafely  has   been   shown 
"  Lucus   a   non  Lucendo,"  not  what  »'  j. 

But  what  w;a.s  not;  a  sort  of  style  tlia,t 's  gTDwn 
Extremely  (;ommon   in   this  age,  whose  metal 
The  devil  may  decom|)ose  but    never  settle. 

LV[. 
I  think  it  may  be  of  "  Corinthian    Brass," 

Which  wa?  a  mixture  of  all   metals,  but 
The  brazen  uppermost).      Kind   reader!    pass 

This  long   parenthesis :   I  could  not  shut 


636 


BYRON  fe    POETICAL    WORKS. 


[t  sooner  lor  the  soul   of  me,  and  c.ass 

M_v  faults  even  with  your  own!   which  meaneth,  put 
A  Uuid   OMistruction  upon  them   and  me: 
But  that  you  won't — then  don't— I  am  not  less  free. 

LVII. 

T  is  time  we  should   return  to  plain  narration, 
And  thus  my  narrative  |)roceeds  : — Dudu 

With  every  kindness  short  of  ostentation, 

Show'd  Juan,  or  Juanna,  through   and    through 

This  labyrinth  of  females,  and  each  station 

Described— what's  strange,  in  words  extremely  few: 

I   have  but  one  simile,  and   that's   a  blunder. 

For  wordless  women,  whiuh  is  siltnt  thunder. 

LVII  I. 

And  next  she  gave  her   (I   say  her,  because 

The   <Jender   still  was  epicene,  at   least 
In  outward  show,  which  is   a   saving  clause) 

An  outline  of  the  customs  of  the  East, 
With   all  their  chaste   integrity  of  laws, 

By  which  the  more  a  haram  is  increased. 
The  stricter  doubtless  grow  the  vestal  duties 
Of  any  sujiernuinerary  beauties. 

LIX. 
And   then  she  srave  Juanna  a  cliaste  kiss  : 

Dndi:i  was  fijud   of  kissing— which    I  'm  sure 
That  nobody  can  ever  take  amiss, 

Because  'tis  [jleasant,  so  that  it  be  pure, 
And   between  females  means   no  more  than  this — 

That  they  have  nothing  better  near,  or  newer. 
»*Ki-s"  rhvmes  to  "bliss"  in  fact  as  well  as  verse — 
I  wish   it  never  led   to  something  worse. 

LX. 
[n  peifec^   innocence  she  then   unmade 

Hei  toilet,  which  cost  little,  for  slie  was 
A  child   of  nature,  carelessly  array'd  ; 

If  fond  of  a  cliaiice  ogle  at  her  glass, 
'T  was  like  the  fiiwn  which,  in  the  lake  displayed 

Beholils  her  own  shy  shado'vy  image   pass. 
When  first  she  starts,  and   then   returns  to   peep, 
Admiring  this   new  native   of  the   deep. 

LXI. 

And  one  by  one  her  articles  of  dress 

Were  laid  aside  ;   but  not  before  she  otfer'd 

Her  aid  to  fair  Juanna,   whose   excess 

Of  modesty  declined  the  assistance  proffer'd — 

Which  pass'd  well  off— as  she   could  do  no  less  : 
Though  by  this   politesse  she   rather   suifer'd, 

Pricking  her  fingers  with  those  cursed  pins. 

Which  surely  were  invented  for  our  sins, — 

LXII. 

Making  a  woman  like   a   porcupine. 

Not   to  be  raslilv  touch'd.      But   still   more  dread, 
Oh  ye!    whose  fate   it   is,  as  ones  'twas  mine, 

In  early  youth,  to  turn   a  lady's   maid; — 
I  did  my  very  bovish   best  to  shine 

In  trickitiij  her  out  fm-  a  -nasquerade : 
The  pins  were  place  i  snihciently,  but  not 
Stuck  ail   exa(!liy  m  the   proper  spot. 

LXIH. 

But   these  a.-£   fx.lish   things  to  all   the  wise — 
And   I    love  Wisdom   mor,:    than   she   loves   me; 

Mv  tendency  is   to    j.lnlosot,ln/e 

On    mos-    Ihi.i^is,  from    a    tyr;ii!t   to   a   tree; 

But    <lill   thn  spouseless  vii 
Wh;i.t  are  we?  and  wlici 

Our    ullvii'ilf.   .•\istctice?    v 

An-   ouesiior.'?   vtis^adi^sSf. 


in   h'noirl,'!'^,    tli.'S. 
(•  ciutir  we  '  uhat  shall 
;,<'s    o.ir    nn's.'ht? 
iiK.    ve.    incessant. 


LXIV. 

There  was  deep  silence  in  the  chamber:   dim 
And   distant  from  each   other   buruM   the  lights, 

And  Slumber  h(wer'd   o'er  each  lovely  limb 
Of  the  fair  occupants:    if  there  be   sprites, 

They  should  have  walk'd  there  in  their  spriteliest  trim 
By  way  of  change  from  their  sejiulchral  sites. 

And  shown  themselves  as   ghosts  of  better  taste. 

Than  haunting  some  old  ruin  or  wild  waste. 

LXV. 

Many  and   beautiful  lay  those  arouml, 

Like  flowers  of  different   hue   and   clime   and  rooU 
In  some  exotic  ganlen  sometimes  found, 

With   cost  and  care  and  warmth   indiii'ed   to  shoot. 
One,  with   her  auburn   tresses  lightly  bound, 

And   fair  brows  gently  drooping,  as  the  fruit 
Nods  from  the   tree,  was  slumbering  with   soft  breail 
And   lips   apart,  which   show'd  the   pearls  beneath. 

LX\T. 

One,  with   her  flush'd   cheek  laid   on   her  white  arm. 
And  raven  rinirlets  gather'd   in   dark  crowd 

Above  h(3r  brow,  lay  drciimiiiir  soft   and  warm  ; 

And,  smiling  through  her  dream,  a;-  through  a  cloiiJ 

The  moon  breaks,  half  uuveird  each   furtlier  charm. 
As,  sliirhtly  stirring  ii'   her  snowy  shroud, 

Her  beauties  seized   the  unconscious  hour  of  night 

All  bashfully  to  struggle  into  light. 

LXVII. 

This   is   no   bull,  although   it   sounds   st^  ;    for 

'T  was  nii,dit,bui  there  were  lamps,  as  hath  been  said 

A  third's  all-pallid  aspect  otler'd   more 

The  traits  of  sleejiing  Sorrow,  and  betray'd 

Through  the  heaved  breast  the  dream  of  some  far  shcre 
Beloved  and  deplored :   while  slovly  stray'd 

(As   night  dew,  on   a   cypress   glittering,  .inges 

The  black  bough)  tear-drops  thro'  her  eyes'  dark  fringes 

Lxvin. 

A  fourth,  as  marble,  statue-like  and   still. 

Lay  in   a  breathless,  liushM,  ami   stony  sleep  ; 

White,  cold,  and   pure,  as   looks   a  frozen   rill. 
Or  the  snow  minaret  on  an  Al|)ine   steej). 

Or  Lot's  wife  done   in   salt,— or  what   you  will; — 
My  similes  are   gather'd  in  a  henp. 

So  pick   and   choose — perhaps   you  '11  be  content 

With  a  carved  lady  on   a  monument. 

LXIX. 

And  lo  !    a  fifth   appears'; — and  what  is  she  ? 

A   lady  of  "  a  certain   age,"  which  means 
Certainly  aged — what  her  years  might   be 

I   know  not,  .never  counting  past  their   teens  ; 
But  there  she^lept,  not  quite  so  fair  to  see 

As   ere  that  awful   period   intervenes. 
Which   lavs  both  men   and  women  on  tiie  shelf, 
To   meditate   upon  their  sins  and   self. 

LXX. 
But   all  tnis  time   how  slept  or  dream'd   Dudu, 

With   strict  inquiry  I  could   ne'er  discover, 
And   scorn   to   add   a   syilalile   untrue  : 

But   ere   the  middle  watch  was  hardly  over. 
Just   when  the   fading  lamps  waned  dim  and   blue. 

And    phantoms   hover'd,  or  might    seem  tc  hover 
To  those  wlio  like  their  company,  about 
The   apartment,  on  a  sudden   she  scream'd  out: 

LXXI. 

And   that  so  loudly,  that   upstarted   all 

The  Oda,  in   a  general   commotion: 
Matron   and  maids,  and  those  whom  you  may  caD 

Neither,  came  crowding  like  the  waves  of  ocean, 


DON    JUAN. 


G37 


O.ic  1)11   the   ether,  throughout   the  whole   hall, 

All   triuihrmir,  woiideriiii.',  withoni   the    ler.-t    notion, 
.More  than   I   have   myself,  of  wha*  coiiM    make 
The  (ahn   Dudu    so   turl)iil(>ni!v  wake. 

LXXII. 
But  wide   awake  she  wa-;,   and    round    licr    lied, 

With   floatin;.'  (h-aperies   and  with   tlvini;   hair. 
With    eager   eyes,   and    lialii    !,nt    hurried"  Ir.'a.l, 

And    bosom-";,  arms,  ao.l    ancles   i.duneinir    i.ar*;, 
Ai.d    !)i-i;f|it    as   any   meteor   ever    bred 

Hy  (he  \orl!i  Pole,— they  s.uiirht  lu-r  (>anse  of  rare. 
For  she  seem'd   agitated,  tiushM,  and   friijliten'd, 
licr  eye  dilated   and  her  colour   lieightenM. 

LXXIII. 

Rut  wnat  is  strange — and   a  strong  |>roof  how  great 
A   blessing  is  sound   sleep,  Juanna  lav 

As  fiist   as  ever  husband   by  his  mate 
In   holv  matrimony  snores   awav. 

Not  all   the  clamour  broke  her  happy  state 
Of  shiTi)!>er,  ere  they  shook  her, — so  thev  sriv. 

At  least, — and    then   she  too   unclosed    her  ev^s. 

And  yawn'd  a   good   deal  with   discreet  surprise. 

LXXIV. 

And  now  coiinnonced  a  strict  investigation. 

Which,  as  all   spoke   at  once,  and   move  than   once 

Conjecturing,  wondering,  asking  a  narration. 
Alike  might  puzzle   cither  wit  or  dunce 

To  answer  in   a  very  clear  oration. 
Dndii   had  never  pass'd  for  wanting  s<mse. 

But,  being  "  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is," 

Could  not  at  first  expound  what  was   amiss. 

LXXV. 

At   .ength  she  said,  that,  in   a  slumber  so\ui(  , 
Slie  dreatn'd   a  dream  o*"  walking  in   a  'V3od — 

A  '*  wood  obscure,"   !i!c<;  th;U    where    Daeie  found' 
Himself  in   at   the   a^n'  when   all   grow  good; 

Life's  half-way  house,  where  dames  with  virtue  crown'd 
Run  much   less  risk  of  lovers  turning  nule  ;  — 

And  that   this  wood  was  full  of  -pleasant   fruits, 

And   trees   of  goodly  growth   and   spreading  roots; 

LXXVI. 

And  in  the  midst   a  golden   applt  grev,-, — 
A   most  prodigious   pi|)pin — but   it    hung 

Rather  too   high  and  distant ;    that  she   threw 
Her  glances   on  it,  and  then,  longing,  flung 

Stones,   and  whatever  she  could   pick   up,  to 

Bring  down  the  fruit,   which  stili   perversely  clung 

To  its  own   bough,  ;in<l   dangled  yet    in   sight, 

Bui    always    at   a  most    j)rovoking   height ;  — 

LXXVH. 

That  on   a   sudden,  whe'ii  s!)e  hiast  had   hope. 
It   fell  down   of  its   own   aeccrd,  before 

Tier  feet  :    that   her  first   moveuHMit  was   to   stoop 
And   pick  it  up,  and   bite   it  to  the  core  ; 

That  j.ist    as   her  young   lip   began   to   ope 
Upc.n   the  gol:i('u   fruit    tin;   vision   b.ore, 

A    bee  tlew  out   and   stung  her  to   the  h(>art, 

3.ad  50 — ^he  awoke   with  a  gn-at  .scream   and  start. 

LXXVIII. 

Ai    vhis  she  told  with  some   confusion    and 
Dismav,  the    usual    conseouencc'  of  dreams 

Of  the  unpleasant   kind,  with    none   at    band 
To   evpound    their  vain   ari'i    visionary   gl(>ams. 

I  've  kui.wnsM-iico  id  ones  wlii-!,  se*  ni'd  really  plann'd 
Prophelicaliy,    fir  tiiat    wiiicli    one   detMus 

"A   strange   coiiK?.  lence,"  to   u.-e   a    phrase 

Dy  wfiKdi  such   tnings  are  settle  !   iiiiw-a-uays. 


LXXIX. 

The  damse  s,  who  hai!  thoughts  of  sonu  grea    harm 
Began,  as  is   the  conseijiience   of  fear. 

To   scold    a   little   at    the    I'alse    alarm 

That   l)roke  for  nothing  on  tlniir  shipping  car 

The   matron    too  was   wroth   tf)   lt;ave    her  warm 

Bed  for  th<!  dream   she   had   been  obliged  ic  hear, 

And  chafed   at   poor   Dudi'i,  who  oiilv  sigh'd. 

And   said  that   she  was  sorry  she  had  (ined. 

LXXX. 

"I've  heard   of  stories   of  ;i  cock   and  bull;  • 

But  visions  of  an  apple  and   a   bee, 
To   fake    us   from   our   natural    rest,  and    [.ull 

The  whole  Oda  from  their  beds   at  half-past  thre«v 
Would   make  us  think   tin;  moon   is  at  its  fiill. 

You  surely  are  unwell,  child  !    we  must  see, 
To-morrow,  what   his  highness's   phvsicnan 
NN  ill  say  to  this   hysteric  (»f  a  vision. 

LXXXI. 
•'And  poor  .Tuanna,  too!    tin;  child's  first  night 

Within   these   walls,  to   be   broke  in  upon 
With   such   a  clamour— I   had   thought    it    riglit 

'i'hat   the  young  strang(!r  should    not   liii   alone, 
And,  as   the  (juietest   of  all,   she   might 

With   you,  Dudfi,  a  good   night's  rest   have  l<nowr. 
But  now  I   must   transfer   her  to  the  charge 
Of  Lolah — though  her  couch   is  not    so    large." 

LXXXII. 

Lolah's   eyes   s|»arkled   at   th(;   proposition  ; 

But   i)Oor  Dudu,  with   large  drops   in   lier  own, 
Resulting  from  the  scolding  or  the   vision. 

Implored   that  present  pardon   might    be   shown 
For   this   first  fault,  and  that   on   no  condition 

(She  added  in  a  soft  and  ])iteons  lone), 
Juanna  should  be  taken  from  her,  and 
Her   future  dreams  should   all  be  keji!   in   hand. 

LXXXIII. 

Sue  promised  never  more  to  have  a  dream, 
At   least   to  dream  so  loudly  as  just  now  ; 

She  wonder'd   at  herself  hov^  s!v  could  scream — 
'T  was   foolish,  nervous,  as  sue   must   allow, 

A  fond   hallucination,  and  a  theme 

For  laughter — but  she  felt    ht  r  spirits  low. 

And   begg'd   they  would   excuse  her;   she'd   get  ovei 

This  weakness  in  a  few  hours,   and    recover. 

LXXXIV. 

And  here  Juanna  kindly  intcr|);ised, 

And  said  she  felt  herself  exl'-emely  well 
Where  she  then  was,  as  her  soiuid  sleep   fliscl(.is<  d 

When   all   around   rang,   like  a    torsm-bell  : 
She  did   not  find   herself  the   least   disposed 

To  (juit  h(!r  gentle  partner,  and  to  dwell 
Apart  fr<jm  one  who  had  no  sin  to  show, 
Save   that  of  dreaming  once  "  i-  lal-a-propos." 

LXXXV. 
As   thus  Juanna  sipoke,    Dndu    turu'd   romid, 

And   hid   her   face  witliin   Juauna's   breast  ; 
Her   neck  alone  was   seen,  but    that   was   found 

The  colour   of  a  budding  rose's  crest. 
I  can't   tell  whv  she  bhish'd,  nor  can    exjiound 

The  mystery  of  this  rupture  of  tin  ir  rest  ; 
All  that   i   kuow  is,  that  the  facts  I  state 
Are  true   as  truth   has   v,vor  been  of  late. 

LXXXVI. 
And  so  good  night  to  them, — or,  if  yosi  wnl, 

Good  morrow — for  the  cock   had  crown,   and  light 
15egaii   to  clotlie   each  Asiatic  hill. 

And   the   rnos(juc  crescent  struggled   inle   dignt 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Of  the  lo'.;;:  raravnn,  which  in  the  chill 

Of  dewy  (law;;  \-foutid  slowly  roisiid  each  heiohf. 
That   srr-.-!--;^;;?  to  the   stony  heit  which  girds 
Asia,  where   Ka^^  looks  down   upon  the   Kurds. 

LXXXVII. 
With  th.e  first  ray,  or  >-uthcr  ^my  of  morn, 

G'lilheya?    rose  from   rt;Stl*j.;suess ;    and   jia'e 
As   Passion   rises,  witii   its   bosom  worn, 

Arrav'd   herself  with  man'ie,  gem,  and  veil  : 
The  nii.'htm,'.'ale  that   sings  witli   the;  deep   tliorn, 
•Which    Fable   places  in   hi'r   brciist  of  w;ul, 
[s  lighter  far  of  heart  and  voice  tliiui  those 
Whose  headlong  passions   form  their  proper  woes. 

LXXXVIII. 
And   tliat  's  the  moral   of  this  composition. 

If  people  would   hut  see   i's  real  drift  :  — 
But   thid  they  will   not   do  .v'„hout   sus|.icion. 

Because  all   gentle  read',r,'   have   tlie  gift 
Of  closing  'gainst   the  ligb.  '.heir  orbs   of  vision  ; 

Wloie  gentle  writers   c.,s'.   love  to  lift 
'I'licr  voii'es  'gainst  eac'.    jther,  which  is  natural— 
'["lie   numbi;rs   are  too  groat   for  them  to  Hatter  all. 

LXXXIX. 

Rose  the  sultana  from   a  i)ed  of  splendour, — 
S'lftcr  than    the  suft   Svbaritc's,  who   cried 

Alond   because  his  feelings  were   too   tender 
To   brook   a  rusiied   rose-leaf  by  his   side, — 

So   lieaiitifil   that  art   could   little   mend   her. 

Though  [)ale  with  cunflicts  between  love  anJ  ppde: — 

So   agit.ited  was   she  with   her  error, 

She   did   not   even   look   into  the   nnrror. 

xc. 

A'so  arose  about  the  seif-san^e  time, 

Perhaps  a  little   later,  lier  great  lord, 
Master   of  tinrty  Ir.ngd.jins   so   sublime, 

And   of  a    ivife   by  whom    he  was   ab.horr'd  ; 
A    thing  of  much   less  import   in   that   clime — 

At  'east  to  those  of  incomes  which,  atiord 
j'he  filling  i;[)  tlien-  whole  connubial  cargo — 
Than    where   two  wi"es   are   under  an   embargo. 

xcr. 

He  did   not   think  much  on   the  matter,  nor 

Indeed   on   any  other:    as   a   man, 
He  liked   to  have   a  handsome  |)an!mour 

At  iiand,  as  one  iiuiv  like   to  h.ave   a   fan, 
And   iher(;fci-e   of  Circassians    had  good   store, 

As  ;m   at  .usemeot   after  the   Divan; 
Th.iiugh   ;i!i    nnusuui   fit    of  love,  or  dutv, 
flail   made    iim   lately  b;isk   in   his  bride's  beauty. 

XCIL 

Aii  !   now  he  ro<e  :    and   after  due   ahhitions, 

E\:u-uA   i,y  th..' cosTon)s  of  the  East, 
And    prayer..,  and  other   pious    evolutions. 

Hi;  drank  si.x  cups  of  cuffee  at  the  least. 
And   then  >\h!!drew  to  hear  about  the  Russians, 

Whose  v'ctories   had   recentlv  increased. 
In   Catheriu;'s   reign,  whom   glery  still   adores 
As  greatest  of  ali   sovereigns  ;tnd  w s. 

XCUI. 

hSut   oh,  thou  grand   legitimate  Alexander! 

Her  son's  son,  iet  not   this   last  |)hrase   ofTend 
Tliine  ear,  \(  it  sliould  reach, — and  now  rhymes  wander 

Almost   as  far   as  Pctersburgh,  and  lend 
A  ("-«;adfiil   nnpulse   to   each    loud   nie.indeT 

Of  murmuring    T.ibcrty's   uidi;   waves,  whi<-h    blend 
Their  roar  even  with  the   HaltK-'s, — so   vou    be 
Yoe'r  lather's   son,   'tis  (juito   enough   for  me. 


XCIV. 

To  call  men   love-heg,it:en,  or   proc!nt<n 

Tlieir  mothers  as  the  antipodes   of  T. m  .n, 

Thai  hater  of  m.ankind,  would   be   a   shame, 
A  libel,   or  whate'er   you    please  to   rhvme   Clt . 

But   [)eopl(;'s   ancestors  are  liistory's   game  ; 
And   if  one   lady's  slip  could   leave   a  (rune  on 

All    generations,  I   sbould   like   to   know 

What  ],edigree  the  best   would   have  to  show'' 

xcv. 

Had   Catherine   and   the   sultan   understood 

Their  own  true   intcr<'st,  winch  kings   rarely  kno'J^ 

Until    'tis   taught    by  h;ssons    railier  riule, 

There   w;is   a   wav   to  end   th(;ir  strife;,   although 

Perhaps   precarious,   had   they   but   thunght   good. 
Without    the   aid   of  prince   or   plcinpo: 

She  to   disnhss   her  guards,  and   In;  his   h.aram. 

And  for  their   other  niatti-rs,   meet  and   sliarii'em. 

XCM. 

But    as   it   was,  his   Highness   had  to  hold 
His   daily   council    upon   wa\'s   and   means, 

How   to   encounter   with    lliis    iiKirtial    scold, 
Tiiis   modern    Am.azon   and   Qu."en  of  (jueans  ; 

And   the  perplexitv   cf)uld    not   be   told 

Of  all   the  pillars   of  the  state,  whi(;h   leans 

Sometimes   a   little   heavy   on   the   backs 

Of  those    \Nho  cannot  lav  on   a   new  tax. 

XCVH. 

Meantime    Gulbe^'az,   when   her  l;ing   was   gone. 
Retired    into    her   Ixaidoir,    a   sweet    place 

For   love   or   breakfast  ;    private,    pleasing,   lone, 
And  rich   wiih   all   contrivances   which   grace 

Those   gav   r(;cesst>s  : — m.anv  a   nr(;cious    j:.:.".e 
Sjiarklcd   along   its  roof,    and    tnanv  .?.   vase 

Of  porcelain   lield   m   the   fetter'd   liouers, 

Tliose   captive   soothers  of  a  captive's  iioars, 

xcvni. 

iMother-of-])earl,  and   jxH-phyry,   and   marble, 
Vied    with   e.ich   other  on   this  costly   spot; 

And  singing-birds   without  wore   iieard  to  warltle; 
And   the   stain'd    glass    winch   lighted  tins  fair  giot 

V^aried  each   ray; — but   all   (jescriptions  garble 
The   true   effect,  and    so  wo  had  better  not 

Be  t(K)  minute  ;    an   outlme  is  the   best, — 

A  lively  reader's  fancy   does   the  rest. 

XC!X. 

And  here  she  summoo'd    (5aba,   and   reipiired 
Don    Juan    at    hi:?   hands,   ami   informatioi! 

Of  what   liad    pass'd   since   all  the   slaves  retired,  _ 
And   whether  he   had   occu[iied   their  station ; 

If  matters  had   been  managed   as  desired. 
And   his  disguise  wiiii   due  co:isideration 

Kcjit   up  ;   and,   above   all,  the   where  and   how 

He  had  pass'd  the  night,  was  what  she  wish'd  to  know 

c. 

Baba,   with  some   embarrassment,   r(^])Iied 

To  this   long  catechism  of  (jiK.-slions  ask'd 
IMore   easily  than  .answcr'd, — that  he  had   tried 

His  best  to  obev    in  wliat   he   had    been   task'd , 
But   there  s(!eni'(l   something  that   he  wish'd   to  hide 

IVIth-Ji  liesitation   more  betray'd   than   niask'd ; 
He  scralch'd   his  ear,   the   infallible  resource 
To  whicli  emiiarrass'd  p<!ople   have  recourse. 

CI. 
Ciiliieyaz   was  no  model   of  true  patience. 

Nor  much   disposed   to  wait   in  word  or  deed; 
Sh(!  liked   (luick    answers   in    all   <;oiiversati<ins ; 

And  wlien   she    saw   him   stiim])ling   like   a  stoed 


DON    JUAN. 


639 


In   his  replies,   she  piiz/lc.I  liiiii  for  fresh  ones ; 

And   as  his  siifech    <:rv'\v  still   more  brokn»-Uiit'L'\i, 
tier  ch<;fk   hfium   to  tlush,   ht-r  eyes   to   spjuklf, 
And  her  proud   brow's   Isliic  veins  to  swell  ;uul  durklc. 

Cll. 
\Vl»ei)    Haha   saw   tiiese   svnijitonis,   which    he   knew 

To   bode    him    no   irreat    i;ni.  1,    he    dipreeated 
Her  anijer,  and  beseicliM   siie  "a   iifar    inni   lliroui,'h — 

He   could   no.   help   tin;    tlnii:.'   whieii    lit.    n  iated  : 
Then    ou!    it   came    at  leiii!ti;,   iiiat    t)    Dudti 

Juan    was   given   in    ciiiir:.'!',   as   iiaili    been    staled- 
But   not    by    l-)ai>a"s   lauit,  he    sai.i,   and   SNVore   on 
The   hilly   camel's    htmi[),   besides   the    Koran. 

CHI. 
The   chief  dame  of  'die  Oda,  upon  whom 

The  diseinhne  of  the   whole  haram    bore, 
As  soon  as  thev   re-enter'd   th.eir   o\\n   riiom. 

For   Hiiba's  function    stn',j)M   short    al   the  door, 
Had   settled   all ;    nor  could   he   then   presume 

[The   afiresaid    Baba)    just    tlieii   to   do    more, 
VVitliout    e.vcilinir   snrh  susnici.'ii    as 
Might   make  the   inalter  still   uurse    than   it  was. 

CIV. 

He  hope.l,  indeed  he  thouglit   he   could   be  sure, 
Juan    ha<i    not   betray'd    Inmself;    m   tact, 

'Twas   certain   that   his   conduct   ha;i  been  ]n\re, 
Bec;uise  a  foolish   or  imprudent  act 

Wcnild   not   alone   have   made  him    insecure, 
But    ended    in    his   bcin^r   f.'mO   out    and    .vv/c,',-V/ 

And   tb.r'i\Mi   into   the  sea. — Thus    l^aba   spi.ke 

Of  ail   save   Dndu's  dreain,  which   was   no  j.,ke. 

cv. 

This  he  discreetly  k<:'pt   in   the  b;:ck   ^mnnd, 

Af.d   iaik'd    auav — and    mi^ht    have  ta'.k".!   li!'.  now, 

I'  f  any  further  answer   tii:.,t    \v   f.und, 

So    (!("■)>   an   aiiimi-ii    wruuL'   CJii'luvaz'    brow; 

Her  clieek  turn'd  asln-s,  f^irs  rmii;,  brain  w  hiri\l  ronni. 
As    if  she    had    receiver    a   sud  !en    blow, 

And   the   h"art's   dew   of  nuiti   spi-an-:   fast    and   chil'y 

O'er  her   fiir  fron!,  like  nn;rnini;"s  r,n   a  iiiy. 

cvi. 

Alil,oMi.Th  she   was   not   of  the  f..  ntiti2   i^orl, 

Baba   thou^:ht    she  wonld  fun  ,  on'   ihc'-e  he  errM — 

Ft   wa-    but    a  convulsion,    wincii,   tiioiiah   shr.rt. 
Can    never    be    deseribi-d ;    v.e   all   liave    ht-ard,. 

And   some  of  us   have   feit   thus   ".-///  umnrt,'' 

Whin   tliiiin-s  he\oMd   the  coiumon  have  occiirr'd  ; 

Gulbeyaz   proved    in    that    brief  a_'ony 

What  she   couM  ne'er  i-vore-s — then  how  should  I  / 

CVII. 

Shfl  stor.d   a  tnomenr,  as   a   Pythoness 
Stand.s  on  hi-r  tripod,   aL'oni/.ed,  and  full 

Of  iiispiraii'.  n   i:ather'd  from  distri-ss, 

When   all  the  heart-stt m^'s  like   wild  horses  pud 

Tlie  heart   asunder; — then,  as   more  or  less 

Tiieir  speed   abated,  or  tlieir  stren^jtli  ;:r(:w  dell, 

She   sunk   do-vn   on   her  seat    bv   slow'deiir.'es. 

And   bo'v'd  lier  throbbing  heai   o'er  trenib'.iug  l-.i  ees, 

CVHI. 

Her  face  declined,   and   was   unseen  ;   her  hair 
Fell   ir    Ions  tresses  like  the  wcoino   willow, 

Svvecnina  'he   marl'le  nn  'ern<'aih   h.T  chair. 
Or  rather  sofi    (ti)r   it  was   all   pillow, — 

A   low,  soft   o'toman),  and   ble-k  despair 

Sdrr'd   [\\>   and  down   le-r  Ijo-om   like  a  bill  )W, 

Which   rushes  to   some  shore,   whose  shiiii^li  ^  check 

Its  liirlher  course,  but    must   recci\f'  its  wreck. 


CIX. 

Her  heatl  hung  down,  and   her  lo:i;j   n;ur  in  stoO|)ing 
Coneeal'd   lier  featuies   lieltt-r   th,u     a   vi  d  ; 

And  one  hand  o'er  the  ottoman   lay  drooping- 
White,   waxen,   and   as   alabaster   p  ile  ; 

Would   tliat  I   were  a   painter!    lo    t)e   grouping 
AH    that    a   poet   drags    into   dt-tah ! 

Oh   tli.U    mv    words    were   colours'    but    ti-,c'r   tir.te 

."Nlav   serve    perhaps   as   outlines   or   sliglit       ir.ts. 

C.K. 

Baba,  uiio  knew  bv  experien.  e  when   to   trdk 
And    uhfii    to    hold   Ins   tongue,   now    h.id   it    all 

Tins   pa-'-aon   might    blow   o'er,   nor   dared    to   balk 
Guib'vaz'   taciturn   or  speaking   will. 

At   l(n--b   she  rose   n|),   and  began  to  walk 
Sloulv   along  the   room,  but   silent  still. 

And    h.  r   brow  clear'd,    but   not    her    troubled   eye— 

Tile   wi.id  was  down,  but   still  tiie   sea   ran   high. 

CXI. 

She  stopp'd,  and  raised  her  head  to  speak— but  paused, 
And    then   moved  on   again    with   rapid   pace; 

Tiifii   -ia(du'n'd   it,  which   is   the   march   most  caused 
Bv  deep  ein.ot'oii  : — you   may    sometimes   trace 

A   teelimi  in  each   footsten,    as  disclosed 
Bv   Saiiust   in  his   Catiline,  wbo,  "h^sed 

I)v    all   the   demons  of  all   passions,   show'  i 

Tlit^ir  work  even  by  tiie   \viiy   in   which   he  trode. 

CXil. 

Giiibeyaz  stopp'd  and   beckon'd   Baba: — "Slave! 

B.iiiir  the  two   slaves!"   she   said,  in   a  low   '.oru, 
Hut    one  which    Baba   did  not   like   to   brave. 

And    ve>l   he  shudder'fl,   and   seem'd    rather   prone 
To   prove   reluctant,   and    beiTii'd   leave   to   crave 

(Tiiouirh   he  well   knew  th.e   ineaniiii.')   Vo  be  sho  \  a 
What   slaves   her  highness   wish'd   to  nahcate, 
For  t'car  of  any  error  like  the  late. 

CXIII. 

"The   Oeoririan   and   her   jjar;unour,"   replied 

Tlie   imperial   bride — and   added,  "  L(^   the  boat 

Be   ready   by   the   secret   portal's  side: 

Vou  know  the  rest."   'I'he  words  slu.di  in  her  throut 

Des;;ii(;   iier   injured  love  and   (iery  pride  ; 
And   o\.'  tins    Baba   willingly  took   note, 

A.i  i   beirifM,   by   every   hair  of  Mahomri's  beard, 

Siie   won,  1  revoke  the  order   he  had  heard. 

CXIV. 

"To  h 'ar  is  to  oliey,"  ne  said;    "but  still, 
Sult;ii:a,  iliink  upon   the  conse(pience : 

It    is   not    tint   I   shall  not  all  fullil 

Voui   orders,   even  in  their  severest  sense; 

But   SI  li   j.reeipitalion  may  end  ill, 

Even   a!    vour  own  imperative  expense  ; 

I  do  n- I    mi>an  destruction  and  exposure, 

In  caso  (/  any  premature  disclosure  ; 

cxv. 

"  But   V  )ur  own  feelings. — Even  shoidd  all  the  roDt 
]}e  !;.d,d(  n  by  the  rolliiig  waves,  which  hide 

Already  many  a  once  love-beaten   breast 
Deep   in  the  caverns  of  the  deadly  tide — 

Vou  lose  this  boyish,  new  seraglio  guest, 
And — if  this  violent  remedy  be  tried — 

Excuse  mv  freedom,  when  I  here  assure    "OU 

Tliat  killing  him  is  not  the  way  to  cure  you." 

CXVI. 

"What    dost  thou  know  of  love  or  feeli'ij? — wretch' 
Begone :"  she  cried,  with   kiniilinu  e_\(;s,  "and   drj 

My   biliiiia!"    Baba  vanisbM  ;    fir  u>  sireioh 
His   own   remo;istran(;e  further,   he    Nvell   know. 


640 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Might  end  in  acting  as  his  own  "  Jack  Ketch  ;" 

And.  though  he  wish'd  extremely  to  get  through 
This  awkward  business  without  liarm  to  others, 
He  still  preferr'd  his  own  neck  to  another's. 

CXYII. 

Away  he  went  then  upon  his  commission, 
Growling  and  grumbiing  in  good  Turkish  phrase 

Against  all  women,  of  whate'er  condition. 
Especially  sultauiis  and  their  wjiys; 

Their  obstinacy,  pride,  and  indecision. 

Their  never  knowing  theii-  OMn  mind  two  days, 

The  trouble  that  they  gave,  their  iinniorality. 

Which  madt;  him  daily  bl;  ss  liis  own  neuti-ality. 

cxvm. 

And  then  he  call'd  his  bnrhnn  to  his  aid, 
And  sent  one  on  a  suniin'ios  to  the  pair, 

That  they  must  instantly  be  well  airay'd, 
And,  above  all,  in',  cimibM  cvcm  to  a  hair, 

And  brought  before  tlu'  emjiress.  who  b.ad  made 
Inquiries  after  them  with  kindest  care: 

At  which  Dudu  look'd  strange,  and  Juan,  silly; 

But  go  they  must  at  once,  ami  will  1 — nill  I. 

CX I X. 

And  h'T(!  I  leave  them  at  their  pr(>]>aration 
For  the  imperial  presence,  wlierejn  whether 

Gulbej'az  show'd  them  both  commiseration, 
Or  got  rid  of  the  parties  altogether — 

Like  other  angry  ladies  oi' her  nation. — 
Art*  things  the  turning  of  a  liair  or  feather 

Slay  settle;  but  far  be  't  from  nn-  to  anticipate 

In  M-hat  way  fcminiiie  caprice  may  dissipate. 

cxx. 

I  leave  them  for  the  pi-esent.  with  good  wishes, 
Though  doubts  of  their  well-doing,  to  arrange 

Another  part  of  history;  for  the  dishes 
Of  this  our  banquet  we  must  sometimes  change: 

And,  trusting  Juan  may  escape  the  fishes, 
Although  his  situation  now  secerns  strange 

\nd  scarce  .secure,  as  such  digressions  ere  fair, 

The  muse  will  take  a  little  touch  at  warfare. 


CANTO  ^'11. 


On  love!  Oh  glory!  what  are  ye?  w)io  fly 

Around  us  ever,  rarely  to  alight: 
There's  not  a  meteor  in  the  polar  sky 

Of  such  trans(;endent  and  more  tieoting  flight. 
Chill,  and  chain'd  to  cold  earth,  we  lift  on  high 

Our  eyes  in  search  of  either  lovely  light; 
A  thousand  and  a  thousand  colours  they 
Assume,  then  leave  us  on  our  freezing  way. 

II. 

And  such  as  they  arc  sych  my  present  tale  is, 
A  non-descript  ami  ever-varying  rhyme, 

A  versified  Aurora  li'irealis, 
Which  flashes  o'er  a  wast<^  and  icy  clime. 

When  we  know  what  all  are,  wi;  must  bewail  US, 
But  n(!'erthe]ess,  I  liop(!  it  is  no  crime 

To  laugh  at  "//  things:  for  I  wish  to  know 

Wiut,  after  all,  are  nil  tilings — but  a  sliow? 

III. 
They  accuse  me — mc — the  present  writer  of 

Th(!  present  poem,  of— 1  know  not  what, —     /* 
A  tendency  to  underrate  and  .scoff 

At  human  ))ower  and  virtue,  and  all  that; 
And  this  they  say  in  language  rather  nmgh. 

Q'>k1  Ood'   I  wonder  what  tliey  would  be  at' 


I  say  no  more  than  has  l)ecn  said   in   Danle  s 
Verse,  and  by  Solomon,  and  by  Cervanf^ei ; 

IV. 
By  Swift,  by  INIachiavel,  by  Ruchofoucault, 

By  Fenelon,  by  Luther,  and  by  Plato; 
By  Tillotson,  and  Wesley,  and  Rousseau, 

Who  knew  this  life   was   not  worth   a  potato. 
'T  is   not   tlieir  fault,  nor  niine,  if  this  be  so — 

For  my  part,  I   ])retend   not  to  be  Cato, 
Nor  even  Diogenes. — We   live  and  die. 
But  which  is  best,  you  know  no  more   than   I. 

V. 

Socrates  said,  our  only  knowledge  was, 

"To  know  that  nothing  could  be  known  ;"  a  pleasant 
Science  enough,  which  levels  to  an   ass 

Each  man  of  wisdom,  fiiture,  past,  or  present. 
Newton   (that  proverb  of  the  mind),  alas! 

Declared,    with   all   his  grand   discoveries  recent. 
That  he  himself  felt   only  "  like  a  youth 
Picking  up  shells  by  the  great  ocean — truth." 

VI. 

Ecclesiastes  said,  that  all  is  vanity — 

Most  modern   r)reachers  say  the  same,  or  show 
By  their  examples  of  true  Christianity  ; 

In  short,  all  know,  or  very  soon   may  know  it : 
And  in   this  scene  of  all-confes.s'd   inanity 

By  saint,  by  sage,  by  preacher,  and  by  poet, 
Must  I  restrain   me,  through  the  ft-ar  of  strife, 
From  holding  up  the   n(jthingness  of  life  ? 

VII. 

Dogs,  or  men  !   (f  )r  I  flatter  you   in   saying 

That  ye  are  dogs — your   betters  far)   ye    mav 
Read,  or  read  not,  whut  I  am  now  essaying 

To  show  ye  what  ye   are  in   every  way. 
As  little   as  the  moon   stops  f)r  the   baying 

Of  wolves,  will   the  hriirbt    Muse  withdraw  one  ray 
From  out  her  skies; — then   ho  a  I   your  idle  wrat}  ! 
While  she  still  silvers  o'er  your  gloomy  p;ith. 

VIII. 
"  Fierce  loves  and  faithless  wars" — lam  not  sure 

If  this  be  the  right  reading — 'tis  no  matter; 
The  fact's  about  the  same;   I   am  secure; — 

I  sing  them   both,  ;uid   ain  about   to  batter 
A  town  which  did  a  famous  siege  endure, 

And  was  beleaguer'd  both  by  land  and  water 
By  Suvarotf,  or  aiiglice  Suwarrow, 
\A'ho   loved  blood  as  an  alderman  loves  marrow. 

IX. 

The   fortress  is  call'd  Ismail,  and  is  placed 
Upon   the  Danube's  left   branch  and  lef,   bank. 

With   buildings  in   the  oriental  taste. 

But  still   a  fortress  of  the  foremost  rank. 

Or  was,  at  le:ist,  unless  't  is  since   defaced. 

Which  with  your  conuuerors  is  a  common  pranh 

It  stands  some  eighty  versts  from  the  hi<ih  sea. 

And  measures  round  of  toises  thousands  three. 


Within   the  extent  of  this  fortification 

A  borough   is  comprised,  along  the  height 

Uf)(>n   the  left,  which,  from  its  loftier   station. 
Commands  the  city,  and    upon  its«site 

A  Greek  had  raised  aroimd  this  elevation 
A  quantity  of  palisades  ujjrii^ht. 

So  placed  as  to  impede  the  fire  of  those 

Who  held  th-e  place,  and  to  assist  the  foe's. 

XI. 

This  circumstance  may  serve  to  give  a  notion 
Of  the  hijrh  talents  of  this  new  Vaubaii ; 


DON    JUAN. 


641 


Kilt  tne  town  dirch  below  was  (Icep  as  ocean, 

The  rartipvirt    h.iiiher  than   von  M  wish  to  hang: 
Rill   then   there   was   a   j/reaf    want  of  precaution, 

{Prithee,  exeiise  this    v;i,aiiieeriii<;   shui>r). 
Nor    work   advanced,  nor   coverM  way  was  tneio, 
To  hint   at    least   "  Here   is  no  thoroiiijhfarf'." 

xn. 

Bal    H  stone   hastion,  with    a   iianow  <Mi!iTe, 

And  wails   as   linck    as   iiiost  skulls    i)()rn    as  yet  ; 

Two  hatttMies,  ca|)-;i-])ie,  as  our  Saint  (;e()rir<>, 
Case-mated    one,  and    't  other   a    "harlutte," 

(tf  Daimhe's   hank   took   torniidalile   eha;  <re  ; 
W\u\o.  two-and-twenty  caimnii,  duly  set. 

Rose  o'er  the  town's   rigiit    siile,  in   hristliii!'  tier, 

Forty  feet   high,  upon   a    cavalier. 

XIII. 

But  from  the  river  the  town  's  open  nuito, 

Because    tlie  Turks    rjould   never   he   persuaded 
A  Russian  vessel  e'er  would   heave  in   siglit  ; 

And   such   tln'ir  creed    was,  till   they  won;   invaded, 
When   it   grcnv  rather  lat(>  to   set   things   right. 

Hut   as  tlu"  Damihe  could    not  \\  ell    he  wad<>d, 
riiev  IdokM   upon  the  Musi-ovite  flotilla. 
And"  only  shouted,   »  Alia  1"   and  "  His  Millan  !" 

XIV. 
The  Russians  now  were  retnly  to  attack  ; 

Hilt  oh,  y*^  goddesses  of  war  and  glory  ! 
How  shall   I  spell   the  name  of  each  Cossack 

Who  were  immortal,  could   one  tell   their   story? 
Alas  !    what   to  their  nieniory  can  laclc  ? 

Achilles  self  was  not   more  grim  and   gory 
f  han   thousands  of  this   new  and   polish'd  nation, 
V\  hor,f  names  want  nothing  hut — pronunciation. 

XV. 
^  Jl   I  '11  record  a  few,  if  l)ut  to  increase 

Our  euphony — there  was  Strongenoff,  and  Strokonoff, 
^leknop,  Serge  Lwdw,  ^  ,seniew  of  modern  Greece, 

And  Tschitsshakofl',  and  Roguenotf,  and  Chokenoft', 
And  others  of  twelve  consonants  a[)iece: 

And  more  might  be  found  out,  if  I  could  poke  enough 
Into  gazettes;    but  Fame    (capricious  struni[)et!) 
tt  seems,  has  got  an  eat   as  well  as  trumpet, 

XVI. 

And  cannot  tune  those  discords  of  narration, 
Which   may  be  names  at   Moscow,  into  rhyme. 

Vet  there  were   several   worth  commemoration, 
As  e'er  was  virgin  of  a  nuptial   clume  ; 

Soft  words  too,  lilted   for  the   peroration 
Of  Londonderry,  drawling  against  time, 

Ending  in  "ischskin,"  "ousckin,"  "itrskchy,"  "ouski," 

Of  whom  we  can   insert  but  Ronsamouski, 

XVII. 

Scherematoff  and  ChremaiofF,  Koklophti, 
Koclobski,  Kourakiii,  and  Mouskin  Poiiskin, 

All  proper  men  of  weapons,   as  e'er  scorf'd  high 
Against  a  foe,  or  ran   a   sabre   through   skin  : 

Little   cared   tliey  for  3Iahomet  or  Mufti, 

Unless  to  make  tlicir  kettle-dnims   a  new  skin 

Ou^.   of  their  hides,  if  jtarchment   had   grown  dear, 

All     vr   .nore  handy  substitute  been   near. 

XVII!. 
'J"'ien  .nr  re  wire   forei<ruer.-  of  nim-h  renown, 

Ol   vt^rious  nations,  and   all  volunteers , 
Not   tii;htiiiir  n)r  their  country  or  its  crown. 

But  wishinir  to   he   one   day  brigadiers  ; 
•Vlso  to  hav(;   t'K'   sacking  of  a  town— 

A  pleasant   thing   to   voniiir   nieri    at   their  years. 
Mongst    tiieru  were    sev.ral    K.-iulisIniHUi    of  pith, 
Sixteen  call'd  Thomps';!!,  and  nineteen  named  Smith. 


XIX. 

Jack  Thompson  and   Bill  Thompso-  , — all  the  rest 
Had  bc(;n  call'd   ^'■Jcmmij"  after  the  great  barJ 

I  don't  know  whether  they  had  ari\is  or  crest, 
But  such  a  godfather  's  as   good   a  card. 

Tliroe  of  lire  Smitiis  were   Peters  ;   but   the  best 
Amongst  thoin   all,  hard  blows  to  intlict  or  ward. 

Was  lu\  since  so  renown'd    "  in   country  (jiiarters 

At  Halifax  ;"  but  now  he  serv'ed  the  Tartars. 

XX. 

Tlu!  rest  w<;re  Jacks  and  Gills,  and  Wills  and  Bills , 
l^iit  wIk.'ii  I've   adiled   that  the   eld<:r  Jack  Smith 

Was   born   in  Cumberland  among  the  hills. 

And   that  his  fiither  was  an   honest  blacksmith, 

I've  said   all   /  know  of  a  name  that   fills 

Thr(>e  lines  of  the  despatch  in  taking  "  Scfimacsmith,' 

A  villat^e  of  Moldavia's  waste,  wherein 

H(!  fell,  immortal  in  a  bulletin. 

XXI. 

I  wuiuler   (alth.ough  Mars  no  doubt 's  a  god  I 
Praise)    if  a   man's  name  in   a  bulletin 

May  make  uj)  for  a  ballet   in  his   body? 
I  hojie  this  little  (juestion  is  no  sin, 

P.ecause,  though    I   am   but   a  simple  noddy, 

I   think   one  Shakspeare   puts  the  same  thought  il 

The  mouth   of  some  one  in   his   plays  so  doating, 

Which   manv  peo|)!e  [>ass  for  wits   by  (pjoting. 

XXII. 

Then  tkere  were  Frenchmen,  gallant,  young,  and  gay  \ 

But  I'm   too  great  a  j)atriot   to  record 
Their  gallic   names  upon   a  glorious  day  ; 
I  'd  rather  tell  ten  lies  than  say  a  word 
I    Of  truth  ; — such  truths  are  treason  :   they  betray 
Their  country,   and,  as  traitors  are  abhorr'd. 
Who  name  the  French  and  English,  save  to  show 
How  peace  should  make  John  Bull  the  Frenchman's  foe. 
I  XXIII. 

The  Russians,  having  built  two  batteries  on 

An  isle  near  Ismail,  had  two  ends  in  view  ; 
The   first  was  to  bombard  it,  and  knock  down 

The  public   buildings,  and  the  private  too, 
No  matter  what  [)oor  souls  might  hf  undone. 
i        The  city's  shape  suggested  this, 'tis  true; 
I    Form'd  like  an   amphitheatre,  each  dwelling 
j    Presented  a  fine  mark  to  throw  a  shell  in. 

XXIV. 

The  second  object  was  to  profit  by 

The  moment  of  the  general  consternation, 
To  attack  the  Turk's  flotilla,  which  lay  nij^h, 

Extremely  tranquil,  anchor'd  at  its  station  : 
But  a  third  motive  was  as  probably 

To  frighten  them  into  capitulation  ; 
A  phantasy  which  sometimes  seizes  warriors. 
Unless  they  are  game  as  bull-dogs  and  fox-terri*?rs , 

XXV. 
A  habit  rather  blameable,  which  is 

That  of  desiiising  'hose  we  combat  with. 
Common   in   many  cases,  was   in  this 

The  cause  of  killing  Tchitchitzkoff  and  Smith  ; 
One  of  the  valorous  "Smiths"  whom  we  shall  miss 

Out  of  those  nineteen  who  late  rliyined  to  "  pith  , 
But  't  is  a  name  so  s])read  o'er  "  Sir"  and  "  Madam,' 
That  one  would  think  the  fikst  wlio  bore  it  "  Auam.* 

XXVI. 

Tlie  Russian  batteries  were   incomplete. 

Because  they  were  constructed   in   a    hurry. 

7'Ijus,  the  same  cause  which  makers  u  verse  n;int  f(  1 1, 
And  thro  AS  a  cloud  o'er  Longman  ami  John  Murray, 
41 


642 


BrKON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


When  tho  sale  of  new  books  is  not  so  fleet 

As  they  who  print  them   think   is  necessary, 
May  hkewise  put   otT  for  a  time  what  story 
Sonietiines  calls  "inunlar,"  and  at  others  "glory." 

XXVII. 

VVhether  it  was  fheir  enjiineers'  stiuiidily, 
Then-  haste,  or  waste,  I  neither  know  nor  care, 

Or  some  contractor's  [)ersonal  ci![)idity. 
Saving  liis  soul  by  cheating  in   the  ware 

Of  hon  iciiie  ;   but  there  was  no  solidity 
Ir   ihe  new  batteries  erected  there  ; 

Tney  either  niiss'd,  or  tiicy  were  never  miss'd, 

And  adde('   greatly  to  the   missing  list. 

XXVIII. 

A  sad   miscalculation  about   distance 
Made  all  their  naval  Tnatters  incorrect ; 

Three  tire-ships  lost  their  amiable   existence, 
Before  they  reach'd  a  spot  to  take  etfect  : 

The  match  was  lit   too  soon,  and  no  assistance 
Coulil   remedy  this  lubberly  defect  ; 

They  blew   up  in   the  middle   of  the   river, 

^Vhile,  tlion<fh  't  was  dawn,  the  Turks  slept  fast  as  ever. 

XXIX. 

At  seven  they  rose,  however,  and  survey'd 

Tile  Russ  flotilla  getting  under  way  ; 
'T  was  nine,  when  still  advancing  undismay'd, 

Witliin  a  cable's  length  their  vessels   lay 
Off  Ismail,  and   commenced   a  camionadc, 

Which  was  return'd  with  interest,  I  may  say, 
And   bv  a   fire  of  musketry  and  grape. 
And   shells  and  sh<4   of  every  size  and  shape. 

XXX. 

t'or  six  hours  bore  they  withotit  intermission 
The  Tiirkish  tire  ;   and,  aided  by  their  own 

Land  batteries,  workM  their  guns  wiih  great  [irecision: 
At   length   they  fjund   mere   cannonade  alone 

Hy  no   uKjans  would    produce   the   town's   submission. 
And    made   a  signal  to  retreat  at  one. 

One  hark   blew   u[)  ;    a  second,  near  the   works 

Running   agnjund,   was  taken   by   the   Turks. 

XXXI. 

Tho   iNloslem  too  had  lost   both  ships   and   men; 

Rut    wlien  they  saw   the  enemy  retire, 
Their    f^dliis    manii'd  some   boats,   and   sail'd  again, 

Ami  g;d!'d   the   Russians   with   a   heavy    fire. 
And   tried   to  make   a  landing  on  the  main. 

Hi II  lie-e  the  etfect  fell  short  of  their  desire  : 
Count  llamas  drove  them  hack  into  the  water 
Peil-m(dl,   and   with   a   whole  gazette   of  slaughter. 

xxxn. 

"  If"    (siiys  the  historian   here)    "  I  could  report 
All   that   the-  Russians  did  ujion   this  day, 

I  think   that  s(;veral    volumes  would  fall  short, 
And   I   should   still  have  many  things   to   say;" 

And  so  he   says  no   more — but   pays  his  court 
'i"o  some  distmguish'd  strangers   in   that    fray, 

'Ihe   Prince   de    Ligne,   and  Lang(!ron,   and  Damas, 

Names  great   as   any   that  the  roll  of  fame  has. 

XXXIII. 

This   neing  the  case,    may   slu  w  us   what  fame  is; 

For   out   of  three   '■'■jirvvx  rhr.i^dlnn^^''''  how 
Manv   of  common   r<'aders   five   a   tT^icss 

'f'hat  siudi  exist. td?  (mid  \\vy  may  live  now 
For   aught    we    know).      Rfiio  mi 's   all    hit   or   miss; 

There's   t"oitune   twen   in    fame,    we   must   allow. 
•'!  is  true   the    Memoirs   of  the    I'rm-e   de    [.-no 
Have  half  withdrawn  from  liiin  oblivion's   skreen. 


XXXIV. 

But  here  are  men   who  fought  in  ga.iant  actions 

As  gallantly  as  ever  heroes   fought. 
But  buried  in   the  heap  of  such  transactijons — 

Their  names  are   seldom  found,  nor  often  seiigrK 
Thus  even  good  fame   may   suffer  snd    contractv>ns. 

And   is  extinguish'd   sooner  than   she  o.ight : 
Of  all  our  modern   battles,  I   v.ill   bet 
You   can't  repeat   nine  names  from   each   gazettt. 

XXXV. 

In  short,  this   last  attack,   though   rich   in   }^lnr\, 
Show'ci  that  sirmewlure,  somch()u\  there  was  a  fault 

And   Admiral    Ribas   (known   in   Russian  story) 
Most  strongly  recommended  an  assault ; 

In  which   he   was   opposed   by  young  and   hoarv, 
\Vhi(di  made   a  long  debate: — but  I   must   halt; 

For  if  I   wrote   down   every    warrior's    speech, 

I  doubt  few  readers   e'er   would    mount  the  breach. 

XXXVI. 

There  was  a  man,  if  that  he  was  a  man, — 

Not  that,  his   itiaiihofHl   could   he  callM  m  (juesticn, 

For,  had  he' not   lieen   Hercules,   his   span 
Had   been  as  short  in   youth   as   indiirestion 

Made  his  last   illness,   when,   all   v.orn    and    wan. 
He  died   beneath    a   tree,   as   much   unblcss'd   on 

The  soil  of  tlie   recn    province    In-   b.ad    wasted, 

As  e'er  was  locust   on   the   land  it  blasted  ;  — 

XXXVII. 

This   wy,s   Potemkin— a  ;;reat  thins  i"   d;:vs  ' 
When    honiic'de   and    harlotry    made   great, 

If  stars  and   lil!.>s  could  entail"  long  praise, 
His   ii'ory  miuht    half  equal   his   estate. 

This  fellow,  \nv.v.^^   ssx  toot  hinh,  could   ■•ajcje 
A  kind  of  [)lian!asv    proportionate 

In  tho   then   sovereign   of  the  Russian    people, 

Who  measured  men   as  you   w.juld   do  a  stee'pw.. 

XXXVIII. 

While  things   were   in   abeyance,   Ribas   sent 

A   courier  to   the   prince,   and   he  succ(;eded 
In   ordtTir.'^   maiti.rs    afier    his   o<- n    bent. 

I  cannot  tell  the  way  in   which   h(i   [)lcaded, 
Put  shortly  he   had   cause   to   be   content. 

In   the    mean   time   the    b.ilteries    pi-oet  eded. 
Arid   f)urscore   cannon   on    tin;    Damdje's   border 
Were   briskly   fired   iind    answcr'd   in   i\\\v.  order. 

XXXIX. 
But  on   the  thirteenlh,   \\\\v.\\   alrea^iy   part 

Of  tl:e   lroi)j)s   were   enibark'd,   the   siege  to  raise, 
A  courier  (mi   the  sj.ur  inspired   new    heart 

Into   all   pa  liters   f)r   newspa|ier   praise. 
As   well  as   dilettanti   in    war's   art. 

By   his   d.i'spalches    couch'd    in    pitliv   plirase, 
Announcing  tiie  appointment   of  tiial    lovea-  of 
['atiles  to   the  command,   Field-?.Iarshal   Suv-iroif. 

XL. 

TiK!  letter  of  the  prince   to  the  same  marshal 
\Vas   wortliv  of  a   Spartan,   had   the   cause 

Been   one  to  whicdi  a  good   heart  could   be  partial.- 
Oefence  of  freinlom,  country,  or  of  laws ; 

But    as  it   was   nien^    lust  of  pov.er   'O   o'er-arch   all 
W^ith  its   proud   l)row,  it  merits   sliidif   apidause, 

Sjive  for   its   style,  which  said,    all  in   a   trice, 

"You  uill   take   Ismail,  at    whatever  ]>rice.'' 

XLI. 

"  Let  there  he  liirhl  !"  said  (iod,  "  and  tliere  \atis  light  ■" 
"  Let  there  be  blood  !"  savs  man,  ami  there's  a  sea. 

The    fl:.i    of  ties    snoil'd    clii;d    of  the   night 

(For  day   ne'er   saw   Ins  merits)   coual   denre»5 


DON    JUAN. 


iWi 


Mi>rf  evil    in   an  hour,  than    tliirty   bri^rht 

StiiiiiKLTs    ''oiihi    ieuov;a<',    lh.)ii>;h    they   should   be 
I  'A'tiy   as   lliose   wlucl-i   ri|)("iiM    Kch'n's   tViiil — 
Poi    \\.u    cut^   ii|)   not    only    hraiicli    but.   rout. 

XLH. 

Dnr  trier  (is   ttie  Turks,  wlm   with  loud  "Alias"   now 

Hcjzan    to   sii.'uali/.e   the    Kuss   relrcat, 
^V.-rc   danuiahly    uustalu'U ;    few    arc   slow 

In   tnnikiui;  tiial   tiicir   enc^ny  is   beat 
(Or  hfjii.ii,   it"  ijou   insist  on   granituar,   though 

I  never  think  about  it   in   a   heat)  ; 
I)U'    here  1   say  the  Turks   wc-re   much   mistaken, 
Who,  hating  I'Ogs,  yet  wish'd  to  save  their   bacon. 

XLIII. 

For,   on   the   sixteenth,  at  full   galhip  drew 

In  siglit   two  horsen'.en,  who  were  detnn'd  Cossacks 
For  i-'onie  time,  till   they  came   in   nearer   view. 

They   had   but  little  baggage  at  their  l)a<'ks, 
For  tliere  were  but  three  shirts  between  tiie  two ; 

But  on  they   rode  upon  two  Ukraine  hacks, 
Till,  in  approaching,  were   at  length   descried 
In   this   plain   pair,   Suwarrow   and  his   guide. 

XLIV. 
'*  Great  joy   to  London  now!"  says  some  great  fool, 

When   London   had  a  grand  illumination, 
Wliich,   to  tliat  bottle-conjuror,  John    Hull, 

Is  of  all   dreams   the   first  hallucination  ; 
fco   that  the   streets  of  colour'd   Uunps   are  full. 

That   sage   [sdid  John)   surrenders    at   discretion 
[lis   purse,  Ins   soul,  his  sense,  and  even  !iis  nonsense, 
To  gratify,  like  a  huge  moth,  this  une  sense. 

XLV. 

Tis  stransie  that  he  should  further  "damn  his  eyes," 
For   they  are  damn'd  :   that  once   all-famous  oath 

Is  t     t'le   d(!vil   now   no   further   prize, 

Since  John   has   la-tely   lost  tlie    !?se  cf  botii. 

Debt   he  calls   wealth,   and   taxes,   j)aradise  ; 

And   famine,   wtU  her   gaunt   and   hauy   grcwih, 

Whicn   .--lates   liim  in  the  face;,   he   v-on't   exiuiijn, 

Or  swears  that   Ceres  hath   begotten  I'ami.ie. 

XLVI. 

But  to  the  tale.     Great  jov  unto  the   catnp  ! 

To   Russian,  Tartar,   Eno-li>h,   French,   Cossa.-k, 
O'er   whom    Suwarrow    shone    like   a   gas-lam[), 

Presaging  a  most   Imnmous  attack: 
Or,   like   a   '.visp  aloiii;    the   marsh    so   ilamp, 

WWu-U   leads  beh<,[d(rs  on   a   boir^y  walk. 
He   thttetl   to   and   fro,   a   dancing    lif;ht, 
Wiiich  all  who  saw  it   fulo'.v'd,  ^vrong  or  rig'it. 

XLvn. 

But,  cerles,  matters  to^k   a,   diirerent  face; 

Tiiere   was    enihusiasm   and    mucli    a^jdause, 
Vhe    deet    and    ca:n[)   saluted    witli    gnsit    grace, 

And  -all    pr(sa:;ed    good    fortune    to   their    cause. 
Within    a  ("uuior.-shoi    l.'iiirt'i    of  the  i)!ace 

Thi'V   dr<;w,  coiisfru;;led    iiidders,   reuan-'d    flaws 
In    former    works,   made    new,   ])repared   fascines, 
And   all   kinds   of  benev>)lent  machines. 

Tis   thus   the   spirit   of  a   siu,;'.e   ndnd 
Makes   thai    of  nrultitudes    lake   one   direetion, 

\s   roll   the    waters   to   the    br<  atiniiij   wind, 

Or   roams   the   lierd   l;enealh   the;   hnil's   ;)rotcction: 

Or   as   a   little   doir   ^^i!l    h'ad    the    b!md, 

Or   a   h"llweath<;i    form   tiie   tlocV's   (•o...:,.x;,,n 

By   tinkJiu'J   sounds    wlien   tie  v    •,■<,  forth   to    victuaL" 

S'ich  is  the  away  of  vi>iir     ''at  men  o'er  'il,tle. 


XI JX. 

The  whol(!camp  rung  wiiii joy;  vou  would  have  ihoiio.j 
J'hat    they    weri;    going   to    a   marriagc-li'ast, 

(This   metaphor,   I    tlimk,    holds    good    as    au^ht, 
Since  there    is    discord    after   both   at    least), 

There    was   not   now    a    lu^'gage-boy    but    sought 
I)ani;er  and   spoil   with   ardour  nnich   increased; 

And   why  ?   because   a  little,  odd,  old   man, 

Stri[)t  to   his  shirt,  was   come   to  lead   the  van. 

*  L. 

But  so  it,  was  ;    and    every  preparation 
Was   made    with    all    alacrity;    the    first 

Detachment   of  three   ojlnums   took   its   station, 
And    waited   b\if    the  signal's    voice   to   burst 

Upon    the   f)e:    the    second's    ordma'ion 
Was   also  in   three    columns,    with   a  thirst 

For   glorv    irapi'ig   o'er   a   sea   of  slaughter  : 

The   third,   m   columns  two,  attack'd   by    water. 

LI. 

New  batteries   were   erected  ;    and   was   held 
A   general   council,  in   which   unanimity. 

That  stranger  to  most  councils,  here   prevail'd, 
As   sometimes   hap[)ens  in  a  great  extremity; 

And,  evc'ry   diiticulty  being   exiJellM, 

Glorv   beiran  to  dawn   with   due   sublimity, 

While   Suvaroif,  determined   to   obtain   it. 

Was  teaching   his   recruits  to  use  the  bayonet.' 

LII. 

It  is   an   actual  fact,  that   he,  commander- 
in-chief,  in   proper  person  deign'd   to  drill 

The  awkward  stjuad,  and   could   afford   to  sqMAf'.fter 
His   lime,  a  cor|)orars  duties  to  fulfil  : 

Just  as  you'd   break   a  sucking  salamander 
To  swallow  fhime,  and   never  take  it   iil ; 

He.show'd   them  liow  to  mount  a  ladder   (.vhicb 

Was  not  like  Jacob's)   or  to  cross  a  ditch. 

LIII. 

Also  lie  dress'd   up,  Cor  the  nonce,   fascines 
Like  men,    with   turbans,  scimitars,  and   diiks, 

And  marie  them  charge  with  bayonets  these  machiiics. 
Bv  way  of  lesson  against  actual  Turks. 

And,  when   well    practised   in  these   mimic  scenes. 
He  judged   them   proper  to   assail  the  works  ; 

At  which  your  wise  men  sneer'd,  in  phrases  witty:— 

He  made  no   answer ;   but  he  took  the  city. 

LIV. 

Most  things  were  in  this  posture  on   the  eve 

Of  the  assault,  and  a!i   the   camp  was  in 
A  stern  repose  ;    which  you   would   scarce  conceive: 

Yet  men,  resolved   to  dash   through  thick  and  thin 
Are  very    silent   when   tlnn'  once   b(;li(;ve 

That   all  is  s(-ttled  : — liiere   was   little  din. 
For  souk;   were   thinking  of  their  home  and  friends. 
And  others  of  themselves  and  latter  ends. 

J  A'. 
Suwarrow  chiefly  was  on  the  alert, 

Surveying,  drilling,  ordering,  jestinir,   pondering: 
For  tlie  man   was,  we  safely  may  assert, 

A   thing  to   wonder  at  beyond   most  wondering; 
II(!ro,  huiibon,  half-demon,  and    half  dirt, 

Praviii^S   mstructmg,  desolating,  blundering, 
\ow   .Mars,  now   iMumns  ;   and   when  bent  to  stonn 
A  fi)rtre;-s,   Har!e(]Uin   in   nniform. 

LVI. 

The  (ir.v  Ix^fcre  the  arsault,  wnile  upon  drill — 
Foi    t'us  great   contjueror  play'd  the  corporal — 

Son<';  Cossacks,  hovering  like  hawks   round    a  hi!L 
Ha/i  met  a.  oarty,  towards  tli.v  twilight's  [iilU 


644 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


One  ul  whom  spoke   their  tongue,  or  well  or  ill — 

'T  was  much  that  he  was  understood   at  all ; 
But  whether  from  nis  voice,  or  speech,  or  manner, 
They  found  that  he  had  fonglit  beneath  their  banner. 

LVII. 
Whereon,  immediately   at  his  request. 

They  brought  him  and  liis  comrades  to  head-quarters : 
bt  ir  dress  was  Moslem,  but  you  mi^ht  have  guess'd 

I'hat   these   were  merely  masquerading  Tartars, 
A. id  that  beneath  each  Turkish-falliioM'd  vest 

L'irk'd   Christianity;    who  somrtiines  liarters 
Her  inward   grace  for  oulwarii   show,  and   makes 
It  difficult  to  shun  some  strange  mistakes. 

I.VIll. 
Suwarrow,  who  was  standing  in  his  shirt. 

Before  a  company  of  Ca!;viucks,  drilling. 
Exclaiming,  fooling,  sweariui;  at  the   inert. 

And  lecturing  on  the  noble  art  of  killmg, — 
For,  deenung  human  clay  but  common   dirt. 

This  great  philosopher  was  thus  mstilling 
His   maxims,  which,  to  martial   comprehension, 
Proved  death  in  battle   Cijual   to  a   pension;  — 

LIX. 
Suwarrow,  when   he   saw  this  company 

Of  Cossacks  and  their  prey,  turn'd   round"  and  cast 
Upon   them  his  slow  brow  and    piercing   eye  :  — 

"  Whence  come  ye  ?" — "  From  Constantinople  last, 
Captives  just  now  escaped,"  was   the  reply. 

"  What  are  ve  ?" — "  \Vhai  yon  see  us."   Briefly  past 
Tills   dialogue  :    for  he  who  answ(;r'd   knew 
To  whom   he   spoke,  and    made    his  words   but  few. 

J.X. 
'•  Your  names?" — "^line  's  .Toiin-^-.'i,  ritvl  my  comrade's 
Juan  ; 

The  other  iwo  are  women,  and  the  third 
IS  neither   man   nor  woman."     The  chief  threw  on 

The  party  a  slight  gl.uice,  then  said  :   "  I  have  heard 
Vour  name  before,  t!ie   second  is  a  new  one  ; 

To  bring  the  other  three  here  was   absurd  ; 
Bui   let  that  pass  ; — 1  think  I  've   heard    your  name 
III  the  Nikolaiew  regiment  ?" — "  The   satne." — 

LXI. 

"You  served  at  Wldin?"  "Yes."  "You  led  the  attack?" 
u  I  aid."—"  What  next  ?"— "  I  realiv  hardly  know." 

"  You  were  the  lirst  i'  the  breach  /" — "  I  was  not  slack, 
At  least,  to  follow  those  who  might  be  so." — 

"  What  foUow'd  ?" — "  A  shot  laid   me  on    my  back, 
And   I   became  a   prisoner  to  the   foe." — 

"  You  shall  have  vengeance,  for  the  town   surrounded 

Is  twice  as  strong  as  that  wlisire  you  were  wounded. 

LXIl. 

**  Where  \vi'l  vou  serve  ?" — "  Where'er  you  please." — 
"I    know 

You   like  to  be   the    hope  of  the   forlorn. 
And   d()ul)tl(;ss  would  be  furciisiost   on  the   foi 

Afier  the  hardships  you've   already  borne. 
Arid  this   young   fellow?    say  what  can  he  do  ?— 

11(;  with   the    bcardiess  chin,  and    garincnts  torn."  — 
•Why,  izeneral,  if  he    hatli    n,-,   great. t   fault 
fc  war  than   love,  he  liad    belter   K-ad   the  assault."— 

Lxm. 

'*He   shall,   if  that    h.-   ,la,r.."      [Icre  .Juan    how'd 
L«ow  as   the  conip'iuifnt    dcMTvcd.      Siiwan'ow 

Continued  :    "  Your    old    rfiri;ri' nl  's    allow'd, 
By  special   providi'ncr,  to   Irnd     o-morrow. 

Or   it    maybe    t^wnight,   th.-    assault:    Fvc  vow'd 
To   several  saints,  that    shortly  plough   or   iiariow 

Shal',    pass   o'er  what  was   Ismail,  ah<i    its    lusi< 

B*>  uiiinnieded  b"  the   nroudtvst   mosuue. 


LXIY. 

"So  now,  my  lads,  for  glory!" — He-t    "-e  'uni'd. 

And  drill'd  away  in  the  most  classic  Russian, 
Until   each  high,  heroic  bosom  burn'd 

For  cash  and  conquest,  as  if  from  a  cushion 
A  preacher  had   held  forth   (who  nobly  si>urn'd 

All  earthly  goods  save  tithes)  and  bade  then;  push  on 
To  slay  the   Pagans  who  resisted,  battering 
The  armies  of  the  Christian   Empress  Catherin*-. 

LXV. 
Johnson,  who  knew  by  this  long  colloquy 

Himself  a  favourite,  ventured   to  address 
Suwarrow,  though  engaged  with  accents   high 

In  his  resumed  amusement.     "  I   confess 
My  debt,  in   being  thus  allow'd  to  die 

Among  the  foremost;    but  if  you 'd  express 
Explicitly  our  several   posts,   my  friend 
And  self  would   know  what   duty  to  attend." — 

LXVl. 

"Right!    I  was  busy,  and   forgot.     Whv    you 

Will  join  your  former  regiment,  which   should  be 

Now  under  arms.     Ho  !    Katskoff,  take  him  vo— 
(Here  he  call'd   up  a  Polish  orderly)  — 

His   post,  I  mean   the   regiment  Nikolaiew. 
The  stranger  stripling  may   remain   with  me; 

He  's   a  fine  boy.     'I"he  women   may  be  sent 

To  the  other  baggage,  or  to  the  sick  tent." 

LXYH. 

But  here   a  sort  of  scene  began  to  ensue  : 

The  ladies, — who  l)v  uq  means   had  been  bred 

To  be  disposed  of  in  a  way  so  new. 
Although  their  haram  education  led 

Doubtless  to  that  of"  doctrines  the  most   true. 
Passive  obedience,-— now  raised  up  the  head, 

With  riasliing  eyes  arid   starting  tears,  and  flung 

Their  arms,  as  hens  their  wings  about  tlieir  youi  g. 

Lxvin. 

O'er    the  promoted  couple  of  brave  men 
I         Who  were   thus  honour'd   by  the  greatest  chief 
I    That  ever  peopled    hell  with  heroes   slain, 
I         Or   plunged   a   province  or  a  realm  in   grief. 
I     Oh,  foolish   mortals  !    ahvays   taught  in  vain  ! 
Oh,  glorious  laurel !    since  for  one  sole  leaf 

Of  thine  imaginary  deathless   tree, 

Of  blood,  and  tears  must  flow  the  unebhing  sea ' 

LXIX. 

Suwarrow,  who   had  small  regard  for  tears. 

And  not  much  sympathy  for  blood,  survey'd 
The   women   with  tfieir   hair  about   their  ears. 

And  natural  agonies,  with  a  slight  shade 
Of  feeling  :    for,  howe\er  b.abit  sears 

Men's  h(!arts  against  whole  millions,  when  their  trade 
Is   butch(n-y,  sometimes  a  single  sorrow 
Will  tou(;h   even  heroes — and  su<'h  was  Suv.■arro^v. 

LXX. 
He  said— and  in  the  kindest  Calmuck   tone — 

"Why,  Joimsou,  what  the  devil   do  you   mean 
By  bringing  women  here  ?    They  shall   be  showi; 

All  the  attention  jiossible,  and  seen 
In   safety  to  the    wagons,  where  alone 

In  fart  thev  can  be  safe.      You   should  1  ive   been 
Aware   this    kind   of  baHiTJige  never  thrives  : 
Save  wed  a  year,  I  hati;  recruits  with  wives." 

LXXI. 
"Mav  it  phrase  your  exc'lliMicy,"  thus   replied 

Our   liritisii  friend,  "these  are  tlie  wiv(!s  of  ottiei-s. 
And   not  our  own.     I   am   too  ([ualified 

By  service  with  my  military  brothers. 


POX    JUAN. 


645 


To  l)ioak  'he  rules  by  nringiiig  one's  own  bride 

'Mil   a  camp;    I   know  that  nouijlit  so  budicrs 
';•(■   liearts   of  the  heroic  on  a  charge, 
As   lca\iiig  a  small  family  at  hirjie. 

LXXII. 
'   Hot   thes^e  are   hot  two  'J'urkish  Kalios,  who 

With   then-    attiMiJant   aided   our   cscane, 
A;i(l    afterwards    accoinpanicd   lis   thr()U<ili 

A   tiiuiisand   pfrils   in   this   dubious   shajjc. 
r.)  me   this   knui   of  hfe  is  not  so  new  ; 

To  tlieiii,  poor  things  I    it  is   an   awkward   stej)  ; 
I  theref  )rc,  if  yo-i  wis'.i    ine  to  ti^ht    frerly, 
Re.jucst   that  they  may  both   be  used  genteelly." 

LXXIII. 

Meantime,  these  two  i)oor  girl-:,  with   swimming  eyes 
LookM  on  as  if  in  doubt  if  they  could   trust 

Their  own   protectors  ;    nor  was   their  snr[)rise 
Less  than  their  ^rief  (and  truly  not  less  just) 

To  see  an  old  man,  rather  wild  than  wise 
In  aspect,  plainly  clad,  besmear'd  with   dust, 

Stript  to  bis  waistcoat,  and  that   not  too   clean, 

More  fear'd  than  all  the  sultans   ever  seen. 

LXXIV. 

For  every  thinsj  secin'd  resting  on   his  nod, 

As  thev  cop.ld   read   in   all   eyes.      Now,  to  ihein, 

Who  were   accnstonrd,  as  a  sort   of  god, 
To  see  ihe  su'.tan,  rich  in  nuuiy  a  gem, 

Ijike  an   imperial  peacock  stalk  abroad 
(That  royal  bird,  whose  tail 's   a  diadem), 

With  all  the  pomp  of  power,  it  was   a  doubt 

How  power  could  condescend  to  do  without. 

LXXV. 

John  Johnso!!,  seemg  their  extreme  dismay. 
Though  little  versed  in  feelings  oriental. 

Suggested  some  slight  comfort   m   his  way. 
Don  Juan,  who  was  much  more  sentimental, 

SvNore  they  should  see  him  by  the  dawn  of  day. 
Or  th-;it  the  Russian   army  should  repent  all: 

Anil,  strange  to  sav,  they  found  some  consolation 

[n  this — for  femaies  like  exaggeration. 

LXXVI. 

And  then,  with  tears,  and  sighs,  and  some  slight  kisses 

They  jtarted  for  the  present— these  to  await, 
Aeeonling  to  the    artillery's  hits  or  misses. 

What  sa^es  call  Chance,  Providence,  or  Fate — 
i' Uncertainty  is  one  of  many  blisses, 

A   mort2aEe  on  Humanity's  estate)  — 
k-Vhile  their  bek)ved   friends   began   to   arm, 
I\)  burn  a  town  which  never  did  them  harm. 

LXXVII. 
Siiv.arrow,  wlio  but  saw  things   in   the  gross — 

HeiuH  much  too  gross  to  see  them   in   detail ; 
Who  calcuhited  life   as   so  much  dross. 

And   as  the  wind  a  widow'd   nation's  wail. 
And  cared   as  little  for  his  army's  loss 

(So  that   their  efforts  should  at  length   prevail) 
As  w  ife  and  friends  did   for  the   boils  of  Job  ;  — 
What  was  't  to  him  to  hear  two  women  sob  ? 

LXXVIH. 

><)t  ing.     The  work  of  glorv  still  went  on, 

In  prejMirations  for    i  cannonade 
A  ;  terrible  as  that  of  Ili*>n, 

If  Homer  had  found  mortars  ready  made  ; 
P  it  now,  insteac  of  slaying  Priam's  son, 

We  only  can   but  talk  of  escalade, 
Br>nil«,  drums,  guns,  bastions,  batteries,  bayonets, 

bullets. 
Hard  wor(fe  which  stick  in   the  soft  Muses'  gullets. 


LXXIX. 

Oh,  thou   eternal  Homer  !    who  couldst   charnp 

All  ears,  though  long — all  ages,  though  so  short, 

\\\  merely  wielding  with   poetic   arm 
Arms  to  which  men  will  never  more  resort, 

Unless   guupov\der   should   be  found  to  harm 
Much   less   than   is  the   hope  of  every  couit, 

U'iiicii  iKJw  IS  leagued  young  Free.lGn;  <.a  annoy; 

Hut   they  will  not   (ind   Liberty  a  Troy: 

LXXX. 

C)l!,  thou   eternal   Homer  !    1  have  now 

'['o   paint  a  siege,  wherein  more   men   were   jluir 

With   deadlier  engines  and  a  speedier  blow, 
riiaii  in  thy  Greek  gazette  of  that  cain[iaign ; 

And    vet,   like   all   men  else,  I  must  allow, 
'J'o    vie   with  thee  would  be  about  as  vain 

As  for   a  bro(A  to  cope  with  ocean's  flood  ; 

IJut  still  we  moderns  e<iual   you  in  blood — 

LXXXL 

[f  not  in   poetry,  at  least  in   fact : 

And  fad  is  truth,  the  grand  desideratum  ! 

Of  which,  howe'er  the  Muse  describes  each  act, 
There  should  be,  ne'ertheless,  a  slight  substratum. 

But  now  the  town   is  going  to  be  attack'd  ; 
Great  d<!eds   are  doing — how  shall  I  relate  'em  ? 

Souls  of  immortal  generals  !    Phcebus  watches 

To  colour  up  his  rays  from  your  despatches. 

Lxxxn. 

Oh,  ye  great  bulletins  of  Bonaparte  ! 

Oh,  ye  less  grand  long  lists  of  kill'd  and  woimdeill 
Shade  of  Leonidas !   who  fought  so  hearty. 

When  my  poor  Greece  was  once,  as  now,  surrounded! 
Oh,  C;rsar's  Commentaries  !   now  impart  ye, 

Shadows  of  glory  !    (lest  I  be  contounded) 
A  portion  ol  your  fading  twilight  hues. 
So  beautiful,  so  fleeting  to  the  Muse. 

Lxxxin. 

When  I  call  "fading"   martial  immortality, 
I  mean,  that  every  age  and  every  year, 

And  almost  every  day,  in  sad   reality. 
Some  sucking  hero  is  compcll'd  to  rear. 

Who,  when  we  come  to  sum  up   the  totality 
Of  deeds  to  human  happim-ss  most  dear, 

Turns  out  to  be  a  butcher  in  great  business, 

Atiiicting  young  folks  with  a  sort  of  dizziness. 

LXXXIV. 

Medals,  ranks,  ribbons,  lace,  embroidery,  scarlet. 
Are  things  immortal  to   immortal  man. 

As  purple  to  the   Habylonian  harlot : 
An  uniform  to  boys  is  like  a  fan 

To  women  ;    there  is  scarce  a  crimson  varlet. 
But  deems  himself  the  first  in   glory's  van. 

But  glory  's  glory  ;    and  if  you   would  find 

What  that  is — ask  the  pig  who  sees  the  wind ! 

LXXXV. 

At   least  he  feels  it,  and  some  sav   le  see.f. 
Because  he  runs   before  it  lik*    a  pig  ; 

Or,  if  that  simple  sentence   si'.ould  displease, 
Say  that  he   scuds   betlire  it   like  a  brig, 

A  schooner,  or — but  it  is  time  to  ease 

This  canto,  ere  my  Muse  perceives  fatigue. 

The  next  shall  ring  a  peal  to  shake  all  people. 

Like  a  bob-inaj(3r  from  a  village-steeple. 

LXXXVL 

Hark !   through  the  silence  of  the  cold  dull  nigni 
'I'he  hum  of  armies  gathering  rank  on  rank  { 

Lo  !    dusky  masses  steal  in  dubious  sight 
Along  the  leaguer'd  wall  and  orislling  bank 


646 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Of  the  arm'd  river,  while  with  strajrgling  light 

The  stars  peep  through  the  vapours  dim  and  dank, 
Whioh  curl  in  curious  wreaths — How  soon  the  smoke 
Of  hell  shall  pall  them  in  a  deeper  cloak! 

LXXXVII. 

Here  pause  we  for  the  present — as  even  then 
That  awful  pause,  dividing  life  from  death, 

Struck  for  an  instant  on  the  hearts  of  men, 

Thousands  of  whom  were  drawing  their  last  breath  I 

A  moment — and  all  will  be  life  again! 
The  march!  the  charge!  the  shouts  of  either  faith! 

Hurra!  and  Allah!  and — one  moment  more —  ' 

The  death-cry  drowning  in  the  battle's  roax. 


CANTO  VIII. 


Oh  blood  and  thunder!  and  oh  blood  and  wounds! 

These  are  but  vulgar  oaths,  as  you  may  deem. 
Too  gentle  reader!  and  most  shocking  sounds: 

And  so  they  are;  yet  thus  is  Glory's  dream 
Uuriddled,  and  as  my  true  Muse  expounds 

At  present  such  things,  since  they  are  her  theme, 
Bo  be  they  her  inspirers !     Call  them  Mars, 
Bellona,  what  you  will — they  mean  but  wars.. 

II. 

All  was  prepared — the  fire,  the  sword,  the  men 
To  wield  them  in  their  terrible  array. 

The  army,  like  a  lion  from  his  den, 

March'd  forth  with  nerve  and  sinews  bent  to  slay- 

A  human  Hydra,  issuing  from  its  fen 
To  breathe  destruction  on  its  winding  way. 

Whose  heads  were  heroes,  which,  cut  off  in  vain, 

Immediately  in  others  grew  again. 

III. 
History  can  only  take  things  in  the  gross; 

Uut  could  we  know  them  in  detail,  perchance 
In  biilan'-ing  the  profit  and  the  loss, 

War's  mi'rit  it  by  no  mians  might  enhance. 
To  waste  so  much  gold  for  a  little  dross. 

As  hath  b"(,'n  done,  mere  conquest  to  advance. 
The  drying  up  a  single  tear  has  more 
Of  honest  fame,  than  shedding  seas  of  gore. 

IV. 

And  why?  Ixicause  it  brings  self-approbation; 

Whereas  the  other,  after  all  its  glare, 
Shouts,  bridges,  arches,  pensions  from  a  nation — 

Wliich  (it  may  be)  has  not  much  left  to  spare — 
A  l)igb»'r  title,  or  a  loitier  station. 

Though  they  may  make  corruption  gape  or  stare, 
Y«^t.  in  the  end,  t?xcei>t  in  fi-eedom"8  battles, 
Are  nuthiug  but  a  child  of  murder's  rattles. 


And  such  they  arc — and  such  they  will  be  found. 

Not  so  Leonidas  and  Washington, 
Whose  every  battle-field  is  holy  groiic<?. 

Which  breathes  of  nations  saved,  not  worlds  uiidODe* 
How  sweetly  on  the  ear  such  echoes  sound! 

While  the  mere  victors  may  appal  or  stun         "J* 
The  servile  and  the  vain,  such  names  -Till  be 
A  watchword  till  the  future  shall  be  free. 

VI. 

The  night  was  dark,  and  the  thick  mist  allow'd 
Nought  to  be  seen -save  the  artillery's  flame. 

Which  arch'd  the  horizon  like  a  fiery  cloud. 
And  in  the  Danube's  waters  shone  the  same, 

A  mirror'd  hell!     The  volleying  roar,  and  loud 
Long  booming  of  each  peal  on  peal,  o'ercame 

The  ear  far  more  than  thunder;  for  Heaven's  flashes 

Spare,  or  smite  rarely — Man's  make  millions  ashes! 

VII. 
The  column  order'd  on  the  assault  scarce  pass'd 

Beyond  the  Russian  batteries  a  few  toises, 
W"hen  up  the  bristling  Moslem  rose  at  last. 

Answering  the  Christian  thunders  with  like  voices; 
Then  one  vast  fire,  air,  earth,  and  stream  embraced. 

Which  rock'd  as  't  were  beneath  the  mighty  noises; 
While  the  whole  rampart  blazed  like  Etna,  when 
The  restless  Titan  hiccups  in  his  den. 

VIII. 

And  one  enormous  shout  of  "Allah  !"  rose 
In  the  same  moment,  loud  as  even  the  roar 

Of  war's  most  mortal  engines,  to  their  foes 
Hurling  defiance:  city,  stream,  and  shore 

Resounded  "Allah!"  and  the  clouds,  which  closo 
With  thickening  canopy  the  conflict  o'er, 

Vibrate  to  the  Eternal  Name.     Hark !  through 

All  sounds  it  pierceth,  '•  Allah!  Allah!  IIu!"» 

IX. 

The  columns  were  in  movement,  one  and  all: 
But,  of  the  portion  which  attack'd  by  water, 

Thicker  than  leaves  the  lives  began  to  fall, 
Though  led  by  Arseniew,  that  great  son  of  slaughter, 

As  brave  as  ever  faced  both  boom  and  ball. 

"  Carnage  (so  Wordsworth  tells  you)  is  God's  daugh 
ter  :"5 

If  ?ie  spc^ak  truth,  she  is  Christ's  sister,  and 

Just  now  behaved  as  in  the  Holy  Land. 

X. 

The  Prince  de  Ligne  was  wounded  in  the  kuee; 

Count  Chapeau-Bras  too  had  a  ball  between 
His  cap  and  head,  which  proves  the  head  to  be 

Aristocratic  as  was  ever  seen. 
Because  it  then  received  no  injury 

More  than  the  cap  ;  inTact  the  ball  could  moan 
No  harm  unto  a  right  legitimate  head  : 
"  Ashes  to  ashes"— why  not  lead  to  lead  ? 

XI 

Also  the  General  Markow,  Brigadier, 

Insisting  on  removal  of  the  jrrince, 
Amidst  some  groaning  thou^'ands  dying  near,— 

All  common  fellows,  who  might  writhe  and  wino^ 


T'ON    JUAN. 


647 


AnJ  shriek  for  watci    inU>  a  deaf  oar, — 

'J'lie  (Jeiii'ia!  Markow,  wIkj  cuuKI   thus   evince 
His   svuijialliv  for   rank,  by  the   same    tniven, 
To  leach   him  greater,  r.ati   his  own   leg  Ijrokeii. 

XII. 
Throe   huii.'red   cantioi!  ihrew   (i[)  their  cinetie, 

Ami    ihitiv  tiiousaiid   luuskits    liiiiiij    their   [ulis 
like   haii,  to   make  a  hioody  (imreiic. 

Mortality!    thou   liast  tliy  monthly  hills  ; 
Thy  iiia;.'ii.-s.  thy  famines,  thy  physirun^,  yet   tick, 

Like  t.ie  tieath-svatch,  within  our  ears  liu'  ills 
Past,  present,  an. I  to  come  : — hut  all  may  yield 
To   the   true   portrait    of  one    iiattle-lield. 

XIII. 
1  here   the   still  varyins:  pan^s,  which   ninltiply 

Until   their  very  number   makes  men  hard 
By  the   inlinilies   of  aijony, 

Which   meet   the  gaze,  whate'er   it    mav  regard — 
The  '^oan,  the  roll   in    dust,  the    all-v.hite   eye 

TuriiM  back  within  its  socket, — tiies(3  reward 
Your  rank  and  file  by  th(»usands,  while  the  rest 
May  win,  perh;\;»s,  a  rihlion   at   the   breast  ! 

XIV. 

Vet   I   love  irlorv  ;    elory 's  a   ^reat  ihin^; 

Think  Nvhat   it   is  to   be   in   vour  old  aije 
iMaintauiM   at    the   expense  of  your  good  king: 

A  ni'i'leratii  ptmsion  shakes  full  many  a  sage, 
And   h(>roes  are  but   made  for  bards   lo  &iii<i, 

Which  is  still   (metier  ;    liius  in  verse  to  wage 
Your  wars   ettirtialiv,  hesi<les   enjoviui; 
Huit-pay  fur   life,  make   mankind  worth  destroying. 

XV. 

The  troops  alreadv  diseinhark'd  pushM   on 
To  take   a   battery  on   the  riirhl  ;   the  others, 

Who  landed   lower  down,  tli(.-ir  landing  done, 
Had  set  to  work  as   briskly  as   their  br<jthers : 

Ueifig  grenadiers,  they  mounted,  one   by  one, 

Ci  eerftil  as  chiidreii  climb  the  breasts  of  mothers, — 

O'er  the  enireuchmenl  ami  the  jialisade, 

Quite  orderly,  as  if  ii|)on   parade. 

XVI. 

And   this    wa?  admirable  ;   for  so  hot 

The  fire  was,  that  were  red  Vesuvius  loaded, 

Besides  its   lava,   with  all  sorts   of  shot 

And  shells  or  hells,  it  could  not  more   have  goaded. 

Of  otiicers  a  thinl    fell  on   the  spot, 

A  thing  which  victory  by  no  means  boded 

To  gentlemen  en<iat/ed   in   the   assault : 

Hounds    when   the  huntsman  tumbles,  are  at  fault. 

XVII. 

But   here   I   leave  the  general   concern. 
To  track  our  hero  on   his  path  of  fame  : 

He  imist    his  laurels  separately  earn  ; 

For  iiliy  thousand    heroes,  name  by  name, 

rhough   all   deserving  ecjually  to   turn 
A  couplet,  or  an   elegy  to  claim, 

Would  fi)rm  a  lenaihy  lexicon   of  nlory. 

And.  -vliat   is  worse  still,   a  much   longer  story: 

XVIII. 
^na  therefore  we   must   give  the  grcatej   number 

To  the  gazette — which  doubtless  fairly  dealt 
By  the  det.-eased,  who  lie  in  famous  slumber 

III  ditches    ilelds,  or  wheresoe'er   they  felt 
The!     clay  for  the   last    time  tlitdr  snnis  encumber  ;  — 

Thiice  liapi)V  he   whose   name  has   been  well  spell 
In   the   despatch  ;    I    knew  a  man   v.  hose   loss 
Was  printed  Grove.,  although  Ins  name  was  Grose.* 


I  XIX. 

!  Juan   and  Jnlmson  joiii'd   a   certain   corps, 

j         And  toiight  away  with  might  and  main,  not  knowing 

■  The  way  ulnch    they  had   never  trod    beilire, 

I         And  still   U-;s   guessing  where  tiny  mliiht    be  goings 

But    on    tlit!y  mai'cliM,  dead    Ixidies  trampling   o'er, 
I         Kiriiir;,   and   tiirusting,  slashing,   swt/atiug,   glowing, 

j  But    lighting    ihoughtlessly  enou<ih    lo   win, 

i  To  thiiir  tiro  selves,  uiw  whole   brii.'ht  builelin. 

I, 

,    Thus   on   thoy  wallowM    in   the    bioody    mire 
j         Of  dead    and  dym^   thousands, — son;e{imes    gaininji 
!     A   yard  or  two  of  ground,  which    brought  t'lem   nighcr 
'\         To   some   odd    aiiirle   for  which    all  were   straining  ; 
At  other  times,  repulsed  by  the  (dose   lire. 

Which   reallv  poiir'd    as    if  all   hell  were    raining. 
Instead    of  hei.ven,  they  stumbled    backwards   o'er 
A  wounded  comrade,  sijrawling   in   his  gore. 

XXI. 

Though  'twas  Don  Juan's  first  of  fields,  and   though 
The  nii.ditly  muster  and  the   silent   mar(di 

In   the  chill  dark,  when   courage  does  not   glow 
So   much   as  under  a   trivmiphal  arch, 

Perhaps   mii^ht   make   him  shiver,  ya'\n,  or  throw 
A  glance  on   the  dull  clouds    (as   thick    a-  starch. 

Which  stitfen'd   hea>en)    as   if  he  wish'd   for  day  ;— 

Yet   for  all   this  he   did   not   run   away. 

XXII. 

Indeed  he  coull   not.      But   what   if  lie   iiad? 

There  have  bficn    and   are   heroes  who   b('<jun 
With  something  not   much   better,  or  as   bad: 

Frederic   the  Great  fri^m  Molwitz   deign'd   to  run. 
For  the   first  and   last   time;    fir,  like  a   pad. 

Or  hawk,  or  bride,  most  mortals,  after  one 
Warm  bout,  are   iiroken   into  their   new  tricks, 
And   fight   like  bends  f  )r  pay  or  politics. 

xxm. 

He  was  what  Erin  calls,  in   her  sublime 
Old  Erse  or  Irish,  or  it   may  be  Punic, 

(The  anti(;uariaiis   who  can   settle  time. 

Which  settles   all   things,  Roman,  Greek,  or  Runic, 

Swear  that  Pat's  language  sprung  from  the  same  .•.lime 
With  Hannibal,  and  wears  the  Tyrian  tunic 

Of  Dido's   alphabet  ;   and  this  is   rational 

As  any  other  notion,   and   not  national); — * 

XXIV. 

But  Juan  was  quite  "  a  broth   of  a  boy," 

A  thing  of  impulse  and  a  child  of  song: 
Now  swimming   in  the  sentiment  of  joy. 

Or  the  sriiSKtion   (if  that   phrase  seem  wrong). 
And   afterwards,   if  he  must  needs  destroy. 

In  such   good   company  as  always   throng 
To   battles,  sies/es,  and  that  kind  of  pleasure. 
No  less  delighted  to  employ  his  leisure  ; 

XXV. 
But   always  without  malice.     If  he  warr'd 

Or  loved,  it  was  with  what  we  call  "the  best 
Intentions,"   which  form   all   mankind's  trump-caul^ 

To  be  prod'iv.ed  when  brought  up  to  the  test. 
The  statesman,  hero,  harlot,  lawver — ward 

Otf  each   attack  when   peo;ile  are   in   (piest 
j    Ot"  t;i(  ir  designs,  by  saving  they  v(p«/;/   it<U; 

'T  is  pity   "that  such   meanings  .--hould   pave  het'.' 

XXVI. 
I   almost  latelv  have   besun   to  d  :(ubt 

Whether   hell's  pavement — ii"  it   be  no  r"Tt«^ 
iMu^t   not  have  latterly  been   quite  worn   out, 
I        Not  by  the  numbers   good    intent   hath   saved. 


54S 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


But   by  the  mass  who  go  below  without 

Thopo  ancient  good  intentions,  whii-h  once  shaved 
And   smooth'd   the  brimstone   of  tliat  street   of  hell 
v\"hich  bears  the  greatest  Ukeness  to  Pall  Mall. 

XXVII. 

Juan,  by  some  strange  chance,  whicl)  oft  divides 
Warrior  from  warrior  m  their  erirn  car(  er, 

Like  chastest  wives  from   constant   husbands'  sides, 
Just  at  the  close  of  the  tirst  britlal  year, 

By  one  of  those  odd  turns  of  fortune's  tides. 
Was  on  a  sudden  rather  puzzled  here. 

When,  after  a  good  deal  of  heavy  firing. 

He  found  himself  alone,   and  friends  retiring. 

XXVIII. 

I  don't  know  how  the  thing  occurr'd — it  might 
Be  that  the  greater  part  were  kill'd  or  wounded, 

And  that  the  rest  had  faced  unto  the  right 
Abou* ;   a  circumstance  which  has  confounded 

Caesar  himself,  who,  in  the  very  sight 

Of  his  whole  army,  which  so  much   abounded 

In  courage,  was  obliged  to  snatch  a   shield 

And  rally  back  his  Romans  to  the  field. 

XXIX. 

Juan,  who  had  no  sliield  to  snatch,  and  was 
No  Cajsar,  but  a  fine  young  lad,  who  fought 

He  knew  not  why,  arriving  at  this  pass, 
Stopp'd  for  a  minute,  as  perhaps  he  ought 

For  a  much  longer  time  ;    then,  like  an  ass — 

(Start  not,  kind  reader  ;   since  great  Homer  thought 

This  simile  enough   for  Ajax,  Juan 

Perhaps  may  find  it  better  than  a  new  one:) — 

XXX. 

Then,  like  an  ass,  he  went  upon  his  way. 

And,  what  vvas  stranger,  never  look'd   behind ; 

But  seeing,  flashing  forward,   like   the  day 
Over  the  hil'^,  a  fire  enough   to  blind 

Those  who   dislike   to  look  upon  a  fray. 
He   stumbled   on,   to  try  if  he  could  find 

A  path,   to  add   his  own  slight  arm  and  forces 

To  corps,  the  greater  part  of  which  were  corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving  then  no  more  the  commandant 
Of  his  own  corps,  nor  even  the  corps,  which  had 

Quite  disappear'd — the  gods  know  how  !    (I  can't 
Account  for  every  thing  which  may  look  bad 

In   history  ;    but  we   at  least   may  grant 
It  was   n()t   mar'-ellous  th;it   a   mere  lad. 

In  search  of  glory,   should   look  on   l)efore, 

Nor  care  a  pinch  of  snuff  abou'   his  corps;) — 

XXXII. 

Perceiving  nor  commarider  nor  commanded. 
And   left  at  large,  like  a  young  heir,  to  make 

His  way  to — where  he  knew  not — single-handed  ; 
As  travellers   fol'ow  over  bog  and  brake 

An   "ignis  fatiius,"  or  as  sailors  stranded 
Unto  the  neare-^t  hut  themselves  betake, 

J<o  Juan,  following  honour  and  his  nose, 

Riish'd  where  the  thickest  fire  announced  most  foes. 

XXXIII. 

He   knew  not  where  he  was,  nor  greatly  cared, 
Per  he  was  dizzy,  busy,  and  his  veins 

Fili'd  as   with  lightning — for  his  spirit  shared 
The  hour,   as  is   thi!  case  with   iivclv  brains  ; 

And,  where  the  Ik.; test  fire  was   siw.u   and   heard, 
And   the  loud  cjitnioii   pcsal'd   its   hoarsest  strains, 

H«;   rush'd,  while  earth  and  air  wtM-e  sadly   shaken 

Hv  tl>y  (lumane  discovery,  friar  Hacon  !^ 


XXXIV. 

And,  as  he  rush'd  along,  it  came  to   pass  he 
Fell  in  with  what  was  late  the  second   column., 

Under  the  orders  of  the  general  Lasoy, 
But  now  reduced,  as  is  a  bulky  volume, 

Into  an  elegant  extract   (much  less  massv) 
Of  heroism,  and  took   his  place  wiih  solemn 

Air,  'midst  the  rest,  who  kept   their  valiant  faces, 

And  levell'd  weapons,  still  against  the  glacis. 

XXXV. 

Just  at  this  crisis  up   came  Johnson  too. 

Who  had  "  retreated,"  as  the   phrase  is,  when 

Men  run  away  much  rather  than  go  through 
Destruction's  jaws  into  the  devil's  den- 

But  Johnson  was  a  clever  fellow,  who 

Knew  when  and  how  "  to  cut   and  come  again,** 

And  never  ran   away,  except  when  running 

Was  nothing  but  a  valorous  kind  of  cunning. 

XXXVI. 

And  so,  vvheii  all  his  cor[)s  were  dead  or  dying, 

Except   Don  Juan — a  mere  novice,  whose 
jNlore  virgin  valour  never  dreamt  of  tlving. 

From  ignorance  of  danger,  which  indues 
Its  votaries,  like  innocence   relying 

On  its  own  strength,  with  careless  nerves  and  thews,- 
Johnson  retired  a  little,  just  to  rally 
Those  who  catch  cold  in  "  shadows  of  death's  valley  '* 

XXXVII. 
And  there,  a  little  shelter'd  from   the  shot, 

Whick  rain'd  from  bastion,  battery,  parapet, 
Rampart,  wail,   casement,  house — for  there  was  not 

In  this  extensive  city,  sore  beset 
By  Christian  soldiery,  a  single  spot 

Which  did  not  combat  like  the  devil  as  yet. 
He  found  a  number  of  chasseurs,  all  scailer'd 
By  the  resistance  of  the  cliase  they  batter'd. 

XXXVIII. 
And  these  he  call'd  on  ;   and,  what 's  strange,  they  canje 

Unto  his   call,  unlike   "the   s[)irits  from 
The  vastv  deep,"  to  whom  you  may  exclaim, 

Says  Hotspur,  long  ere  they  will  leave  their  home. 
Their  reasons  were  uncertainty,  or  shame 

At  shrinking  from  a  bullet  or   a  bonfr. 
And  that  odd  impulse,  which,  in  wars  or  creeds, 
Makes  men,  like  cattle,  follow  him  who  leads. 

XXXIX. 
By  Jove  !   he  was  a  noble  fellow,  Johnson, 

And  though  his  name  than  Ajax  or  Achilles 
Sounds  less  harmonious,  underneath   the  sun  soon 

We  shall  not  see  his  likeness  :   lie  could  kill  his 
Man  quite  as  quietly  as  blows  the  monsoon 

Her  steady  breath   (which  some  months  the  same 
still  is;) 
Seldom  he  varied  feature,  hue,  or  muscle, 
And  could  be  very  busy  witiioul  bustle  ; 

XL. 
And  therefore,  when  he  ran  away,  he  did  so 

Upon  reflection,  knowing  that  behin-i 
He  would  find  others  who   A'ould  fain   be  rid  so 

Of  idle  ap[)rehensions,  which,  like  wind. 
Trouble  heroic  stomachs.     Though  their  lids  so 

Oft  are  soon  closed,  all  heroes  are  not  blind. 
But  when  they  light   upon  immediate  death, 
Retire  a  little,  merely  to  take  breath. 

XLI. 
But  Johnson   only  ran  off  to  return 

With   many  other  warriors,  as  wc  said. 
Unto  that  rather  somewhat  misty  bourn, 

Which  Hamlet  tells  us  is  a  pass  of  dread. 


DON    JUAN. 


H49 


Pu  Jack,  howe'er,  this  gave  but  slit;Iit  coiicorn  : 

flis  so'il   ^iiko   ^mIvuhisih  iipoii  tlie  clou.d) 
Acted   upon  the  living  us   on  wire, 
And  led   iheni  hack   inti)  tlie   licaviest  fire. 

XLII. 

Kgad  !    they   found   the  second  time  what  they 

The   lirst    tune   tlioiii;hl    (]uit(!   teirihh;    euougli 
To  fly  iVoin,  malgiv   all  winch   pcoj-lc   say 

Ot   gloiy,  and   aH    that   nnniorlal    stulf 
SViiich   lids  a  rciinnenl   (Itesides   tlieir  pay, 

I'liut   daily  siiiiling  which   makes  warriors  tougli)  — 
They    found   on   llicir   r*;iin-n   the   sclf-siuuc  wuicome, 
Which  made  some  i/it/(a,  and  oliiers  A/ii;//.,  a /'k// come. 

XLIH. 
They   fell  as  thick   as   harvots   bcn.'ath  hail, 

(Jrass   btdore  scythes,  or  corn   iuScw  the   sickle. 
Proving   that   irite   old   truth,  thai    life's    as   frail 

As  any  other   boon  for  which   mi  n   sludvle. 
The  Turkish   batteries  thrash'd  iIk-iu  like  a  tlail, 

Or  a   good  boxer,  into  a  sad   pickle 
Putting  the  very  bravest,  who  were  knock'd 
L'pon  the  head  before  their  guns  were   cock'd. 

XLIV. 
The  Turks,   behind  the   traverses  and   flanks 

Of  the  iie\t   bastion,  fired   away  like  devils, 
And   swept^  as  gales  swee[)  foam  away,  whole  ranks: 

il.jwever,  Heaven  knows  how,  ihe  Fate  who  levels 
Towns,  nations,  worlds,  in   her  rtwolvinir  pranks, 

So   ordcrM   it,   amidst   these   sulphury  revels, 
That  Johnson,  and  some  few  who  had  not  scamper"d, 
ReachM   the   interior   talus  of  llu;   rampart. 

XLV. 
First   one  or  two,  then  five,  six,  and  a  d(jzen, 

Ca;ue  mounting  quickly  up,  for  ii    was   now 
All  neck  or  nothing,  as,  like  pilch   or  rosin. 

Flame  was  showerM   fi)rth   above  as  well's  belo-.v, 
So  that  you  scarce  could  say  who  best  had  chosen, — 

The   gentlemen   that  w(n-e   the   first   to  show 
Their  martial   faces  on   the   parapet, 
Or  those  who  thought  it  brave  to  wait  as  vet. 

XLVT. 

But  those   who   scaled  found  out  tliat  their  advance 
Was  favour'd  by  an  accident  or  blunder : 

The  Greek  or  Turkish   Cohorn's  ignorance 
Ha<l   palisadoed  in   a  way  you  M  wonder 

To  see  in   forts  of  Nelherlan<ls  or  France — 

(Though  these  to  our  Gibraltar  must  knock  under) — 

Right  ill  the   middle  of  the   parapet 

Just  named,  these  palisades  were  primly  set : 

xLvn. 

So  that  on  either  side  some  nine  or  ten 
Paces  were   left,  whereon  you  could  contrive 

To  march  ;    a  great   convenience  to  our  men, 
At  least  to  all   those  who  were  left  alive, 

W^ho  thus  could   form   a  line   and   fight  again ; 
And  that  which  further  aided   them  to  strive 

Was,  that  they  could  kick  down  the  jialisades, 

Which   scarcely  rose  much  higher  than  grass  blades. 

XLVIII. 

Among  the  first, — I  will   not   say  the  Jimt^ 
For  such   precedence  upon  such  occasions 

Will  <)fteritimcs   make  deadly  quarrels   burst 

Our    between  tl-ierids  as  well   as  allied  nations  ; 

The   Briton   must  be   bold  who   really  durst 

Put  to  such  trial  John    Bull's  partial   patience, 

As  say  that  Wellington   at  Waterloo 

W  as  ber^'en  — th  ugh  the   Prussians  say  so  too ; — 


XLIX. 

And  that  if  Blucher,  Bulow,  Gneisenau, 

And  God  knows  who  besides  in  "  au  "   and  "ou," 

H;id    not   come   up   in   time  to   cast    au   awe 
Into  the  hearts  of  thos(;  who   fought    till  nosy 

As   ligcrs   ("omhat  with    an   empty  ctaw, 

1'hc    Duke   of  W.'lliu-ton   had' ceasi.l   to   show 

!Iis   orders,   also   to   recc-ive   his   p..-nsi<.ns. 

Which   are  the  heaviesi  that  our   hisicry  men'ions. 

L. 

r.iil    never  mind; — "God  save  llu^  king!"  and  kings' 
For  if  //(■   dou'l,   I    <!oubl   if  men  will   longer 

I    think    I    hrar    a    liltle    bird,  w!io   sing^, 
;         'i'he    p(,-ople    bv   and    by  will   be  the   stronger: 

The  veriest   jad(^  will  wince  whose   harn(>ss  wrings 
So   much  into  the   raw  as  cpiite  to  wrong   her 

Hivond   the   rules  of  posting, — anil   the  mob 

Ai   last  fall   sick   of  imitating  Job. 

LI. 

Al    lirst   it   grumbles,  then  it  swears,  and  then, 

I>ike   David,  flings  smooth  i)ebb!es 'gainst  a  giant  j 

At   last   it   takes   to  weapons,  such  as  men 

Snatch  when  desjiair  makes  human  hearts  less  pliant. 

Then  "comes  the  tug  of  war;" — 't  will  come  again, 
I   ratiier  doubt ;    and   I  would  fain   say  "fie   on 't," 

If  I    had   not   perceived  that   revolution 

Alone  can  save  the  earth  from   hell's  poliulion. 

I  LII. 

I     But    to   continue  : — I   sav  not   the   first. 

But    of  tlie   first,  our   little  friend    Don  Juan 
Walk'd  o'er  the  walls  of  Ismail,   as   if  nursed 
I  Amidst  such  scenes — though  this  was  quite  a  ncvv  one 

I     To  him,  and  I  should  hope  to  most.     The  thirst 
'         Of  glory,  which  so  pierces  through  and  through  oue. 
;      Pervaded   him — altiiough   a  generous  cicature, 
As  warm  in  heart   as  feminine  in  feature. 

LIII. 
And   here  he  was — who,  upon  woman's   breast. 

Even   from  a  child,  felt   like   a  ciiild  ;    howy'er 
The  man   in   all   tiie  rest  might   be  c  lufess'd  ; 

To   him   it  was   Elysium   to  be   there  ; 
And   he  could   even  withstand  that   awkward  test 

Which  Rousseau  jioiuts  out  to  the  dubious  fan 
"Observe  your  lover  when  be  LpiiVfj^  your  arms;" 
But   Juan  never  left  them  while   they  'd   charms, 

LIV. 

Unless   compell'd   by  fate,  or  wave  or  wind. 
Or  near  relations,  who  are  much   the  same. 

But   here  he  was  ! — where   each   tie  tliat   can   bind 
Humanity  must  yield   to  steel   and   flame; 

And   /(e,    whose   very   body   \\as  all   mind, — 

Flung  liere  by  fate  or  circumstance,   which   tame 

The   loftiest, — hurried  'by   the  time   and   place, — 

Dash'd  on   like   a  spurr'd   blood-horse   in  a  race. 

LV. 

So  was  his  blood  stirr'd   while  he  found   resistance, 
As  is  the  hunter's  at  the  five-bar  gate. 

Or  doul)le   post  and   rail,  where  the  existence 
Of  Britain's   youth   depends   upon  their  weight 

The  lightest  being  the  safest:   at  a  distance 
He   hated  cruelty,  as  al'   men   hate 

Blood,   until   heated — and  even   tliere  his  own 

At  times   would  curdle  o'er  some   heavy   groan. 

LVI. 

The  General  Lascy,  who  had  been  hard  press  a. 

Seeing  arrive   an   aid   so   opportune 
As  were  some   hundred  youngsters   all  abreast, 

Who  came  as  if  just  dropp'd  dosvn  from  the  niooi). 


650 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


To  Juan,  who  was  nearest  him,  address'd 

His  thanks,  and   hopes  to  take  the  city  soon, 
Not  ruckoning   liim  to   be  a,   "base   Bezonian" 
(As   Pistol  calls  it^,  but   a'  young   Livonian. 

LVII. 

Juan,  to  whom   he  spoke   in   German,   knew 

As   much   of  German   as  of  Sanscrit,   and 
In   answer  made   an   inciuiation  to 

Tlie   general   who   held   him   in   command  ; 
For,  seeing  one   with   ribbons  black   and   blue, 

Stars,   medals,  and   a  bloody   sword   in   hand, 
Addressing  him  in  tones  which  seem'd  to  thank, 
He  recognised  an  officer  of  riiiik. 

LVIII. 
Snort   speeches    pass  between  two  men  who  speak 

No  common   language ;   and  besides,   in   time 
Of  war  and  taknig  towns,   when   many  a   shriek 

liiiiiis  o'er  the  dialosue,   and   many   a  crime 
Is  perpetrated  ere  a  word   can  break 

Upon    the  ear,   and   sounds  of  horror  chime 
In,  like  church-bells,  witii  sigh,  howl,  groan,  yell,  prayer, 
There  camiot  be  nmch  conversation  there. 

LIX. 

And   therefore  all   we   have   related   in 

Two  long  octaves,  i)ass'd  in  a  little  minute ; 
liut   in  the   same   small  minute,  every   sin 

Contrived  to  get   itself  comprised   within  it. 
The  very  cannon,   deafen'd   by   the  din. 

Grew  dumb,   for  you   might   almost  henr  a  linnet. 
As  soon  as  thunder,  'midst  tiie   general  noise 
Of  human   nature's  agonizing  voice! 

LX. 
The  town  was  enter'd.     Oh  eternity!  — 

'■^  God  r.iade  tiie  country,  and  man  made  the  town," 
So  Cowper   says — and   I  begin   to  be 

Of  his  opinjon,  when  I  see  cast  down 
Rotne,   Babylon,   Tyre,   Carthage,   Nineveh — 

All   walls  men  know,  and   many  never  known; 
And,  pondering  on  the   present  and   the   past. 
To  deem  the   woods  shall  be  our  home  at  last. 

LXI. 

Of  all  men,  saving  Sylla  the  man-slayer. 

Who  passes  for  in   life   and  death   most    lucky, 

Of  tlie  great   names,   which  in   our  faces  stare. 

The   Gene'-al   Boon,  buck-woodsman    of  Kentucky. 

Was  ha[»piest   amongst  mortals   any  where  ; 
For  killing  nothing  but  a   bear  or  buck,   he 

Eujoy'd  the  lonely,  vigorous,  harmless   days, 

Of  his  old  age  in   wilds  of  deepest  maze. 

LXI  I. 

Crime  came  not  near  him — she  is   not  the  child 
Of  solitude;    health   shrank   not  from  him — fur 

lli'.r  home  is  in   the  rarely-trodden   wild, 

Where  if  men   seek  her  not,   and   death  be   n.ore 

Their  choice   than   life,  forgive  them,  as    beguiu:d 
By  habit   to   uhit   t'liiir  own   hearts   abhor — 

T/i  ciMcs  caged.     The   pr<'sent   case  in    point   I 

Cite  is,  that   Boon  lived   huniing   up  to  ninety  ; 

LXIII. 

And   what's  still  stranger,   left   behind   a  name — 
For  which  men  vainly   (hu'imate   the   throng, — 

Not  only  famous,  but  of  that   iioDfl  fame 

Without  wliich   glorv  's   but    a  tavern   song — 

Sim[)!e,  ser('rie,   th(i   anti|)odi's   of  sliauH!, 

Which   liate  nor  envy  e'er  could  lin'_'(?  wit'i  v/Diig; 

Ar    active   liermit,  even   in   ai,'(!  the;  child 

(^*  Tiaiure.  or  the   .Man  of  Ross   run   wild. 


LXIV. 
'Tis  true  he  shrank  from  men,  even  o    his  nation. 

When   they  built  up  unto  his  darling  trees, — 
He  moved  some  hundred   miles  off,  for  a   station 

Where  there  were  fewer  houses   and   more   ease-- 
The  inconvenience  of  civilization 

Is,  that   you  neither  can  be  pleased  nor  please ,- • 
But,   where   he  met   the   individual   man, 
He  show'd  himself  as  kind   as  mortal  can. 

LXV. 

He  was  not  all  alone :   around  him    grew 
A  svlvan   tribe  of  children  of  the  chase. 

Whose   youn<T,   unwaken'd   world   was  ever     new, 
Nor  sword   nor   sorrow  yet  had  left   a  trace 

On   her   unwrmkleri   brow,   nor  could   you  viiiw 
A  frown   on  nature's  or  on    human   face  ;  — 

The   free-born   firest   found   and   kept  them  free, 

And  fresh   as   is   a  torrent  or   a  tiee. 

LXVI. 

And   tall   and   strong  and  swift  of  foot   were   tliey 
Beyond  the  dwarfing  city's   pale   abortions. 

Because  their  thoughts  had   never  been   the    prey 
Of  care  or  gain  :  the  green  woods  were  their  portions; 

No  slnkm(T  spirits   told   them  they   grew    gray  ; 
No  fashion   made   them   apes  of  her  distortions  • 

Simple   th'_n'  wer(>,   not  savage;    and   their   ril'es. 

Though   very  true,  were  not  yet  used   for  tritles. 

LXVII. 

Motion   was  in   their  davs,   res    in   their   r-lumhers. 
And   cheerfuhnss   the   handmaid  of  their  toil; 

Nor  yet   too  manv   nor  too  few  their   numbers; 
Corruption   could   not   make  their  hearts    her    soil: 

The  lust  which  stini;s,  the  splendour  which  encumbtr^j 
With   the   free  foresters   divide  no  spoil  ; 

Serene,   not  sullen,   wore   the   solitudes 

Of  this  unsighing  people  of  the  woods. 

Lxvni. 

So  much  for  nature: — by  way  of  variety, 
Now  back   to  thy   great  joys,  civiuzation  ! 

And   the  sweet  consecpience  of  large  society, — 
War,   pestilence,  the   despot's  desolation, 

The  kingly  scourge,  the   lust   of  notoriety, 

The   millions  slain  by   soldiers  for  their   ration. 

The  scenes  like  Catherine's  boudoir  at  threescore, 

With  Ismail's  storm  to  soften   it  the  more. 

LXIX. 

The  town  was  enter'd :   first   one  colunm   made 
Its  sanguinary   way   good — then    another  ; 

The   reeking  bayonet    and   the   Hasbmg   blade 

Clash'd   'gainst  the   sc-imitar,  and   habi;   and  mother 

With  distant  shrieks  were  heard  luiaveu  to  upbraid  ;— 
Still  chiser   sulphury  clouds   began   to    smother 

The   breath   of  morn  and    man,  where,   too;    by  foot, 

The  madden'd  Turks   their  city  siill  dispvile, 

LXX. 

Koutousow,   he  who  afterwards  beat   hack 

(With  some  assistance  from  the  frost  an.\  si  )'*•» 

Napoleon   on    his  bold   and   bhtody  tracdv. 

It   happeii'd   was   himself  beat    back  just   now. 

He    was   a  jolly    felU-w, 


III 


jest 


dike 


Though   life,  and    (i"ar 
But   here   it  seem'd   h 


ror,  liaving  iiirowi 

Follow'd   m   haste   by    variovis    fc 
Whose    l)!ood   iIh!    puddi.:   greatlv    d.i 

He  clnnb'd  to   where  the   parapet 


a.id  could,   crack 

of  fi-.:M.d   or  foe. 

<ii.'   \-Cv0.y,  -vert 

af  -«..  k.>-. 

)(  ke.s  l.avl   ceased 

to  like!: 

XXI. 

selt  into   a   i!.t(,h, 

DON    JUAN. 


651 


Hiu   thi>rc  his   |)!(ijcct   rear.h'd  its   iifniost   pilch  — 

;'?\Inn;;st    (itlur  driiths   the  Gt'iicfal   I'iliiuipitjrre's 
VV.is   much    rcuri'litil)— Inr   tht;    iMosUmh   ineii 
Threw  them   all  down   into  i!ic  ditch   aguiii : 

lAXII. 

And,  liad   it  not  been   tor   sonu;   stray  troops,  landing 
They  kninv  not  where, — heniir  earned  by  tlie  slreani 

Tt>  sonic   spot,    where   th''y    lo>t    llii'ir    nndersianding. 
And    wander'd   up    and    down   as   in    a    dieani, 

Unti.   they   reaeli'u,  as    day-break   was   e.xpandm::, 
That    which    a   portal    to   their   eyes   did    seem, — 

Tiu;   great   and   gav    Kontousow   inii:!it    have   lam 

\\'here  three  parts  of  his  colunni  yet   remain. 

Lxxni. 

And,  S(Tamblinii  round  the  ramprvrt,  these  san;e  troops, 

After   the  takuig  of  the   '•cavalier," 
Just    as   Koutousow's   most    "forlorn"   of  'Hiopes" 

Took,   like  chanuleoiis,   some  sliijht  tuiue   of  fear, 
Opeii'd   the   oate   calPd  "Kilia"  to   the   i^ronps 

Of  badloi    heroes  who   stood   shyly   ne:ir, 
Slidin«r   knee-d'^ep   in    lately-frozen    mud. 
Now  thaw'd  into  a  nuvsh   of  human  blood. 

LXXIV. 

The  Ko7.aks,  or   if  so  you    please,   Cossacks — 

(I   don't    much    pique    myself  upon   orihography, 
So  that    I  do   not    grossly   err   in   facts. 

Statistics,  tactics,   politics,   and  geosraphy)  — 
Having  been  used    to   serve  on   horses'   backs. 

And   no   irreat   dilettanti    in   topography 
01  fortresses,   but   fightin<r  where   it    pleases 
Their  chiefs    to  order, — were  ail  cut  to    pieces. 

LXXV. 
Thtir  column,  thoiitfli  the  Turkish  batteries  thimder'd 

Upon  them,  ne'ertheloss  had   reach'd  the  rampart, 
And    i.aturailv    thought  thev   could    have   plunder'd 

TliL   city,   without   being  further  luini[ier'tl ; 
Bu',   as   it  happens   to   brave  men,  they  bUinder'd — 

The  Turks   at   first   pretended  to  have    scamiier'd, 
Only   :o   draw  them  'twixt    two   bastion   corners, 
Frum  whence  they  sallied  on  those  Christian  scorners. 

LXXVI. 

Then   being- taken  by   the  tail — a  taking 
Fatal   to  bishops   as   to  soldiers — these 

Cossacks   were   all   cut  utf  as   day   was   breaking, 
And   t")utid    their  lives    were  let  at    a   short   lease — 

But  perish'd   without   shivering  or   shaking, 
Leaviiii;  as   ladders  their  heai)'d   carcasses, 

O'er   which   Lieutenant-Colonel  Yesouskoi 

March'd   with   the   brave   battalion   of  P<jlouzki:  — 

LXXVII. 

This  valiant   man   kill'd   all   the   Turks   he   met, 
But  could  not   eat   them,  being  in   his   turn 

Slain   by  some   ^lussulmans,   win   would   not  yet, 
Without  resistance,   see   their  city   burn. 

The  walls   \vere  won,  but    't  was  an   even   bet 

Which   of  the  armies  would   have   cause  to  mourn : 

''J"  was  l)low  for  blow,   disputing   inch   by   inch, 

For  one  would  not  retreat,   nor  t'other   tlinch. 

LXXVIII. 

Another  column   also  sutfer'd   much  : 

And  here   we   may   remark   with  the  historian, 

You  should  but  give  few  cartriiL'cs   to   su'^h 

Troops  as  are  meant  lo  march  with  (jreatest  glory  on  : 

When   matters   must    be  carried   by   the   touch 

Of  the  bright  bavoii(!t,  ami  they  all  should  hurry  on. 

They   sometimes,  with   a  hankering  for  existence. 

Keen  merely   firing  at  a  foolish  distancf*. 


LXXIX. 

A  junction  of  the   C<Mieral   .MeKuop's   men 

(Withoii!    th(!   General,  who   had    fillen   some    ;imc 

Bclore,   b.nig    badly    seconded   just    ihen) 

Was  made  at  length,  with  those  who  dared,  lo  dimb 

The   thNith-disgorgmg  ramp.irt  oikm-  again; 

And,   though    the   'I'url.'s   resistance    was   sublime-, 

Thev    took   the   bastion,   which   the   Seraskier 

Defended  at   a   [trice  extremely  dear. 

LXXX. 

Juan   and  Johnson    and   some   volunteers. 

Among   the    foremost,   otier'd    him   good   'piarter, 

A   word  which  little  suits   with   Seraskii^rs, 
Or  at    least    snitivl   not  this   valiant    Tartar. — 

lie   died,   d(;serviiig   w(;ll   his  country's  tears, 
A   savage   sort    of  military    martyr. 

An   Eimlish   naval  othcer,   wlur  wish'd 

To   make   him   jn-isoner,   was   also   dish'd. 

LXXXl. 

For  all   the  answer  to    his  projiosition 

Was  from  a  pistol-sliot   that    laid   li:m   dead; 

On  which   tlie   rest,   without  more  intermission, 
Bciian   to   lav   about  witli   steel  and  lead, — 

The   pious   metals  most   in   rei]uisirion 
On  such  occasions  :    not   a  single  head 

Was   spared,— three  thousand  Moslems  [lerisU'd  Iieic, 

And  sixteen  bayonets  pierced   the   Seraskier. 

LXXXII. 

Tiie   city's  takon— only  part   by  part  — 

And  death  IS  drunk  with  gore:    t!!.Te'<   not  a  street 
Where   tiiihis  noi    to  the  lust   some   desperate  heart 

For  those   for  wiioiu  it   soon   shall  cease   to  beat. 
Here  War  loru'ot    ins   own   destructive  art 

In  mi>re  (!"slroyiii<>   nature  ;    and   the  heat 
Of  carnage,  like   tlie  Nile's  sun-sodden  slime, 
Eiigender'd  monstrous  shaj-es  of  every  crime. 

LXXXIII. 
A  Russian   oii'.c(!r,  in   martial   tread 

Over  a   heap   of  bodies,  t.lt   liis  heel 
Seized  fast,  as  if  "t  were   by  the   serpent's  h(;ad, 

Whose  fangs  Eve   'aught  her  human   seed   to  feel. 
In  vain    !h;  kick'd,  and   swore,  and    writhed,  and  bleti. 

And   iiowl'd  tor  help   as  wolves  do  for  a  meal— 
The  teeth   still   kept  their  gratifying  hold. 
As  do   the  subtle  snakes  described   of  ol.i. 

LXXXIV. 
A  dying  Moslem,  who   liad  felt   the   toot 

Of  a  foe  o'er  Iiirn,  snatch'd  at  it,  and   bit 
The  very  tendon  which   is   most  acute — 

(That  which   some  aiu'ient  .Muse  or  modern  wit 
Named   after  thee,    Achilles)   and  (juiie   through  'l 

He  made   the  teeth   meet,  nor  relinquish'd  it 
Even  with   his  life— for   (but   they   lie)    'tis   said 
To  the  live  leg  still  clung  the  sever'd  head. 

LXXXV. 

However  this  may  be, 't  is   jireity  sure 

The  Russian   ot?'cer  for  life  was  lamed. 
For  the  Turk's  teeth  stuck   faster  than   a  skewet. 

And   left   him  'midst   the  invalid  and   maini'd: 
The   regimental  surgeon  could   not  cure 

His  patient,  and   perhaps   was  to  be  blamed 
More  than   the  head   of  the.j(|iveieratc  fi)e. 
Which  was  cut  off,  and   scarce  t;ven   then  let   go. 

LXXXVI. 
But  then  the  fact 's  a  fact— and  't  is  the   pari 

Of  a  true    poet  to  escape   from    fic-tion 
Whene'er  he  can  ;   for  there   is  little  art 

In  leaving  verse  more  freo  from  the  rcistrtctioD 


f)52 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    AVORKS 


«)f  irutli  than   prose,  unless  to  suit  the  marl 

For  what  is  sometimes  callM   poetic  diction, 
And   that   outrageous   afipelite  for   Hes 
VV'iiich  Satan   angles  witli  loc  souls  hke  flies. 

LXXXVII. 
The  city's  taken,  but  not  r(;n(lerM  ! — No! 

Tnere  's  not   a  Moslem  that   hath   yiel(k;rl   sword  : 
The  bloo.l    may  gush   out,  as  tlie  Danube's  flow 

Rolls  by  the  city  wall  ;   but  deed   nor  word 
A(;kn(nvle(!ge  aught   of  dread  of  death   or  foe : 

!n  vain  the  yell   of  victory  is   roar'd 
Hy  the  advani'ing  Muscovite — the   groan 
Of  tilt   lust  foe   is   echoed  by  his  own. 

LXXXVIII. 
'J'he  havon<;t  pierces   and    the  sabre  cleaves, 

And  hinnan  lives  arc;  lavish'd  every  where, 
As  the   year   (;li.siii<r  whirls   the  sciu-let    leaves, 

When   the   siri,)i."d  forest   bows   to   the    bleak   air, 
And    irroaus ;    and    thus  the   peopled   cit\-  irpieves, 

Shorn   of  its  best   and   lov.-lifjst,  and    left   bare  ; 
But   still   it    falls  with  vast   and    awful    splinters, 
As  (»aks   blown  chwvn  with   all   their   thousand  winters. 

LXXXIX. 

It   is  an  awful  topic — but  'tis   not 

My  cue  for  any  time   io    be   terrific  : 
For  chequer'd    as    it    seems   oui-    human    lot 

With   good,  and    bad,  and  wors(»,  alike   prolific 
Of  inolancholy  mcrrimeni,  to  euote 

'V<><>   much  (.)f  oiK.^   sort  would    Ix;   soporific  ; 
NViihout,  or  with,  oircn;:e   to  fri'.'uds   or  foes, 
I   sketch  your  world  exactly  as   it  goes, 

XC. 

And   one    good    ai'iion    in    the    midst    of  crimes 
Is  -'(luite  refreshing" — m   the  aHected   phrase 

or  t!).-s(i   ambrosial,  Pharisaic   li  iic-, 

With   all   their  pretty  milk-and-Aaii-r  ways, — 

And    may  serve   therefore   to    bedew  these   rhymes, 
A  httie    scorch'd   at    pres(;nt  uit'i    the    bla/.c 

Of  conquest  and   its  coiisciipiences,  which 

Make  epic  poesy  so  rare  and  rich. 

XCl. 

Upon  a   taken  bastion,  where  there   lay 

'I'housands   of  slaugiiter'd   men,  a  yet  warm  group 

(){'  murdcr'd  women,  who    had  ii)Uiid   their  way 
To   this    vain   ret'uge.  made   the   good   lieart  droop 

And    shudder  ;— Willie,  as  beautiful   as  May, 
A  f'einale  child   of  ten   years  tried  to  sloop 

.\nl    liide   her  hllle    paipitating   breast 

Amidst   the  bodies  lull'd   in   bloody  rest. 

XCH. 

I'wo  villa  nous   Cossacks   jjiirsufvi    the   child 

With  lia.^hlll<.'  eyes  and  weapons:  mtUch'd  with  them, 

Thr    rudest    brute   that    roams    Siberia's  wild 
Has   iiadniiis   |)ure   ar  I    |io!isliM    as   a   gem, — 

The    bear   is   civili/<'d,  the  wolf  is   mild: 
And  whom    t"or   this   at    la-t    must  we  cr)iHl(!mn? 

Flieir   natur<-s,  or   their   sovei-eitins,  who   (■mtdoy 

All    arts  to   t(;ach   their   subjeeis   to   destroy? 

XCIH. 
Th.ir  sabres   u'liUerM    o'er   her    little    head, 

Wlicnee    her   fur   hair   ro<e    iwmmg  wiih    affrigh., 
Her    hidden    fic-  was    plm,o,.,l    ;pmdst    the  dead: 

Wh.Mi  .luau    caoi'lit    a    ulnnps..   .,f  this   sad    siglit. 
I    st,;.,i  ,Mt    sav  e.va.:tlv  what    lie    sw/'/, 

l-vecause  It  liU^dll  liol  solace  "e;irs  poliie;'' 
rioi  what  be  ./k/,  was  to  lav.,11  tlicir  backs,— 
I'he  rea  heal   way  of  reasoning  wiih  Cossacks. 


XCIV. 

One's   hip  he  slashM,  and  split  the  other's  sh(  ildei 

And   drove  them  with   their  brulal  yells   to  s(;eK 
If  there  might  be  chirurgeons  who   couui   soldoj 

The  wounds  they  richly  merited,  and   shriek 
Their   lathed   rage   and   pain;    while  waxing  cokiej 
As   he   turn'd  o'er  each  pale   and   gory  cheek, 
j     Don  Juan   raised   his  little  captive  from 
I     Ihe  heap  a  moment   more   had  made   her  tomb 

I  xcv. 

I     And  she  was  chill   as   they,  and   on    her  face 

I         A  slender  streak   of  blood    announced   how  near 

i     Her  fate   had   been   to  that    of  all    her    race  ; 

;         For  the  same  blow  w^iiich  laid   her   mother  here 

Had   scarr'fl   her  brow,  and  left  its  crniison   trace 
I         As   the  last  imk  with    all  she  had   held   dear; 
I     But  else   unhurt,  slie   ojieii'd   her  large;  eyes, 

And  gazed   on  Juan  with  a.  wikl  siirjirise. 
;  XCVI. 

:    Just  at  this   instant,  wlulf!   their  eves  were  fix'd 
U|)on  each  other,  whn  dilated  glance, 

In  Juan's  look,  pain,  pleasure,  hope,  fear,  mix'd 
With  joy  to   save,   am!   dread  of  some   mischance 

Unto  his   pros-ge;    whii(;   liers,  transhx'd 

With   infant   terrors,   glared    as   from  a  trance, 

A  pure,  transparent,  pale,    yet   radiant  face, 
[    Like  to  a  lighted   alabaster  vase- ;  — 

I  XCVII. 

U])   came  Jolm  Johnson — (!  will   not  say   "Jac/c." 
For  that  were  vulgar,  col.I,  and   commonplace 
!    ^^n   great  o(;casioiis,  siadi   as   an   attack 
I         On  cities,  as  hath   been   the   [iresfait  case)  — 

U|)  Johnson  came,  with    hundreds   at   his  back, 
I         E'iclainiing: — "Juan!    Joan!    ;>ii,  boy!   bri«)f» 
I     Your  arm,  and   I  '11  bet   Moscow   to   a  dollar, 
j    That  you  and   I  will  win  Saint  George's  collar.^ 

!  xcviii. 

I    '"The  Seraski<>,r  is  knock'd    upon   the   head, 
j         But  the   stone   bastion   still   remains,  wherein 
j    The  old  pacha  sits   among  some   hundreds   dead, 
j         Smoking   his   pijie  (juite  calmly,  'midst    the  din 

Of  our  artillery  and   his  own  :    't  is   said 
-        Our  killM  ah-eady  piled   iij)   to  the  chin. 
Lie   round    the   ballc-ry  ;    but  still   it    batters, 
And  gra|>e   in  volleys,  like  a  vineyard,  scatters. 

;  CIX. 
"Then   up    witii    me!" — Hut  .Juan   answ(>r'd,  "  l^ook 

Upon    tliis   child — I    saved    her — must   not    leave 
Her  life   to   chance  ;    but   point    me   out    some   nook 

Of  saf(!ty,  w  here  she  less   may  shriek    and   grieve, 
And   I   am  with   you." — Whereon  .lohnson   took 

A  glance  around — and   shrugtj'd — and   twitch'd  his 
sleeve 
And  black  silk  neckcdoth  — and  replied,  "  You 're  right; 
Poor  thing!    what's  to  be  done  /   I'm   puzzled  (iiiite.*' 

C. 
Said   Juan — "  Whatsoever   is   to   be 

Don(!,  I  '1!  not   (p;it   h(>r  till   she   seems  secure 
Of  present    life   a   good   deal   mor(>  tiiaii  we." — 
Quoth  Johnson — "  iVc(/'/cr  will   I   (piite   insure; 
Bui    at    the   least    i/oii   may  die   gloriously." 

Juan   replied— "At    least    I  will    endure 
Whate'er   is   to   be   borm — but   not    resign 
I    This  child,  who  's  jianaitless,  and   therefore  mme.^ 

':  01. 

I  Johnson  said — ".luau,  wi; 've   no  time  to  lose; 
[         The  (diild  's   a    pr<'tiy  (dnld — a  verv  [iretty — 

I  [  iKiver  saw  sindi    (;ycs — but    hark  !    now  clioose 
j         Between  your  tiime  and   feelings,   pride  and   pily. 


DON    JUAN. 


t>5H 


Hark!  h. 

nv  tlic   roar  v 

K-HMSCS  ! 

— no   excuse 

Will    :^ 

jrvi>   \\\h-u    !h 

.-.   is   pi 

iiiilir  ill   ;i   oily;  — 

I   should 

be   lolh  to  111 

u-cli  wilh 

iMt    voii,  but, 

BvOod! 

we'll  bo  to( 

hilo   foi 

the"  lirst    cut." 

CI  I. 

Bui   Juan  wus  iiiiiuovtMible  ;    until 

Jf.'iiiisou,  who   really  loveil    imii   in   Ins  way, 

Pick'd    out    ainon<,'s!    his    followers  wilh   some    skill 
Siicii   as   he   thouc^lit    the   least    <,Mveii    up    to    |)rey : 

And  swearing  if  ihe  infant  ('aine   to  ill 

That  they  should  all   be  shot   on  the   next  day, 

But   if  she  were  deliver'd  safe  and   sound, 

They  should  at   least  have   fifly  roubles  round, 

cm. 

And  all   allowances  besides  of  plunder 

III  fair  jiroportion  with  their  comrades  ; — th<ii 

Juan  consented  to  march  on  through   thunder, 
Which  thinn'd  at  every  step  their  ranks  of  men ; 

And  yet  the  rest  rush'd  eagerly — no  wond<;r. 
For  they  were  heated  by  the  hope  of  gain, 

A  thing  which   liappens   every  where  each  day — 

No  hero  trusteth  wholly  to   half-pay. 

CIV. 

And  such  is  victory,  and  such  is  man  ! 

At  least  nine-tenths  of  what  we  call  so ; — God 
May  have  another  name  for  half  we  scan 

As  human  beings,  or  his  ways  are  odd. 
But  to  our  subject :   a  brave  Tartar  Khan, — 

Or  "s«(7an,"  as  the  author   (to   whose  nod 
In  prose  I   bend   my  humble  verse)   dolh  call 
This  chieftain — somehow  would  not  yield   at  all : 

CV. 

But,  llank'd  by  Jive  brave  sons  (such  is  ]iolyga.rny, 
That  she  spawns  warriors  by  the  score,  wlu-re  none 

Arc   prosecuted   fur  that  false   crime  higamy) 
He  never  would  believe  the  city  won, 

While  courage  clung  but  to  a  sini:i<-  twig. — Am  I 
Describing  Priam's,  Peleus',  or  .Tove's  sou? 

Neither, — but   a  good,  plain,  old,  temperate  man, 

Who  fought  with  his  five  children  in  t/ie  van.  . 

CVI. 

To  take  him  was  the   i)omt.      The   truly  brave. 
When  they  behold  the   brave  oppressed   with  odds, 

Are  touch'd  with   a  desire  to  shield   or  s:ive  ;  — 
A  mixture  of  wild   beasts  and   deuii-gods 

Are  they — now  furious  as  the  sweejiing  wave. 
Now  moved  wilh   pity  :    even   as  sometimes  nods 

The  rugged  tree  unto   the  summer  wind. 

Compassion  breathes  along  the  savage  mind. 

CVII. 

But  he  would  not  be   taken,  and  replied 

To   all  the  propositions  of  surrender 
By  mowing  Christians   down   on   every  side, 

As  oi)stiiiate  as  Swedish  Charles  at    Bender, 
His  five  brave  bovs  no  less  the  fot?  defied : 

Whereoi:  the  l^ussian  jjathos   grew  less  tender, 
As  being  a  virtue,  like  terrestrial    patience. 
Apt     o  wear  oui  oi,  trifling   [)rov<)cations. 

CVTII. 

And  spite  of  Johnson   and  of  .Tiian,  who 
Expeiid<(i    all   their  eastern    phraseology 

In  beguiuiJ   him,  for  Gofl's   sake,  just    to  show 
So  much  less  fi<;iit   as  mi<:'il   P)rm   an    a|)nlogy 

For  them   in   savini;  such   a   desjierate  foe — 
He  h(•^^\\   awav,  like  doctors  of  theology 

When   they  (lis|)(ii(i  V,  ith  ■sceptics;    and  \^ith  curses 

Struck  at   his  friend  •,  as   babies  beat  their  nurses. 


CIX. 

Nay,  he  had  woun<led,  though   but  sli-htly,  imth 


.luaii   and   Johnson,  wher'.'iipon    the)'  fill — 
Th(i   first  with   si^hs,  Ihe   second  with    an  oalii- 

Upon   his  angry  sullanshi]),  pell-mt'll. 
And   all  around  were  grown  exceeding  wroth 

At   such   a   pertinacious  infidel. 
Alii!    pour'd    upon   him  and  his  sons   like   rair., 
Which   lliey  resisted   like   a  sandy  plain, 

ex. 

That  drinks   and  still  is  dry.      At  last  llii-y  perish'd  :  — 
His  second   son   was  levell'd   by  a  siioi ; 

His  third  was  sabred;   and  the  tburth,  most  cherish'd 
Of  all  the  five,  on   bayonets  met  his   lot  ; 

The   fifth,  wh(^  by  a  Christian   mother   noiirish'd, 
Had  been   n<-i:lected,  ill-used,  and  what  not, 

B(!cause   dciform'd,  yet  died   all   irame   and  bottom. 

To   save  a  sire   svho   blush'd  that   he  begot   him. 

CXI. 

The  eldest  was   a  true  and   tameless  Tartar, 

As  great   a  scorner  of  the   Nazarene 
As   ever  Mahomet    pick'd   out  for   a   martyr. 

Who  only  saw  the   black-eyed  girls  in   gi  een. 
Who  ina!<e  the   beds  of  those  who  won't  take  quartei 

On  earth,  in   Paradise  ;    and,   when   once   seen, 
Those   Hoiiris,   like   all   other  pretty  creatures. 
Do  just   whate'er   they  please,   by  dint  of  features. 

CXII. 

And  what  thev  pleased  to   do  with  the  young  Khan 
In  heaven,  I   know  not,  nor  pretend   to   guess  ; 

But  doubtless  they  prefer  a   fine   young   man 
To  tough   old   heroes,  and   can   do   no   .ess  ; 

And  that 's  the  cause,  no  doubt,  why,  if  -ve  scati 
A  field  of  battle's  ghastly  wilderness. 

For  one  rough,  weather-beaten,  veteran  body, 

You'll   find  ten  thousand   handsome;  coxcombs  bloody, 

cxni. 

Your  Houris  also  have  a  natural  pleasure 
In  lopping   off'  your  lately  married  men 

Before  the  bridal   hours  li;\'  e     '  .:;c'ed   their  measure 
And   the   sad   second   moon   yrows  iHm   again, 

Or  dull   Reitentance   halh  had   dreary  leisure 
To  wish   hiin  back   a  bachelor  now    and  then. 

And   thus  your   Hoiiri  (it  may  he)    disjiutes 

Of  these  brief  blossoms   the  im:aediate  fruits. 

CXIV. 

Thus   the  young  Khan,  with   H.airis   in  his  sight, 
Thought   not  upon  the  charms  of"  four  young  bridi>, 

But  bravely  rush'd    on   his  first   heavenly  mglit. 
In  short,  howe'er  our  better  faith  derides. 

These  black-eved  virgins  make  the   MosUmiis  fight, 
As  though  there;  were  one  heaven  and  tiniie  besides,—  - 

Whereas,  if  all  be  true  we   hear  of  heaven 

And   hell,   there   must  at   least   be   six   or  seven. 

cxv. 

So  fully  flash'd  the  phantom  on  his  eyes, 

That  when   the  very  lance  was   in   his   heart. 
He  shouted,  "Allah!"    and   saw   Paradise 

With  all   its  veil  of  mystery  drawn   apart. 
And  bright  eternity  without  disguise 

On  his  soul,  like  a  ceaseless  sunrise,  dart, — 
With  proj)hets,  houris,  angels,  saints,  descried 
In  oik;  voluptuous  blaze, — and    then   he  died  : 

CXVI. 
But,  with  a  heavenly  raj)ture  on   his   fiice. 

The  good  old  Khan — who  1*  ng  had  ceased  to  se* 
Houris,  or  auglit  except  his  florid   race. 

Who  grew  like  cedars  round   him   glori<iuslv  — 


65  ^ 


r.YP.OX'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


tN'hori   he  boheld  his  latest  hero  grace 

The  earth,  which  he  became  hl<e  a  fell'd  tree, 
Paused  tor   a  moment  from   the   fight,  aiul  cast 
A  glance  on   that  slain  son,  his  first   and   last. 

CXVII. 
The   soldiers,  wlio  beheld   him   droj)  his  jioint, 

Stoup'd   as  if  once   more  uilling  to  concede 
Quarter,  in  case   he  bade  them  not   "aroint!" 

As  he   before  had   done.     He  did  not   heed 
Their  pause   nor  signs:   his  heart  was  out  of  joint. 

And"  shook    (till  now  -.mshaken)    like   a  reed, 
As  he  look'd   down  upon   his  children   gone. 
And  felt— though  <lone  with  life— he  was  alone. 

CXVIII. 
But  'twas  a   transient  tremor: — with  a  spring 

Upon   the  Russian  steel  his   breast   he  flung, 
As  carelessly  as  hurls  the   moth   her  wing 

Against  the  light  wherein  she  dies  :    he  chmg 
Closer,  that  all  the  deadlier  they  nnght  wring, 

Unto  the  bayonets  which  had   pierced   his  young  ; 
And,  throwing  back   a  dim  look  on  his  sons. 
In   one  wide  wound   pour'd  forth  his   soul  at   once. 

CXIX. 

■"Tis  sttar.ffc  enough — the  rough,  tough  soldiers,  who 
Spared   neither  sex  nor  age  in  their  career 

Of  cariin.TO,  when  this  old  man  was   pierced   through. 
And   lay  hefire  them  with  his  children   near, 

Touch'd   hv  the   heroism  of  him  they  slew. 

Were   melted   for  a  moment  ;    though   no   tear 

Flow'd  from  their  blood-slnjt  eyes,  all  red  with   strife, 

Thev  honour'd  such  determined  scorn  of  life. 

cxx. 

E-it   fbe  stone  bastion   still  kept  up  its  fire, 
Wh/'re   th<;  chief  Pacha  calmly  held   his  post: 

pome  I  vciity  times  he   made  the  Russ  retire. 
And  \\'A\id  the   assaults  of  all  their  host; 

At  l«^ni,t,'   ho   condescended   to  incjuire 
If  vet  V\''.  city's   rest  were  won  or  lost ; 

And,  being  told   tb.e  latter,  sent    a   Bey 

To  answer  Kvaas'   summons   to   give  way. 

CXXI. 

In  the  mean  tit  \e,  cross-ici'g'd,  with   great  sang-froid, 
Amoni:  ihe   .,  y>rchiiig  ruins   he   sat   smoking 

Tobacco  on   a     rtle  carpet  ; — Troy 

Saw  nothing   '..k>>  'he  scene  around  : — yet,  looking 

With   martial   stoK  is-n    nought    scem'd  to   annoy 
His  st(;;-n    philo-i.ilv  •   but   gently  stroking 

His  beard,  he  pu!'"d  hi.'   u!r)e's   ambrosial   gales. 

As   if  he  had   three  hv.,b,   as  well  a-  tails. 

cwu. 

T!ie  town  was  taken — whe'Ler  he   mi<:ht   yield 
liunse'if  (;r  basti'iu,  httie  lua^'ie'-'d  now; 

His   stubborn   valour  was   hd  tutrre  shield. 

[smairs   no  more!     The  Ciei;cvni's   silver  bow 

Sunk,  and   the  crimson  cross  glared   o'er  the  field. 
Hut  red  with  no  rnlec/iihig   goro  ;      h''.  glow 

Of  burniuL'   streets,  lii.e   moonlight   .,>n  l^e  water. 

Was  iuiagi'd  bai'lv   in  blool,  the  sea    n   s:aughter. 

CXXIII. 

.Ml   that  the  mind  would   siuink  from  of  ex..e^scs ; 

All   that   the    bodv  perpetrates    (,f  ba.l  ; 
All   thai  we  read,  liear,  dreaiu,  of  m;-!i"s  d'.s,. -esses  , 

Ail   that   th(;   devil  would  do  if  rim    stark   mad, 
Ml   that    rielies    the  worst  whi(-ii    pen    expresses; 

A:i    i.v  whirl,   In-1.   is   peopled,    or   as    sad 
As    l:"II  — mere   mortrds  who   tlifir    pow<;r    abuse, — 
lV;,s    he.-p     (;.s    ber,  ;■  .f,,,  ■•    atld    Silie.)    let     loo.,.;. 


CXXIV. 

If  here  and  there   some  transient   trait    of  pity, 

Was  shown,  <^nd  some  more  noble  heart  bit  ke  tin  oiit'l 

Its   bloody   btmd,  ami   saved    j)eriiaps  seme   preitv 
Cnild,  or  an    aged  helpless   man  or   two  — 

What  's  this   in  one  annihilated  city, 

Where   thoujand   loves,  and   ties,  and  duties  grow 

Cockneys  of  London  !    Muscadins  of  Paris . 

Just  ponder  what   a   pious   pastime  war   is. 

cxxv. 

Think  how  the  joys   oi   reading  a   gazette 
Are   purchased    by  all    a^iouies   and   erinies: 

Or,  if  these   do   not  move   you,  don't    firgel 
Su'di   doom   may  be  your  own   in   after  times. 

Meantime   the  taxes,  Castlereagh,  and.  d,el)t. 
Are   hints   as   good    as   sermons,  or  as   rhymes. 

Read   your  own   hearts   ami    Ireland's    present   sioiy 

Then   feed  her   famine   fat    with   Wellesiey's  glory. 

CXXVI. 

But  still   there   is  unto  a  patriot  nation, 

Which   loves    so  well  its  country  and   its  king, 

A  subject  of  sublimest  exultati(.)n — 

Be.ar   it,  ye   xMuses,  on   your  bri;rhtes*  wing! 

Howe'er  t!ie  miijlity  locust,  Desolation, 

Strio  vour  ijreen  fields,  and  to  your  harvests  cling 

Gaunt   Famine  never   shall   ap[>roach   the  throne — 

Tho'  Ireland  starve,  grea*  George  weighs  twenty  stone. 

CXXVII. 

But  let  me   put   an   end  unto   my  theme  : 

There  was  an   end  of  Ismail — hapless  town  ! 
Far  flash'd  her  burning  towers  o'er  Danube's  stream, 

And  redly  ran  his  blushing  waters  down, 
riie   horrid  wa--wboop   and  the  shriller  scream 

Rose  still  ;    but  famter  were   the  tlnmders  grown 
Of  forty  thousand  who   had   mantiM   tb.e  wall, 
Some  hundreds  breathed — the  rest  were   silent   all  ■ 

CXXV  HI. 
In  one  thing  ne'ertheless  'lis  iit  to  praise 

The   Russian   army  upon  this   occasion, 
A  virtue   much   in   fashion   now-a-days, 

And  therefore  worthy  of  commemoration  : 
The  topic's   tender,  so  shall  be   my  phrase- 
Perhaps  the   season's    cliiil,   and   their  long  staiKil 
In  winter's  de[)th,  or  want   of  rest   and    victual, 
Had   made  them  chaste  ;— they  ravish'd  very  little. 

CXXIX. 
Much   did   they  slay,  more    plunder,  and   no  less 

Miglit   here  and  there  occur  some  violation 
In   the  other   line  ; — but  not  to   such  excess 

As  when  the  French,  that   <iissipa'ed   nation, 
Take  towns  by  storm :    no  causes  can  I  guess, 

Except  cold  weather  and  conmnsia-alion  ; 
But  all  the  ladies,  save  some  twenty  score, 
Were  almost  as  much   virgins   as   before 

CXXX. 
.Some  odd   mistakes  too  happen'd   in   the   dark. 

Which  show'd  a  want  of  lanterns,  or  of  taste- 
Indeed  tiie  su.oke  was  such  tl.ey  scarce  could  uiart< 

Their  friends  from  foes,— besides  such  things   iVooQ 
haste 
Occur,  though  rarely,  when   there  is  a  spaik 

Of  lii-bt  to  save  the  venerably  chaste  : — 
But  six  old  damsels,  each  of  seventy  years, 
Were   all  deilower'd  by  ditfereiit   grenadiers. 

CXXXI. 
But  on  the  wlude  their  contimaice  was   great; 

So   thai    some  disajt|>ointmenl   tliere   ensued 
To   tho.s.;  who   had   felt    the   inconveni.ait   state 
i         Of  "single   blessedness,"  and   thought   it   good 


DON    JUAN. 


665 


tSiiice  it  was  not  thcii    f;i  :Il,  hut  ouly  fiite, 

To  hcai  these   (T'isscs)    I'or  .Mch   waiiinir   pniilc 
To   make   a   llouiau   s,.rt   of  S.ihiuc   wc.i.lm;:, 
WitHout   ihe   exjieiise   ami   the   sus|)ciise  ut"  bedding. 

CXXXIl. 

Some  \  c  iees  of  ihe  huxum   mid  llc-aired 

Wert    also  hf-ard   to  wonder   in  the  din 
(Widows  uf  forty  were   these    birds   Ion;,'  caj.'ed) 

'' Wlieretore   the   ravishing!    ciid    not    b";:in  .'"" 
But,  whde  the   lliirst   for    :;ore   and    nlnnder   ra>,red, 

There  v.as   small   leisun*   tor   sii,irrliuoiis    sm  ; 
Hut  whether  they  esca|u'd  or  no,   lies   Iml 
In  ihirkuess — I  can  only  ho^ie  th(>v  liid. 

CXXXIU. 
hj'iwarro'v  now  \\  as  coiuineror — a  match 

For  Timor  or  fir  Znurlns  in    his  trade. 
While  m.tsques  and  streets,  beneath  his  eyes,  like  tiiat.di 

Blazed,  and    the  cannon's    roar  was   searee    aliayM, 
With    biood.v  b.and.s   li«;   wrote   his   first    desjia'eh; 

And   h-re   exaetly  f. lions  what   he  said  :  — 
"Glory  to  (;<-'/   and  to   the    Emt.ress!"     {P,nnr.<: 
Kttrmil !   such   names    «n''/^/('/' .')    "Ismail's   onrsl"-' 

cxxxiv. 

Methinks  these  arc  the  most   trcmiMidous  word-;, 
Smce   "  Men^,  Meue,  Tekeh"  and   "  UMharsin," 

Which   hands  or  pens   have   evi.T   traced    of  sword.s. 
Heaven  help  me!    I'm  but   iiith,'   of  a  par.-on  : 

What   Daniel   read   was  short-hand   of  the   Lord's, 
Severe,  sublime  ;    the   prophet  v.rote   no  firec  on 

The  fafe  .>f  nations  :—!>nt   tins  Riiss,  so  witty, 

Cocut'   ri)yme,  like   Nero,  o'er  a   burning  city. 

cxxxv. 

He  wrote  this  pohir  nielitdy,  and   sot  it, 
Dnlv  arcom!)anied   by  sliriedis   and   i;roans, 

Which    few  will    siiti:,  l   trust,   but    none   f>r;.:et    it— 
For   I  will   tea(di,d^  possible,' the   atones 

To   rise   ai,'ain<l   earth's   tyrants.     Niwer  let    it 
Be  said,  that  we  still   truckle  unto   tiirones  ;  — 

Hut   ye— our  children's  slnldren  !    think   ho-.%  ue 

Shosv'd   wh''t  C/iJ/.'i,-.-;   in  re   bef're   the  world   was   f i  (  c  ' 

cxxxvi. 

Fiia!  hour  is   not    fir  u<,  but    "t  is.  f>r  you.; 

And   as,  in   the   iireat  joy  of  your   nnllennium, 
V<iu    iiarvllv  will    believe   such   thiiiiis   were  true 

As  now  occur,  I  ihi-uidit  that   I  would  [len  vou.  'em  : 
But    mav  their  very  meiuory  perish    too  :  — 

Yet,  if  perchance  re.;ieniber'd,  still  disdain  you  "eu' 
More   than   you   scorn    tin;    sav  ii:is   of  yore. 
Who  jMiinlfd   their    Bun-   limb-,  i)Ut    not  with   gore. 

CXXXVll. 

And  when   vou   hear  historians   talk  of  thr'ines. 

And  those  that  sate   upon  them,  let   it  be 
As  -ve   now  craze  upon  the    Mamniotli's   bones, 

Anil  wonder  what  old  world  such  things  could  S(.'e  ; 
Or  hieroalyphic  s  on  Eiryjitian    stones, 

The  jileasant    riddles   of  futurity- 
Guessing  at  what   shall   happily  be  hid 
As  the  real  purpose  of  a  pyranid. 

:;xxxvni. 

I?eruier!    I  have  kept   my   word, — at   least  so   fir 
As   the  first  canto   promised.      Yon   have  no'.v 

riad    sketches  of  love,  tt  nipesi,  travel,   war — 
\.i   ve;-v   accurate,  you    mu<l   allow. 

Ant!  <•/(/>,   if  plain   truth   slioul  !    [irove   no  bar; 
For   I   have  d.rawn  much  less   widi    a   l<)ng   bow 

I'han  inv   forerunners.      Carelc--<iy   I   sing, 

Bui   Phoebus  lends   n  e  now   and    then   a    striui.'. 


CXXXIX. 

Wit!)   which    I   still  can   iiar|),  and  carp,  and  fiddlo. 

What   further  hath   befall. mi   or   may  befall 
The    hero   of  this    jjrand    poetic    riddle, 

I    by   and   l)y   may   tell   you,   if  at    all: 
lint   now   I   choose  to   break  oil"  in   the  midd  e, 

Worn   o!it    with    battering'   Ismail's    siu!>bori-    wall 
While  .Juan   is   sent   olf  with    the   despalen, 
For   which    all    Petersburg.'!!    is   on    tlie    walch. 

I  CXL. 

i    Tliis  special   honour  was  conferr'd,  because 
■  lie   iiad   behaved    with    conraue   and   huina.nilv;  — 

I     Wbirh   l-,st   men   like,  when    they   have    Inue  to   i)aiis« 
!         From   llieir   ferocities   produced   by    vanity. 
Ilis    little    captive   gain'd    him    some   ap[)lause, 

For  sa.vmg  her  amid.-t  the   wild  insanity 
Of  <arn  ii."',   and  I  think  he   was   more   ^lad  in   her 
Sat'ely,  than   his   new  order  of  St.  Vhubniir. 

CXLI. 

The  Moslem    orpl-an   went   with   her   protector, 
For   she   was  'homeless,   houseless,   lielpless :    all 

Her   friends,    like   tin;   sad   family   of  Hector, 
Had   perish'd   in   the  field   or   by   tlie   wall: 

Her  verv   p.lace  of  birth    was  hut   a  spectre 

Of  what   it   had   been;    there  the  Muezzin's  ca'.'. 

To   [)rayer  was   lieard   no  more  ! — and  Juan   wcpf 

And   made   a  vow  to  shield   her,  which  he  kept. 


Oh, 

Frai 


W( 


But   ! 


Be.ti 


CANTO  IX. 


I. 

I'iiiirron!    (or  "Vilainton" — tor  tame 

s   the  heroic   syllables  both   ways; 

■Olid    not   even  conquer  your  great  name, 

nmi'd    it  down   to  tliis   facetious   phrase — 

or  beaten  she   will  lau-jh   the  same)  — 

:ive  obtain'd  ^reat  pensions  and  much  praiso . 

.■■   voiirs  sl'iiuld   any   dare  gainsay, 

v  would  rise,  and  thunder  "  Nay  !"  ' 

II. 

Idnk  that  you   used  K — n— rd  (luite  weli 
iiinet's   all'air — in  fact 'twas  shabby, 
e   some  otlier  things,  won't  do  to  tell 
vour  tomb   in  Westminster's  old  abbey, 
e   rest  't  is   not    worth  while   to  dwell, 
Such   r:i!(  s  beiiii;  for  the  tea  hours  of  some  tabby 
}}ut   the  li^h   vour  years  as  rnan  tend  fast  to  zero 
in   fact    vour  grace  is  still  but  a  young  hero. 

III. 

Thouirn    Britain  owes   (and  pays  you  too)    so  muuP 
!         ^'et    r'.urope  doubtless  owes  you  greatly  more: 
j     You   have   repair'd   legitimacy's  crutch — 
j         A    pr<  ;>   not   ipnte   so  certain   as   before: 
I     rie-   Spamsli,   and  the   French,  as  well   as   Dutcti, 
;         I'ave   seen,   and   felt,  how   srron:.dy   you   nstore; 
\     An  i    Waterloo   lias    made    'diu;    world    vour   debtor— 
,     (1     visl,   your   bards   would  sirg   it   ra.!li<r  better^. 


rv    h 


on  t 
n    M 

I,  111 
Jpon 
,n   tl 


656 


B  Y  R  0  X 


rOETIv^AL    V/ORKS. 


IV. 

Yon  are  "the  best  of  cut-throats:" — do  not  start; 

The   jihrase   is  Shaksueare's,  atui    iioi  misapplied: 
\\<v:  's  a   brair.-spattenng,   wiiidpipe-sUtting    art, 

L'nless   her  cause   by   righi  be   sanctified. 
If  you   have   acted   once  a   generous   part, 

The   world,  not   the   worM's   masters,   will    decide, 
And   I  shall  be  de!iL'lit(!d   to  learn  who, 
Save   you  and  yours,   have  gani'd    hy  Waterloo? 

V. 

1  am  no  batterer— you  ve  supp'd  tul!  of  fl-Utcry  : 
Thev   say  you   like   it   too— 'tis  nu    gr(;a;   wonder: 

He  whose  "whole   life   has    \h-(-n    assault   and  battery, 
At   last   may  get   a   little  tired  of  thunder  ; 

And,  swallowing   euiogv    much   mnre  th;in   satire,  he 
.Alav   like  being   prai-ed   for   every  ln.-,ky  bUmder : 

Cali'd  "Saviour  ""ot^  the  Nations"— not    yet   saved, 

And   "Enrnpe's   Liberator '-—stiii   ensiavecl. 

VI. 

I  've   done.     Now  go  and  dine  from  otf  the  plate 

Presented    by   the    Prince   of  the   Brazils, 
And  send  the  sentinel  bet''ore   your  gate,^ 

A  slice   or  two  from  your  luxurious    meals  : 
He  fought,  but  has   not  fed   so   well  of  late. 

Some  hunger  loo  they  say  the   people  feels: 
There  is  no  doubt  that  yon  deserve  your  ration — 

It  pray  ijive  back  a  little  to  the   nation. 
VII. 
I  doift   mean  to  reflect — a  man  so  great  as 

You,   niv   Lord  Duke!    is  tar   above  retlection. 
The   hi^zh    Roman  fashion   too  of  Cincinnatiis 

With    modern  history   has  but  small  connexion: 
Though   as   an   Irishman  you   love   potatoes. 

You  need  no.  take   them   mider    your  ^lirection; 
And  half  a  million  for  your  'Sibint   firm 
f-  rather  dear  I — I  'm  sure  I  m;.'an   no  harm. 

VIIL 

Ureat  men  have  always  scorn'd  gr(iat  reconijjenses ; 

Epaminotulas  saved  his  Tiiebes,  and  died, 
Not  leaving  even  his  funeial  expenses: 

George  Washington  had  ihnnks  and  nouglit  beside, 
Except   the  all-cloudless  glory    (which  I'ew  men's  is) 

To  free  his  country  :   Pitt  too  had  his  pride. 
And,  as  a  high-soul'd  minister  of  state,  is 
Renown'd  for  ruining  Great  Britain,  gratis. 

IX. 

Never  ha,d  mortal  man  such  opportunity. 
Except  Napoleon,  or  abused  it  more  : 

Yi)u  might  hiive  freed  fall'n  Europe  from   the  unity 
Of  tvrants,  and  been  bless'd  from  shore  to  shore ; 

And  nov; — what  is  your  fame  ?  Shall  the  muse  tune  it  ye  ? 
Now — that  the  rabble's  first  vain  shouts  are  o'er? 

Go,  hear  it  in  your  funisli'd  country's  cries ! 

Behold  the  world !   and  curse  your  victories ! 

X. 

As  these  new  cantos  touch  on  warlike  feats, 

To  i/ou   tiie  iinflat'.ering  Muse  deigns  to   inscribe 
Truths  that   you  will   not  read  in   the  gazettes, 

Jiut  svhich,  't  is  time  to  teach  the  hireling  tribe 
Vho  fatten  on  their  country's  gore  and    debts, 

JYlust  be  recited,  and — without  a  bribe. 
You  did  sreat  things ;   but,  not  being  i^rcat  in  mind, 

Have  left  undone  the  greatest — and   mankind. 

XI. 

f>eath  laughs — Go  ponder  o'er  tlie  sktdeton 

With   which  men  imag(^  out   the  unknown  thing 

That  hides  the  p.ast    world,   like   to   a  si't   siin 
Which  =till  elsewhere  may  rouse  :•  lirigliier  spring : 


Death  laughs  at  all  you  weej*  for ; — look  jp;  n 

This   hourly  dread  of  all   whose  thrpcien''  I   ning 
Turns  life  to  terror,  even  though  in   its  shea  h  ! 
Mark!   how  its  iipless   mouth   grins   witnoui   bealh. 

Xli. 
Mark!   how  it  laughs  and  scorns  at   all   you   a  b 

And   yet  iras   what  you   are  :   from   ear  to  ear 
It  laughs  not — there   is  now  no   de^hy   itar 

So  call'd  ;   the    antic   long   hath   ceased   to  hear 
But  still   he  smiles;    and  whether   near  or  fir, 

He  stri|)s   from   man  that  mantle — (fir   m'.'re  dear 
Than  even   the  tailor's) — his   incarnate  skin. 
White,   black,  or  copper — the   dead  bories  will   grin. 

XIII. 

And   thus   Death  laughs,- -it  is  sad  merrimem. 
But   still   it  is  so;    and   with   such  example 

Why  should   not   Life  be  equally   content, 
With   his  superior,   in    a  smile   to   traun)le 

Upon  tiie   nothings   which   are  daily  spent 
Like  bubbles  on   an  ocean   much  Itjss   ample 

Than   the   eternal   deluge,   which   devours 

Suns  as  rays — worlds  like  atoms — years  like  hours? 

XIV. 

"  To  be,  or  not  to  be !   tiiat  is  the  cjuestion," 

Says   Shaksjieare,  who  just  now  is  much  in  fashion. 
I  am  neither   Alexander  nor  Hephajstion, 

Nor  ever  had  tor  (ihslnxt  fame  nnudi  jjassion  ; 
But  would   much  rather  have  a  sound  dinestion, 

Than   Bonaparte's  cancer: — could   I  dash  on 
Throuffh  fifty  victories  to  shame  or  fame. 
Without   a    stomach — ^uiiat    .vere  a  yood  name? 

XV. 
"Oh,  dura  ilia  ipessorum!" — "Oh, 

Ye  rigid  guts  of  reajiers  !" — I  translate 
For  the  great   benefit  of  those    who  iuio.v 

\Vhat  in  ligeslion   is — tliat   inwanl  fate 
Which   makes  all  Styx  through  one  small  liver  flow 

A   peasant's  sweat  is  worth  his  lord's  estate; 
Let  this  one  toil  for  bread — that  rack   for   rent, — 
He  who  sleeps  best  may  be  the  most  content. 

XVI. 

"To  be,  or  not  to  be!" — Ere  I  decide, 

I  should  be  glad  to  know  that  which  is  being. 

'Tis  true  we  sjieculate   both  far  and  wide. 

And  deem,  because   we  see^   we  are  all-steing  • 

For  mv   part,  I  '11   enlist  on  neither  side. 
Until   I   see  both  sides  for  once  agreeing. 

For  me,  I  sometimes   think  tliat   life  is  death. 

Rather  than  life  "a  mere  alFair  of  breath. 

XVII. 

"  Que  saih-je  ?"  was  the  motto  of  Montaigne, 

As  also  of  the  first  academicians  : 
That   all  is  dubious  which   man   may   attain. 

Was  one  of  their  most   favourite  positions. 
There's  no  such  thing  as  certainty,  that's  plain 

As  any  of  mortality's  conditions: 
So  little  do  we  know   svhat  we  're  about  in 
This  world,  I  doubt  if  doubt  itself  be  doubting. 

XVIII. 

It  's  a  pleasant  voyage  perh;i()S  to  float, 
Like  Pyrrho,  on  a  sea  of  speculation ; 

But  what  if  carryinir  sail   capsize  the  boat? 

Your  wise   men  lion't   knosv   mucli   of  navigation, 

And  swimming  long  in   lh(!   abyss  of  thought 
Is   apt  to  tire:    a  calm   and    shallow   station 

Well  nieh  the  shore,  w'here  one  sloops  down  and  gathoi>' 

Some  pretty  shell,   is  best  for  moderate   bathers. 


DON    JUAN. 


667 


XTX. 

'*  Hut  nea\en  "  as  C;issio  savs,  "  is  above  all. — 
No  more  of  tliis   then, — let  us    pray!"    We   liave 

Souls  lo  swe,  since    Eve's   slip  and   Adam's  fuli, 
Wliicli   tumbled   all   maukiiui   niH)   the   grave, 

Besides  lish,  beasts,  and   birds.     ''The  sparrow's  fall 
Is  speeial    provide'uee,"   thouiih  liow  it   gave 

Orf'.MicG,   we   i;now   not ;    probablv   it    pereli'd 

Upon  ihe  tree  which  Ev(;   so  ioadly  search'd. 
XX. 

0  .,  ye  immortal  £orls!   what  is  theogony? 

<Jh;  thou   too   mortal   man!    what   is    philanthro[)v  ? 
Of),  worlii,   which   was   and    is!    what   is   cosmogc^ny  / 

Some   people  have   accus(!d   me  of  misanthropy- 
And   yet    I   know   no   more  tlian  the   mahogany 

That  forn)s  this  desk,  of  what  they  mean : — Jji/han- 
thropi^ 

1  conipreiieiid  ;    for,  without   transformation, 
Men  become  wolves  on  any   slight  occasion. 

XXI. 
But  I,  the   mildest,  meekest   of  mankind, 

Like  JMoses,  or  Melancthon,  who   have  ne'er 
Done  any   thing   exceedingly  unkind, — 

And   (though  I  could  not  now  and  then  forbear 
Fullowing  the  bent  of  body  or  of  mind) 

Have  always  had  a  tendency  to  sjiare, — 
U'hy  do  they  call  me  misanthrope?     Because 
Thfij  hate  nic,   not   I  them : — And   here  we  '11  pause. 

XXII. 
'Tis   time  we  should    proceed  w''h  our  good  poem, 

Fnr   I  maintain  that   it  is  reallv  good. 
Nut   only   in   the  holy,   but  the  proem, 

Ilo'.vever  little  bf',l>   :.ce  understood 
Jr. -f  now. — '.r"   uv  and  by  the  truth   will  show 'em 

Herself  in  her  subiimest  attit'ude: 
And  till  s!ie  doth,  I  fain  must  be  content 
To  fhure  her  beauty  and   her  banishment. 

XXIIi. 
Our  hero   (and,   I   trust,   kind   reader!   yours) — 

Was  left  Uj.on   his  way  to  the  chief  city 
Of  the   immortal    '-'-•-r's   polish'd   boors, 

^^  ho  still   nave  shown  themselves  more  brave  than 
witty  ; 
I  know  its  migl'.ty   empire  now   allures 

31uch   Mattery — even   Voltaire's,  and   that's  a  pity. 
For  me,   I   deem   an   absolute  autocrat 
Not  a  barbarian,  but  much  worse   than  ihat. 

•XX!V. 
And  I  will  war,  at  least    in  v,ords   (and — should 

INly  chance  so  hap|ie;) — di'eds)  with  all  who  war 
With  thought  ; — and  of  thouuhl's  fies  by  far  most  rude, 

Tyrants   and   s3'copiiaiits  have  b"eii    and   are. 
[  know  not  who  may  coiKMier :    if  I  could 

Have  such   a  pre'scieuce,  it   sliould  be  no  bar 
To   this   my  plain,  sv.orn,  dov»iirii.'ht   detestation 
Of  every  despotism  in   (>vorv  nation. 

XXV. 
ft   is  not  tiia'    I   adulate  the  people;  ' 

Without   nil    there   ar(?  demagi>i.'ues   enough. 
And   intidels  tc   pull   d.,wn    cverv  sleejile. 

And   -^et  vp    :t   their  stead   some   proper  stuiF. 
Whether  .ne_\  may  sow  sceptici--:o   to  rr-;ip   hell, 

Aj  is  the  Chri;ti,ui   doi'.na  rathiT  rouidi, 
[   do  noi    know  ; — I  wish   men   to  be  tree 
As  much  from   mobs  as  kings— from  you  as  me. 

XXVI. 
PIk;   consequence   is,  bcuii;  of  no  partv, 

I    shall   ottVnd    all    parties: — never   r:iind  ! 
My  words,  a'    least,  ar<;    moi-e   since- <•  anil    laartv 
'rii.iii    if  i   souiiht   to    sail    belbre   the    wind. 


fle  who  has  nought   to  gain  can  have  ^tiiall  lit:   he 

Who  neither  wishes  to    be  bounu   nor  bin* 
May  still  expatiate  freely,  as   will  I, 
Nor  give  my  voice  to  slavery's  jackal  cry 

XXVII. 

7V)a(! 's  an   appropriate  s\un\{',  that  jackal ; 

I've   heard   tliem   in   the  Ephesian   ruins  howl 
By  niirht,  as   do  that   mercenary  pack   all, 

Power's  base  purv(!yors,  who  for  |»ickings  prowl, 
And  scent  the   prev  their  masters  would  attack  all. 

However  the  [loor  Jackals  are  less  foul 
(As  being  the  brave  lions'  keen    providers) 
Tlian  human   insects,  catering  for  spiders. 

XXVIII. 

Raise  but  an   arm!   'twill   brush  their  web  awav, 

And  without  iknf,  their  poison  and  their  claws 
Are  useless.      JNIind,   good  peoph; !   what   I   sav — ■ 

(<.)r  rather  yieoples) — iio  on  without  pause  I 
The  web  of  these  tarantulas  each   day 

Increases,  till   vou  shall   make  common  cause  : 
None,  save   the  Spanish,  tly  and  Attic  bee, 
As   yet   are  strongly  stinging  to  be  free. 

XXIX. 
Don  Juan,  who  had  shone  in  the  late  slaughter, 

Was  left   upon   his  wav  with  the  despatch 
Where   blood  was  talk'd  of  as  we  would   of  water; 

And   carcasses  that  lay  as   thick   as  thatch 
O'er  silenced   cities,  merely  served,    to  flatter 

Fair  Catherine's  pasiime — who  look'd  on  the  mati. 
Between  these  nations   as  a  main  of  cocks, 
Wherein  she  liked  her  own  to  stand  like  rocks. 

XXX. 

All'!  there  in   a  kibiiha  he     roU'd     on 

(A  cursed  sort   of  carriage  without  springs, 

V\  hi--h  on  rough  roads  leaves  scarcciv  a  whole  b'jn<3) 
Pondering  on   glory,  chivalry,  and    kings, 

And   orders,  and  on   all  that  he   had   done — 
Anfi  v.ishmg  that   |)ost-horses  had   the  wings 

Of  Pegasus,  or  at  the  least   post-chaises 

Had  feathers,  wiien   a   traveller  on  deep  ways  is. 

XXXI. 

At  every  jolt — and   there  were  many — still 
He  turn'd  his  eyes  upon   his   little  charge, 

As  if  he  wish'd  that  she  should  fare  less  ill 
Than   he,  in  these  sad   highwavs  left  at  large 

'JV)  ruts  and   tlmts,  and   lovely  iiatvH-o's  skill, 
Who  is   no  paviour,  nor  admits  a   barHC 

On   her  canals,  where  God   takes   sea   and   land. 

Fishery  and  <arm,   both  into  his   own  hand. 

XXXII. 

At  least  he  [lays  no  rent,   and   has  best  right 
To  be  the   first   of  what  we    use!    to  call 

"Gentlemen   f  u-mers  " — a  race  worn  out   (juite. 
Since  lately  there   have  been   no  rents  at  all, 

And   "gentlemen"   are   in   a  piterms  pliirht, 

And   "firmers"  can't    raise  Ceres  from  h(?r  fall  : 

She  fell  with  Bonaparte: — What  strange   thouglits 

Arise,  wh'.;n  we    see   enn-e/ors   fail  with   oats! 

XXXIII. 

Rut   Juan  turn'd    his  eves   on   the  svv'cet  chil.i 

Vt'hom  h(!  had  saved  from  slaughter — whata  trophy 

Oh  !    ye  who   buii.i    up   incuuments.  defilefi 

With  -ore,  like  Nadir  Shaii,  ti^at   costive  Sojiliy, 

Who,  afier   leavino  Hnidostpji    a  wild, 

And   scarce  to  tne  Mol'uI   a   cup   of  co(!'ee 

Tu  so'iihe  his  woes  withal,  was  slain,  the  smncr! 

l)C';ause   he   could   no  more  digest  his  dii,.,er  . — ^ 

42 


658 


B  Y  "R  0  N '  S    P  0  E  T  I  C  A  L    W  0  n  K  S. 


XXXIV. 

Oh  ye !   or  we !   or  she  !   or  he  !   reflect, 
That  one  life  saved,  especiully  if  young 

Or  pretty,  is  a  thing  to  recollect 

Far  sweeter  than   the  greenest  lavirels  sprung 

From  the  manure  of  human   chiy,   though   cicck'tl 
With  all  the  praises  ever  said  or  sung : 

rhough   hymn'd   by  every  harp,  unless  within 

Vour  heart  joins  chorus,  fame  is  but  a  din. 

XXXV. 

Oh,  ye  great  authors  lununous,  voluminous  ! 

Ye  twice  ten  hundred  thousand  daily  scribes  ! 
Whose  pain[)hlets,  volumes,  newspapers  illumine   us  ! 

Whether  you  're  paid  by  government    in   bribes, 
To  prove  the  public  debt   is    not  consuming  us — 

Or,  roughly  treading  on   the  "courtier's   kibes" 
With  clownish   heel,  your  popiilar  circulation 
Feeds  you  by  printmg  half  the  realm's  starvation  :  — 

XXXVI. 

Oh,  ye  great  authors! — "  A-|)ropos  de  bottes" — 
I  have  forgotten  what  I   nieant    to   say, 

A.S  sometimes  have  been  greater  sages'  lots : 
'T  was  something  calculated  to  allay 

All  wrath   in   barracks,  palaces,  or  cots  : 

Certes  it  would   have  been  but  thrown  away. 

And  that 's  one  comfort  for  my  lost   advice, 

Altliough  no  doubt  it  was  beyond  all  price. 

XXXVII. 

But  let   it  go: — it  will  one  day  be  found 

With  other  relics  of  "  a  former  world," 
When   this  world  shall   be  former,  underground. 

Thrown  topsy-turvy,  twisted,  crisp'd,  and  curl'd. 
Baked,  fried,  or  burnt,  turn'd   inside  out,  or  drown'd 

Like  ail   the  worlds   before,  which   have  been  hurl'd 
First  out    of  and  then   back   again   to  chaos, 
The  siiperstraUim  which  will   overlay  us. 

XXXVIII. 
So  Cuvier  says  ; — imd    then   shall  come  again 

Unto   the  new  criiation,  rising   out 
From  our  old  crash,  some   mystic,  ancient   strain 

Of  things  destroy'd   and   left  in   airy   doubt: 
Lik'^  to   the   notioi's  we  rK)w  entertain 

(Jf  'i'ltiuis,   oiants,  tellous    of  at;out 
Some   hundred    feet   in   !u'igh>,  not  to  say  nulr.<;^ 
Atul   miimmotlis,  and  your  winged  crocodiles. 

XXXiX. 

Think   if  then  George  the  Fourth   should   be  dug  nv  ! 

How  the  new  worhilings  of  the  then  new   east 
Will  wonder  where  such   animals  could   sup  ! 

(For  they  thcjmselves  will  be  but  of  the  least: 
Even  worlds  miscarry,  when   loo  oft    they  pup. 

And  every  new  cr<iation  hath   decreased 
In  size,  from  overworking  the  material — 
iM';n  are  but  maggots  of  some  huge  earth's  burial). — 

XL. 

Hniii  \s\\\ — to  these  young  people,  just  thrust  out 
Fiom   some  fresh    paradise,   and   set  to  plough. 

And  dig,  and   sweat,   and   turn   themselves   about. 
And    plant,  and  reap,  and  spin,  and    grind,  and  sow. 

fill   al    the   arts  at  len<,'th  are  brought   about. 
Especially  of  war   and   taxing, — how, 

I  say,  will  tli<;se   gr(;at    r<;lics,  when   they  see  'em, 

Lcxjk   like   the   monsters  of  a   n<nv  niuseuin! 

XLI. 
liut  I   am  apt  to   <.'row  too   nieta])hysical : 

"•The  lime   is  out    of  joini,"'-  and    so   am    I; 
Itpiite   forj^et   this    |)oem 's    mi  idy  (]ni/,Z!r;i', 

And   deviate    into  matters   ra'her  dry. 


I  ne'er  decide  what   I  shall  say,  and  th.:  I  call 

Much   too   poetical:    men  sliould  know   wiiy 
They  write,  and  for  what  end ;   but,  note   .  r  ^ex!, 
I  never  know  the  word  which  v.'iU  come  r.cxt, 

XLI  I. 

So  on   I  ramble,  now  and   tlum  narrating, 

X"ow  pondering  : — it  is   time  we  should   nnrrat-e 

I   left  Don  .Juan  with   his   horses   haitmg — 

Now  we'll   get  o'er   the  ground   at   a   gieat  ra  <3. 

I   shall   not    be   [larlicular  in   stating 

His  journey,  we've  so  many  tours,  of  .ate: 

Siijipose  \\\h\   then   at   Petersburgh  ;   suppose 

That  pleasant  capital  of  painted   snaws  ; 

XLin. 

Suppose   him  in    a  handsome  unitorm  ; 

A  scju-let  coat,  black  ficings,  a  long  plume, 
Wavinir,  like   sails  new  shiver'd  in   a  storm, 

Over  a  cock'd   hat,  in   a  crowded    room, 
And  brilliant   breeches,  bright  as   a  Curn  Gormo, 

Of  yfjilow  kerseymere  we  mav  presume, 
Wliite   stockings  drawn,  uncur  lied    as   new  mil'i, 
O'er  limbs  wliose  symmetry  set  oil'  the  sii'i. : 

XLIV. 

Suppose  him,  sword  by  side,  anrl   hat   in  h;!nd. 

Made  up   by   yoiiih,  fame,  and   an   annv  tailor — 
Thnt  great   enchanter,  at  whose   rod's   command 

Beauty  springs  forth,  nnd  nature's  self  turns  palei 
Seeing  how  art   can    make   her  work    more   gram!, 

(When  she  don't  pin  iiien's  limbs  ia  like  a  jaiior)- 
Behold   him   i)laced  as   if  upon   a   piilar !      He 
Seems   Ijove   turn'd   a  licuten<uit  of  artillerv  ! 

XLV. 
His  baiida^e  slipp'd  down   into   a  cravat; 

His   wings    subdued   to  ep;uilets  ;    ins   iiuiver 
Shrunk   to  a  scabbard,  witli   his   arr>)-.'.s  at 

His  side  as   a  small-sword,   but   siiiirp   as  ever; 
His   bow  c(inv(;rted    into  a    cock\l    hat  ; 

But  still  so  like,  that  Psyche  were  mere  clever  . 
Than  some  wives  (wlm  make  blunders  no  less  sTupid} 
If  she   Ind   not  mistak(;n   Imn   f>r  Cupid. 

XLVI. 

The   courtiers  stared,  the   ladies  v>-hi-per'd,  and 
'I'he  empress  smiled  ;  the  rei^tiimg  f  ivoufit"  frown' t' 

I   <]mte  forget  which  of  them  was   in    baud 

Just    tlu'ii,  as   they  are    rather    nuiiifrous   ffiund, 

Wtio  took  bv  turns  th:ii  dithcult  conriiae.i. 
Since  iirst  \\v.r  majesty  vvas  singly  crowu'd  : 

Hut    they  were  mostly  nervous   si\-fooi   feiio'.'.  s 

Ail  lit   to  ntake   a  Patagonian  jealous. 

XLVII. 

,Iu;vn  was  none  of  these,  but  sli;.dit  and  slim, 
Jv'ushing  and    beardless  ;    and  yet   'n  "sTtheless 

There  was  a  something  in  his   turn    r.f  iiml\ 

And   still   more   in  his  eye,  which  seem'd  lo  express, 

That  though  he  look'd  one  of  the  seraphim, 
Tiic-c;   lurk'd   a  man  beneatli   \\w.   spirit's  dress.- 

Resides,  the  (Miipress   som.'timr;s   Hl-;ed    i   boy, 

And   had.  just  buri(  d  the  fan-faced   La.j-koi  ;  * 

XIATII. 

No  wonder  then   that   Yerinoloir,  or  .'NIomonolT, 

Or  Scherbatotf,  or   any  f)ther   q[f\ 
Or  on,  mi^ht  dread  her  majesty  bad  not  room  eroiign 

\Vithin   her  bosom  (which  w;is  not  too  tough) 
For  a  iKW  llame  ;   a  fhouirht   to  oast  ol   gloom   enoiign 

Aloiii,'   the   aspect,  wh(-ther  smooth   or   rough, 
Of  him  who,  in   -b.'   ianiniai.e  of  hi-^   station, 
'nl'ii  held   that   '"higli   ofiicial  situation." 


DON    JUAN. 


659 


XLIX. 

Ch.goMtIc  ladi.'s!    should   y,n\   seek   to   know 
Tin.  imjHu-t   of  this   .riphniKiIic   jihrii^c, 

H.d    Irdand's    Lon,lo!;,K.rry's  .ManpH'ss  ^   sliow 

llis   (i.irts   of  sjx-c-ii  ;    and    in    the    srrani:«''   cHsj.Livs 

(M  that   odd   slrin;^  of  words  all   m   a  row, 
\\  lii'^h    none  divuio,  and    o\(>rv  one   ohe\'s, 

Perhans  you    may  [ludv   out   some   (jueer    //f-iner.nma, 

Of  ti)at  weak  wordy   harvest  the  sole   i;leaninir. 

L. 

I  tnink  I  can  explani  mvself  without 

Tiial  sad   incxpiH^able  beast   ot"  |)rev — 
7'hat  spinn.v,  whose  words  wou'd   ever   lie   a   (lnu!)t, 

Did   not   his   deeds   unriddle  them  each  dav — 
That   monstrous  hierogivphic — that   louij  spout 

Of  hlood   and  water,  leaden  Castlereagli ! 
And   here  I   must    an   anecdote  relate, 
But  luckily  of  no  great  length  or  weight. 

LI. 
An  English  lady  ask'd  of  an  Italian, 

What  were   the  actual  and  official  duties 
Of  tlie  strange   thing  some  women   set  a  \aiue  on. 

Which  hovers  oft  about   some  married   beauties, 
Call'd  "Cavalier  Servente?" — a  Pygmalion 

Whose  statues  warm  (I  fear,  alas!  too  true  'tis) 
Beneath  his  art.  The  dame,  iiressM  to  di-close  them, 
Said — "  I.ady,  I  beseech  you   to  f^ujjjjofe  tkcm.^'' 

LII. 

And  thus  I  supplicate   your  supposition. 
And  mildest,  matron-like   interpreiaiioii 

Of  the   im[)erial   favourite's  condition. 

'T  was   a  hiijh   place,  the  highest  in  the  nation 

In  fact,  if  not   in  rank  ;    and  tiie  susjiicion 
Of  any  one's  attainmg  to  his   station, 

No  doubt  gave  pain,  where  each  new  pan-  of  shoulders. 

If  rather   broad,  made  slocks   rise  and   their  holders. 

LIII. 

Juan,  I  said,  was  a  most  beai;teous  boy, 

And  had  retuin'd  his  boyish  look   beyond 
The  usual   hirsute   seasons,  which   destroy, 

With  beards  and  whiskers  and  the  like,  the  fond 
Parisian  as[)ect  which   upset  old  Troy 

And  founded   Doctor's  Commons  :  — I   have  conn'd 
The  history  of  divorces,  whiidi,  though   chequered, 
Calls   Iliou's   the  first  damages   on   record. 

LIV. 
And  Catherine,  who  loved   all   things    (save   her  lord, 

Who  was  (Tone  to  his  [itaco),  and  pass'd  for  much, 
Admirmg  those   (by  dainty  dames   abhorr'd) 

Gigantic   gentlemen,  yet    iiad   a  touch 
Of  sentiment  ;    and   he   she   most   adored 

Was   the   lameiite<i    Lanskoi,  who  was  such 
A   lover  as  had    cost   her  many  a  tear, 
Aiid  yet   but  made  a   midilimg   greiradicr. 

LV. 
Oh,    thou  "teterrima  causa"   of  all  "  lielli  !" — 

Thou  gate  of  life  and  death  ! — thou  nondescript  ! 
Wheiice  is  our  exit  and  our   entrance, — well   I 

iVIav  pause  in  pondcrins  how  all  souls  are  dipp'd 
In  thy  perennial  fountain  I — how   man  /'//,  I 

Know  not,  since  knowledse  saw  hi-r  brancln's  strippM 
Of  her  first  fruit ;    but   how  he  falls  and   rises 
Since,   thou  hast   settled    beyond    all   suruuscs. 

LVl. 

Some  call   thee  "the  worst  cause  of  wa.r,"   but    I 
rVIa  ntain  thou   art  the  Ixjst :    for,  after   all, 

Fiom  thee  we  come,  to  thee  we   go;    and  why, 
To   get  at  thee,  not  batter  down  a  wall, 


Or  waste   a  v^orld?      Since   no  one  cin   deny 

Thou  dosi    replenish  worlds    both   great    aim   small 
\\'il!i,  or  without   th(!e,   all    things   at    a  stand 
.4re,  or  wamld    be,  tliou    sea   of  life's   dry  land  ! 

LVII. 
Catherine,  who  was   the  grand   epitonve 

Of  that    great  cause  of  war,  or  peace,  or  whal 
Vou   jtlease    (it   causes   all    the;   things    which    be, 

.So   vou   may  take  your  choice  of  tins   or  that)  — 
Catherine,  I    sav,  was    very  glad    to   see 

Till!  handsome   In^rald,   on  whose   piumaire  sat 
Victorv  ;    and,   pausing   as   sli«^  saw  him    kiMsel 
Willi   his  despatch,  forgot  to   break   the  seal. 

lAIII. 
Then    recollecting;  tiie  whole   empress,   nor 

Forgettins:   quite   the  woman    (wliieh    composed 
At    lea-^t    three   parts  of  this  tri'eat  whole),  sh(>    tore 

'I"he   letter   op(;n  with    an   air  which   posed 
The   court,  that  watch'd    each    look    lier  visage  wore, 

I'ntil   a    roval    smile    at    length    di«-losed 
Fair  weather   Cor  the   day.     Though   rath(>i    sp.acious 
Her  face  was  nuble,  her  eves   fine,   mouili   graciou:: 

LIX. 

Great    jov  was    Iiers,  or  rather  joys  ;    the   first 
Was   a   ta'eii  city,   thirty  thousand   slain. 

Glorv  and   triumph   o'er   her  aspect    burst. 
As  an    Fast-Indian   sunrise  on  the   mam. 

These   (juenchM   a    moment   her   ambition's  thirst — 
So    Arab   deserts   drink   m   summer's   rain  : 

In   vain  I — As   fall   the   de\vs   on   (juenchless  sanns. 

Blood   oh'v  serves   to   wa-h   ambitinn's   hands  ! 

LX. 

Her   next  amusement  was   more  fancifiil  : 

She  smiled  at   mad  Suwarro^v's  rlnnies,  who  thrc^ 

Into  a    Russian   couplet,  rather  dull. 

The  wiiole   gazette  of  tluHisands  whom   he  slew. 

Her  tinrd   was    feminine    enough    to   ;uinul 
The    shudder  which   runs   naturallv  througn 

Our  veins,  when  things  called  sovereigns  think  it  bea' 

To    kill,   aiul   generals   turn    it   into  jest. 

\ 

I  The  two   first   feelings   ran    their  course   complete, 

I  And   lighted    first    fier   eye   and    then    her   mouth: 

The  whoic"   eoiirt    le.ok'd    i'lmiediately    most   sweet, 

j  Like   tlowers  well  waier'd   after  a   long   drouth:— 

I  But   when   on  the   lieutenant,   at   her  f<-et, 

j  Iler   majesty — who   like  I    to   gaze   on   youth 

I  Almost    as    much    as   on    a   new  (U'spatch — 

I  Glanced  niikUv,  all   the  world  was  on    the  watch. 

LXII. 

Though  somewdiat   large,  exuin-rant,  and  triiculi'tit. 
When  ivrolh  ;    while  pli  ixal,  she  was  as  fine  a  llgurc 

As   those  who    like    things    rosv,  ripe,    and    succuleiil^ 
Would,  wish   to  Io(/k  on,  while   they   are   in    vig    i'. 

She   could   repav   ea(di    amatory  look   you    lent 
Witli   interest,  and   ui  turn  was  wont  with  rigour 

To  exact   of  Cupid's   bills  tlie  fiill   amount 

At  sight,   nor  would   permit   you   to  discount. 

LXHI. 
With  her   die  latt(;r,  thoogii   at   times  convenient. 

Was  not    so    necessary:    for    thev   teil 
That  she  was  handsome,  and,  tin,"  fierce,  iioJid  lc;:ier»t, 

And    always    iis«,-d   In'r    I'avtairiles    too  well. 
If  once    beyond    her   boudoir's    precincts   in   ye   "CiL, 

Vour   "fortune"  was   in   a   fairway   "to   swell 
A  man,"  as  Giles  says  ;''  fi»r,  the '  she  would  wioowall 
Natiotm,  she  liked  man  a.s  aji    iiiiividual. 


660 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LXIV. 

V\"hat  a  strange  thin^  is  man  !    and  what  a  stranger 

Is\von>an?   What  a  whirlwind  is  her  head, 
And  what  a  wliirlpool  full   of  depth   and  danger 

Is  all  the  rest  about  her !    whether  wed, 
Or  widow,  maid,  or  mother,  she  can  cluinge  her 

Mind  hue  the  wind ;  whatever  she  bus  said 
Or  done,  is  light  to  what  she  "11  say  or  do  , — 
The  oldest  thing  on  record,  and  yet  new  ' 

LXV. 
Oh,  Catherine!    (for  of  all  interjections 

To  thee  both  oh  .'  and  ah !   belong  of  right 
In  love  and  war)  how  odd  are  the  connexions 

'of  human   thouglits,  which  jostle  in   their  flight ! 

Just  now  ymrs  were  cut  out   in   dilfert^nt  sections  : 

/'iV.s^  Ismail's  capture  caught  your  far:cy  (juite ; 

Next,  of  new  knights   the  fresh   and   glorious  batch; 

And  thirdly,  he  who  brought   you  the   dt-spatch  ! 

LXVI. 
Shakspeare  talks  of  "  the  licrald  Mercury 
New  lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill  ;" 
And  some  such  visions  cross'd   her  majesty 

While  her  young  herald   knelt  before   her  still. 
'Tis  very  true  the   hill  seem'd   rather   high 
For  a  lieutenant   to  climb   up  ;    but   skill 
Smooth'd  even  the  Simplon's  steep,  and,  by  God's  bless- 
ing, 
With  youth  and  health  all  kisses  are  "  heaven-kissing." 

LXVII. 
Her  majentv  look'd   down,  the   youth   look'd   vi\) — 

And  so  they  fell    in   love  ; — she  with   his  face, 
3is   2race,  his  God-knows-wbat :    f)r  Cupid's  cup 

With   the  first  drauubt   into.\i(Nites  apace, 
A  quintessential   laudHumn   or   "black   drop," 

W^hich  makes  one  dnmk  at  once,  without  the  base 
Eipedient   of  full   bumpers  ;    for  the  eye 
In  love,  drinks  all  liliys  fountains    (save   tears)  dry. 

LXV!  II. 

He,  on  the  other  hand,  if  not  in  love. 
Fell   nito  that  no   less   imperious   j)assion, 

Self-love — wliich,  when   some  sort   of  lliiiig   above 
Ourselves,  a  sing(;r,  dancer,  much   in  fasliion, 

Or  duchess,  princess,  emjircss,  "deigns  to  prove," 
('T  is  Pope's  phrase)  a  gi-eat  longing,  tlio'  a  rasli  one, 

For  one  especial   [jcrson  out  of  many. 

Makes  us  believe  ourselves   as  good   as    any. 

LXIX. 

Besides,  he  was  of  that  (li'ii::hted   age 

Which   makes   al!  ftMurde   ii^i's   eijual — v.hen 

We  don't  much  care  with  \\honi  we   may   cn^ai'c. 
As   bold   as  Datn(d   in  i!jc   lions'  den. 

So  that  we  can   our   native  sun    a>siia<:e 

In   the   next  ocean,  winch   may  How  just   then. 

To  make   a  twilight  in — just    as   Sol's  heat    is 

Quench'd   in   the   lap  of  the   salt  s('a,  or  'rheiis. 

LXX. 

And  Catherine  (we  mu'-t  say  ihus  much  f  )r  Catherine), 

ThotTgh   bold    and   blondv,  whs   ih.^  kmd   of  thing 
Whose   temporary    pas-ion  was   (juite   tiattcriiig, 

Hecause    each   lover    look'd    a    sort    of  km^, 
Made    up   upon  an  atnutorv   paiiiin  — 

A   royal    biishand    in    all    save   t!ii.    ??/■/. — 
Which    iieiiig    the   .lamti'd.-l    pan    of  liiatiuiionv, 
Soem'.-   taking   out    the    slinu    to   have    th<;    hoiiCy. 

LXXI. 
And  wh(!n  you    aild    to   tin-,  hrr  womanhood 

In    its    meridian,   lujr   i)lue   eves,   or    grav — 


(The   last,  if  they  have   soul,   are   (pule 
Or  beiier,  as  the   besfexamples   suv 


go-g/, 


Napo.eon's,  Mary's  (Queen    rf  St  )tland)  shojld 

Lend  to  that  colour  a  transcendent  ray  ; 
And  Pallas  also  sanctions  the  same  hue — 
Too  wise  to  look  through  optics  black  or  blue)  - 

LXXIL 
Her  sweet  smile,  and  her  then  majestic  figmx, 

Her  plurni)ness,  her  imperial  condescension, 
Her  preference  of  a  boy  to  men  much  bigger 

(Fellows  whom  Messalina's   self  would  pension) 
Her  prime  of  life,  just  now  in  juicy  vigour. 

With  other  extras  which  we  need  not  mention,— 
All  these,  or  any  one  of  these,  explain 
Enough  to  make  a  striphn^  very  vain. 

LXXUI. 
And  that 's  enough,  for  love  is  vanity, 

Seltish  in  its   beginning  as  its  end, 
Except  where  'tis  a  mere  insanity, 

A   maddening  spirit  which  would  strive  to  bleno 
Itself  with  beauty's  frail  inanity. 

On  which   the   passion's  self  seems  to  depend  : 
And   hence   some  heathenish   philosophers 
Make  love  the   mainspring  of  the  universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides  Platonic  love,  besides  the  love 
Of  God,   the   love   of  sentiment,  the  loving 

Of  faithful   pairs — (1  needs   must  rhyme  with  dove, 
That  good  old  sieam-hoat  which  keeps  verses  moving 

'Gainst   reason — reason   ne'er   was   hand-and-glove 
With  rlivme,   hut    alwavs   lean'd   less  to  in>proving 

The  sound  than  sense) — besides  all  these  pretences 

To  love,  there  are  tliose  things  which  words  name  senses, 

LXXV, 

Those  movements,  those   improvements  in  our  bodica, 
Which   make  all   bodies  anxious  to  get   out 

Of  their  own  sand-pits   to   mix  with  a  goddess — 
For  such   all  women   are   at   first,  no  doubt. 

How  beautiful   that   moment  !    and   how  odd   is 
That  fever  which   precedes  the  languid  rout 

Of  our   sensations!    What   a  curious  w? 7 

Th/i  whole  tiling  is  of  clothing  souls  in  clay  ! 


7 


LXXVI. 

The  noblest   kind   of  love  is  love   Platonical, 
To  end  or  to  begin  with  ;    the   next   graihl 

Is  that  which   may  be  christen'd   love   canonical, 
Because  the  chirgy  take  the   thing   in    h.and  ; 

The   third   sort   to  be   noted   in   our  chronicle. 
As   tlourishing  in   every  Chris!ian   land. 

Is,  when   cluiste   matro:is  to  their  other  ties 

Add  what  may  be  call'd  mnrringe  in  disintiae. 

LXXVII. 

Well,  we  won't  analyze — our  story  nmst 
Tell  for   itself:    the  sovereign  was   smitten, 

Jua.n   much   tlatter'd   by   her  love,  or  lust  ; — 
I   cannot  stoop   to  alter  words   once  written. 

And  the  two  are  so  mix'd  with   human   dust, 

Tliat  he  who  nanies  one,  both  per'-'iance  may  liit  on 

But    in  such   matters   Kussia's   miniity  empress 

Behaved    no   better  than   a   common   sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 

The  whole  court   melted    into   one  wine  whiter. 
And    all    lips    were   applu'd   unto   ail   ears! 

The   elder   ladu's'  wrinkles  cmTd    much  crisper 
As  th.w'  b.'hi'ld  :    the  younger  cast   some  leers 

On   one   anoth.-r,  and   each    lovelv  lisp.T 

Smiled   -IS   sh<;  taik'd   the   matter  o'er;    but    tears 

Of  rivaisiiij)   rose   in   ea.di   clouded   eye 

Of  all  the  standing  army  who  stood   bv. 


DON    JUAN. 


662 


LXXIX. 

All   the  anihassa  lors  of  all   the   powers 

[iiquired,  who  was   this  vei  r  new  vniinir  man. 
Who  |);o:uised    o  be  ixrcat   in  some  Ten  hours  ? 

Which  is  full  soon  (tlioii!:li   life    is  hut    a  span). 
Already  they  beheld  the  silver  showers 

Of  roubles  rain,  as  fast  as  specie  can, 
fpoi    his  cabinet,  besides   the;   presents 
Of  several   ribbons   and  seme  tlioiisand   peasants. 

LXXX. 
Catherine  was  generous, — all  such   ladies   are  : 

Love,  that  i^reat  openet    of  thi;   iieart   and  all 
l\'ie  ways   that    lead    there,  be  thev  near  or   tar: 

Above,  below,  by  tuni|>ikes   great   or   sinail, — 
Love — (though   she   had  a  cursed   taste  tor  war. 

And  was  not  the   best  wife,  unless  we  call 
Such  Clytemnestra  ;   thoui;h   perhaps   't  is   better 
Tluit  one  should  die,  than  two  drag  on  the  fetter)  — 

LXXXL 

Love  had  made  Catherine  make  each  lover's  fortune, 
Ur.liUe  our  own  hah-chaste  Elizabeth, 

Whose   avarice   all   disburseiiienls  did   iin[)ortune, 
If  histi>ry,  the  grand    liar,  ever  saith 

The  truth  ;  and  though  grief  her  old  age  might  shorten, 
Because  she   put  a  favourite   to   death. 

Her  vile   ambiguous   method  of  Hirtation, 

And  stinginess,  disgrace   her  sex   and  station. 

LXXXIL 

But  when  tne  levee   rose,  and   all  was  bustle 
In   the   dissolving  circle,  all   the   nations' 

Ambassadors  began   as  't  were  to  hustle 

Round   the   young  man   with   their  congratulations. 

Also  the  softer  silks  were   heard  to   rustle 
Of  gentle  dames,  among  whose   recreations 

It    is  to  speculate  on   handsome   faces. 

Especially  wnen  such   lead  to  high   places. 

LXXXIII. 

Juan,  who  fiund  himself,   he  knew  not  how, 

A  general  object  of  attention,  made 
His  answers  with  a  very  graceful  bow, 

As   if  born   for  the   ministerial   trade. 
Though   modest,  on   his   unembarrass'd   brow 

Nature   had  written  "Gentleman."     He  said 
Little,  but  to  the  purpose;   and  his  manner 
Fking  hovering  graces  o'er  him  like  a  banner. 

LXXXIV. 

.An   order  from  her  majesty  consign'd 

Our  young   iieutenant   to   the   genial  care 
Of  those   111  otlice  :    all   the  workl   look'd  kind, 

(As  It  will   lo<jk  sometimes  with   the  first  stare. 
Which  youth  would   not   act   i'l  to  keep  in   mind): 

As  a]s(i   did   Miss  Protosoti"  then  there, 
Named,  from   her  mystic  office,  "  I'Eprouveuse," 
A  term  inexplicable  to  the   Muse. 

LXXXV. 
With   her  then,  as  in  humble    duty  bound, 

Juan   retired, — and  so  will   I,  until 
My  Pegasus  shall   tire  of  touching  ground. 

We   have  just  lit   on   a  "heaven-kissing  hill," 
S<)  lofiv  that   I   teel   my  brain   turn   round. 

And   all    mv  fancies  whirling  like  a  mill ; 
Which   is  a  signal   to   my  nerves   and  brain 
Tc  take  a  (juiet  ride  in  some  green   lane. 


CANTO  X. 


WiiEX  Newton  saw  an  apple  fall,  he  found 

In   that   slight   startle   from   his   contemplatir  rt-— 

'T  is  send    (for   I  'II   not   answer  above   ground 
i         Fjr  anv  sage's  creed   or  calculation)  — 
I    A  mode   of  proving  that  the  earth   turn'd  round 
:         111   a   most    natural  whirl,  call'd  "gravitation;" 

And   thus   is   the  s<»le  mortal  wlio  c(»uld   grapple, 

Since  Adam,  with  a  fall   or  witli  an  apple. 

II. 

Man  fell  with  apples,  and  with  apples  rose, 
If  this  be  true  ;   for  we  must  deem  the   mode 

III  which  Sir  Isaac  Newton    could  disclose, 

Through  the  tiien  unpaved  stars,  the  turnpike  road, 

A  thing  to  counterbalance  human  woes  ; 
For,  ever  since,  immortal  man  hath   glow'd 

With  all   kinds  of  mechanks,  and  full  soon 

Steam-engines  will  conduct  him  to  the  moon. 

HL 

And  wherefiire  tliis  exordium  ? — Why,  just  now, 
In   taking  up  this  paltry  sheet  of  paper, 

RIy  bosom  underwent   a  glorious  glow, 
And   mv  internal   spirit  cut   a  ca[K;r: 

And  though  so  much  inferior,  as  I  know, 

To   those  who.  by  the  dint  of  glass   and  vapour, 

Discover  stars,  and  sail  in  the  wind's  eye, 

[  wish   to   do   as  much  by  poesy. 

IV. 

In  the  wind's  eye  I  have  saiFd,  and  sail;   but  tor 
The  stars,  I  own   my  telescojje  is  dim ; 

Bur  at   the  least  I  've  sliunn'd  the   common  shore, 
And,  leaving  land  far  out  of  sight,  would  skim 

The  ocean   of  eternity:   the  roar 

Of  breakers  has  not  daunted  my  slight,  trim, 

But  still  sea-worthy  skiff;   and  she  may  float 

Where  ships  have  founder'd,  as  doth  many  a  boat, 

V. 

We   left  CHir  hero  Juan  in  the   hloom 

Of  fiivouritism,  but  not  vet  in  the  blush; 

An<l   far  be  it  from   my  3Iuses  to  presume 
(For  I  have  more  than  one  Muse   at  a  push 

To  follow  him   beyond  the  draw  ing-room  : 
It  is  enough   that  fortune  found   him  flusti 

Of  youth  and  vigour,  beauty,  and   those  things 

Which  for  an  instant  clip  enjoyment's  wings. 

VI. 

But   soon  they  grow  again,  and  leave  their  nest. 

"Oh!"  saith   the  Psalmist,  "that  I  had  a  dove'g 
Pinions,  to  flee  awav  and   be  at  rest  !" 

And  who,  that  recollects  young  years  and  loves,— 
Though  hoary  now,  and  with  a  withering  brcis., 

And  |)alsied  fancy,  which  no  longer  roves 
Beyond  its  dimm'd  eye's  sphere, — but  would  much  rathe  ; 
Sigh  like  his  son,  than  cough  like  his  grandfather'/ 

VII. 

But  sighs  subside,  and   tears   (even   widows')  shrink 
Like  Arno,  in  the  summer,  to  a  shallow, 

So   narrow  as  to  shame  their  wintry  brink. 

Which  'threatens   inundations  deep  and  yellow' 

Such  ditference  doth  a  few  months  make.     You  'il  think 
Gri5r  a  rich  field  whi^b  jjpver  would   lie  fallow; 


G62 


BYEON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


No  more  !•:  doth,  its  ploughs  but  change  their  boys, 
VVlio  furrq  vv  some  new  soil  to  sow  for  joys. 

VIII. 

But  coughs  will  come  when   sighs  dei>art— and   now 

And   then  before   sighs  cease  ;   for  oft,  the  one 
Will   bring  the  other,  ere  the   lake-hke  brow 

Is  rutfied  by  a  wrinkle,  or  the  sun 
Of  life  reach  ten  o'clock  :   and,  while  a  glow, 

Hectic   and  brief  as  sunnner's  day  nigh  done, 
O'erspreads  the  cheek  which  seems  too  pure  for  clay, 
Thousands  blaze,  love,  hope,  die— how  happy  they!  — 

IX. 
But  Juan  was  not  meant  to  die  so   soon. 

We  left   him  m  the  focus  of  such   glory 
As  mav  he  won  by  favour  of  the  moon, 

Or  ladies'  fancies— rather  transitory 
Perhaps;   but  who  would  scorn  the  month  of  .June, 

Because  December,  with   his  breath  so  hoary, 
Must  come?     Much  rather  should   he  court  the  ray, 
To  hoard  up  warmth  against  a  wintry  day. 

X. 
Besides,  he  had  some  qualities  which  fix 

IMiddle-aired  ladies   ev^   more  than   young: 
Thi'  f  vrrnerknow  what's  what ;  while  new-fledged  chicks 

Know  little  more  of  love  than  what  is  sung 
In  rhvmes,  or  dream'd    (for  fancy  will  play  tricks). 

In  visions  of  those  skies  from  whence  love  sprung. 
Some  reckon  women  by  their  suns  or  years — 
I  rather  thiuu   the   moon  should  date  the  dears. 

XI. 

And  whv?  because   she's   changeable  and  chaste. 

I   know  no   other  reason,  whatsoe'er 
Suspicious  people,  who  find  fault  in   haste. 

May  ch(Jose  'to  tax  me  with  ;   which  is  not  fair, 
Nor  flattering  to  "  their   temper   or  their  taste," 

As  my  friend  . Jeffrey  writes  with  such  an  air: 
However,  I  forgive  him,  and   I   trust 
He  will  forgive  himself; — if  not,  I  must. 

XII. 

Old  enemies  who  have  become  new  friends 
Should  so  continue — 'tis  a  point  of  honour ; 

And   I  know  nothing  which  could  make  amends 
For  a  return  to  haired:   I  would  chun  her 

Like  garlic,  howsoever  she  extends 

Her  hundred   arms  and  legs,  and  fain  outrun  her. 

Old  flames,  new  wives,  become  our  bitterest  foes — 

Converted  foes  sliould  scorn  to  join  with  those. 

XIII. 

This  were   the  worst  desertion :   renegadoes. 

Even  shutfling  Southey — that   incarnate  lie — 
Would  scarcely  join   again  the  "reformadoes,"' 

Whom  he  forsook  to  fill  the  laureate's  sty  : 
And   lionesl  men,  from  loeiand   to  Barbadoes, 

Whether  in  Caledon  or  Italy, 
Should   not  veer  round  with  every  breath,  nor  seize. 
To  pain,  the  moment  when  you  cease  to  please. 

XIV. 
riie  lawyer  and   the  critic  but  behold 

The  baser  sides  of  literature  and   life. 
And   nought  remains  unseen,  but  much   imtold, 

Bv  those  who  scour  those  double  vales  of  strife. 
WhiU;   common   men   grow  igiKjrantly  old. 

The   lawyer's  brief  is  like  the  svirgeon's  knife, 
Dissecting  the  wiiole  inside  of  a  (piestion. 
And  with   it  all   the   process  of  (hgestion. 

XV. 
A  lesial  broom's  a  moral   chinmey-sweeper. 

And   that's  the  reasoff  he  liimself's  so  dirty; 


The  endless  soot  ^  bestows  a  tint  far  deeper 
Than   can   be   hid   by  alterii  g  his  shirt :  iie 

Retaii\s  the  sable  stains  of  the  dark  creeper — ■ 
At  least  some   twenty-nine  do  out   of  thirty, 

In   all   their  habits  :    not   so  you^  I   own  ; 

As  Cyesar  wore  his  robe  you  wear  your  gown. 

XVI. 

And  all  our  little  feuds,  at  least  all   mhie. 
Dear  Jeflrey,  once  my  most  redoubted   foe, 

(As  far  as  rhyme  and  criticism  combine 

^'o  make  such  puppets  of  us  things   below). 

Are  over:    Here's  a  health  to  "Au.ld  Lang  Synef 
I   do   not   know  you,   and   mav  never  know 

Your  face, — but  you   have  acted  on   the  whole 

Most  nobly,  and  I  own  it  from  my  soul. 

XVII. 

And  when  I   use   the   phrase  of  "  Auld  Larrg  Svne ! 

'Tis   not  address'd   to  you — the   more 's   the   pitv 
For  me,  for  I  would   rather  take  mv  wine 

With  you,  than  aught  (save  Scott)  in  vour  proud  cit) 
But  somehow, — it  may  seem   a  school-hov's  whine. 

And  yet   I   seek   not  to  be   grand   nor  wittv. 
But  I  am   half  a  Scot  bv  birth,  and   bred 

A  whole  one,  and  my  heart  flies  to  my  head  :  — 

XVIII. 

As  "  Auld  Ijang  Syne"   brings  Scotland  one  and  all, 
Scotch  plaids,  Scotch  snoods,  the  blue  hills,  aiul  cleai 
streams. 

The  Dee,  the  Don,  Balwunie's  Brii^'s   hlark  naU,^ 
All   my  boy  feelings,  all   my  gentler  dreatns 

Of  what   I  ihen  arenvrit,  clothed  in  their  own   pall. 
Like  Banquo's  offspring — floating  past   nie  seems 

My  childhood  in   this  childishness   of  mine : 

I  care  not — 'tis  a  glimpse  of  "Auld  L;'ng  Syne." 

XIX. 

And  though,  as  you   remember,  in   a  fit 

Of  wrath  and   rhyme,  when  juvenile  and  curly, 

I  rail'd   at  Scots   to   show  my  v.rath  and  wit, 

Which  must   be   own'il  was  sensitive  and  surly, 

Yet   't  is  m  vain   such  sallies   to  permit — 

They  cannot  (|uench  young  f»;ciings  fresh  and  early: 

I  '■'■  scotch'' il,  not  kill'd,"  the  Scotchman   in   my  blood. 

And  love  the  land  of  "mountain  and  of  flood." 

XX. 

Don  .Juan,  who  was  real   or  ideal, — 

For   both   are  much  the  same,  since  what  men  ttiink 
Exists  when  the  once   thinkers  are  less   real 

Than  what  they  thought,  for  mind  can  never  sink, 
And  'gainst  the  body  makes  a  strong  appeal ; 

And  yet  't  is  very  puzzling  on  the   brink 
Of  what  is  call'd   eternity,  to  stare, 
And  know  no  more  of  what  is  here  than  there: — 

XXI. 

Don  .Juan  grew  a  very  polish'd   Russian — 

How  we  won't  mention,  wlu/  we  need  not  say  : 

Few  youthfiil  minds  can  stand  the  strong  concussior 
Of  any  slight   temptation   in  their  way  ; 

But   /(j.s-  just  now  were  spread  as   is  a  cushion 
Smooth'd   for  a  monarch's  seat  of  honour  :    gay 

Damsels,  and  dances,  revels,  ready  money, 

Made   ice  seem  paradise,  and  winter  sunny. 

XXII. 

The   favour  of  the  emjjress  was  agreeable  ; 

And   though   the   duty  wax'd    a  .lllle    hard, 
Youtii;   people  at   his  time  of  life  should   be  able 

To  <;ome  off  handsomely  in   that   re^rard. 
Il<!  now  was   growing  u))  like  a   green  free,  abla 

For  love,  war,  or  ambition,  whicli   reward 


DON    JUAN. 


663 


1'heir  lucKier  votario^;,  til!  o\d   niii^s  toduiin 
Mike   some   jircier  tlie   citcuhitiiig   iii(;iliuin. 

xxm. 

About  this   time,    as   ii'.i>;lit    have   been    anticipated, 
Sediic-ed    by    yuut'a    an.i    liaii-erous    .■xaini^es, 

Don   Jua'ii   ^rcw,    I    (I'ar,  a   hitle    (hssii.atc!  ; 
Which   is    a   sad    thiiiL',  and    i\n\    only  tran. !'!•■« 

O'    onr   tresii    feclnia-,   ImiI— as   iifins.'    !iaili<-i|.a!ed 
Willi   all   kuids   nf  incornuible  sani!.h-s 

Of  trail    humanity— niusi    make    us    selli>h. 

And   shut  our  souls   up   in   us   ITue   a  siiell-fisli. 

XXIV. 

This  we  pass  over.      We  will    also  pass 

'J"he   usual    prosrress   of  iiilr'^rucs    between 
rneijual    inatciies,  sueh   as   arc,  alas  ! 

A   vonui;    liculenant's  with    a    not  oil  (picen, 
But    one  wiio   is   not   so  youthful   as  sin;  was 

In   all   the   royalty  of  sweet   seventeen. 
Sovereigns   niav  sway  material-^,  but   n.-i   matter, 

And  wrinkles    (the  d d  democrats)  won't  flutter. 

XXV. 
And  Death,  the  sovereiixns'  suverciiin,  thoui;h  the  great 

Gracchus   of  all   mortality,  who  levels 
With   his   A'::rfinnn  laws,  the  hi^ih  estate 

Of  him  wlio  teasts,  and  tights,  and  roars,  and  revels, 
To  one  small    Jrass-grown   jiaich  (winch  mii<t  av.ait 

Corruption   for  its  crop)  witii   the   poor  devils 
^Vho   never   had  a   foot  of  land  till   now,— 
Death  's  a  reformer,  all   men  must  allow. 

XXVI. 
He   lived   (not    Death,  but   Juan)  in   a  hurry 

Of  waste,  and  haste,  and  glare,  and  gloss,  and  glitter, 
in  this   gay  clime  of  bcar-skms   black    and   furry— 

Which  (though  I  hate  to  sav  a  thmg  that  's  "bitter) 
Feo[^  out   sometiiu(;s,  when  thmifs   are  in  a  llurry, 

Throush   all   tin;  "purple   and   tine   linen,"   litter 
for    Babvl.urs   than    Russia's  royal   harlot  — 
And   neutralize   lier  outward   show  cjf  scarlet. 

XXVIF. 
And   this  same   state  ^^■e  won't  describe  :    we  would 

Perhaus   from   hearsav,   or   from    recollection; 
But   gcttiniT    m^r'a    i-rim   Daiit(;"s   "nbsrure   wood, 

That    horrid    ecp.iinox,   that    hateful    section 
Of  human    ve:irs,  that    half-wav  house,  Uial   rude 

Ilir.,  wheuce  wise  'raveiiers  drivi>  \\  i;h  circumspecti(jn 
r.ife's   sad    posl-h(,rM's    u\:y    tin;    drea,y   frontier 
Of  age,  and,  looking  back  to   youth,  give   une  tear ; — 

XXVIII. 
I  won't   describe — that    is,  if  I  can    help 

Description  :    and    I    won't    retiect— that    is, 
If  I    can    stave   otF  thought,  which — as   a  whelp 

ClliiiTs  to  Its  teat — sticks  to  me  thr<iugh  the  abyss 
Of  this   odd    labvrmth  ;    or    as    th(!    kelp 

Holds  t)v  the   rock  ;    or  as  a   Iovi.t's  kiss 
Drains   its  first  drauijht   of  lips:    !)ut,  as  I   said, 
I  Vint   philosophize,  and  irill  lu;   read. 

XXIX. 

J;. an,  instead    of  courting   omrt-;,  was   rourted, 

A    tinuir  which    hapjiens    rarely;    this    he  owed 
Mn.h   t.   his    voulh.   and   much   to    hi-^    reported 

Vjc.O.n  ;    much    also   to   the  blood   he   show'd. 
Like   1   race-horse  ;    much  to  each  dress  he  sported, 

\Vn:.!h  set   the  beauty  off  in  \\liich   he  elow'd, 
As  purple  clouds  befringe  the   smi  ;    but  most 
lie  o«  ^d   to   an  old  woman  and  Jiis   post. 

XXX. 
He  wrote  to  Spain  : — and   all  his   near  relations, 

Perceiving   he  was  in  a  handsome  way 


Of  setting  on  himself,  ;jul  iindiug   Rialions 
For  cousins   also,  answer'd   the  same  day. 

St^veral    prepared   themselves   f  >r   (Mnigraiions  ; 
And,  eating    ices,  were   o'erln'ard   to   say. 

That  with   the   addition   of  a  slight   jielisse, 

Madrid's   and    Moscow's  climes  were  of  a-piece. 

XXXI. 

His   mollier,   Donna   Inez,  tinding  too 

That  ■  i    the   lieu  of  drawing  on   !iis  banker, 

Where   Ins   assets  were  waxing   rather   few, 

He  had  b  'lUijlit  his  speiidlni:  to  a  luMidsomi!  anchor,— 

Uej.lied,   "that    she  was   glad    to   S'.'e   him    through 
Those   pleasures  after  which  wii  youth  will  hanker, 

As   the   sole   siizn    of  man's   b.;ing   in    his   senses 

Is,  learning  to  reduce   his  past  expenses. 

XXXII. 

"  She   also  Vecommenda.'d    him    to  God, 

And  no   less  to  God's  Son,   as  well   as  Mother, 

Warn'd    him   against  (ireek  worship,  which  looks   odd 
In  Catholic  eves;    but  told   him  too  to  smother 

Outii:<ir/l  dislike,  which   don't  look  well   abroad: 
Infornrd   him   that    li(^   had   a    little   brother 

Horn  in   a  second  wedlock  ;    and   above 

All,  praised  the  empress's   ni'dtrnul  love. 

XXXIII. 

"  Siie  could  not   too  much   aive  her  ajiprobation 
Unto  an   empress,  who    preferr'd   yomi2    men 

Whose   atre,  and,  what  was  better  still,  whose   nation 
And  climate,  <topp'd  all  scandal  (now  and  then)  :  — 

At   home   it    imu'ht    have   given   her  some  vexation  J 
Hut  where  thermometers  sunk  down  to  ten, 

Or  tive,  or  one,  or  zero,  s!ie  could   never 

Believe  that  virtue   tiiaw'd  before  the  river." 

XXXIV. 

Oh   for   a  ff)rti/-p!irsnn  p'twcr '^   to  chaunt 

Thv  [(raise,  lu  pocrisv  !     Oh  for  a  hymn 
Loud  as  the  virtues  thou  dost  loudly  vaunt, 

Not   practise!     Oh  iiir  trumps  of  clierubim  ! 
Or  the   ear-trumpet   of  my  good  old  aunt, 

Who,  though   iicr  spe<iacles  at  last   grew  dim, 
Drew  <;uiet  consolation  through    its   hint. 
When  she  no  more  could    read  the  pious  print. 

XXXV. 
She  was  no  hypocr-te,  at   least,  poor  soul  ! 

But  went  to  heaven   in  as  sincere  a.  w  ay 
As   any  body  on   the  elected   roll. 

Which   portions  out  upon  the  judgment   day 
Heaven's  freeholds,  in  a  sort  of  doomsday  scroll, 

Su(di  as  the  coni|ueror  WilliaiH   did   repay 
His   kniiihts  with,  lotting   others'    properties 
Into  some  sixty  thousand  new  knights'  fees. 

I  XXXVI. 

I  can't   complain,  wliose  ancestors  are   there, 
I         Erneis,  Uadulphus — eisht-and-f()rty  manors 
(If  tliat   my  memory  doth   not   irreatiy  err) 

Were  their  reward   ti)r  following  Billy's  banners, 
And,  though   I   can't    help   thinking  't  was  scarce  fan 
To  strip  t!ie  Sa\ons  of  their  ht/flct,^  like  tanners 
Vet   as   thev  f  )uiid(>d   churches  with   the  produce, 
i     You'll  deem,  no  doubt,   thev  put   it  to  a  good   use 

j  XXXVIT. 

I     The  gentle  Juan   fionri-h'd,  thouo-h   at   limes 
He   felt    like   other    pimits— cali'd   seiisiiive. 
Which  shrink  from  touch,  as  mon  irch<  do  from  rhyni<!i 

Save   such    as    Soinhev  can    alt'lird   to    give. 
Perhaps  he   loug'd,  in    boiler   fiosts,  for  climes 
In  which  the   Neva's  ice  would  cease  to  live 


664 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Before   May  day:    perhaps,  de.-pite   his  duly, 
In  royalty's  vast  arins   he  sij^'ii'd  for  beauty  : 

XXXVIII. 

Perhaps, — but,  sans  perhaps,  we  noed   not   seek 
For  canses  young  or  old  •    the   cati-ker-wurin 

Will   CcpaI   upon   the   fairest,  freshest  clietk, 
As  well  as   fmlher  drain  the  wiiher'd  form  : 

Care,  like   a  housekeeper,  brinies   every  week 
His   bil.s  it;,  and,  ho\\ev(;r  we  liiiiy  storm, 

Tiiey  must  be   paid  :    though  six  days  smointily   run, 

Tiie   scventli  will  bring  blue  devils   or  a  dun. 

XXXIX. 

I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  he   i.nevv  siek  : 
The  empress  was   alarm'd,  and    her  physieian 

(The  same  who  physick'd    Peter)  found   the   tick 
Of  his   fieree   pulse    betoken    a  condiiion 

VViiieh  aui;ur'd   of  the  dead,  however  (juirk 
Itself,  and  show'u   a  feverish  disposition ; 

At  whieh   the  whole   court  was  extremely  (roublt.''], 

The  sovereign  shock'd,  and  all  his  mediciues  d(jub!ed. 

XL. 

Low  were  the  whispers,  manifold  the   rumours  : 

Some   said   he   had  been   poison'd  bv  Potemkin  ; 
Others  talk'd   learnedly  of  certain  tumours, 

Exhaustion,  or  disorders   of  the  same   kin  ; 
Some   said   't  was   a  concoction  of  the  humours. 

Which  v.ith   the  blood    too  readily  will  claim   kin; 
Others  again  were  ready  to  niaisitain, 
"'Twas   ordy  the   fatigue  of  last  campai<:n." 

XLI. 
But  here  is  one  prescri[)tion  out  of  mativ  : 

"  Sodse-sulphat.  3.  vi.  S.  s.     Marma;  optim. 
Aq.  fervent.  F.  3.  iss.  3.  ij.  tinct.  Sennre 

Haustus'"  (and  here  the  surgeon  came  andcupp'dhim) 
"R.  Pulv.  Com.  gr.  iii.     Ipecacuaidia) " 

(With  more  beside,  if  Juan  had  not  stoppM  'etn). 
•'  Bolus  potassa)  sulphuret.  sumendus, 
Et  haustus  ter  in  die  capiendus.'- 

XLII. 
This  IS  the  way  physicians  mend  or   end  us, 

Secundum   artem :    but  although  we   sneer 
In  health — when  ill,  we  call  them  to  attend  us, 

Without  the  least  propensity  to  jeer  : 
While  that  "  hiatus  maxime  deflendus," 

To   be  tiil'd  up  by  spade  or  mattock,  's  near, 
Instead  of  gliding  graciously  down   Lethe, 
We  tease  mild   Baillie,  or  soft  Abernethy. 

XLIII. 

Juan  detnurr'd   at  this  first  notice  to 

Quit ;   and,  though  death  had  lhreaten'(i  an  ejection, 
His  youth   and  constituiinn   bore   him  througii. 

And  sent  the  doctors  in  a   new  direction. 
But   stiP   his  state  was  delicate  :    tne  hue 

Of  h<;alth  but  flicker'd  with  a  faint  reflection 
Alon<r  his  wasted  cheek,  and  seeni'd  to  gravel 
'i'he  faculty — who  said  tliat   he  must  travel. 

XLIV. 

The  climate  was  too  cold,  they  said,  f^)r  him. 
Meridian-born,  to   bloom   in.      Tins   ojiinion 

Made  the  chaste  Cath(;rme  look   a  little   grim, 
Who  did   not  like   at   first   to   losi;   Ikt   minion  : 

But  wnen  sh(!  saw  his  dazzling  (;ve  wax  dim. 
And  drooping    Likf.   an  eagle's  with   clipp'd   pinion, 

Sha  then   resolv<3d   lo  send   him   on   a  mission. 

But  in  a  fityle  becoming  his  condition. 

XLV. 

There  was  just  fh(!n  a  kiiul  of  a  discussion, 
A  sort  of  treaty  or  ncjjociation 


Between  the    British  cabinet  and  Russian, 
Maintaiu'd  with   all  the  due   prevarication 

With  which  great  slates  such  things  are  ajit  to  push  on 
Something  about  the   Baltic's   navigation. 

Hides,  train-oil,  tallow,  and   the   rights   of  Thetia, 

Which   Britons  deem  their  "  uti  jiossiiietis.'" 

XLVI. 

So  Cath(!rine,  wlio  had  a  hand.some  way 

Of  tilting  out   her  fiwourites,  conferr'd 
This  secret  charge  on  Juan,  to  display 

At  once   her  royal  splendour,  and    reward 
His  services.      He   kiss'd   hands  the  next  dav. 

Received   instructions   how  to   play  his  card. 
Was  laden  with  all  kinds  of  gifts  and  honours, 
W^hich  show'dwhat  great  discernment  was  ihedonor's^ 

XLVII. 

But  she  was  lucky,  and  luck  's  all.     Your  queens 
Are  generally  prosperous  in   reigning  ; 

Which   puzzles  us  to  know  what  fortune   means. 
But  to  continue  :    though   her  years  were  waning 

Her  climacteric  teased   her  like  her  t<;ens  ; 

And   though  her  dignity  brook'd   no  complaining 

So  much   did  Juan's  setting  off  distress  her. 

She  could'  not  find   at  first  a  fit  successor. 

XLVIII. 

But  time,  the  comforter,  will  come  at  last  ; 

And  four-and-tvventy  hours,  and  twice  that   numbei 
Of  candidates  requesting  to  be  placed, 

Made  Catherine  taste  next  night  a  quiet  slumber  :  — 
Not  that  she   meant  to  fix   again   in   haste. 

Nor  did   she  find   the  (luantify  encumber, 
But,  alwavs  choosing  with  deliberation. 
Kept  the   place  open  for  their  emulation. 

XLIX. 

While  this  high    post  of  honour 's   in  abeyance, 
For  one  or  two  days,  reader,  we  re(iuiist 

You  '11   mount  with  our  yoiiiig  hero  the   conveyai4ti3 
Which  wafted  him  from  Petersliurgh  ;    the  best 

Barouche,  which   had   the   glory  to  display  once 
The  fair  Czarina's  autocratic  cresi, 

(When,  a  new  Ijihigene,  she  went  to  Tauris), 

Was  given  to  her  favourite,''   and  now  bore  his. 

L. 

A  bull-dog,  and   a  bull-finch,  and   an   ermine, 
All  private   favourites  of  Don  Juan  ;   for 

(Let  deejier  sages  the  true  cause  determine) 
He  had  a  kind  of  inclination,  or 

Weakness,  for  what  most  people  deem  mere  vermin — 
Live  animals  : — an   old  maid   of  threescore 

For  cats  and   birds  more  penchant  ne'er  displayed 

Although  ne  was  not  old,  nor  even  a  maid. 

LI. 

The  animals  aforesaid  occupied 

Their  station:   there  were  valets,  secretaries, 
In   other   vehicles  ;   but   at   his  side 

Sat    little  Leila,  who  survived   the  parries 
He  made  'gainst  Cossack,  sabres,   in  the  wide 

Slaughter  of  Ismail.     Though  my  wild  .Vluscvn-'  3 
Her  note,  she  don't  forget  the   infant   girl 
Whom  he   preserved,  a  pure  and   living  nearU 

LI  I. 

Poor  little  thing!     She  was  as  fair  ,i«  docile, 
And  with  that   gentle,  serious  character. 

As  rare  in  liviiiii  beings  as   a  fossi'e 

Man,  'midst  thy  mouldy  mammoths,  "grand  Cuvier!'^ 

Ill   fitt(Ml  wiUi   her  ignorarcc;  to  jostle 

W^ith  this  o'erwhelming  world,  where  all  must  err : 


DON    JUAN. 


666 


But  she  was  yd  but  ten  years  old,  and  therefore 
VVas  traiKjuiU  llioiigh  she  knew  not  wliy  or  wherefore. 

LIII. 
l>on  Juan   loved  her,  and   slie  loved   him,  as 

Nor  l»rolh(!r,  father,  sister,  dani,'hler  love. 
I  cannot   t<.'ll  exact  y  what  it  was; 

He  was  not  yet  (jnite  old  enoui;h   to  prove 
Parental   feeiin^s.  and    the    other  class, 

Cail'd   hrotiieriy  alFtH'tion,  conld   not    move 
Ilis  bosom — for  he  never  had   a  sister: 
Ah!    if  he  had,  how  much  he  would  have  miss'd  her 

LIV. 
And   still  less  was  it  sensual  ;   for  b<'si.les 

That    lie  was   not   an  ancient   dchiui.hff, 
(Who  like  sour  fruit  to  stir   their  veins'   salt  tides, 

As  acids  rouse  a  dormant  alk-iii), 
Althoujfh  ('<  will  happen  as  our   planet   guides) 

His  youth   was  not  the  cliastest   that   nu'Sm    he, 
There  was  the  purest  p!atonisr:i   at   lioiioni 
Of  all  his   feelings — only  he   forgot  'em. 

LV. 
Just  now  there  Wvas  no  peril   of  temptation  ; 

He  loved   the  infant  orphan   he  had   saved, 
As  patriots   (now  and  then)   tnav  lo\e   a  nation  ; 

His  pride  too  felt  that   she  was   not  enslaved. 
Owing  to   him; — as  also  her  salvation. 

Through  his  means  and  the  church's,  niiijht  he  paved. 
But  one  thiiiii's  odd,  which  here  must  be  inserted — 
The  little  Turk  refused   to  he   converted. 

LVI. 
'T  was  stran^ro  enough  she  should  retain  the  iii;|)ression 

Throuirh   such   a  scene   of  change,   and  dread,  and 
slauahter; 
But,  though   three  bishops  told   her   the   trans<:ression, 

She   show'd   a  ixreat  dislike  to   holv  watt!r: 
She  also   had  no  [)assion   for  confession  ; 

Pjrhaps  she   had   nothing  to  (;oufess  ; — no  matter  ; 
Whate'er  the   cause,  the  church   made   little   of  it — 
She  still  held  out   tliat   Mahomet  was  a  prophet. 

Lvn. 

In  fact,  the  only  Christian   she  conhi  bear 

VVas  Juan,  whom   she   seem'd   to  have  selected 

In  place  of  what   her  home  and  friends  once   were. 
He  nalurally  loved  what   he   protected  ; 

And   thus  they  form'd  a   rather  curious   pair: 
A  guanhan   wreen   in  y(!ars,  a  ward  connected 

In   neither  clime,  time,  blood,  with   her  detender ; 

And  yet  this  want  of  ties   made  theirs  mort;  teiiiier. 

LVIII. 

They  journey'd  on  through  Poland  and  throu<i!i  Warsaw, 

Famous  for  mines  of  salt  and  yokes  of  iron  : 
Through  Coiirland  also,  which  that    famous   farce    saw 

Which  gave  her  dukes'  th<;  graceless  name  of"  Hiron." 
'T  is  the  same  landscape  which  the  modern  Mars  saw, 

W"ho  march'd   to  Moscow,  h.-d  by  fame,  the  syren ! 
To  lose,  by  one  month's  frost,  some  twenty  years 
Of  conquest,   and  his  guard  of  grenadiers. 

IJX. 
Let  not   this  seem   an   anli-e!ima.\  : — "Oh! 

My  guard  !  my  old  guard  ! "  (;\<'laim"d  ih;it  god  ofclav — 
Think  of  tin;  tlnmderer's  tallini.'  down  below 

Carotid-artery-cutting  Castlere:ii,'li ! 
Alas  !    that   glor)   should   be  chiiiM   bv  snow  • 

But,  should  we  wish  to  warm    us   on   our  way 
Through  Poland,  there   is  Kosciusko's   name 
Might  scatter  fire  through   ice,  like  Hecla's  ilame. 

LX. 

From  Poland  they  came  on   tlirouLdi  Prussia  Proper, 
And  Iwonigsbcrg  the  capital,  whose  vaunt, 


Hesi(h;s  some  veins  of  iron,  lead,  or  f  opper. 
Has   lately  been   the  great  Prohssor  Kant, 

Juan,  who  car«;d   not   a  tobacco-stojiper 
About  philosophy,  pursui;d    ins   jaunt 

To   Ci(;rinany,  whosy   somcwliat   lardy    mlHions 

Have   prmces  who  spur  more  than  llu.ir  postilions. 

LXI. 

\\u\   thence  through  Berlin,  Dresden,  and   the  like*, 
Until   he   rcachM-lhe   castellated    Ilhme  :  — 

\'e  jjlorious  Gothic  scuiues !    hi>w  niuih    v(;   strike 
All   phantasies,  not  oven   excepting  miiK;  : 

A  gray  wall,  a  <fr(!(;n  ruin,  rustv  pike, 

Make   my  soul    pass   llu;   e(]ninociial    line 

Between   the   present    ami   |)ast  worMs,  and  liover 

Upon   their  airy  confine,  half-seas-over. 

LXII. 

But  Juan   posted   on    through  Manheim,  Bonn, 
Which  Drachenfels  frowns  o'er,  like  a  spe<;lre 

Of  the  good   feudal    times   for  ever  gone, 

On  which   I   have;   not    time  just   now  to  lecture. 

From  thence   he   was  drawn   onwards   to  Colotrne, 
A  city  which   pr(!sents  to  the  ins  ector 

Eleven   thousan<l    inaid(;nheads  of  bone. 

The  greatest  number  tlesh  hath   ever  kiKnvn.^ 

LXIII. 

From  thence  to  Holland's  Hague  and  Helvoetsluys, 
That  water  land  of  Dutchmen   and   of  dii<-hes, 

Wliere  Juniper   (wprtisses   its    best    puce — 

Th(!   i)oor  man's   sparkliui:  siib-tituie  fir  riches. 

Senates   and   saires   have   cond(;mn'd    its   use 

But  to   deny   the   mob   a  c(,r(rial   wlueli   is 

Too  often    all    the   clothing',  meat,  or  fuel, 

Good  government  has   left   them,  soeins   but   crueL 

LXIV. 

Here  he  einhark'd,  and,  with   a  flowing  sail, 
Went  bounding  for  the  island  of  (he  free, 

Towards  which  the   impatient  wind   blew  half  a   gale  , 
High  dash'd   the  spray,  the  bows  dip[»'d   m  the  sea. 

And  sea-sick  passengers  turn'd  somewhat  pale : 
l:5ut  Juan,  season'd,  as  he  well   might   be 

Hv  former  voyages,  stood   to  watch   the   skitFs 

Which  pass'd,  or  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  chfTs,. 

LXV. 

At   length   they  rose,  like  a  white  wall   along   • 
The   blue   sea's  border ;   and   Don  Ji'.an   felt— 

What   even  young  straniji;rs  feel  a   little   strong 
At   the   first  sight  of  Albion's  chalky   belt—  ' 

A  kind  of  pride  that   he  should  be  an>onir 

'J'hose   haughty  shop-keepers,  who  sternly  dealt 

Their  goods  and   edicts  out  from   jjole  to  pole, 

And  made  the  very  billows  pay  them  toll. 

LXVI. 

I   have   no   areat  cause   to  hne  that  sj-ot  of  earth. 

VVhich  holds  what  viiishl  havt-  been  the  noblest  nation' 
Hut,  though   I  owe  it  little  but  my  birth, 

I   feel  a    mix'd   regret   and  veneration 
For  its  decaying  fan;e  and  former  worth. 

Sev(;n   years   (the   usual  term   of  trausocrtstion'^ 
Of  absence  lay  one's  old  resentments  lev.d, 
VV  hen   a  man's  country's  goin"  to  the  devil. 

LXVH. 

Akis!   could   she    Jut  fully,  truly,   know 

flr)w  her  great  name   is   now  throughonf   abh.-n'd, 
How  ea<;er  all  the  ea'th   is  fir  the  blow 

Winch   shall  lay 'nare  her  bosom   to  the   sword; 
How  all   the  nations   deem   her  tl  <  ir  worst  fie, 

'J'hat  worse  than   worst  of  f()c>i—\\\(i  once  adored 


666 


BYKON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Palse  friend,  wno  lie      out  freedom  to  mankind, 
And  now  would   chain  thiMn    to  the  \ery  niiiid  ;  — 
LXVIII. 

Would  she  be   proud,  or  boast   herself  the  free 

Who  is  l)ut   first   of  slaves  ?     The  nations   are 
In   [)rison  ;    but    the  jailor,  what    is   he  ? 

No  less  a  vieiim   to  tin'   l)()it   and   bar. 
I.-   the   poor   privilc<T(^   to  turn  the   key 

U\)on   the   captive,  freedom?    He's   as  far 
Ir  rom   the   cnjovn:ent    of  tlu!    earth    and    air 
V»'ho  watches   o'er  the  chain,  as   tht;y  wlio  wear. 

LXIK. 
Pon   Juan    now  saw  Albion's   earliest,   beauti(!s — 

'I'hy  ciitfs,  ^/f:r,r  Dover  !    harbom-,   and   hotel; 
Thv  custom-liouse  with   all   its   delicate   diUies  ; 

Thy  waiters   rin)ning  mucins  at   every  nell  ; 
T!;v  packets,  all  whose   |»assen(Ters   are   booties 

'j'o  those  N\ho  upon   land  fir  wat(>r  dsvel!  ; 
Asia'   last,  no!    least,  to  strangers   uninstrncted, 
I'hy  long,  long  bills,  wluMice   nothing  is  deducted. 

LXX. 
Juan,  though   careless,  young,  and  magnifique. 

And   rich   in   roubles,  diamonds,  cash,  and.  credit, 
Who  did   not  limit   much   his  bills   per  week, 

Yet-  stared   at  this    a   little,  though   he  jiaid    it — 
(His  maggior  duomo,  a  smart  subth-  Greek, 

IJefire    him    summ'd    the  awful   scroll   and  read   it:) 
But   doubtless  as   the  air,  though  seldom  sunny. 
Is  free,  the  respiration  's  worth   the  money. 

LXXI. 
On  with   the   horses!    Olf  to  Canterbury  ! 

Trani}',  Irajnp  o'er  p(;bljle,  and  splash,  splash  through 
puddle  ; 
Hurrah!    how  swiftly  sfieeds  the  post   so  merry! 

Not   like   slow   Germany,  wherein  they  muddle 
Along  the   road,  as   if  they  went   to   bury 

Their  fire  ;    and    also   pause,  besides,  lo  f uldle 
With   "  schnapps"— sad  dogs  !    whom  "  Hundsfot"  oi 

"FerJbicter" 
Affect  no  more   than  lightning  a  conductor. 

LXXII 
Now,  there   is  nothing  gives  a   man    such   spirits, 

Leavemiio   liis  blood  as  Cayerme   doth   a  curry, 
As   goitig  at    full   speed — no   matter  where  its 

Direction    b(;,  so   'tis   but   in  a  hurry, 
And   murcily  fir  the   sake  of  its  own   merits  : 

For  the  less  cause   there   is  for  all   this   flurry, 
The  greater  is  the   pleasure   in  arriving 
At   the   great  end  of  travid — which   is  driving. 

LXXIIl. 
They  saw  at  Canterbury  the  Cathedral; 

P.l;i(d<  FZdward's  helm,  and  Becket's   bloody  stone, 
Wer(;  poimed    out    as   usual    by  the   bedral, 

In    the   same  (piaiiit,   uninterested   tone  : 


Thert! 's   gloiv  again   for  you,  gentle  reader!   all 

Ends  m   a   rustv  cascpie   and   dubious   bone, 
Flalf-solved   into  those  sfidas  or  ma<'nesias, 
Which  firm    that  bitter  draught,  the  human  specif 

LXXIV. 
The  effect  on  Ji  an  was  of  course  sublime  : 

lie   breathed   a    thousand  Cressys,  as   he  .-aw 
That    cas(]ue,  whu-h   ucvvr  stoo[)M,  except   to  Time 

Even   the   bold  (thurehman's  toml)  excited  awe, 
Who   died    in    the   then   great    atleinut    to   cdiinb 

O'er   kmgs,  who   nom  ;il    h'ast    //lu.s/   Ifitk  of  law, 
EJefore   they  buudier.      Little  Eeil.i   gM/.ed, 
Ami  ask'd  why  such  a   siructin-e  had    been  rais(;d  • 

EXXV. 
\nd   being   told    it  was   "Cuid's   hmise,"   she   said 

He  was  well    lodg.;d,  but   only  wonder'd    how 


Ho  sufl'cr'i'  iniidfcls  in   hLs  horricsteail,' 
The  crc<-i  Nazarenes,  vviio  h.a<l  lai''   (ow 

His   h.j._;  cem|)les   in   liie   lands  uhi(di   bred 
Th..  'rue   believers;  —  and   her   infant  brow 

Waj   1  ent  with  grief  'hat   ?.Iahomet  should   resign 

.^  uDsque  so  noble,  flung  like  pearls  to  swine. 

LXXVI. 

On,  on !    through   meado\vs,   m.inaged  like  a  garaea, 
\  paradise   of  hops  and  higli    production  ; 

Por,  after  years  of  travel  by  a   bard   in 

Countries  of  greater  heat  but    U:s.-^..'r  sucli'm, 

.\  green  field  is  a  sight  wliich   makes  him   pardon 
'i'he  absence   of  that  mure  sublime  conslruciion, 

Which    mixes  up   vines,  olives,  pre(;ipices, 

Glaciers,  volcanos,  oranges,  and  ices. 

LXXVIL 

.\nd   when   I   tliink  upon   a   [uA  of  beer 

Hut  I   won't  weep  I— ami  so,  drive   on,  postilions 

As   the   smart   bovs   spurr'd   fist    in   their   career, 
Juan    admired   these   Inglmays   of  free   millions; 

A   eountry    in    all   sens(;s   tin;  most    dt.-ar 

To   fireigner   or   naUV(.',   save    some   silly   ones. 

Who   "kick   against    the    piicKs"  just  at  this  junctuic, 

And  for  their   pams  get   only   a  fresh   pmicture. 

LXXVlil. 

What   a   (Kdightful   ihmg's   a   turnpike  road! 

So  smooth,  so  lev<!l,  sucli  a  mode  of  sliaving 
Tiie   earth,   as   scar(;e   tlie   eag'a;   in  ihe   broad 

Air   can   accomplish,  with    his    wi>ie   wings   waving. 
Had   such    been    cut   m    Piiieton's  time,    the    god 

Had   told    his   son    to   satisly    his   craving 
With  tlie   York   mail ;— but,  onv.ard    as   we  roll, 
"  Surgit  Chilian  aluiuid" — the   toil! 

LXXIX. 

Alas!    how  deeply   jiamt'ul  is   all  payment! 

Take   lives,  take   wives,   take    aught    except   mens 
purses. 
As  uNlachiavel  shows  those  in   purple   raiment, 

Such   is   the   shortest    way   to   geiufral    curses. 
They   h.ate  a   murderer  much   less  than   a  claimant 

On  that    sweet   ore,   \\hicli  every   body   nurses: — 
Kill   a  man's   family,  and   he   may   brook   it — 
But  keep  your  hands  out  of  his  breeches'  pocket. 

LXXX. 
So  said  the    Florentine:    ve  monarchs,  lu  arken 

To  vour  inslrii<:t'or.     Juan   now   was   borne, 
Jii^-t   as   the   day   began    to   wane   and   darken, 

O'er  the  h,gh   hill  which   looks  with   [iridic   or  score 
Toward  the  great   city: — ye   who  have   a   spark   in 

Your   veins   of  Coekney    spirit,   smile   or   mourn. 
According   as   you   take   things    well   or  ill — 
Bold    Britons,  we   are   now   on    Shooter's   Hill! 

LXXX!. 
The  sun  went  down,  the  smoke  rose   u]),  as  from 

A   half-un(|uenchM    volcano,   o'er   a  s[iace 
Which  well   beseeiu'd  the    "Devil's   drawing-room," 

As   some   have   (jualilied   that    wondrous   place. 
But  Juan   felt,   though   not    approaching   lio/iir, 

As  one  who,  though  lu;  were  not  ol'  the  race- 
Revered  the  soil,  d!"  those  true  sons  tin;  mother 
Who   bulcher'd    half  ih.;   earlh,  and    bullied   t'olliei.* 

LXXXM. 
A    mighty   mass  of  brie'k,   and    smoke,   ami   shipping, 

Dirty    and   dusky,   but    as   wide   as   e\e 
Could    reach,  with    lieaa;   and   I  here  a  sail  just  skipping 

In  sight,  Ilnai   lost   amidst    the   f.restrv" 
Of  ma-ls;    a  wil  lenu^ss   of  s|,.eples    peeping       - 

On   tiptoe,   through   ih.ir   sea-coal   canouv 


DON    JUAN. 


067 


A  hui^e  tl  in   cnjiol;),  hko  a  foolsrap  crown 
.)ii  a  i'ouVi   li<;;ul— and  there   is   Loiulon   town! 

LXXXIII. 
Bi»    .liKin  saw  not   tUis:   each   wreath  of  smoke 

A|)j)earM  to  him  but  as  the  magic  vajiour 
Of  some  alchvmie  furnace,  from   whence   broke 

The  wealth  of  worlds   (a  wealth  of  tax  and  paper)  ; 
riie  ijloomy  clouds,  which   o'er  it   as  a  yoke 

Are  bowM,  and   |uil  the  sun   o'.it    like   a  taper, 
Were    nothuig   but   liie   natural    atmosphere — 
Extremely  wholesome,  though  but  rarely   clear. 

LXXXIV. 
Ife  paused — and  so   will   1 — as  doth   a   crew 

B(:fore  they  give  their  broadside.      By   and  by, 
My  gentle  countrymen,    we   will   renew 

Our  old   acquaintance,  and   at  least  I'll    try 
To  tell  you   truths  you   will  not   take   as   true. 

Because  tiiey  are  so, — a  male  Mrs.  Fry, 
With  a  soft  besom  will  I  swec|)  your  halls, 
And  brush  a  web  or  two  from   otf  the  walls. 

LXXXV. 

Oh,  Mrs.  Fry!   why  go  to  Newgate?  Why 

Preach  to   poor  rogues.^   And   wheretoie   not  begin 

With  C — It-n,  or  with  other  houses?   Try 
Your  hand  at   hardeuM   and   imperial   sin. 

To  mend  tlie  people 's  an   absurdity, 
A  jargon,   a  mere   pliilanthropic   din, 

Ciiless  vou  make  their  betters   better: — Fie! 

[  thought  you  had  more  religion,  Mrs.  Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Teach  them  the  decencies   of  good  threescore: 
Cure  them  of  tours.  Hussar  and  Highland  dresses  : 

rell  thi'in  that  youth  once  gone  returns   no  more; 
That  hired  huzzas  redeem   no  land's  distresses  : 

lell  them  Sir  W-ll—m  C-rl-s  is  a  bore, 
Too  dull  even  for  the  dullest  of  excesses— 

Tlie  witless  Falstatf  of  a  hoary   Hal, 

A  fool   whose  bells  have  ceased  to  ring    at   all ;  — 

LXXXVII. 

Tell  them,  though  .t  may   be   perhaps  too  late. 
On  life's  worn  confine,  jaded,  bloated,  sated, 

lo  set  up  vain   pretences   of  being  great, 
'Tis  not   so  to  be  good;   and  be  it  stated, 

The  worthiest  kings  have  ever  loved  least  state; 
And  tell   them but  you  won't,  and  I  have  piated 

Just  now  enou2h-,  but  by   and  by  I'll  prattle 

Like  Roland's  licrn  in  Roncesvalles'  battle. 


CANTO  XI. 


I. 

Wjikx    Bisliop  Berkeley  said  "there  was  no  matte  ,' 
And  proved   it— 't  was   no  matter   what    he  saiu 

Thtsy  say   his  s\ stem 'tis   in  vam  lo  batter. 
Too  subtle  tor  the  airiest  human  head  ; 

And   vet   wiio  can   b"lieve  it?     I    woulii  shatter, 
Gladly,  all   matters  down   to  stone   or   lead. 

Or  adamant,   to  find   the   world   a   spirit. 

And  wear  my   head,   denying  that  I   wear   it. 

II. 

What   a  sublime  discovery  'twas,  to  make  the 

Universe  universal   egotism  ! 
That   all's  ideal— ft//  ourselves?    I'll   stake  the 

World    (he   it  what   you  will)   that  </('?/ 's  no  schism. 
Oh,  doubt !— if  tiwu  be'st  doubt,  for  which  some  take 
thee. 

But   which   I   doubt  extremely— thou   sole  prism 
Of  the   truth's   rays,  sjioil    not   my  draught   of  spirit  ! 
Heaven's  brandy — though  our  brain  can  hardly  bear  il. 

III. 

For,   ever  and   anon   comes   indigestion 

(Not   the   most   "dainty  Ariel'"),   and   perplexes 
Our  soariiiirs   with   another  sort   of  (pieslion: 

And  ihai  which,  after  all,  my  spirit  vexes 
Is,  that    I    find   no   spot    where  man   can  rest  eye  on, 

Without  confiisioii  of  the  sorts  and  sexes. 
Of  being's,  stars,  and  this  unriddied  w:>nder. 
The  worlii,  winch   at  the  worst's  a  glor  ous  blunder — 

IV. 
If  it    be   chance;    or  if  it   he   according 

To    the   old    text,   still    better  I    lest    it    should 
Turn   out    so,   we'll   say   nuthms  'gainst    the   wording 

As  several    people   think  such   hazanls    rude: 
Thev're   ri_'hi:our   days   are  too   brief  f.r  affording 

Sp.u.-e   lo   dispute    v.hat    no    one   ev('r  could 
Decide,    and    t'nrij   hoilt;    one  day   will 
Know   very   clearly — or  at   least   lie   still. 

V. 

And    thererure  will   I  \e.'"  '"'^   oif  metaphysical 
Discussion,  winch   is  ,     ither  here  nor  there. 

If  I  a^ree   that  what'  is,  .  i — then   this   I   call 
Being  quite    perspicuous  and   exlremely  fair. 

The   truth   is,   I 'vi;  grown    lattely   rather    phthisical: 
I   don't  know   wiiat   the  reason    is — the   air 

Perha])S ;    but    as  I   sutier  from   the   shocks 

Of  illness,  I   grow   much  more  ortliodox. 

VI. 

The  first  attack  at  once   proved   the  divinity 
(But   that  I   never  doubted,   nor   the   devi!)  ; 

The  next,  the  Virgin's  mystic-al  virginity ; 
The  third,  the  usual  origin  of  evil  ; 

The  fourth  at  once  establish'd  the  whole  Trinity 
On  so  incontrovertible  a  level, 

That  I  devoutly   wish  the  three  were  four, 

On  purpose  to  believe  so  much  the  more. 

VII. 

To  our  theme: — The  man  who  has  stood  on  the  Acropoiis, 
And  look'd   down  over  Attica ;   or  he 

Who  has  sail'd  where  picturesque  Constantinople  'la, 
Or  seen  Tombucloo,  or  hath  taken  tea 

In  small-eyed  China's  crockery-ware  metrcpolis 
Or  sat   amidst  the  bricks  of  Nineveh, 


BYRON'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Mat    not  think  much   of  London's  first  appearance— 
But  ask  him  what  lie  thinks  of  it  a  year  hence? 

VI  li. 

Dor.  Juan  had  got  out  on   Shooter's  Hill — 

Snnset  the  time,  the  place  the  same  declivitj' 
Which  looks  along  that  vale  of  good  and  ill 

Wncre  London  streets   ferment  in  full  activity ; 
While  every  thing  around  was  calm  and  still, 

Except  the  creak  of  wheels,  which  on  their  pivot  h*-' 
Heard — and  that  bee-lme.  bubbling,  busy  hum 
Of  cities,  that  boils  over  with  their  scum  :  — 

IX. 
I  sav,  Don  Juan,  wrapt  in  contemplation, 

Walk'd  on   behind  his  carri:i-ge,  o'er  the   summit, 
And,  lost   in  wonder  of  so  great  a  nation. 

Gave  way  to 't,  since  he  could   not  overcome   it. 
*'  And  here,"  he  cried,  "  is  Freedom's  chosen  station  ; 

Here  peals  the  people's   voice,  nor  can  entomb  it 
Racks,  prisons,  inquisitions;    resurrection 
Awaits  it,  each  new  meeting  or  election. 


*'  Here  are  chaste  wives,  pure  lives  ;   here  people  pay 
But  what  they   please  ;    and  if  that  things  be  dear, 

Tis  only  that   they  love  to  throw   away 
Their  cajh,  to  show  how  much  they  have  a-year. 

Here   laws  are   all   inviolate ;    none   lav 

Traps  for  the  traveller,   every  highway's  clear: 

H(M-e "  he   was   interrupted   by   a  kiiite. 

With  "  Damn  your  eyes !   your  money  or  your  life." 

XL 

These  free-born   sounds   proceeded  from  four   pads, 
In  ambush   laid,   who  had   perceived   him  loiter 

Behind   his  carriage ;    and,  like   handy   lads. 
Had   seized  the  lucky  hour  to  reconnoitre, 

In   which   the   heedless  gentleman  who   gads 
Upon   the   road,  unh.'ss   he   prove  a  fighter, 

May  find  himself,   within   that  isle  of  riches. 

Exposed  to  lose  his  lite  as  well  as  breeches. 

XII. 

Juan,  who  did   not  understand   a  word 

Of   English,   save  their  shibboleth,   "God   damn!" 
A.iul  even  that  lie  had   so  rarely  heard. 

He  sometimes  thought  'twas  ordy  their  "  saiam," 
Jr  "God  be  with  you," — and  'tis   not  absurd 

To  think  so  ;    for,   half  English  as   I   am 
■To  my  misfortune),    never  can  I  say 
*  heard  them  wish  "  God  with  you,"  save  that  way  : — 

XIII. 

Iiian   yet  quickly   und(!rstood   their  gesture. 
And,  Ix'ing  somewhat  ciioleric    and   sudden, 

Drew  forth  a  po<ket-pist(jl  from  his   vesture. 
And   tired   it  into  one   assailant's   pudding — 

fVho  fell,  as  rolls  an  ox  o'er  m  his  pasture. 
And  roar'd  out,  as  he  writhed   his  native  n)ud  in, 

Ciito  Ids  nrarei'l  followtT  or  henchman, 

■*0i[.  Jack  !  I'm  Jloor'd  by  that 'ere  bloody  Frenchman"' 

XIV. 

Or.  --ivhich  Jrifk   and   lus  traui  set   off  at   speed. 
And   Juan'f,   suite,   late   scaltcr'd   at   a   distance, 

(.!arne   U[),   ;.'!   marvrllma   at    such    :i   d<-ed, 
And   ott(  rm;.',   as   usual,    bile   assistance. 

Juan,  wlio   saw    the   moon's    late    iiiimoii    bleed 
As   if  Ins   veins    wi)uid    [xiur   out    his   existence, 

Htood    callmg   out   for   l)an(lag<'s   ami    lint, 

And    wish'd    he'd   l)een    less   hasty    wilb    his    Hint. 

XV. 

"  Pcv^iajis,"   »h')Ughl   be,  "  It    is   llu;   country's   wont 
To  welcome  (oreigners  m   this  way  :   now 


I  recollect  some  innkeepers  who  don't 
Diifer,  e.xcej)t  in   robbing   with  a  bow, 

In  lieu  of  a  bare  blade  and  brazen  front. 
But  what  is  to  be  done?  I  can't  allow 

The  fellow  to  lie  groaning  on  the  road: 

So  take  him  up;  I'll  help  you  with  the  load," 

XVI. 

Bur,  ere  they  could  perform   this   pious   duty. 

The  dying  man  cried,  "  Hold  !    I've  got  my  gruf-.>' 

Oh!   for  a  glass  of  v^ax !  We've  miss'd  our  booty, 
Let  me   die   where  I   am  !"     And,   as  the  fuel 

Of  life  shrunk   in  his  heart,  and   thick    and    sooty 
The  drops  fell  from  his  death-wound,  and  he  drew  in 

His  breath,  he  from  his   swelling  throat   untied 

A  kerchief,  crying  "Give  Sal  that!" — and  died. 

XVII. 

The  cravat,  stain'd  with  bloody  drops,  fell   down 
Before  Don  Juan's  feet :   he  could   not  tell 

Exactly  why  it  was  before   him  thrown. 

Nor  what  the  meaning  of  the  man's  farewell. 

Poor  Tom  was   once   a  kiddy  upon   town, 
A  thorough  varmint,  and   a    real  swell. 

Full   flash,   all  fancy,  until  fairly  diddled — 

His  pockets   first,  and  then  his   body  riddled. 

XVIII. 

Don  Juan,  having  done  the  best  he  could 
In  all   the  circmnstances  of  the  case. 

As  soon  as  "crowner''s  (]uest"   allow'd.  [)Ui  jued 
His  travels  to  the   capital    apace; — 

Esteeming  it  a  little   hard   he  should 

In  twelve   hours'   time,  a  very  little  space, 

Have  been  obliged   to  slay  a  free-born  native 

In  self-defence :   this  made  him  meditative. 

XIX. 

He  from   the  world  had  cut  off  a  great  man, 
Who  in  Ins   time  had  made  heroic  bustle. 

Who  in   a  row  like  Tom  could   lead   the  van. 
Booze  m   the  ken,  or  at  the  spellken   hustle? 

Who  (|ueer   a  fiat?   Who  (spite  of  Bow-street's  ban 
On  the  high   toby-spice  so  Hash  the   muzzle? 

Who  oil    a  lark,  with   black-eyed  Sal   (his  blowing), 

So  prune,  so  ssvell,  so  nutty,  and  so  knowing?' 

XX. 

But  Tom  's  no  more — and  so  no  more  of  Tom. 

Heroes   must   die;    and  by  God's  blessing,  'tis 
Not   long  before  the   most  of  them  go  home. — 

Hail  !   Thamis,  hail  !      Upon   thy  vtu-gc  it  is 
That  Juan's   chariot,  rolling  like  a  drum 

In  thunder,  holds  the  way  it  can't  well  miss, 
Through  Kennington  and  all  the  other  "  tons," 
Which  make  us  wish  ourselves   in  town  at  once  , 

XXI. 

Throuirh   groves,  so  call'd   as  being  void  of  trees, 

(Like  kicufi  from  no  ligr.t);  tr.rough  prospects  namea 
Mount  Pleasant,  as  containing  nought  to  please. 

Nor  much  to  climb;   through   little  boxes  framed 
Of  bricks,  to   let    the   dust    m    at    your   ease. 

With  "To  be  l(!t,"  upon  tlinr  doors  proclaim'^  ^ 
Throiiizh  "rows"  mnst  mo/k'stly  call'd  "Paradise," 
Which  Eve  might  (put  without   much   sacrit'ice  ;  — 

XXII. 
Tiirou^di  coaches,  drays,  rlioked  turnpikes,  and  a  whit 

Of  whee'';,  and  roar  of  voices,  and  confusion  • 
Here  taverns  wooing  to  a  pint  of  "  purl," 

There  mails  fast  flying  off  like  a  delusion  ; 
There  l)arbers'  blocks  with  pisriwigs   in   curl 

In  windows  ;   here  the   lamp-lighter's  infusion 


DON    JUAN. 


6.59 


Slowlylistill'.Iinto  ihc  a'iinmorin^  glass — 
(1  or  ill  tlioso  aays  we   Im^i   iu)l   gi)t  to   gas): 

XXIII. 
Throiiifh   this,  and  inuch   and   more,  is  the   approach 

Of  iravcllcrs   to   iiuulily  Hahyiun  : 
Wiit'tlitT   tlicv  coiiK!  l)v  l»ia>c,  or  chaise,  or  coach, 

\Vith  sii^'iit    ('\c(-i)tioiis,   ail    the   ways   sccrn   one. 
I  'iiuKi   say    mure,   hut    do   not    choose   to  encroach 

''|)i)n  the  <ruidt;-hook\s  |»rivile>:e.      Tiie   sun 
had   s(;t   sDUie   time,  and  niirht  was  on  llie  ridge 
(.)f  twihgh.t,  as  the  |)art,y  cross'd  tlie   bridge. 

XXIV. 
That's  rather  fine,  the   jfentle  somid  of  Tliamis — 

\V  lio  vindicates  a  moment   too   h.is   stream — 
Thmigli  !iar(ilv  heaid  through  miiififarious  "d.am'mes." 

The  himps  of  \Ves!nMns1er's   more   regular  gleam, 
Tile  breadth  of  pavement,  and  yon  slirine  where  Fame  is 

A  spectial   resident — v.ho;-e  \yj.\\id  beam 
In  sha])e  of  moonshme  havers  o'er  the  pile — 
Make  this  a  sacred   part  of  Albion's  isle. 

XXV. 

The  Dniids'  groves  are  gone — so  iim:h  the  better: 
Stone-Henge  is  not — b::t  wtiat    the   ilevi!    is  it  ? — 

But    Bedlam  stil!  exu-ts  with   its  sage  fetter. 
That  inadineii   may  not  bite  you   on   a  visit ; 

The  Bench  too  seats  or  suits  full  many  a  debtor; 
The  Mansion-house,  too  (thouifh  snm<'  peojilequiz  it), 

To  me  appears  a  stilF  yet  grand  erection  ; 

Hut  then   the  Abbey's  worth   the  wliole  collection. 

XXVI. 

T'lfc   hne  of  hwhts  too  up  to  Charing-Cross, 
Pali-Mall,  and  so  t'orth,  have  a  coruscali(jn, 

Like  go.d  as  in   comparison  to  dross, 

Match'd  with   the  continent's   illumination. 

Whose  cities  night   by  no   means  (le!i:iis   to   gloss  : 
The  French  were  not  yet   a   lainp-iiiihtiiii;  nation. 

And  when  they  grew  so — on  tlicir    new-found   lantern, 

Instead  of  wicks,  they  made  a  wicked  man  turn, 

XXVII. 

A  row  of  gentlemen   along   the  streets 

Suspended,  may  illuminate  mankind, 
As  also  bonfires  made  of  countri--scats  ; 

But  the  old  way  is  best  for  the   purblind  : 
The  other  looks  like  phosphorus   on   sheets, 

A  sort  of  ignis  fituus  to  the  mmd, 
Which,  thouiih   "t  is  certain  to   perplex   and   frighten, 
Must  burn  more  inildlv  (;rc  it   can   enlighten. 

XXVIII. 

But  London  's  so  well  lit,  that   if  Dinirpnes 

Could  recommence  to  hunt  his  /io;/e</  rnnn, 
And   f)und   him   not   amiilst   trie  various   proi:enies 

Of  this   enorni'.us   city's   spreadini;   spawn, 
'Twas   not    tor  want  of  lumps  to  ai(i   his  dodgiiii:  his 

Vet  undiscovcrM  treasure.      What  /  can, 
I  ve  do!ie  to  lind   the   same   throuiihout    hide's  journev. 
But  see  the  world   is  only  one  attorney. 

XXIX. 
Over  the  stones  still  riittlin;:,  up  Pall-Mali, 

Throuidi  cro\\ds   and  carnages — !)ut  w.-ixina  tliinner 
V.s  lhund<.'r'd   knockers   broke' the   !r)nL'-s..ard  spell 

Of  doors   'gam-^t   duns,  and   to   an   eariv  dinner 
Admitte.l   a   small   party  as   iiiul.t   f-l!,—  " 

Don  Juan,  our   young   diplomatic   sinner. 
Pursued   h.is   |)ath,  and   drove   past   some   hotels, 
St    .lames's  Palace   and  St.  James's   "  Hells. "^ 

XXX. 
Tlieyrcach'd  thehotel:  forth -tream'd  fromthefrcMit  door 

A  tide  o*  weL-clad  waiters,  and  around 


The  mob  stood,  and   as  usi  ;»    several  score 
Of  those   |)edeslriaii  Paphians  who   abound 

111  decent  London  when  th(^  dayh^dit  's  o'er  ; 
Commodious   l>ut   immortal,  they  are  fiiiind 

Ust.'ful,  like  Malthus,  in  promoting   m:'nTiai:;e  : 

But  Juan  now  is   stepping  from  his  carriage, 

XXXI. 

Into  one  of  the  sweetest  of  hotels, 
Es|)ecially  for  foreigners — and  nK)stly 

For  those  whom  favour  or  whom  fortune  swel.s, 
And  cannot  find   a   bill's  small  items  (-jstly. 

Tli(!re  manv  an   (;nvov  either  tlwelt  or  dwells 
(Till!  den   of  manv  a  diplomatic   lost  lie). 

Until  to   some  conspicuous  square  they  ])ass, 

And  blazon  o'er  the  door  their  names  in  brass. 

XXXII. 

Juan,  wdiosf}  was  a  delicate  commission. 
Private,  though  publicly  imiiortant,  bore 

No  title  to  point  out  with  due  precisif)n 

The  exact  affair  on  which  he  was  sent  o'er. 

'T  was  mer(dy  known   that   on   a  secret  mission 
A  f  )rei2ner  of  rank  had   graced  our  shore, 

Younii,  handsome,  and   accomplish'd,  who  was  saio 

(111  whispers)  to  liave  turn'd  his  sovereign's  heaa 

XXXIII. 

Some  rumour  ilso  of  some  strange  adventures 
Had  gone  before  him,  and  iiis  wars  and   loves; 
■    Aral   as  romantic  heads   are  pretty  painters, 
I         And   above  all,  an   Englishwoman's  roves 
j    Into  the   excursive,  breaking  the  indentures 
Of  sober  reason,  whercsoe'cr  it  moves. 
He  flnind  himself  extremely  in   *he  fashion. 
Which  serves  our  thinking  ])eople  for  a  pessiottt 

XXXIV. 

I  don'*   mean  that  they  are   jiassionless,  but  quite 
Tiie  contrary  ;    but   then   't  is  in   the   head  ; 

Yet,  as  the  conse(]uences  are  as   briiiht 
As  if  they  acted  with   the   heart   instead, 

What  after  all  can  signify  the  site 
Of  ladies'  lucubrations?     So  iliev  lead 

In  safety  to   the  place  for  which  they  start, 

What  matters  if   the  road  be  head  or  heart? 

XXXV. 

Juan  presented  in  the  proper  p'ace, 

To  proper  placemen,  (;very  Puss   credential  , 

And  was  receivc^l  witli   all  the  due  irrimace, 
By  those  who  govern   in  the   mood    potential, 

WIk),  sei^ini^  a  handsome  striplniir  witli  smooth  face 
Thought    (what  in   state  atfairs   is  most  essential 
I    That   they  as  easily  might  do  tiie   voun<jster. 

As  hawks  may  pounce  iqion  a  woodland  songstei 

!  XXXVI. 

They  err'd,  as   a^'ed    nieu  will    do  ;    but    by 
'        And   bv  we '11   talk   of  that  ;    and   if  we  don't, 

'T  will   be   liecau-e   our   notion    is    not    hish 

Of  politicians    and    their  double   front, 

.    Who  live   by  lies,  vet   dare   not    boldiv  lie  :  — 

I        Now  what   I    love   in  women    is,  th.ev  won't 

Or  can't  do   otherwise   than    lie,  but    do   it 

So  well,  the  very  truth   seems   fiisehood   to    it, 

'  XXXVII. 

And,  after  all,  what   is  a   lie?     'T  is   but 

The  truth  in   niastjuerade  ;    and   I  defy 
Historians,  heroes,  law\-ers,  priests,  to   put 

A  fict  without   some  leaven  of  a   lie. 
The  very  shadow  of  true   truth  would   shut 

Up  annals,  revelations,  poesy, 


370 


BYE  ON' S    POETICAL    WORKS 


And  prophecy — except  k  should   be  dti.ed 
Some  years  before  the   ineideiil.s  related. 

XXXVIH. 
Traiscd   be  all  liars  and   all  lies  !     Wlio  now 

Can  tax  my  mild  Muse  uilh   niisauthrofiy  ? 
She  rings  the  world's  "  Te  Dtnini,"   and   her  brow 

niiishcs  for  those  who  will   not  :  —  but    to  sigh 
[s  Idle ;   let  us,  like  most  othei  s,  bow, 

Kiss  hands,  feet — ar  /  part   of  •Majesty, 
After  the  good  example  of  "  Green  Kiin," 
Whose  shamrock  now  seems  rather  worse  for  wearing. 

XXXIX. 
Don  .Juan  was  presented,  and   iiis   dress 

And   mien  excited   general   admir;ition — 
[  don't   know  which  was   most  athnired  or   less  : 

One  monstrous  diamond   drew  nuu-h  ol>servation, 
Which  Catherine,  in   a  mnnient   of  ^' ivrcsse" 

(In  love  or   brandy's    ftn'vent   fernK'iitafion), 
Bestow'd  upon   him  as  the    public   learnM  ; 
And,  I'o  say  truth,  it  had  been  fairly  earn'd. 

XL. 
Besides  the   minislt-rs  and   underlings, 

Who  nmst  be   coMrteous  to  the   accredited 
Diplomatists   of  rather  waverniir   kni^s, 

L'litii   their   royal   riddle's   fully  rea<l. 
The  vcrv  clerKS — ihose   somewhat  dirtv  springs 

Of  othce,  or  the   house  of  office,  fed 
Bv  f<>ul  corruption   into  streams — even   they 
Were  hardly  rude  enough  to  earn  their  pay: 

XLL 
And   insolence   no  doubt   is  what  they  are 

Emplov'd  f  )r,  since  it  is  their  daily  labour, 
In  the  dear  of]i(,'es  of  peace  or  war ; 

And  should  you  doubt,  pray  ask  of  your  next  neigh- 
bour, 
\\  li.'ii   ['>(   a   ,_assj,iort,  or  souk;  other   bar 

To   tl-e..'.iom,   he'  ap|.lied    (a   grief  and    a   b^)re)  , 
If  he  tbund   not   tins  spawn   oi'  tax-1)  >rn   riches. 

Like   iaj)-(l(ji;s,  the    least    civii   sons   of  b s. 

XLII. 
But  .luan  was  r(;ceiyed  with  much  "  enipressement :" — 

'I'lle^e    phrases   of  retliieiiient    I    must   borrow 
From  our  next  neii.'hbour's  l.iu  !,  wii-re,  iiue  a  clipssman. 

"i'licre  IS  a  move  set  down  lor   io\'  or  sorrow, 
No!   only  iii   mere  taikiii;.,  but    tiie   press.      .Man, 

In  islands,  is,  it  S(;ems,  downritrht    ..iid   thorough, 
IMorc'   than   on   contiiu'ii'  .    -a^    <'    :he    r^ea 
(See  Hilhiigsgate)    made  even   lh(    tongue   more  fr.-e. 

XL.li. 
And   vet   the  l^•it;<h    "danrmc"   's   rather  A tti^. 

V'our   cf.iitinental   oaths    are   but   iiiconlinent, 
And    turn   on    lliini;s  which    no   arislcfcnttic 

Spirit  would  name,  and  tii(:r(!fbr(;  (rvcn  I  \von't  anent ' 
This   sui)|i;cl   (piote,  as   it   would    tx;    schismatic 

In   p'il;i(:ssc,  and  have   a   sound    alfronthig   in't:  — 
But    ''<!aiii'm.;" 's  (jiiite   eth<'rea!,  though    tc^o  daring— 
!*la!onie  blasphemy,  tlie   ooul  of  swearing. 

XLIV. 

For  downright  rii  leness,   ve  mav  stav  at   lionie  ; 

For  true  or   false   politeness    (an  !    siTrce   //n/t 
^'  III))    you   ma)  'ir-'ss  the  b'lie  d(  i^p  ;uid  whi'e  loam — 

'I'lie  first  the   emb'em    (rarely  though)   of  what 
V<ju  leave   behnd,  i.he   next   of  miicii    voii  (M)me 

'I'o  meet.      However, 'l  is   no  tune   to   chat 
On    irenera!   topics:    poems   must    confine 
I'hemselves  to  unity,  like  this  of  mine. 

XLV. 

l>i   th*;  great  work', — vhic'',  h".imj  i"1( -pr-'ted. 
]\Ieancth   th"   wst   or   worst  end  o(  the  c.iy, 

f 


And   about   twice  two  thousand  [icople  bred 
By   no   means  to  be  very   wise;  or   witty, 

But   to  sit  u|)   wiiile   olh(>,rs   lie   in   beii, 

And   look  down  on  the  universe   with   pity — 

Juaii,  as   an   inveterate   patrician, 

Was   well  received  by   persons   of  condition, 

XLVI. 

He   was  a  bachelor,  wliich   is  a   matter 
Of  import   both  to  virgin   and   to  bride, 

The    former's    hymeneal   hopf;s   to   thitter ; 

Ami    (sliould   she   not   hold   fast    by   love    J»-  prn,e, 

'T  is   also  of  some  moment  to  tlie  latter: 
A  rib's  a  thorn   in   a   wed   gallant's  side, 

Re<]uires   decorum,  and   is   apt  to  double 

The  horrid  sin — and,  what's   still  worse,  the  trouble 

XLVII. 

But  Juan   was   a  bachelor — of  arts. 

And  parts,  and  hearts  :  he  danc(Hl  and  sung,  and  had 
An   air   as   sentimental   as    Alozart's 

Softest  of  melodies  ;   and    could    be  sad  • 

Or  cheerful,  without    any   "  iiaws   or  starts," 

.lust  at  the  (iroper  time  ;  and,  thouirh  a  lad, 
Had  seen  the  world — which  is  a  curious  sight, 
And  very  much   unl'kt;   what  people   write. 

XT  A' III. 

Fair  virgins  Iilusli'd   upon   bun  ,   wedded  dames 
Bloom'd   also   in   less   transitory    hues  ; 

For   both   commodities   dwell    by   the   Thames, 
The  paintins   and  the   painte(l  ;    vouth,   ceruse^ 

Agtiinst   his   h(;art   preferr'd    their  usual   claims, 
Such   as  no    gentleman  can  ({uite   refuse  ; 

Daughters   admired   his  dress,   ami    pious   mothers 

Iiujulred   his   income,   and   if  he   had   broliicrti, 

XLIX. 

The  milliners   wlio   furnish   "drapery   misse.i"'' 
Throughout   the    season,   upon   spe(  ulation 

Of  payment   er(>  the   honeymoon's   l.;>^t    kisseS 
Have  waned   into   a  crescent's   coruscation, 

dlioiKrht,   such    an    opportunity    as  this   is, 
Of  a  rich   fi)reii,ni(;r"s    initiation, 

Not    to   be   overlook'd,   and   gave   such   credit. 

That  tiiture  bridegrooms  swore,  and  sigh'd,  and  paid  it. 

L. 

Tlie    I^lues,  that   tender  tribe;,  who   sigh   i  'er  sonnets 
And    with    the    [laijes    of  the    last   review 

Line    the   int(;rior   of  ihi-ir    lie;iiis    or    Ixmnets, 
Advanced    in    all   t!;cir   azure's    highest    hue: 

They   talk'd   l)ad    l>ench   of  Spanish,   and   upon  its 
Lat(;   authors   ask'd    him    {or    a    hint   or   two; 

And    which   was   softest,    liussian   or  Castilian  ? 

And    whether   m    his   tnivcls    he   saw    llion? 

LI. 

Juan,  who   was  a  little  siiperfici-al. 

And   tiQt   m   literature  a  great   Drawcansir, 
Exiimined   by  this   learned  and  especitil 

Jury  of  matrons,  scarce   kia^w    what  to   answer* 
His  duties   warlike,  loving,  or  official. 

His  steady   ajiphcation   as   a  dancer. 
Had   kept    him  from  the  brink  of  Hippocrcne, 
Which    now   he  Ibund   was   blue  instead  of  gre^D. 

LII. 
However,    he  replied   at   hazard,   with 

A   modest    confidence   and  calm  assurance. 
Which    lent    lus    learned    lucubraiions    pith, 

And    pass'd  for   ariiunients   of  good   enduranco. 
'!"bat    prodi<:v,    Miss    Araimnta    Smith, 

(Who,  at    s'\"c..n,  translated    "  I  lercules  Furenn  " 


DON    JUAN. 


671 


Tntn  as   fiiriniis   Enirlish),  with  her  best  look, 
Set   (Inwii   his   saviiii^s  in   luT  coininonplacc  book. 

LIII. 

Juan   luwx   several   Iaii;,niai.'es — as   weU 

lie    miglit— aiul    l)roii;;liI    tiiem    up  with  skill,  in  time 
To   save    Ills    fame   wilh   .:arh   aeeumplishM   belle, 

Who   sliil    rei:rett(ni   tliat   he   di.i    i.ot    rhyme. 
There   wanted    l)Ut  this   reciuisite    to  swell 

His  (jiiahties    (with   them)  into  sublime: 
Lady  Fit/,-Frisky,  and   Miss   Micvia   Mannish, 
lloth  longM  extremely  to   be   s;u!g  in   S|)aiush. 

LIV. 
Howevtr  he  did   pretty   well,  and  was 

Admiited   as  an  aspirant   to  all 
J'iic   cuterie>,  an,!,   as   in    Baiupio-s  irlass, 

At  i:)-eat   ;issemblii-s  or  in    parlies   small,, 
il(!   sa\^■    leii    iiioiisi.iRi    lisinj^    atilhors    pass,    ■ 

That    belli;:   about   t'-,e;r  average  numeral; 
Aiso  the  eighty   "irrKates;    livini;   poets," 
As  e\irv   paltry   magazine  can   show  it.i, 

LV. 

In   fwico  five  years  the  "  gre;>.test   living  poet,'' 

Like  to   the  chaaipion  in  the   tisty   ring, 
Is  eali'd  on   to  support   his  elann,  or  show   it, 

Alih-jugh  "t  is   an  imaginary   thing. 
Kven   I — albeit  I  'm  sure   I   did  not  know  it, 

Xor  souijhl    of  f)olsrL:p  subjects   to   be   king — 
Was   r-,'i,-kon"il,  a  considerable   time, 
The  gr.nid   Napoleon  of  the  realms  of  rhviiie. 

LVI. 
I-jiit   Juan    was   mv  Mixcow,   and    F;>liero 

Mv  Leipsic,  and  my  .Alont-Saint-.Iean  seems  Cam  ■ 
**  La    Belie   Alliance"    of  dunces    down    at    zen., 

Now  that    the   lion's    fdlb;.    m:.v    ri-"    a;r.on  : 
But  I   will  fall  at  least  as  fell  iny  hero  ; 

Nor  reign   at  all,  or  ;is   a   /iio:,in-h   reiga; 
Or  to  some  loiielv   isle  of  jiiilors   ^o, 
With  turncoat   Soutliey  for   my   tur.ikcy    Lowe. 

LVII. 

Sir  \Valter  reign'd   bef  re  me  ;    .'Moni-e  and  Camphci! 

Before   and   after;    but   nn,\,   ^ru.ui   mure   holy, 
Tiie   Muses   Mjjon    Sidn'.-    hill    must    ramble 

Willi    poets    uhrjost   clerus men,   or   uhodv: 


LVIII. 


LIX. 

Then   (he^eV  my  gentle   Euphies,  who,  they  sav. 
Sets   up   for  oeing  a   sort  of  moral  me; 

He 'dl   f.i;d   it  f.iher  diflic.ult  some   day 
To  turn  cut  both,  or   either,  it   may   he. 

Some  persons  th'.iik  tiial   Cole-idtje   hath    the    s'vay 
And  \N'ordp  vortli   has   ^iipnorters,  two  or  iliree  ; 

And  th-.t  f^.<;ep  moiith'd   B(i;oti;oi,  "  Savage  LMiulor,' 

[las  tak*-^!  for  a   s'.\an     Oijue  Snuthev's   t'amler. 


J.^Im   Keats — wjio  was  kiil'd   <>H'  by  one  criticne, 
Just  as  he  really  promised   sometiiiug  great. 


If  not  intelligible,  without  Greek 

Contrived   to   talk    about  the   gods  of  late, 

INIuch  as   they   might  have   been   supposed   t(»  s|)eak. 
Boor    fehow  !    his    was    an   untoward   fate: 

'Tis    strange   the   mind,  that   very   tierv   particle.* 

Sliould   let   itself  be  snurf'd  out   by   ;i!i    niic'.-. 

LXI. 

riie   list   grows  long  of  hve   and   dead    iiretende.'s 
I  To   tJKit    which   iKJiie   will    gain — or  none  will    kiii,*v 

Tilt-  conipii'ror   at   least;    who,  ere    Time    rf  iideis 
I  JIis    h:sl   award,    will    have    the    Imr^   ^ra^s   i:row 

j      Al.ove    his    !iurnt-o,it    brain    and    -aplcss    cii.  i.-ru. 
I  If  1    m!:;hl   augur,    I    should    rai<' 'but    lo.v 

;     Their   cliuices;    they're  too  numerous,  lil.i-   the  llrr'; 
I      Mock   I,  ■ants,  when    Koim^'s   amials  wax'd    but   ciniv 

I  LXII. 

'     Tins   is   the  literary  lower  empire, 

Wh"ie   ;l.e   Praetorian   bands  take  up  the  mailer ; 

A  "dreadful  trade,"  like  his  who  "iralhers  •^.imntnre." 

'i'he   insolent   soldiery   to   soothe   and   Hatter, 
Wi'h   the  same   feelings  as  you'd   r-ns.   a   vioiipire. 
Now,   were   I  once   at  home,  and   in    i.'oiid    satire 
I  'd    trv    conclusions    with    those  jam/.aries, 
And  show   them   what  an   inteiiectual    war   is. 

LXIII. 

I  think   I  know  a    trick   or  two,   would   turn 

Their   thinks ; — but    it    is    hardly    u,.rtli    niv    while 

With   such   small  gear  to   give   invse'f  concern; 
Indeed   I  've  not  the   iiecessarv    bile  ; 

My  natural   temper's   reallv  aui.dit    hut    s'etn, 
And  even  my   >Iiise's  w-orst   repi-orf's  a   smile; 

Aici   then  she  drops  a  brief  and   modest    enrisy, 

A. id,   I'lides   away,   assured   she  never  liuris    ye, 

I  LXIV. 

!  Mv   Juan,  v.hom   I  left    in   d'/adlv   peril 

I         Amongst    live   |>0',;ts   and   blue   ladies,  pass'd 

I  With   some   small   proht    llirou^h  thai   ii(  id   so  sterilw. 

]  l^'Ui;:   tired    in    time,   ;ui  I    lui'her    !e:i>t    !if)r   last, 

I  LeO    II    hef.re    he    had    In fu    treated    very   ,li  ; 

I  Ai:  I    heucelorlii   faind    hicw  if  more    .T,,i!y    class'u 

I  Amoeiist   the-   hi^-her   s->iriis   of  ih.e   ;lav, 

:  ^'he   sun's   true    son — i.o   vapou;,   l'\it   a    ray. 

LXV. 

His  morns   In;  pa-;s"d    in   business — wh,i(jh,  dissect 'd 
Was   li'%e   all   business,   a   laborious   nothing, 

Tint    !(■;>  is    to    lassitude,   the   most    inferted 
And   Centaur  Ncssus  garb  of  mortal   clothing 

And    on    oor   sofas   makers    us    he   dejected, 
.         And   ;.i  k    ill  tender  horrors  of  our  loathing 

Ail   kill  '•;   of  toil,  save  tor  our  country's   good — 

Wiiicii   grows   i;o  better,  th(»ugh  'tis  time  it  should. 

I  LXVL 

FTis  aft.  nio  ns  he  pass'd  in  visits,  luncheons, 

Louni;ing.   and  boxing;   and  the  twiliwlu   hour 
III   ridmi:   roimd   those   vegetable  puncheons, 

C  aire;  '•  r  uks,"  where  there  is  neither  fruit  nor  flon-ej 
Eiioiiirii   to   '.'ratify  a  bee's  slight    munchiugs; 

But   a.'er   all,  it   is  the  only  "bower" 
(In   Moere's   j>hrase)   where  the  fashionable  fair 
I    Can  form   a   slight  acquaintance   wilh  fresh   air 

LXVII. 

Then  dress,  then  dinner,  then  awnkes  tlie   world! 

'I'hen  i:i;ire  the  lamps,  then  whirl  the  whirls,  then  ro;K 
Tiiroiiah  street  and  square  fasl-ilas'.mi:  c'lariots,  )iur'"o 

Like    harness'd   meteor?  !    then    aloiiff    the   iloor 
(.'h.iik'd    mimics    pnintiu2:    then    festoons    are  tuiri'd , 

ihen   roll   the  brazen  ti."n,iers  of"  ilie  door. 


BYRON'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Which  opois  to  the  thorsand  happy  few 
An  earthly  j.iara(lise  of ''or  inolu." 

LXVIII. 

There  stands  the  noble   hostess,  nor  shall   sink 
With  the  three-thousandth  curtsy;  there  the  waltz — 

The  only   dance  which   teaches   girls   to  think — 
INIakes  one   in   lov<;  even   with   its   very  faults. 

Saloon,  room,  all   o'lirtlow   beyond   their  brink. 
And   long  the   latest  of  arrivals   halts, 

'xMidsi  royal   dukes   and   danu's   condiMun'd   to    climb, 

And   gain  an   inch   of  stiiircase   at  a   time. 

LXIX. 

Thrice  happy  he   who,   after  a  survey 
Of  the  iiood  com[ianv,   can   win   a  corner, 

A  door  that's   in,  or  bou(l(>ir  out  of  the  way. 

Where  he  may  fix  hims.^lf,  like  small  "Jack  Horner," 

And   let   the   lial)el   roiuid    rim   as   it  may. 
And   look  on   as  a   mourner,  or  a  scorner. 

Or  an   ai)j)rovi-r,  or  a  mere   spectator. 

Yawning  a  little  as   the   night  grows  later. 

LXX. 

But  this  won't  do,  save   by  and  by ;    and  he 
Who,  like   Don  Juan,  takes   an  active  share. 

Must  steer  with  care  tln-ough   all   that  glittering  sea 
Of  gems  and  ],linnes,  and  pearls  and  silks,  lo  where 

Ke  deems  it   is  Ins   prf)per  place  to  be  ; 
Dissolving,  in   tht    waltz  to  some  soft  air, 

Or  proudlier  prancitii;   with  mercurial  skill 

Where  science  marshals  firll;   h<;r  cwn   quadrille. 

LXXI. 

Or,  if  he  dance  not,  but  hath  higher  views 
Upon   an   liciress,  or  his   neighbour's   bride,. 

LtL  him   take  care   that  that   which   he  ]iursues 
Ig  not    at   once    too   palpably   descried. 

full   many  an   eager   gentleman   oft   rues 

His  hast(f:    i;nj)ati(;nce  is   a  l)!m,derir.g  guide. 

Amongst   a  [)eop!e   famous   for  r(.dlection, 

Who  like  to   play  the   fool  with  circumspection, 

LXXII. 

But,  if  you  can  contrive,   get   next  at  supper ; 
•  Or,  if  forestall'd,  get   opposite  and  ogle:  — 

Oh,  ye  ambrosial  momenls!    always   upper 

In  mind,  a  sort  of  sentimental   bogle, 
Which  sits  for  ever  upon   memory's   crupper. 

The  ghost  of  vanish'd  pleasures  once  in  vogue!  Il'i 
Can  lender  souls  relate  the  rise  and   fall 
Of  hopes   and  fears  which   shake  a  single  ball. 

LXXITI. 
But  these  precautionary  hints   can   touch 

Only  the  common   run,  who  must  jmrsue, 
And  watch,  and  ward  ;    whose  plans  a  word  too  much 

Or  little  overturns  ;    and  not  the  few 
Or  many  (for  the  number's   sometimes  such) 

Whom  a  good  mien,  especially  if  new. 
Or  fauH!,  or  name,  fir  vvit,  war,  sense,  or  nonsense, 
Permits  whate'er  th(;y  please,  or  did  not  long  since. 

LXXIV. 
Our  hero,  as   a  hero,   young  and   liandsome, 

Noble,  rich,  celebrated,  and   a  stranger. 
Like  otl'cr  .slaves  of  course   must  pay  his   ransom 

Befo-c  he  can   escai)e  from   so  much  danger 
A  ■  wi.^   environ  a  consnicuous   man.      Some 

T;dk   about  pf)etry,  and   "  rack   anil   tnanger,' 
And  ugliness,  disease,  as   toil    and  trotilili;  ;  — 
I  wish  ihev  knew  the   life  of  a  vomig   noble. 


LXXV. 

I  hev  are  young,  but  know  not  youth— 
nandsomc  but  wasted,  rich  withou 


anticipated; 


Their  vigour  in  a  thousand   arms   is  dissipated  ; 

Their  cash  comes  from,  their  wealth  goes  to,  a  Jew^ 
Both   senates  see  their  n.ghtly  votes   parlici]»ated 

Between  the  tyrant's   and  the  tribune's  crew  ; 
And,  having  voted,  dined,  drank,  gamed,  and  vvtio'-ec. 
The   family  vault  receives  another  lord. 

^"^  "^  LXXVL 

"  ^'p^*fels  the  world,"  cries  Young,  "  at  eighti/?  \Miere 
,-■'  The  world  in  which  a  man  was  born  ?"   Alas  ! 
Where  is  the  world  of  eii;ht  years  past?   'Ticas  thtrre-^ 

I  look  for  it — 't  is   gone,  a  globe  of  glass  ! 
Crack'd,  shiver'd,  vanish'd,  scarcely  gazed  on  ere 

A   silent  change  dissolves  the   glittering  mass. 
Statesmen,  chiefs,  orators,  queens,  patriots,  kings, 
And  dandies,  all  are  gone  on  the  wind's  wings. 

Lxxvn. 

Wbere  is  Napoleon  the  Grand?    God  knows: 

Where  little  Castlereagh  ?   The  devil  can  tell  : 
Where  Grattan,  Curran,  Sheridan,  all  those 

Who  bound  the  bar  or  senate  in   their  spell  ? 
Where  is  the  unhappy  queen,  with  all  her  woes  ? 

And  where  the  daughter,  whom  the  isles  loved  wf.l? 
Where  are  those  tnartyr'd  saints,  the  five  per  cents  .' 
And  where— oh,  where  the  devil  are  the  rents? 

LXXYin. 
Where's   Bnnnmel  ?    Dish'd.     Where's   Long   Pole, 
\YeHesley  ?     Di.ldled. 

Where's  Whitbread?    Romilly?    Where 's  George 
the  'J'hird  ? 
VYliere  is  his  will?    (That's  not  so  soon  unriddled). 

And  where  is  "  Fum"  the  Fourth,  our  "  royal  bird?" 
Gone  down  it  seems  to  Scotland,  to  be  fiddled 

Unto  by  Sawney's  violin,  wc  have  heurd  : 
"Caw  me,^;avv  thee" — for  six  months  hath  been  hatchi^y 
This  scene   of  royal   itch  and  loyal  scratching. 

LXXIX. 

Where  is   Lord  I'liis  ?    And  where  mv  Lady  That  ? 

The  Honourable   Mistresses  and   IViisses? 
Some  laid  aside  like  an  old  opera-hat. 

Married,  unmarried,  and  remarried — (tins  is 
An  evolution   oft   ])erli)rm'd  of  late). 

Wher(!  are  the  Dublin  shouts — and  London  hisses? 
Where  are  the  Grenviilcs  ?  Turn'd,  as  usual.  Where 
My  frienas  the  Wings?     Exaiiiy  where  they  were. 

LXXX. 
Where  are  the  Ladv  Carolines  and   P^ranceses? 

Divorced   or  doing  thereanent.-    Ye   annals 
So  brilliant,  where  the  list  of  routs  and  dances  is — 

Thou  .Morning  P')st,  sole   record   of  the   jianels 
Broken  in  carriages,  and  all  iIk;  phantasies 

Offashion — savv.hat  strtunns  now  fiil  those  channels? 
Some  di(i,  some  tly,  scvne   languish  on  the  contineijlf. 
Because  the  times  hav(;  hardly  ieft  them  one  tenant. 

LXXXf. 
Some  who  once  set  their  cap  at  cautious  dukes. 

Have  taken  up  at  lengtli  with   youuirer  brothers; 
Some  heiresses  have  bit  at  sharpers'  hooks  ; 

Some  maids  have  b<;en   made  wives — some  merely 
mothers  ; 
Others   have   lost  their  fresh  and  fairy  look?: 

In   short,  the  list  of  alieraiions   bothers. 
There's  littf'  strange  in  tins,  but  sonie'.hin>;  strange  is 
'J'hc   unusual  (]ui('kness   of  thest;  common  chaiij.ea. 

LXXXII. 
Talk   not  of  seventy  years   as  a:re  ;    in   seven 

I  have  s(-en  more  cbain/es,  down  tidin  nionarclis  to 
'I'he   humblest   individual    nn.ler   heaven. 

Than  mi^bt  suliice   a  moil(>rate  century  tlirough. 
I    knew  that    nought  was   lastinj;,  but    now  even 

Chaiijie  arows  too  cbam'eablo    without  'leiiiir  new 


DON    JUAN. 


678 


Nought,  's  ])ormanent  anionj^  the  hnman  race, 
Exceut  the  Wlii^^s  not  getting  into  ;)lace. 

LXXXIII. 

I  nave  sc^u  Najioleon,  who  seeniM  (juite  a  Jupiter, 

Shrink   to  a  SaJuni.      1  ha\e  seen   a  duke 
'No  mat  er  uhicli)    tin-u   iio'.iiician   stupider. 

If  tliut     -an  well   he,  than   his  wooden   look. 
B  Jt   it    is  tune  tl'.at    1    sh^nliJ    hoist    my   "  l)Kie   Peter," 

Anil  sail  lor  a  new  theme  :    I  ha\'e   seen — and  shook 
To   see    it— the    king    hissM,  and    then  earess'd  ; 
P»u1   don't   pretend   to  sclth?  whudi  was   best. 

LXXXiV. 
I  fiave  seen  the  landholders  witliout   a  rap — 

I   have   seen  Johanna   Southcote — I    have  seen 
The  Hovise   of  Commons  turn'd    to   a   tax-trap — 

I   have  seen  that  sad  affair  of  the  late  queen — • 
I   have   seen  crowns  worn  inst<!ad   of  a  foo!'s-ca[) — 

I   have  ^een  a  Congress  doing   all   lliat's  mean — 
I   have   seen  some  nations   like   o'erloaded   asses 
Kick  oif  their  burthens — meaning  the  high  classes. 

T.XXXV. 

[  have  seen  smal'   j»>)ets,  and  great   prosers,  and 
Interminable — not.  eternal — speakers — 

(  have  seen  the  funds  at  war  with  house   and  land — 
I've  seen   the  country  gentlemen    turn  squeakers — 

f  've  seen   the  people  ridden  o'er  like  sand 

By  slaves  on   horseback — I   have  seen   malt  fiquors 

t-.xehanged   for  "thin    potations"  by  John   Bull — 

I  've  seen  John   half  detect  himself  a  fool. 

LXXXVI. 

Pt'it  "carpe  diem,"  Juan,  "carpe,  carpe  !" 

To-morrow  sees  another  race   as  gay 
And  transient,  and  devour'd   by  the  same  harpy. 

*'  Lite  's  a  poor  player" — then  "  plav  out  the  play, 
Ve  villnins!"    and,  above  all,  keijp  a  sharp  eve 

Much   less  on  what  you  do  tiian  what  you   say: 
Be  hypocritical,   be  cautious,  be 
Not  wliat  you  xceni,   but  alwavs  what  you  see. 

LXXXVII. 
But   how  shall   I   relate   in  other  cantos 

or  what   befell  our  hero,  in  the  land 
Which  't  is  the  common  cry  and  lie  to  vaunt  as 

A  moral  country  ?    But  I  hold   my  hand — 
For   I   disiJam  to  write  an  Atalantis  ; 

Hut   'tis  as  well  at  once  to  understand, 
Vou  are   pot  a  moral   people*,  and  you   know  it, 
Without  the   aid  of  too   sincere  a  po(;t. 

Lxxxvm. 

What  ,Juan  saw  and   underwent  shall   be 
INly  topic,  with   of  course  the  due   restriction 

Which   is   required  by  ()ro[)er  courtesy  ; 
And   reco'.lect  the  v.ork  is  only  liction. 

And  that   I  sitig  of  neither  mine  nor  dk;. 

Thoui.'!)  everv  scribe,  in   some  sli<>ht  turn  of  diction, 

Will  hint   allusions  never  mcnnt.     Ne'er  doubt 

rin^ — vvlien   I   speak,   1   (l-»i't   hhit^   hut  sjxali  out. 

LXXXIX. 

Wiieth'.T  he  married  with  the  thir<1   or  fiurth 

Orr:^pring  of  some  sage,  liusljand-bunt'.riL'  <:ountess. 

Or  \^hether  with  some  virgin  of  more  worth 
'I  mean  in  fortime's  matrimonial   bomities) 

Ht    took  to  regularly   peopling  earth, 
(.)f  which  your  lawful  awful  wedlock  fount   is — 

Or  whether  he  was  taken  in  for  damages, 

For  being  too  excursive  in  his   homages — 

XC. 

fs  vet  within  the  unread  events  of  time. 

Thus  far,  go  forth,  thou  lav,  which  I  will  back 
43 


Against  the  same  given  quantity  of  rhyme, 
For  being  as  much  the   sut>j(!ct   of  attack 

As  ever  yet  was  any  work  sublime, 

Bv  those  who  love  to  say  that  white   is  blacr 

So  much  the  better  !— I   may  stand   alone. 

But  would  not  change  my  free  thoughts  for  a^mme 


)ughts  Cot   a^\ 

CANTO  XII. 


IX 


Or  all  the  Jarbarous  middle  ages,  that 

Which  is  most  barbarous   is  tti(i  Tiimdle  age 
Of  man  ;    it   is — I  really  scarce  know  what ; 

But  when  we  hover  betwt^en  f)ol  and  sage, 
And  don't   know  justly  what  we  would  be  at — 

A  period  something  like  a  printed  page, 
Black-letter  upon  foolscaf),  while  our  hair 
Grows  grizzled,  and  we  are  not  what  we  were  ; — 

II. 
Too  old  for  vouth — too   young,  at   thirtv-five. 

To  herd  witii  !)Ovs,  or  hoard  with  good  threescore-" 
I  wond<T   people  should  be  left  alive  ; 

But,  since  they  are,  tliat  e|)och  is   a  bore  : 
Love  ling(;rs  still,  although  'twere  late  to  wive: 

And   as  for  other  love,  the  illusion  's   o'er  ; 
And  monev,  that   most  pure  imngination, 
Gleams  only  through   the  dawn   of  its  creation. 

III. 
Oh  gold  !    why  call  we  misers  miserable  ? 

Theirs  is   the   jjleasure  that  can  never  pall; 
Theirs  is  the   best   bower-anchor,  the  chain-cable 

Which   holds  fast   other  jileasures  great  and  sina.L 
Ye  who  but  see  the  saving  man  at  table, 

And   scorn   his  temperate   board,  as   none   at   all, 
And  wonder  how  the  wealthy  can   be  sparing. 
Know  not  what  visions  spring  from  each  cheese-paring. 
IV. 


!  man  sick,  and  wine  much  sicker 
and   gaming  gains  a   loss  ; 
/,  slowly  lirst,  tlicn  quicker. 


Love  or  lust  makes 

Ambition  rends, 
But  making  monc_\ 

And  adding  still  a  little  through  each  cross 
(Which  will  come   over  things),  bt;ats  love  oi-  liquoi 

The  gamester's  counter,  or  the  statesman's  dro.t^. 
Oh  gold  !    I  still  [)refer  thee  unto   paper. 
Which  makes  bank  credit  like  a  bark   of  vapour. 

V. 
Who  hold  the  balance  of  the  world  ?    Who  reign 

O'er  Congress,  whether  rovalist  or  liberal  ? 
Who  rouse  the  shirtless   i)atr!ois  of  Spain 

(That  make  old  Europe's  journals   sepieak  and  gib 
ber   all)  ? 
Who  keep  the  world,  both  old  and  new,  in   pain 

Or  plfMsure?   Whi^   make  politics   run   glihbcjr  all 
The  shade   of  Boiniparte's  nobhi  daring?  — 
Jew  Rothschii.l,  ami   his  fellow.  Christian    Bar-iig. 

VI. 
Those,  and  the   truly  liber.al    Lafitte, 

Are   the  true   lords  of  Europe.      Every  loan 
Is  not   a   merely  s[)ecuiative   hit. 

But  seats   a  nation   or   upsets  a  throne. 
Repu!)iics  also   get  involved    a  bit ; 

Colombia's  stock   hath  holders  not  unknown 
On  'Change  ;    and  even   thy  silver  soil,  Peru, 
iVIust  get   itself  discounted   by  a  Jew. 

VII. 
Whv  call   the  miser  niis(>rai>le  ?    as 

Tsaid   befo-e:    th<!   frugal  life   is  his, 
Which  in  a   saint  or  cynic  ever  wa.s 

The  t!i(!me  of  praise:    a  hermit  woukI    not   n»is»> 
CanornzntiMri  fur  the  self-same   CflU^■e, 

And  where.fore  blame  gaunt  wealth's  austeiitie.ii> 


674 


^Y^vO^^'S  poetical  wokks. 


Because,  you'll  say,  nought  calls  for  such  n.  '.rial ;  — 
liien  there's  more  merit  m  his  selt-Jciuiii. 

VIII. 
He  ^  your  only  poet  ; — passi(jii,  pure 

And  s[)3rkling  on  from   heap   to   hea;),  'Hspiay-^, 
Possess^d^  the  ore,  of  which   7iii:re  Ikjjxs  allure 

Nations   athvvart  the  (lee[) :    the  gnldeu   rays 
Fiasii   up   in   iiigois  troin   the  mine  obscure  ; 

Oil   him  tl>e  diamond   p0!U-s  ils   brilliant   blazo ; 
While  the  mild  emerald's  beam  shades  down  the  du's 
Of  other  stones,  to  soothe   the  nnser's   eyes. 

IX. 

The  la-.ids  on  either  side  are  his  :    the  slup 

From  Ceylor.,  Inde,  or   far  Cathay,  unload.s 
For  hnn   tlie  fragrant  (iroduce   o.'  each   trij) ; 

Beneath  his  cars   of  Ceres   groan   the   ro;»ds, 
And  the   vine  blushes   like  Aurora's   lip  ; 

His  very  cellars   i::ight   be  kiii^^'   abodes  j 
VViiile  he,  despising  every  sensual  call, 
Commandis — the  intellectual   lord  of  all. 

X. 
Perhaps  he  iiath  great  projects  in  his  mipd. 

To  build   a  college,  or  to  fjund   a  race, 
A  hospital,  a  church, — and   leave  behind 

Some  dome  surmounted  Vjy  liis  meagre  face: 
Perliaps   iie  fain  would   liberate  manknid 

Even  'Aith   the  verv  ore  which   makes   them  base  j 
Perhaps  he  umild   be  wealthiest  of  his  nation. 
Or  revel   ni   the  joys   of  calculation. 

XI. 

But  whether  all,  or  each,  or  none  of  these 
May  b{;   the   hoarder's   prip.ciple   of  action. 

The  foul  will   call   such   mama   a   disease:  — 

What   is   his  uim?  Go — look  at  each  transaction, 

Wars,   ie\<MS,   loves — do   these  bring  nieji  more  ease 
Than  the  mere  ploddinw  tliro'  each  "  vulgar  fraction  '"' 

Or  do  they  benefit   mankind?    Lean   miser! 

Let  spendthrifts'  lieirs  iu()uire  of  yours — wh.o's  wiser? 

X!I. 

How  beauteous   are  rouleaus  !    how  chani'ing  chests 
Contajiimg   ingots,  bags   of  dollars,  corns 

(Not  of  old  victors,  al!  whose  heads  aud   crests 

\\  eigh   not   the   thin    ore  where  tb.eir  visai.'c?   shines. 

But)  (jf  fine   unclippM   gold,  wh(;re  duilv  rests 

Souie>    lii:eness  winch    tin;   glitteriuii   cikmh;  confines, 

Ves  !    ready  mrmey  is  Aladdin's   hnuo. 

XHI. 

"  Love  rules  the  camp,  the  court,  the  grove," — '•'  for  love 
Is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love  :" — so  sings  the  bard  ; 

Wiiieh   It  were   rather  diiricult   to   provr;, 
(A  thing  \vith  p(ietry  ui   general   iiard). 

Perliaps   there  maybe  somethin::  in  "the   grove," 
At    Last   it  khyines  to  "love;"   but   I'm  prepared 

To  doubt    (no   less   tnan  landlords  of  their  rental) 

/f    "courts"   and  "c„ni[)S''   be  quite  so  sentimental. 

XIV. 

But  if  love  don't,  ».«,<?/)   d(,es,  and  cash   alone: 

Cash   rules  the  grove,  and  fells  it  too  besides  , 
Without  car.li,  (;am|)s  were  tldi.,  and  courts  were  none  ; 

'\  ilboiii  cash,  Mallbus  tells  you— "take  noijrides." 
Sc    ca>h    rules   love   the    ruler,  on    "lis   own 

High  ground,  as  Vn-i.nn  Cyntiiia  ..ways   the  tides  ; 
\n'.,aslor  "  he-aven"  ber/is:  "lo\<.',''  wJiy  not  say  iiom  y 
Is  wax  ?    Heaven    is   not    love,  'tis  maii,mony. 

XV. 
Is  not   all    love   [irohibited  whatever, 

Exceiitiiig   "-/[image?    which  is   love,  no  iloulil. 


After  a  sort ;   but  somehow  people  nevei 

VViih  the  same  thought  the  tw^o  words  have  belp'o  out 

Love  may  exist  with  marriage,  and  sk'nd/l  ever. 
And   marriage  also  may  exist  without. 

But  love  sans  bans  is  both  a  sin  and  shame. 

And  ought   to  go  by  (juite  auoUier  name. 

XVI. 

Now  if  the  "court"  and  "camp"  and  "grove'    be  nu 
Recnnted   all  with    constant  married    men, 

V\'lio   neve'r   coveted  their  neighbour's   ,ot, 
!  say  that  line  's   a  lapsus  of  the  pen  ;  — 

Strange  too  in   my   "  buon  camerado"  Scott, 
So  celebrated   for  his   morals,  when 

iMy  Jetfrey  held  him  up  as   an  example 

To  me  ; — of  which  these   morals  are   a  sample. 

XVII. 

Well,  if  I  don't   succeed,  I  havt  succeeded. 
And  that 's  enough  ;    succeeded   in   my  youth. 

Tlie   only  time  when   much   success   is   needed  ; 
And  my  success   produced  what   I   in   so,  th 

Cared  most  about  ;    it   need   not  no  ^  be   p.'eaded — 
Whate'er  it  was,  'twas  mine;   I 've  paid,  in  tn:t!-, 

Of  late,  the  penalty  of  such  success. 

But  have  not  learn'd  to  wish  it  any  less. 

XVIII. 

That  suit  in  Chancery, — which   some  persons  plejd 
In  an   appeal  to  the  unborn,  whom  they. 

In  the  faith  of  their  procreative   creed. 
Baptize  posterity,  or  future  clay, — 

To  me  seems   but   a  dubious  kind  of  reed 
To  lean  on   for  suviport   in   anyway; 

Since  odtls   are  that   posterity  will   know 

Nu   more  of  them,  than   they  of  her,  I   trow, 

XIX. 

Why  ,  I  'm  posterity — and   so   are   von  ; 

And  whom  do  we  retnember  ?   Not   a   hundred. 
Were  everv  memory  written   down   all    true, 

The  tenth  or  twentieth  name  would  hi-  iiiii  blundei'd 
Even  Plntnreh's  Lives   have   but   piek'd   out    a   fi'W, 

And  'iiamst  those  few  your  annaiisls  lia\e  iliunder'd 
And  INIiiford,  in   the   nineteenth  centiirv. 
Gives,  with  Greek  truth,  the  good  old  Greek   the   \i^. 

XX. 

Good   peojjie   all,  of  everv  d(!2ree, 

Ye   gentle   readers   and   ungentle  writers. 

In   this  twelfth   canto  't  is   my  wish   to   be 
As  serious  as  if  I  had  for  inditers 

iSlalthus  and  Wilberforce  :   the  last  set  free 
The  negroes,  and   is  worth   a  niiilion   fighters  : 

Wiiile  Wellington  has  but  enslaved   the  whites, 

Aihl  Malthus  does  *he  thing  'gainst  which  he  write. 

XXI. 

I'm  serious — so  are  all  men   upon  pajier: 
And  wliy  should  I   not  form   my  s|ieciilation, 

Ami   hold   up  to  the   sun  my  little  taper  ? 

iMankind  just  now  seem  wrapt   in  ineditatiou 

On   (•onstitutions  and   steam-boats  of  vapour  j 
While   sages  write  against   all    [irocreaticr,- 

Enless   a   man  can  calculate   his   means 

Of  feeding  brats  the   moment   bis  wife  wearia. 

XXII. 

That  's  noble  !   that 's  romantic  !   For  my  part, 
I    think    that  "  philo-geuitiveness"    is — 

(Now  here  's   a  word   (pule   after    my  own  lici'.ri, 
'I'hough   tlwre's   a  shorter  a   ::ood   deal   than   thi5 

If  that    pol.leness   set    it    not    apart  ; 

lint    I'm    resolved    to   sav  noiedit    that's   amis^'j  — 


D  0  ^    .7  r  A  N. 


G7.\ 


I  say,  tiif-^th.iiKs  that  "philo-genitivcncss"' 
iMiijlit    iiiccM    f"-')!))    moil   a    iitlle    iirnu    t'.iri;i\«in'ss. 

XXIll. 
And    tiou-  to   l>ii>:iuess.      Oli,  mv  immiIIc  .luaii  ! 

T!i()U    iirt    III  Liiiulon — iii    that    [.iiaMiiil    |ilac«; 
Where    every  kiiuj   ol"  iiiis(  liu C's   dailv  lirewin-r, 

Wliieii   can    await   warm    vmith    m    lis  wild   lace. 
'T  is  true,  that  thy  career  is   imt   a   new  one  ; 

Tiicii   art   no  novice   in   the   headionj;   chase 
01  early  iitt.' ;   bat   this   is   a   new  hiiui, 
Which   foreigners  can  never  iKiderstand. 

XXIV. 

Wliat  with  a  small  diversity  of  climate, 

Of   iiol  or  colli,  mercurial  or  sedate, 
I  could  send  forth   my  mandato  like  a  |»rimatc, 

U|ion   the  rest   of  Europe's  social   state  ; 
tint   thou   art   the   most  diificull  to   rhvme   nt. 

Great  Hritain,  which  tiie  Muse   may  penetrate: 
All   countries   have  theii    'Mions,"   hut  in  thee 
Ther(    is  but   one  superb  meiuiijerie. 

XXV. 
But  I  am  sick  of  politics.     Bepn, 

"Pau!o   majora."     Juan,  undecided 
Amciiijst  tlie   |)aths   of  being  "taken   in," 

Aliove  tlie   ice   had   like   a  skaiter  glideii  : 
W"hen  tired   of  ]^lay,  he   tlirted  without   sm 

With  some  of  those  fai.  creatures  wiio  liave  prided 
Themselves  on  innocent   tantalization, 
And  hate  all  vice  except   its  reputation. 

XXVI. 

But  these  are  few,  and   m  the  end   they  make 

Some  devilish   escapade   or  stir,  which  shows 
That  even   the  purest  peojile   mav  mistake 

Their  way  throuirh  virtue's  primrose  paths  of  snows  ; 
And  tlien   men  stare,  as  if  a  new  ass  spake 

To  H  ilaam,  and  from  tongue  to  ear  o'ertiows 
Quicksilver  small-talk,    ending    (if  vou   note   it) 
With   the    kind    world's   amen—"  Who   would    have 
thought   it  ?" 

XXVII. 
The  little  Leila,  with  her  orient  eyes 

And  taciturn  Asiatic  dispasition, 
(W  Inch  saw  all  western   things  with  small   surprise, 

To  the  surprise  of  people  of  condition, 
Who  tliiuk  that   novelties   are  butr(;rtlics 

To  he   pursued  as  food   fir  inanition), 
Her  charniini;   ti^ure  and  r(tmantic   hisforv, 
Became  a  kmd  of  fishinna!)le   mvsterv. 

XXVIII. 
The  women  much   dividei; — as   is  usual 

Aiu'in^st   the   sex   in    lillie   thiii2;s   or   threat. 
riiiiiK  not,  fair  rre;itia-es,  tli;;t  I  mean  to  abuse  you  all— 

I  have   always   liked   yn\i   bet!(;r   than    I    state, 
Since  I 've  grown  moral:    >nil    1  must  accuse  you   ai' 

Of  being  apt  to  ia!k   at   a   great   rate; 
And    now   th(;re    was   a   general   sensation 
Amongst   you,  aljoul    Leila's  education. 

XXIX. 
In   one   point   on!}'  were  you  settled — and 

You  liad  reason;  't  was  that  a  vouni;  c!a!  1  of  arto-e, 
As  beautiful   as   her  own   native  laud, 

And   tar  away,   the  last    bud  of  her  r;<ce, 
Elowe'er  our  friend  Don  .lua.i    miidit    conunand 

Himself  f)r  live,  four,  three,  Cir  two   vears'   space, 
Would   be  much  better   tauglit    beneath   the  eve 
Oi'  peeresses  whose   follies    had    run   ih-v. 

XXX. 
So  first  there  was  a  gfmer^.us  emulation. 

And  then   there  was   a  general   conipe.i'.ion 


'    To  uihlerlak"  the  orphan's  educati^ -.i. 

I  As   Juan    was   ;i   person   of  coiidili.,n, 

It    had    been    an    all'roni    on    tliis    occasi,)!! 
To   talk  ol'   a   subs<!ri|)tion    or   petition  ; 
But   sixteen   liowagers,    ten   unwed    slie    sai^t  -, 
Whose  tale  belongs  to    '  Hallam's  .Middle  Age.',' 

XXXI. 

And  one  or  two  sad,   sejiarate   wive--,  without 
A  fruit  to   bloom   upon   their  withering   liongli — 

Begg-'d    to    l)ring  vp  the   little   ciil,  and   '■^  nut,"' — 
For  that's  the  phrase   that  settles    all   ihiiigs  ii.  \\ 

Meaning  a  virgin's  first   blush  at    a   nun, 

And   all    her  points   as   thorough-bred   to    show: 

And   I   assure  you,  that    like   virgin    h<>u>  y 

Tastes  their  first  season  (mosilv  if  thev  have  moii';\  ) 

XXXII. 

How  al    the   needy  honourable   misters, 

Each   out-at-ell)ow   peer,  or   desperate   dandv, 

Tile  watchful   mothers   and  the  can-ful   sisters, 
(Who,  by  the   bv,  when   clever,  are   more   bandy 

At  making  matches,  where  "'tis   gold    ili.-..;    gliste-s, 
Than   their   he   relatives),  .ike   flies  o"er   caiidw 

Buz/,  round   "the  Fortune"  with   their  b.usv  i)ait(rv, 

To  turn   her   head  with  waltzing  and  uiiii  tiatterv  ' 

XXXIII. 

Each   avint,  each   cousin   hath   her  snecnlatier.  ; 

Nay,  married    ilamc?!  will   now  and    tlieii    disc>)vrr 
Sucdi   pure   disinterestedness    of  passion, 

I've   known   tliem  cnurt   an   heiress   fir   their  lover 
"Tant.iMiel"   Such   the   virtues  of  high   stati'.'ti. 

Even   in  the  hopeful   isle,  whn-'e  nutlet  *s  "Dover" 
While   the  [)Oor  rich  wretch,  objeet   of  tliese  cares. 
Has  cause  to  wish   her  sire   h.ui    had  male   heir^ 

XXXIV. 

Some  are  soon  bagg'd,  hut   some   reject   ilirce   d^,/en. 

'T  is  tine   to  see    them   scattering  refusals 
And  \vild    dismav  o'er  evetv  angrv  cousin 

(Friends  of  the    partv),  who  begin   accusals 
Such  as — "  Unless  Miss  (Blank)  meant  to  have  chosen 

Poor  Frederick,  why  did   she  accord   jienisals 
To   his  billets?     [r/»/walTz  u  ith    him  ?    Why,  I  prav 
Look  i/e.'i  last  night,  and  yet   say    no  to-day  / 

XXXV. 

"Why?— Why?— Besides  Fred,  reallv  was  att:,rh\l ; 

'T  was   not    her  fortune — he  h.as  enough  wiiii<iui  : 
The  time  will  come  she  '11  wish  that  she  had  snattdi'j 


So 


.ppor 


tinuiv,  no 


d)t  :  — 


But  the  old   iiKUchioness  some  plan  had  hatch'd, 

As  I'll   tell  Aurea   at   to-morrow's   rout: 
And  after  all  poor  Frederick   mav  do   lietter — 
Pray,  did  you   see   her  answer  to  ins  letter?" 

XXXVI. 

Smart  unifirms   ?s\(\  s[iarkling  coronets 

Are  spurii'd   in   turn,  until    her  turn   arrives, 
After  male  loss  of  time,  and   hearts,  and    bets 

Upon  the  sw(M;p-stakes   for  substantial  wives; 
And  when  at   last  the  pr<;tty  crtiature   gets 

Some  gentleman  who  fights,  or  writes,  or  driver- 
It  soctthes  the  awkward  sonad  of  the  rejected 
To  find  how  very  badly  sl;e  selected. 

XXXVII. 
For  sometimes  they  accept   some  long  [inrsucr 

Worn  out   with   importunitv  ;   or  fill 
(But  here   perhaps   the  instances  are  fewer) 

To  the  lot  of  liim  wlio  scarce  pursued  at    all. 
A  hazy  widower  turn'd   of  forty  's  sure  - 

(If  'tis  not,  vain  examples  to  recall) 


676 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


To  draw  a  high  prize :  now,  howe'er  he  got  her,  I 
Sue  nought  more  strange  in   this  than  t'  other  lottery. 

XXXVIII. 
I,  for  my  part — (one  "modern   instance"  more), 

"  True,  't  is  a  pity — i)ity  't  is,  't  is  true  " — 
Was  chosen  from  out  an  amatory  score, 

Albeit  my  years  were  less   discreet  than   few  ; 
But  though  1  also  had  reform'd  before 

Those  became  one  who  soon  were  to  be  two, 
I  il   not  gainsay  the  generous  public's  voice — 
Tnat  the  young  lady  made  a  monstrous  choice. 

XXXIX. 

Oh,  pardon  me  digression — or  at  least 

Peruse !  'T  is  always  with  a  moral  end 
That  I  dissert,  like  grace  before  a  feast  : 

For  like  an  aged  aunt,  or  tiresome  friend, 
A   riwid  guardian,  or  a  zealous   j)riest. 

My  Muse  by  exhortation   means   to  mend 
All  people,  at   all  limes,  and  in  most  places, 
Which  puts  my  Pegasus  to  these  grave  paces. 

XL. 
But  now  I  'm  going  to  be  immoral  ;    now 

I  mean  to  show  things   really  as  they  are, 
Not  as  they  ouijht  to  be  :    for  I   avow. 

That  till  we  see  what 's  what  in   fact,  we're  far 
From  much   improvement  with  that  virtuous  plough 

Which  skiins   the  surface,  leaving  scarce  a  scar 
(Tpon   the  black  loam   Ions  manured  by  Vice, 
Only  to  keep   its  corn  at  the  old   price. 

XLL 

But  first  of  little  Leila  we  '11  dispose  ; 

For,  like  a  day-dawn,  she  was  young  and  pure, 
Or  like  the  old  comparison  of  snows, 

^^  hich   are   more  pure  than   f)leasant  to  be  sure, 
L'.kt:   many  people  every  body  knows  : 

Don  Juan  was  delighted   to  secure 
A  goodly  guardian   for  his   infant  charge. 
Who  m  ght  not   profit  much  by  being   at  large. 

XLTI. 

Besides,  he  had  found  out   he  was   no  tutor, 
(I  wish  that   others  would   find  out   the   same)  : 

And  rather  wish'd  in  such   things  to  stand  neuter, 
For  silly  wards  will  bring  their  guardians  blame: 

So,  when  he  saw  each  ancient  dame  a  suitor, 
To  make   his   little  wild   Asiatic  tame, 

Consulting  the  "  Society  for  Vice 

Sui)pression,"  Lady  Pinchbeck  was  his  choice. 

XLin. 

01(l(>n   she  was — but  had   !)een  very  younir : 
Virtuous  she  was — and   had   been,  I   believe  : 

Although   the  world  has  such   an   evil   tongue 
That — but  my  chaster  ear  will   not   receive 

An   echo  of  a  syllable   that 's  wrong  : 

In  fact,  there's  nothing  makes  me  so   much  grieve 

\s   that   abominable   tittle-tattle. 

Which   is   the  cud   eschew'd   by  human  cattle. 

XLIV. 

Moreover  I've   reniark'd    (and   I  '.vos   once 

A  slight  observer   in   a  modest  way), 
Ai\(\   so  may  every  one   except    a   dunce, 

Tha.   ladi(;s   in   their   yomh   a   little   gay, 
Bosifies    their    knowledge  of  tlie  worM,  and    sense 

Of  the  sad  c.>ii<".;u«  iic(>  (;f'  <ii)Uig  aslrav. 
Are  wiser  m  lh<'ir  waiiiini:-'  ';:.i!nst  the  woe 
Wiiicii   'he  DHTC   passiiiii!es~;   cim    never   know. 

xr.v. 

Willie   iho  liarsh   priuh^   iii(l<;iimifies  lier  virtue 
B\  railing   .it  the  unknown  and   envied  passioa, 


Seeking  fin   less  to  save  you  than  to  limt  you, 
Or  what's  still  worse,  to   put   you  out  vf  fashion,— 

The  kinder  veteran  with  calm  words  wiH  coiiri  you, 
Entreating  you  to  |)ause  bcJore  you  dash  on  ; 

Expounding   and  illustrating  the  rx^ile 

Of  epic  Love's  beginning,  end,  and  middle. 

XLVI. 

Now,  whether  it  be  thus,  or  that  they  are  strictT 
As  better  knowing  why  they  should   be   so, 

I  think  you  '11   find  from  many  a  family  picture. 
That   daughters  of  such  mothers  as  may  know 

The  world  by  experience  rather  than  by  lecture, 
Turn  out  much  better  for  the  Smkhfield  sliovv 

Of  vestals  brought  into  the  marriage  mart, 

Than  those  bred  up   by  prudes  without  a  heart. 

XLVIL 

I  said  that  Lady  Pinchbeck  had  been  talk'd  aboiii— 
As  who  has  not,  if  female,  young,  and  pretty  / 

But  now  no  more  the  ghost  of  scandal  stalk'd  about ; 
She  merely  was  deem'd   amiable  and  wii/y. 

And  several  of  her  best  bon-mots  were  hawk'd  about; 
Then  she  was  given  to  charity  and  pity. 

And  pass'd   (at  least  the  latter  years  of  life) 

For  being  a  most  exemyilary  wife. 

XLVIII. 

High  in  high  circles,  gentle  in  her  own. 
She  was  the  mild  reprover  of  the  young, 

Whenever — which  means  every  day — they  'd  shov»r. 
An  awkward  inclination   to  go  wrong. 

The  quantity  of  good   she  did  's  unknown, 

Or,   at  the  least,  would  lengthen  out   my  Kong : — 

In  brief,  the  little  orphan  of  the  east 

Had  raised  an   interest  in  her  which  increascdr 

XLIX. 

Juan  too  was  a  sort  of  favourite  with   her, 

Because  she  thought  him   a  good  heart  at  bottom, 
A  little   spoil'd,  but  not  so  altogether  ; 

Which  was  a  wonder,  if  you  think  who   got   him, 
And  how  he  had  been  toss'd,  he  scarce  knew  whither : 

Though  this   might  ruin   others,  it  did  not  him. 
At  least  entirely — for  he   had  seen   loo  many 
Changes  in  youth,  to  be  surprised  at  any. 

L. 
And  these  vicissitudes  tell  best  in  youth; 

For  when  they  hapi)en   at  a  riper   age, 
People  are   a|)t   to   i'lame   the   fates,  iTtrsootli, 

And  wonder   Providence   is   not   more   sagt.-. 
Adversitv  is   the   first   [)ath  to  truth: 

He  who  hath  proved  war,  storm,  or  woman's  ragt" 
Whether  his  winters  he  eighteen  or  eighty. 
Hath  won  the  experience  wiiich  is  deem'd  so  weigluy 

LI. 

How  fiir  it  profits  is  another  matter, — 

Our  hero  gladly  saw  his   little  charge 
Safe  with  a  lady,  whose   last  grown-up  itaugnte' 

Beiiiiz  long  married,  and  thus  set   at   large. 
Had   left    all    the   accomplishments   she  taught   her 

To  be   transmitted,   like  the   lord   mayor's  -JUigt 
To  the   next   comer  ;    or — as   it   will   tell 
More   muse-like — like  Cytherea's   shell. 

LII. 

I  cidl   such   things   transmission  ;    for  there  is 
A   fioaling  balance  of  accomplishment 

Which   forms    a    pedigree    from    IMiss   to   .'Miss, 
According   as    their   minds   or  backs    are   bent. 

*5ome  waltz  ;  souu!  <lraw  ;  some  fit  horn  the  aLvrin 
01  metaphysics  ;  ol/iers  are  c(  ntent 


DON    JUAN. 


677 


^''ith  music ;    tlio  rriost.  mcnlfrate  ^^hine  as  wits, 
While  otliers  have  a  genius  tiirii'd  for  lits. 

LIII. 

But  who'  her  fits,  or  wits,  or  liarpsicliords, 

Tlnoli.^y,  tine  arts,  or  liner  stays, 
Mav  bt;    the    baits  tor   geiuleriien    or   lords 

Willi   r(<,nilar  descent,  in   these   our   days 
The  last    vear  to   tiie  new  tratisftns   its  hoards  ; 

New  vestals  claim  men's  eyes  with  the  same  jiraisc 
Of  "elei^ar.t,"   ei  r.item,  in   fresh   batclies— 
Al!   matchless   creatures,  and  yet   bent  on  matches. 

L[V. 

But   now  I  will  begm  my  ]ioem.     'T  is 

Perliaiis  a  little  straiiije,  if  not  ([uite  new, 
That  from   the   lirst  of  cantos   up  to  this 

I  've  not  be:run  what  we   liave  to   go  through. 
These  first   twelve  books   are   merely  flourishes, 

Preludios,  trying  jusl   a  string  or  two 
l'[)on  mv  lyre,  or  making  the   pegs  sure  ; 
And  when  so,  you  shall   have  the  overture. 

LV. 
Mv  Muses   do  not  care  a   pinch  of  rosin 

About  what's  caird  success,  or   not   succeeding: 
Such  thoughts  are  quite  below  the  strain  they  've  chosen. 

'  r  is  a  "great  moral  lesson"   thev  are  reading. 
I  thouijht,  at  setting  otf,  about   two  dozen 

Cantos  would  do;    but,  at   Apollo's   pleading. 
If  that  my  Pegasus   should   not  be  founder'd, 
I  think  to  canter  gently  through  a  hundred. 

LVI. 
Don  Juan  saw  that  microcosm  on  stilts, 

Yclept  the  great  world  ;    for  it  is   the  least, 
Althouffii  the  highest :    but  as  swords  have  hilts 

By  which  their   power   of  mischief  is  increased, 
When   man  in   battle  or  in  (juarrcd  tilts. 

Thus  the  low  world,  north,  south,  or  west,  or  east, 
Alust  still  obey  the  high — which  is   their  handle. 
Their  moon,  their  sun,  their  gas,  their  farthing  candle. 

LVII. 

He  had  many  friends  who  had  many  wives,  and  was 

Well  look'd  upon  by  both,  to  that   extent 
Of  friendship  which  you   may  accept  or  pass  ; 

It  does  nor  good  nor  harm,  being  merely  meant 
To   keep  the  wheels  going  of  the  higher  class. 

And  draw  them  nightly  when  a  ticket's  sent  : 
And  what  with   niastjuerades,  and  fetes,  and  balls. 
For  the  first  season  such  a  life  scarce  pails. 

LVIII. 
A  young  unmarried  man,  with  a  good  name 

And  fortune,  has  an  awkward  part  to  play; 
tTor  g<Jod  society  is  but   a  game, 

"The  royal  game  of  goose,"  as  I  may  say. 
Where  every  body  has   some   separate  aim. 

An  end   to  answer,  or   a   [ilan   to  lay — 
The  siuijle  ladies  wishing  to  be  double, 
The  married  ones  to  save  the  virgins   trouble. 

LIX. 

I  don't  mean  this   as   general,  but  particular 
Examples   may  be  found  of  such  pursuits  : 

Though   several   also  keep  their   perpendicular 
Like   poplars,  w  ith  good    princi[)les  for  roots  ; 

Vet   many  have  a  method   more   rctirAtlar — 

"Fishers  \'w  men,"   like   sirens  with  soft   lutes; 

For  talk  six   times  with   the  same  single   lady. 

And  you  may  get  the  wedding-dresses  ready. 

LX. 

Perhaps  you  '  1  have  a  letter   from  the  mother, 
T>  say  her   daughter's  feelings  are  trepann'd  ; 


Perhaps  you'll  have  a  visit  from  the  l)rotlier, 
Ail   strut,  and  stays,  and  wiiiskers,  to  ilemaiiu 

What  "your  intentions   are?" — One  way  or  (jihcr 
It  seems  the  virgin's  heart  expt^-ts  your  lumd  ; 

And  between   pity  for  her  case  and  yours, 

You  '11  add  to   matrimony's  list  of  cures. 

LXI. 

I  've  known  a  dozen  weddings   made  ev(  n  thuf, 
And  some  of  them  high  names:   I  have  also  kno.vu 

Voung  nien  who — though   they  hated   to  discuss 
Pretensions  which  thev  never  dreain'd  to  have  shown— 

Yet  neither  frighten'd  by  a  female  fuss. 

Nor  bv  mustarhios   moved,  were   let   alone. 

And    lived,  as  did   the   broken-hearted  fair. 

In  happier  plight  than  if  they  form'd  a  pair. 

LXII. 

There's  also  nightly,  to  the  uninitiated, 
A   peril — not   indeed  like  love  or  marriage, 

But  not  the  less  for  this  to  be  depreciated  : 
It  is — I   meant  and  mean  not  to  disparage 

The  show  of  virtue  even  in  the   vitiated — 

It  adds  an  outward  grace  unto  their  carriage— 

But  to  denounce  the  amphibious  sort  of  harlot, 

"Couleur  de  rose,"  who's  neither  white  nor  scarlet. 

LXIII. 

Such  is  your  old  coquette,  who  can't   say  "  No," 
And  won't  sav  "  Yes,"  and  keeps  you  on  and  otT-ing, 

On  a  lee  shore,  till  it  begins  to  blow — 
Then  sees  your  heart  wreck'd,  with  an  inward  scoffing. 

This  works  a  world  of  sentimental  woe. 

And   sends  nesv  Werters  yearly  to  their  t^cffia  , 

But   vet  is  merely  innocent  flirtation. 

Not  quite  adultery,   but  adulteration. 

LXIV. 

"Ye  gods,  I  grow  a  talker!"    Let  us  prate. 

The   next  of  perils,  though  I  place  it  sternest^ 
Is  when,  without  regard   to  "  Church  or   State," 

A  wife  makes   or  takes  love  in  upright  earnest. 
Abroad,  such   things  decide  few  women's   fate — 

(Such,  early  traveller!   is  the  truth  thou  h-arnest) 
But  in  old   England  when  a  young  bride  erry, 
Poor  thing  !    Eve's  was  a  trilling  case  to  hers : 

LXV. 

For  't  is  a  low,  nesvspaper,  humdrum,  lawsuit 

Country,  where  a  young  couple  of  the   same  agee 
Can't  form  a  fi-iendship  but   the  world  o'erav>es  it. 

Then  there  's  the  vulgar  trick  of  those  d — d  damages  ' 
A  verdict — grievous  foe  to  those  who  cause   it  !— 

Forms   a  sad   climax  to  romantic  homages  ; 
Besides   those  soothing  speeches  of  the  pleaut.i>>. 
And  evidences  which  regale  all  readers  ! 

LXVI. 
But  they  who  blunder  thus  are  raw  begrnriers ; 

A  little  genial  sprinkling  of  hypocrisy 
Has  saved  the  fame  of  thousand  splendid  sinners. 

The   loveliest  oligarchs  of  our  gynocracy; 
You  mav  see  such  at  all  the  balls  anc^  dinners* 

Among  the  proudest  of  our  aristocracy, 
So  gentle,  charming,  charitable,  chaste — 
And  all  by  having  tuct  as  well   as  taste. 

LXVH. 

Juan,  who  did  not  stand  in  the  predicament 
Of  a  mere  novice,  had  one  safeguard  more  , 

For  he  was  sick — no,  't  was  not  the  word  sick  I  meanc— 
But  he  nad  seen  so  much  good  love  he'"or*>, 

That  he  was   not  in   htsart   so  very  weak  — I   mean' 
But  thus  much,  and  no  sneer  agaius      ht    si  )rc 


678 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


or  vsliite  cliffs,  wJiite  necks,  blue  eyes,  bluer  stockings. 
Tithes,  taxes,  duns,  and  doors  wiih  double  knockings. 

LXVIIl. 

But  coming  young  from  lands  and  scenes  romantic, 
Where  lives,  not  lawsuits,  must  be  risk'd  for  passion, 

And  passion's  self  must  have  a  spice  of  frantic. 
Into  a  country  where  't  is  half  a  fashion, 

Seem'd  to  him  half  commercial,  half  peilantic, 
Howe'er  he  might   esteem  this  moral   nation  ; 

Beiides    (alas!    his  taste — f)rgive  and    pity!) 

At  first  he  did  not  think  the  women   jjretty. 

LXIX. 

I  say  at  Jirst — for  he  found  out  at  /as/. 
But  by  degrees,  that  they  were  fairer  far 

Than  the  more  glowing  dames  whose  lot   is  cast 
Beneath  the  influence  of  the  eastern  star — 

A  further  proof  we   should  not  judge  in   haste  ; 
Yet  inexperience  could  not   be  his  bar 

To  taste:  —  the  truth  is,   if  men  would  confess, 

That  novelties  please  less  than  they  impress. 

LXX. 

Though  travell'd,  I  have  never  had  the  luck  to 

Trace  up  those  shuffling  negroes,  Nile  or  Niger, 
To  that  impracticable  place,  Tombuctoo, 

Where  seography  finds  no  one  to  oblige  her 
With  such  a   chart  as  may  be  safely  stuck  to — 

For  Europe  ploughs  in  Afrlc  like  "bos  piger;" 
But   if  I  harl.   been  at  Tombuctoo,  there 
No  doubt  I  should  be  told  that  black  is  fair. 

LXXI. 
It  is.      I  will  not  swear  that  black   is   white  ; 

But    I   suspect   in  fact  that  white  is  black. 
And  the  whole  matter  rests  upon  my  eve-sii,'ht. 

Ask   a  blind  man,  the  bf'st  judge.      You  'il   aUack 
Perhaps  this  new  position — but  I  'm  risht ; 

Or  if  I  'm  wrong,  I  '11  not  be  ta'en  aback  : — 
He  hath  no  morn  nor  night,  but   all  is  dark 
Within ;   and  what  see'st  thou  ?  A  dubious  spark. 

LXXII. 

But  I  'm  relapsing  into  metaphysics, 

That  labyrinth,  whose  clue  is  of  the  same 

Construction  as  your  cures  for  hectic  phthisics, 
Those   bright  moths  llultering  round  a  dying  flame: 

And  this  reflection  brings  me  to  plain   physics, 
And  to  the  beauties  of  a  foreign  dame. 

Compared  with  those  of  our  pure  pearls  of  price. 

Those  Polar  summers,  all  sun,  and  some  ice. 

LXXIIl. 

Or  say  they  are  like  virtuous  mermaids,  whose 
Beginnings  are  fair  faces,  ends   mere  fishes ;  — 

N<jt   that  there's  not  a  quantity  of  those 

Wlui  have  a  due  respect  for  their  own  wishes. 

Like  Russians  rushing  from  hot  baths  to  snows'' 
Are  they,  at  bottom  virtuous  even  when  vicious: 

They  warm  into  a  scra])e,  but  keep  of  course, 

As  a  reserve,  a  plunge  into  remorse. 

LXXIV. 

B  It  this  has  nought  to  do  with  their  outsides. 

I   said  that  Juan  did  not  think   them   pretty 
At    the  first   bliisli  ;    for  a  fair  Briton  hides 

Half  her  attractions — probably  from   pity — 
And   rather  calmly  into  the  heart  glidtis, 

Than  storms  it   as  a  foe  would  take  a  city  ; 
But   once   there   (if  you  doubt  this,  prithee   try) 
She  keeps  it  for  you  like  a  true  ally. 

LXXV. 

trhe  cannot  ste[)  as  (hjcs  an  A  rait  barb, 
Oi  Andalusiai.  girl  from  mass  n;turning. 


Nor  wear  as  gracefiilty  as  Gauis  her  garb, 
Nor  in   tier  eye  Ausonia's  glance  is  burnini^  , 

Her  voice,  though   sweet,  is   not   so  fit  to  warl5- 
le  those  br-ivuras    (which   I   still    am  learning 

To   like,  tliough   I   have  been  seven  years  in  It  ily. 

And  have,  or  had,  an  ear  that  served  me  prettily); 

LXXVl. 

She  cannot  do  these  tilings,  nor  ow  or  two 
Others,  in   that  ofl^-hand   and   duJiir.g  style 

Which  takes  so  much — to  give  llu  driil   his  due; 
Nor  is  she  <]ulte  so  ready  with  her  smile, 

Nor  settles  all   tilings   in  one  iu'crvicu', 

(A  thin"  approv*;;!    as  saving   time  and  toil);  — 

But   though   tlie  soil    may  give   you   time   and   troul^*}. 

Well  cultivated,   it  will   render  double. 

Lxxvn. 

And  if  in  fact  she  lakes  to  a  "  grand  .  pussion," 

Il  is  a  very  serious   thing  indred  ; 
Nine  limes   in  ten  't  is   but   caprice  or  fashion, 

Coijuetrv,  or  a  wish  to  take  the  lead, 
The   jiride   of  a  mere   child  with   a  new  sash   on, 

Or  wish   to  make  a  rival's  bosom  blccfl ; 
But  the  tenth  instance  will   be  a  tornado, 
For  there  's  no  saying  what  they  will  or  may  do. 

LXXVHI. 

The   reason's  obvious:   if  there's  an  ecli'.% 

They  lose  their  caste  at  once,  as  do  the  Parias, 

And  when  the   delicacies  of  the   law 

Have  fiU'd  their  papers  with  their  comments  \arioii3, 

Societv,  that   china  without   flaw, 

(Tlie  hypocrite!)  will   banish   them  like  IMarius, 

To   5it   amidst   the   ruins   of  their  guilt: 

Our  Fame's  a  Carl hagc  not  so  soon  rebuilt. 


Perha 


LXXIX. 

it   shnuld   he:— it   is 


A  comment  on  the  Gosjiei's  "Sin  no  more, 
And   be  thy  sins  for<:iven  :" — but  ujion    this 

I  leave  the  saints  to  settle  their   own    score. 
Abroad,   though   doubtless  they  do  miu-h  amiss, 

An   erring  woman   finds  an  open  door 
For  her  return  to   virtue — as  they  call 
The  lady  who  should   be  at  home  to   all. 

LXXX. 
For  me,  I  leave  the  matter  where  I  find  it. 

Knowing  thai  such  uneasy  virtue  leads 
People  some  ten   /imes  less  in   fact  to  mind   it, 

An<l   care  but   for  discoveries  and  not  deeds. 
And   as  for  chastity,  you '1'  never  bind   it 

By  all  the  laws  the  strictest  lawyer  pleails. 
But  aggravat;   ..le  crime  you  have  not  prevented. 
By  rendering  desjierate  those  who  had  else  repented 

LXXXI. 

But  Juan  was  no  casuist,  nor  had   ponder'd 

Upon  the  moral  lessons  of  mankind  : 
Besides,  he  had   not  seen,  of  several   hundred, 

A  ladv  altogether  to  his  mind. 
A  little  "blase"— 'tis  not   to  be  woiider'd 

At,  that  his  heart  had  got  a  .ouglier  rind: 
And  though  noi  vainer  from  his  past  success. 
No  doubt  his  sensibilities  were  less. 

LXXXII. 

He   also  had  been  busy  seeing  sights — 
The  parliament  and  all  the  other  houses  ; 

Had  sate   beneath   the  jrHlleries  at  nights. 

To  hear  debates  whose   thundtT   rousnf  (nr*   roi.^ci\ 

The  w(.rld   to   gaze   upon   '.hose   northern    li<:lit"'* 
Which  fiash'd  as  far  as  wIhtc  the  i  usk-bull  hrows«^; 


DON    JUAN. 


67P 


{!(    had   also  slooil    at  times  behind   the   throne — 
Bui  Grey  was  not   arrived,  aii;i  Cliathuni   <;une. 

LXXXllI. 

l\f   saw,  nowever,  at   tiie   clc)s\n<;   session, 

Tliat    no!i!e  sii^hi,  ulien  r^/Z/f/ free   t!ie   nation, 

A  kini;   m   cuhstiiulional    possession 

Of  such    a    throne    as   is   l!ie    proudest    statinn, 
liouiih    desjhits    know  it    not — till    tiie    proL'r<'>sioii 
Of  freedom   shall    eomjiiete  their   e>iiiication. 

''1' IS    not   mere    sjdendour   makes   the   sho'.%  au^msl 

To  eye  ur   h<;art — it   is  the   iieojilc's  trust. 

LXXXIV. 

T.'iere  too  iie  saw    (wliaie'er   he   niav  he  now) 

A  prinre,  tlie    prince   of  pnnce-s,  at   the   tune 
\Viih  fa<cmaTioii   m   his  verv  bow. 

And   full   of  proir.ise,  as   the   spriiiij   of  prime. 
T-iiou^li   royalty  was  written   on   hi>   lirow, 

Fie    had   then   the   i;racc   too,  rare   in   every  chmc, 
Of  bciii^,  witiiout    alloy  of  fop   or   beau, 
A  tinish'd  ^eiulenian  from   t<jp  to  toe. 

LXXXV. 
And  Juan  was  tcceived,  as  hath  been  said, 

Into   the  Iwst   society:    and  there 
Oc'-urr'd  what   often  hapi)ens,  I  'm   afraid, 

IIo\\e\er  disci;. hiied  and  debonnaire  : 
Tiie   talent    and   good    humour   he   t!ispi;i\'d, 

Besides  the  maik'd  distinction  of  h\s  air, 
Exposed  liim,  as  wa3  natural,  to  temptation, 
Even   tlioui^h   himself  avoided   the  occasion. 

I.XXXVI. 
iiut  what,  and  wliere,  wilii  whom,  and  when,  and  wliv, 

Is    iio»    to   be   put    liastilv  loiTfther; 
.-iiid    ;ts   m\   obp.'ct   IS   tnorahtv 

I  Whatever    people   sav),  I'don't    know  whetlier 
:  il  leive  a  sm^le  n  ader's   eyelid  dry, 

B  It    harro'.v    up   li  i   fe"linif<   till    t()ey  urher, 
Ana   hew  o-.it   a  iiu^o  inonumeut   of  pathos. 
As  Philip's  Soil   pioposed  to  (io  witii  Atiios.^ 

LXXXVII. 

Here  the   twt.i'.'in    -.mto  of  our  introauction 
Ends.      When    the   body  of  the  book's  begun, 

Von  '11   ti'id   it  of  a  itilferent  coiistriiclion 

F'roni  wiiat   some   iieople   s.iv  't  will  be  when  done  : 

The   plan   at   present  "s   simply  in   concoction. 
1  caifl  oi)l!ge   you,  reader  !    to  read   on  ; 

That's  your  alt'air,  not   mine:    a  real   spirit 

Should   neitiier   court  neirlect,  nor  dread   to   bear  it. 

LXXXVHI. 

And    if  my  thunderbolt    not   atwavs   :atles. 
Remember,  reader!    you    have  "had    before 

The  wi.rst    of  temjiests    and   the   be>t    of  battles 
Tliai    e'er  were;    l)rew'd   from   elements   of  Hore, 

Besides  tlie  most  sublime  of — Heaven  knows  what  else 
A.I   usurer   could    scarce    expect    much   more — 

But   my  best   canto,  save  one   on    astronomy, 

Will   lurn    i;[ioi.    ''jioiiUcal    economy." 

LXXXIX. 

T'l'i'  is   yr)ur   pre:  ent   theme    tor   popularitv: 

Now  tlvat   the   p  iblic   hedije   hath  scarce   a  stake, 

ft  gr.ws   an  act   of  patriotic   charitv. 
To  tiicw  tiie   people   the   be^-t  way  to  break. 

Mu   jl'ir.   ('but    I,   if  but    for  sm^nilaril v, 
lioserve  it)  will   be  very  sure  to  take. 

Aleantim.    ie,:d    all    the   national    debt-sinkers, 

Ajid  tell      ic  what  you  think   of  your   gte.  I  thinkers. 


CANTO  XI II 


I   NOW  mean   to  he  serious; — it  is  time. 

Since   laiiiftiter  now-a-days  is  deein'd  too  serious 
A  jest    at  vice   by  virtue's   call'd    a  crime, 

And  crilicaily'held.   as  dcleteri<ius : 
Besi  les,  the  s.id  's  a   source  of  the  subline, 

Aithoii!,'h  uhen   long  a  little  apt   to  weary  us; 
And   therefore  shall   my  lay  soar  hiijh  and   iroleinn. 
As  an  old   temple  tlwmdled   to  a  column. 

II. 

The  J.ady  Adeline  Amiindeville 

'T  is  an   old   Norman   name,  and   to  be  found 
In   pediirrees   bv  those  w  ho  wander   still 

Aloiiiz   the   last   fields   of  that  Gothic   ground) 
Was   hiidi-born,  wealthy  by  her  fither's  will, 

And    beauteous,  even  \vh(!re  beauties    most    aboitrd 
In  15ritain — v. Inch  of  course   true   patri(jts  tind 
The  goodliest   soil  of  body  and  of  nnnd. 

III. 

I'll  not   gaiiisa\- them  ;    it   is  not  mv  cue : 

I   leave  them  to  their  taste,  no  doubt   the  best: 

An   eyi.' 's   an   eve,  and   whether  black   or   blue. 
Is  no  great   matter,  so  'tis  in  recpiest  :' 

'T  is  nonsense  to  d>pu'e  about   a   hue — 
The  kind<-st    mav  be   taken   as  a  test. 

The  fair  sex  shoiild  be  always  fair;   and   no  man, 

Till  thirty,  should   perceive  there  's  a  plain  woman. 

IV. 

And   after  that   serene   and  somewhat  dull 

Epocii,  that   awkward  corner   turn'd  for  davs 
More   ijuit.n,  when  our  moon's  no  mote   at   full, 
'e  may  presume   to  criticise  or   praise; 


W 


Because   in  iitrerence   begins  to  hi 

Our   passions,  and  we  walk  in  wisdom's  ways  ; 
Also   becaiHP   the   figure  and   the  face 
Hint,  thai  'tis   time  to  give  the  younger  place. 

V. 

I  kno\v  that   son^e  wonKl  fain   post])one  this  era, 

Ileluctant   as   all   placemen  to  resign 
Their   post  ;    but  theirs  is   merelv  a   chimera, 

For  they  have   pass'd  life's   equinoctial    line; 
But   then   they  have   thcT  claret   and   madeira 

To   irrigate   the  dryness   of  declin^; 
And  county  meetings   and  the  Parliament, 
And  debt,  and  what   not,  for  their  solace  seni. 

VI. 

And   is  there   not   religion   and   reform. 

Peace,  war,  the  taxes,  and  what's  call'J  the  "  nation' ' 
The   siruijiile  to  be   pilots   in   a  storm  ? 

The   landed   and   the   money'd  speculation? 
T!ie  joys   of  mutual   hate  to  keep   them  warm, 

Instead  of  love,  that  mere  hallucination/ 
Now  hatred  is  by  far  the  longest  pleasure; 
Men   love  in   haste,  but  they  detest  al    leisure. 

VII. 

Ronah  Johnson,  the   great   moralist,  profess'd, 
Ixiixht    honestly,   "he  liked   an   honest   hater'  — 

The  only  truth    thnt    vet    has    been  confess'd 
V-ithin   these  latest   thousand    vears  or  latei. 

Perhaps  the   fine  old   fellow    ^poke   in   jesi  ;  — 
P^or  my  part,   I   am  but  a  mere  rpectator. 


o80 


BYEON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


'Vnd   gaze  where'e."  the  palace  or  the  hovel   i^;, 
Much  in  the  mode  of  Gneihc's  JM'.'phirilujdieles  ; 

VIII. 
B'it  neither  love  nor  hate  in   much  execss  ; 

Thoi:::h  't  was  not  once  so.     IT  I  sneer  sometimes, 
h  IS  because   I  cannot  wel.  do   less, 

And   now  and  then   it   also  suits    ii>y  rhymes. 

should  be  very  willinif  to   redress 

r>Ien's  wrongs,  and  rather  check  llian  punish  crnnes 
Had   not  Cervantes,  in   that   too  true   tale 
Of  Quixote,  shown   how  all  such  etiorts   fail. 

IX. 
Of  all  tales,    't  is   t!iQ   satldest — and   more  sad. 

Because  it   makes   us   smile  ;    his  hero  's  right 
And   still   pursues  the  riglit ; — to  curb   the  bad. 

His  only  object,  and  'gainst    odds  to  fight, 
His  guerdon:    'tis   his  virtue   makes   him  mad! 

But    his   adventures  form   a  sorry  sight  ;  — 
A  sorrier  still  is   the  great  moral  taujjht 
By  that  real  epic  unto  all  who  have   thought. 

X. 

Redressing  injury,  revenging  wrong. 

To  aid   the  damsel  and  destroy  the  cailifT; 
Opposing  singly  the  united   strong, 

From  foreign   yoke   to   free  the   helpless   native  ; — 
Alas  !    must  noblest  views,  like   an   old   son^, 

Be  for  mere  fancy's  sport   a  thing  creative  7 
A  jest,  a  riddle,  fame  through  thin  and   thick   sought? 
And   Socrates  himself  but  Wisdom's  Quixote? 

XI. 
Cervantes  smiled  Sjiain's  chivalry  .'.way  ; 

A  single  laugh  demolish'd   the  ri»ht   arm 
Of  his  own   country  ; — seldom   sincf;  that   day 

Has  Spain  had  lu;roes.  N^'hi'c  R()m:nice  rould  cl-iarni, 
ri)e  world  gave  ground  before  her  bright  array  ; 

And  therefore  have  his  volumes  done  such  harm, 
That  all  their  glory  as  a  composition 
Was   dearly  purchased  by  his  land's  perdition. 
XII. 
'm  "at  my  old  Lunes" — digression,  and  forget 

The  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville  ; 
The  fair  most  fatal  Juan  ever  met, 

Although  she  was  not  evil  nor  meant  ill ; 
But  Destiny  and   Passion  spread  the  net, 

(Fate  is   a  good  excuse  for  our  own  will), 
And  caught  them  ;   what  do  they  not  catcli,  ine'hinks? 
But  I  'm  noi  (Edipus,  and   life  's  a  spliinx. 

Xltl. 
I  tell   the  tale  as  it  is  told,  nor  dare 

To  venture  a  solution  :    "  Davus  sum  !" 
And   now  I  willPprocced   upon  the  pair. 

Sweet  Adeline,  amidst  the  gay  world's  hum. 
Was  the  queen   bee,  the  glass  of  all   that's  fair; 

Whose  (diarms   made   all  men  speak,  and  wome.n 
dumb, 
The  last 's  a  miracle,   and   such  was  rcckon'd, 
And  since  that  time  there  has  not  been  a  second. 

XIV. 
Chaste  wa.<:  she  to  detraction's  desperation, 

And  wedded  unto  one  she  had  loved  well — 
A  man   known   in   the  councils  of  the  nation, 

Cool,  and  (juite   Eiiirhsh,  imperturbabiL-, 
Though  apt  to  act  with   tire;   upon   occM'^ion, 

Proud  oi  himself  and  Ikt  ;  the  wt.rld  could  t(dl 
Nought  against  eiin-r,  ;nii  l)oth  seem'd  secure — 
She  in  ner  virtue,  lie   in   his  hauteur. 

XV. 
It  chancer    some  diplomatical   relations, 

Arising  .tut  of  busine><s,  often  broujrlit 


Himself  and  Juan  in  their   mutual  stations 

Into  close  contact.     Though  reserved,  nor  caught 

By  specious  seeming,  Juan's  youtn,  and  |iatience, 
And   talent,  on    his  hauglity  spirit  wrought, 

And  formM   a  basis  of  esteem,  whici.  ends 

In  making  men  what  courtesy  calls  friends. 

XVI. 

And   thus  Lord  Henry,  who  was  ."autious   as 

Reserve  and   pride   could   make  him,  and  full  s.o\« 

In  judging  men — when  once  his  judgment  was 
Determined,   right  or  wrong,  on  friend  or   foe, 

Had    all  the  pertinacity  pride   has, 

\Vhich   knows  no  ebb  to  its  imperious   flow» 

And   loves   or  hates,  disdaining  to  be   guided, 

Because   its  own  good   pleasure  hath  deculed. 

XVII. 

His  friendships,  therefore,  and   no  less  aversions, 
Though  oft  well  founded,  which  confirm'd  but   more 

His    prepossessions,  like  the  laws  of  Persians 

And   Medes,  would  ne'er  revoke  what  went  before. 

His  feelings   had  not  those  strange   fits,  like  tertians. 
Of  common   likings,  which   make  some  deplore 

What  they  should  laugh  at — the  mere  ague  still 

Of  men's  regard,  the  fever  or  the  chiil. 

XVIII. 

"  'T  is  noi  in  mortals  to  command   success  ; 

But  do  you  more,   Sempronius — (lon''t.   deserve  it," 
And   take  my  word,  you  won't   have  any  less  : 

Be  wary,  watch  the  time,  and  always  serve  it ; 
Give  gently   way,  where  there's  too  great  a  -  ress  ; 

And  for  your  conscience,  only  learn  to  nervv.   i', — 
For,  like   a  racer  or  a   boxer  traiiiing, 
'Twill  make,  if  proved,  vast  ellorls  wiih<>ut  pa;ri:ig 

XIX. 

Lord   Henry  also  liked  to  be  superior, 
As   most  men  do,  the   little  or   tiie   great  j 

The  very  lowest  find  out   an  inf(!iior. 

At  least   they  think   so,  to  exert  their  state 

Upon  :    for  there  are  very  few  things  wearier 
Than  solitary  pride's  oppressive  weight, 

Which   mortals  generously  would  divide. 

By  bidding  others  cany  while  thf;y  ride. 

XX. 

In  birth,  in    rank,  in    f  )rtune  likewise  e<]ual, 

O'er  Juan  he  could  no  distinction  claim  ; 
In   years    he   had   the   advantage  of  time's   sefjucl  ; 

And,  as   he  thought,  in  country  much   the  same — 
Because  bold    Britons   have  a  tongue  and   free  quill, 

At  which  all  modern  nations  vainly  aim  ; 
And  the  Lord  Henry  was  a  great  debater. 
So  that  few  members  kept   the   House  up   later,  v 

XXI. 
These  were  advantages  :    and  then   he  ihnuglit — 

It  was  his  foible,  but   by  no  means  sinister — 
That  few  or  none  more   than   himself  had  caught 

Court  mysteries,  having  been  himself  a  minister  : 
He  liked   to  teach  that  which   he  iiad   been  taught, 

And  greatly  shone  wlienever  there  had  been  a  stif 
And    ri!conciled   all   qualities  which  grace   man, 
Always  a   palrit)t,  and   sometimes   a   placeman. 

XXII. 

He   liked  the   gentle  Spaniard  for  his  gravity  : 
He  almost  honour'd    him  for  hu;  ilccilily. 

Because,  though  young,  he  acquies(  ed  wiili   suavity. 
Or  contradicted   but  with   [troiid   humdity. 

He  kn(!w  the  world,  and  would   not  see  ilep-;ivit,y 
In  faults  which  sometimes  show  the   soil's  fuiuiJlj 


DON    JUAN. 


681 


ff  that  the  weeds  o'er-live  nol  the  first  crop, — 
For  tlieii  they  are  very  clitHoull  to  stop. 
XXIII. 

-ind   then   he  talkM  witli   him  ahoiit   Ma(hicl, 
C  ui.sta.itiiiople   arxl  such  dislaut    phices  ; 

Where   people   always  did   as  they  were  hid, 

Or  did  what  they  should   not  with    foreign   graces. 

Of  coursers  also  spake  tlu'y  :    Henry  rid 

Well,  like   most    Englishmen,  and  loved  the  races: 

And  Juan,  like  a"  true-horn  Andalnsian, 

Could  hack  a  horse,  as  despots  ride  a  Russian. 

XXIV. 

And   thus  accpiaiutanee  grew,  at   nohle   routs, 

And   diplomatic  dinners,   or   at   other — 
For  Juan   stood  well  hoth  with   Ins  aihl  Outs, 

As  in   Freemasonry  a   higher  iiroiher. 
Upon  his   talent  Henry  iuui   no  douhts. 

His  manner  show'd  him  sprung  ti-om  a  high  mother; 
And  all   men  like  to  show  their   hospitality 
To  liini  whose   breeding  marches  with    his  quality. 

XXV. 
At  Blank-Blank  Square  ; — for  we  will  break  noscpiares 

By  naming  streets  :   since  men    are   so  censorious, 
And   apt  to  sow  an   author's  wheat  with   tares. 

Reaping  allusions  private   and    inglorious, 
Where  none  were  dreamt  of,  riiito   love's  atfairs, 

Wliich  were,  or  are,  or  are   to   be   notorious, 
That  therefore  do   I   previously  de.  hire. 
Lord  Henry's  mansion  was   in  Blank-Blank   Stpiare. 

XXVI. 

Also  there  bin  ^  another  pious  reason 

For   makini:  scpiares  and  streets   anonymous; 

Which    is,  that   there   is  scarce   a  single  season 
Which   dollt  nol    shake   some  vcrv  s|i.leiidio  Ikjui^c 

With   some  slight  heart-qua.ke  of  dom(!,-,tic   Ucas-..,  • 
A  topic  scandal  doth  delight  to   rouse  : 

Such  I   might  stumble  over   unawares. 

Unless  I  knew  the  very  chastest  scjuares. 

XXV  H. 

'T  is  true,  I   might  have  chosen  Piccadilly, 
A  place  where  peccadilloes  are  unknown  ; 

But  I   have  motives,  whether  wise,  or  silly, 
For  letting  that  pure   sanctuary  alone. 

Therefore  I   name  not  square,  street,  place,  until   I 
Find  one  where  nothing  naughty  can  be  shown, 

A  vestal  shrine  of  innocence  of  lu'art  : 

Such  are — but  I  have  h)st  the  London  chart. 

xxvin. 

At  Henrv's   mansion  then   in    Blank- Blank   Square, 
Was  Juan   a  recherche,  welcome   guest, 

As   many  other  noble  scions  were  ; 

And  <5ome  who  had  but  talent  for  their  crest ; 

Or  wealth,  which  is   a  passport  everywliere  ; 

Or  even   mere  fashion,  which   indeed  's  the  best 

Recommendation,  and  to  be  wcsH  dress'd 

Will  very  often  supersede  the   rest. 

XXIX 

And   since  "there's   safety  m   a  multitude 

Of  counsellors,"  as   Solomon    has   said. 
Or  sonie  one  for  him,  in  soine  sage  ^'rave  mood:  — 

Indeed  we   see   the  daily  proof  display'd 
In   senates,  at  the   bar,  in  wordy  feud, 

Where'er  collective  wisdom  can   parade, 
Which   is   the  only  cause  that  we  can  guess 
Of  Britain's   present   vea'.th   and   hajipiness ;  — 

XXX. 
Rut  as  "there's   safety  grafteil  in   the   numhei 

Of  cou  sellors  "  for  men  ■■  thus   for  liie  sev 


A  large  accpuiin  ance  lets  not   virtue  shimlter; 

Or,  should   it   uhake,  the  choice  will  more  jjcrplex  • 
Variety  itself  will   more  encumber. 

'INIidst  many  rocks  we  guard  more  against  wrccka 
And   thus  with  women  :    howsoe'er  it  shock  some'.s 
Self-love,  there  's  safety  in   a  crowd  of  coxcombs. 

XXXI. 

But  Adeline  had    not  the   least  occasion 

For  such   a  shield,  whii:h   li'aves    u  \t   lilllc  merit 

To  virtue   proper,  or   good  education. 

Her  chief  resour(;e  was   in   her  own    hi^n   spirit. 

Which  juilged  mankind  at  their  due   eslimation  ; 
And   for  co'pietry,  she  disdain'd   to  wear  it : 

Secure  of  admiration,  its   impression 

Was  faint,  as  ol  ;tii   every-day  possession. 

XXXH. 

To   all   she   was   polite  without  parade  ; 

To  some  she  show'd  attention   of  that  kind 
Which  tlatters,  but  is  flattery   convey'd 

In  such  a  sort  as  cannot   leave  behind 
A  trace  unworthy  either  wife  or  maid  ;  — 

A  g(;ntle  genial  courtesy  of  mind. 
To  lh')se  w!io  were,  or  pass'd  for,   meritorious, 
Just  to  console  sad   Glory  for  being   glorious: 

XXXIII. 

Which  is  in  all  respects,  save  now  and   then, 
A   dull  and   desolate  api)endage.      Gaze 

Upon   the  shades  of  those  distinguish'd   men 
Who  were  or  are  the  put>pet-shows  of  praise, 

The   praise   of  j)erseciiti()n.      Gaze   airain 

On  the   most  favour'd  ;   and,  amidst  the  blaze 

v)f  sunset   halos  o'er  the  \a!!rel-l)row'(l, 

What  can  ye  recognise? — A   gilded  cloud. 

XXXIV. 

There  also  was  of  course    in  Adeline 

That  calm  patrician   polish  in  the  address, 

Which   ne'er  can   pass  the   equinoctial  line 
Of  any   thing  which  Nature   would  express: 

Just   as.  a  Mandarin  finds  nothing  tine, — 
At  least  his  manner  suffers  not  to_Huess 

That  any  thing  he  views  can  greatly   please. 

Perhaps  we  have  borrow'd  this  from  the    Chinest— 

XXXV. 

Perhaps   from   Horace:   his  '■'■Nil  admirarV 

Was   what   he  cali'd  the    "Art  of  IIaj)pinesb ;" 

An   art  on   which  the  artists  greatly  vary. 
And   have    not  yet  altam'd   to  much  success. 

However, 't  is  exp(;di(int  to  be  wary: 

Indili'erence  cerles  don't  produce  distress ; 

And  rash  enthusiasm  in  good  society 

Were  nothing  but  a  moral  inebriety. 

XXXVI. 

But   Adeline  was  not  imiitterent :   for, 

[Now  for  a  commonplace!)   beneath  the  snow 

As   a  volcano  holds  the  lava  more 

Within — et  cetera.     Sliall  I  go  on  ? — No  ! 

I  hale  to  hunt  down   a  tired   metaphor: 
So  let   the  often-i"-'ed  volcano  go. 

Poor  thing!    how  fr, fluently,  by  me  and   others. 

It  hath  been  stirr'd   up,  till   its  smoke  (piite  smothers 

XXXVII. 

I  '11  have  another  figure  in  a  trice : 

What  say  you  to  a  bottle  of  champagne'' 

Frozen  into  a  very   v^inous  ice. 

Which  leaves  ff^v  drops  of  Jhat  immortal  ram 

Yet  in  the  very  centre,  past  all  pri(;e. 
About  a  liquid    glassful   will  remain ; 


682 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


And  this  is  stronger  ihan  the  strongest  grape 
Could  e'er  express  in   its  expanded   sha[)e  : 

XXXVIII. 

'Tis   the    whole   spirit    tirouiilit    to    a   quintosspnce  ; 

And  thus   the   chilhest   aspects   may   eonconire 
A   hidden   nectar   under  a  cnld   pres(uice, 

And   such   are   many — ihouirh    I   only   nieant    h.-r 
From   whom    I    now   d<'duce   these   moral    l,-s-o,;s, 

On  which    the   iMuse  has  alwavs  sou^dii  loeiiicr;  — 
And   your  cr.ll    people    are    hcvond   all    pric,-, 
Wheti   onte   you've    hrokcn    tlieir  conf<jnnded   ice. 

XXXIX. 
l^ii!   at"t<'r  all,   they   are   a    North-\yest    passage 

Tiito  the  glo\\ino   India  of  th(,'  sou! ; 
And    as   the   i:ood    ships   sent    upon   that   inessaye 

Have   not  e-.actly   ascertaiii'd   the   Pole, 
(Thouuh  Parry's  eH'orts  look  a  lucky   presage), 

Thus   jrentlenien   may  run  upon  a   shoal  ; 
For  if  the   Pole's   not"op«n,   hut   all  frost, 
(A  chanoe  still), 't  is  a  voyage  or  vessel   lost. 

XL. 

And  youtijr  heginners  may   as  well  rornmence 
Willi   (piiet.   cruisiiiiz   o'er   the   ocean    woman  ; 

U'iii'f!   those   who 're  not   heginners,  should  have  sensi; 
EhouHh   to  make  for  port,  ere  'I'iine  shall  summon 

With    h;s   ^rray   siunal-tlag  ;    and    the   past    tense, 
The   drearv   "/';?///.'/.<"   of  aj.l    iIiuicts    human, 

Must    he   declined,  whilst    life's  thin  thread  's  spun  out 

Between   the   gaping   heir  and   gnawing   gout. 

XLI. 

Bu,   heaven   must    he   diverted:    its  diversion 
Is  sometimes  truculent — liut   never   mind: 

The   world   upon   the   whole   is   worth   the   assertion 
(If  bur,  for  comfort)   fh;u    nil   tlim.i-^    are   kind; 

And   that   same    d.'vinsh    doctrine   of  the    Persian, 
Of  trie    two    principles,    hut    leaves    behind 

As   niaiiv   doubts    as   any   other   doctrine 

Has  ever   pu/./.!ed   Faith   withal,  or  yoked   her  in. 

XLII. 

The   E'lahsh   winter— ending   in  .July, 

To   rec(;:iimfj|ice    in    Aiiijust — now   was   done. 

''1' is  the   postilion's    pai'adise :    wheels   tly  ; 

On   roads  east,  south,  north,  west,  there  is  a  run. 

But   for  |)ost-horsf's   who  finds  sympathy? 
Alan's  pity  's   for  himself,  or  for  his  son, 

Alv>uys   premising   that    said    son    at  college 

Has   not  contracted   much  more  debt  than  knowledge. 

XLIII. 

The  London   winter's  ended   in  .July — 
Sometmms   a   little   later.      I   don't   err 

In   tliis  :    whatever  other   bluiiilers    he 
Upon   my  shoulders,   Iktc^  I   must   aver 

iMy   Muse  "a   L'lass   of   Weatherolojiy, 
For    Parliament    is   our    barometer; 

Let  Radicals   its  other  acts    atta(d<, 

Is  sessions  form   our   oidv   almanac. 

XLIV. 

When  ill  (piieksilver 's  ilowu   at   zero, — lo  ! 

Coach,  chariol,  luirL'ag*',  ba:.'irag<,',   eipiipage' 
Wheels   whirl  from   Carlton    Palace  to   Soho, 

And    happiest    they    who   horsc's   can   <-iiirai,n;  ; 
The  turnpikes   glow    wiili   dusi,    and    Botteii   Row 

Sle«;ps    from   th(!   cliivalry   of  this   bri<;ht    age: 
And   tradesmen,   with    lono    bills    and    Ioniser  faces, 
.Si;iJi,   as  tlic   |K)st-boys   fasifu   on    tin;   traces. 

XLV. 

Vh-'V    and   tlK'ir  bills.  "  Ar<-a. bans  botii,"^    are   left 
'l"o    .he   (jreek    kalend-;   oT  another   si'ssion. 


Alas!   to  them   of  reaily    "lasii  bereft. 

W'hat  hope  remains?     Of  hope  the  t:iil  possession 
Or  generous   draft,  conceded   as  a  gift, 

At.  a  long  date — tdl   they  can  get  a  fresh  one, — 
Hawk'd   about   at  a   discount,  small  or  large ; — 
Also  the  solace  of  an  overcharge. 

I  XLVI. 

I    L5ut  these  are   trifles.     Downward  flies  my   Lord, 

I         Nodding  beside   my   Lady   in  his  carriage. 

I     Awav!    awav !    "Fresh   liorsesi"   are   the   word, 

I         And   chanced    as   (piicklv  as    hearts  after  marriage 

I    The  obsequious  landlord    hath   the   change  resiorec' ; 

I         The   post-boys    have    no    reason    to   disparage 

Their  fee;  but,  ere  the  warer'd  wheels  may  hiss  henc-a 

Tile  ostler   pleads  lor   a    reminiscence. 

XIATI. 

'Tis  granted;    and   the   valet   mounts   the   dickey — 
That   gentleman   of  lords  and    gentlemen; 

Also   my    Lady's   gentlewoman,    Incky, 

Tnck'd   out,   init    modes!    more   than    [loet's  pen 

Can    paint,  "  C<ixi    i-ini^vinf)  i   nrrJii  .'" 

(Excuse  a   torciun    s!ip--iop   now   and   then, 

If  but   to  show    I've   travclTd  ;    and   what's  travel, 

Unless  it   leaches  one  to  ipiote  and  cavil?) 

XLvin. 

The  Tjondon   winter  and   the    country   summer 
\Vcre    well    mirh   over.      'T  is    perhaps   a    pity, 
I     \Ylicn    Nature  wears    the    wown  that  doth  b(>come  rier 
I  To    lose   those   best    inonihs   iri   a   sweaty    city, 

j     And    w-iir    mini    ihe   mghtmir-ile   grows   dunil)er, 
'         Jjisu^uuii;   debates   not    \-erv    wise  or   witiv. 

Ere    patriots   their   true   roimtri/   r.im    remen  b(  i  ;  — 
Hut  there's  no  shootiuir    (save  grouse)    till  Se[)teniber 


I'v 


XLIX. 

le   with.   ;nv   tirade.      The   world   was  goi  '.  > 


The   twice   two  tiiou-^and  fir  wliom  earth  was  lujiJi. 
Were    vanish'd    to   be    what    ihey   call    alone,— 

That    is,   with,    thirty    servants   for   par;ide. 
As   ina:iy   guests  or  more  ;    bef  ire   whom  groan 

As   many  covers,  dulv,   daily,  laid. 
Let   none  accuse  old   England's    hospitality — 
Its  cpiantity    is  but  condensed   to    (piality. 

L. 

Lord   Henry  and   the   Ladv    Adeline 

Departed,   like"  the  resi   of  their  compeers. 
The    peerage,   to   a   m  insioii   very  tine  ; 

The  Gothic   Habel   of  a  thousand  years. 
None   than   themselves   could   boast    a   lon-erdiiie, 

Where   time  through  heroes  and  through  beauties 
steers  ; 
And  oaks,  as  olden   as  ih.eir  [ledigree. 
Told  of  their  sires,  a  lomb   in  eve;  /  tree. 

LI. 
A  paragraph   in  everv   paper  told 

Of  their  departure  :    su<;h   is  modern  fame  : 
'Tis   pit)    that   it   takes  no  further   hold 

Than   an    advertisement,  or  much   the  same ; 
When,  ere   the   mk  he   dry,   the   sound    grows    coirt 

The   Morning    Post   was  firemost  to    iirocla''- — 
"•  Dejiartun-,  for   his    countrv-seal    to-day, 
Lord   U.  AnumdeviUe  and    Lady  A. 

LII. 

»  We  understand   the  splendid  ho-^t    intends 
To   eiiKM-tain,    this    autumn,    i   sele(;t 
j    .\iiil    numerous    jiarty   of  his   noble  friends; 
I        '.Midst  whom,  wc  have   heard  lioin  so'irces   ;j«.ile 
I  correct. 


DON    JUAX 


683 


Tlif"   DiiKC  of  D tlie  shootiriir  season   s|i.n(ls,         i 

\Vil)i    iHiuiy   iMoro   hv   riuik   ;iiul   fUshioii   dcckM  ; 
Als,)  a   t<)rei«Tri.;r  of  hii^li  comrnion, 
The  (Mivoy  of  the  secret    Kussian  mission."    . 

LIII. 
Ana    thus   wo   see — who   donhts   tl\e    Morning'    Post  .' 

(Whose   articles  are   like  the  'Mlurtv-niiii," 
Which  th(.se  most  swear  to  who  Ix'licve  them  most)  — 

Onr  gay   Russ    Spaniard   was   oniain'd   to  .--iune, 
Deek'd  by   the  rays  rtiHected  from  his   host, 

Widi    those  who,  Pope  says,  "  greatly  darini;  dine." 
'T  is   ciUl,   lull   true, — last    war,   the   news    abounded 
IMore  with  these  dinners  than  the  kii'.M  or  wonnded.— 

LIV. 

As   thus:    "On  Thursday  tli(Me  was  a  sjrand  dinner ; 

Presert,  lords    A.  H.  C."— K  iris,  dukes,    by  nanu 
Amiounced  with   no   less    pomp  than  victory's  winner  : 

Then    underneath,   and   in   the   \ery   same 
Column  ;  "  Date,  Falmoutii,  There  lias  lately  been  here 

The  slap-dash  regiment,  so  well  known  to  fiune ; 
Whose  loss  in  the   late   action   we  regret : 
The  vacancies   are  fill'd  up — see  Gazette." 

LV. 

To  Norman   Abbey  whirl'd  the  noble  pair. 

An  old,  old  monast<;ry  once,   and   now 
Still  older  mansion,  of  a  rich    and   rare 

iMi\\i   Gothic,  such   as  artists  all  allow 
Few  specimens  yet   left   us  can   compare 

Withal:   it  lies  perhajjs  a  little  low, 
Because  the  monks   pre(err'd    a  hill  behind, 
To  shelter  their  devotion  from  the   v.ind. 

LVI. 
It  stood  einbosom'd   in  a   hapjiy  valley, 

Crcwn'd  by   high  woodlands,  where   the   Druid  oak 
.Stood   like  Caractacus  in  act  to  rally 

His  host,  with  broad  arms  'gainst  the  thunder-stroke  ; 
And  from   beneath   his   boughs   were  seen    to    sally 

The  dappled  foresters — as   day  awoke, 
The  branching  stag  swept   down   uith   all  his   herd, 
To  quatr  a  brook  which   nuirmur'd  like  a   bird. 

LVTI. 

Bt'ore  the  mansion  lay  a  lucid  lake, 

Broad  as  transparent,  deep,  and  freshly  fed 

By   a  river,  which  its  soften'd  way   did  take 
In   currents   through    the  calmer   water    spread 

Around :   the   wild  fowl   nestled   in  the   brake 
And  sedges,  brooding  in   their  liquid  bed : 

The  woods  sloped  downwards  to  its  brink-,  and  stood 

With   their  green  faces  fix'd  upon  the  flood. 

Lvni. 

Is  outlet  dash'd  into   a  deep  cascade, 

Sparkling  with  foam,  until   again  subsiding 

Its  shriller  echoes — like   an   infant   made 
Quiet — sank   into  softer  rijiples,  gliding 

Into  a   rivulet;    and,  thus  allay'd. 

Pursued  its  course,  now  ghniming,  and  now  hiding 
t3  windings  through  the  woods  ;   now  clear,  now  blue, 

A  ;-ordi|jg  as  the  skies  their  shadows  threw. 

LIX. 

A  glorious  remnant  of  the  Gothic  pile 

(While  yet  the  cliurch  was  Rome's)  stood  half  apart 

In   a  grand   arch,  which   once  screen'd  many  an  aisle. 
These   last  had   disappear'd — a  loss  to  art : 

The  first  yet  frown'd  superbly  o'er  the  soil, 
And  kindled  feelings   in  the  roughest  heart, 

Which  mourn'd  the  power  of  time's  or  tempest's  march, 

In  sazina  on  that  venerable   arch. 


f.X. 

Within    ;i   nii'lH>,  nigh    to   its    pii  nacle, 

'l\\t;lve   saints   had    once  stood   sanct  ficiii   in   st'JllO 
Hut    thes.!   had   fillcn,  not  when   th.;   fnars   fell. 

Hut  in  th<'  war  which  struck  Cliarl<!s  fiom  his  Ih.-onU 
Wiuii    each    house  was   a  fortahce— as  tell 

Th('  aimals  of  full   many  a  line  undone, — 
Tlu;    <:allant    cava-liers,  who   foui'lit    in   vain 
For  those  who  knew  not  to  resign  or  reign. 

LXI. 

But  in  a  higher  nich(>,  alone,  but  crown'd. 

The  Virgin    Mother   of  the  God-born   ehil.l, 
With    her  son   in   her  bless'd   arm<,   look'd   round. 


Spared  bv  some  chance  w 


1  beside  was  spoil'a; 
She   made   the  earth   below  seem  holy  ground. 

This   may  be  superstition,  weak  or  wild. 
Hut  even   the  faintest  relics  of  a  shrine 
Of  any  worship  wake  some   thoughts  divine. 

LXII. 

A  mislitv  window,  hollow  in   the   centre. 
Shorn  of  its   glass  of  thousand   colo;:rir,gj. 

Through  which    the  deepei-'d   glories  once  Xjlr^  enter 
Streaming  from  off  the  sun  like  seri'  /I's    vi-.g:,, 

Now   yawns   all   desolate:    now  loud,  ii'  .«   fiin'.'r, 
The  irale  swe(!ps   throui'h  its  frt;t"or.<    a. id   o'"t  sings 

The  owl   his   aiitlumi,  where  the  si\",  i' ed   quire 

Lie  with   their  hallelujahs  ♦luencli'J   I'.Ke  fire. 

LXIII. 

But    in   the   noontide   of  ;he   mor,/    pad  when 

The  wind  is  \vmift;d  trom  oi.c  j".)iiit  of  h(;aven, 
There  moans    a    straiiire    uiie;..M',-  sound,  which   thoii 

Is   musical — a   dvmg   accent    driviiii 
Throiiijh  the   huge  arch,  whi'h  soars  and  sinKs  agaj" 

Some  deem   it    but    tlrj  cistant    ec!io   <_nven 
Back  to  the  mirln-wmd   '.iv  the  waterfall, 
And  harmoni/ed   by  thj  old   choral    wall  : 

LXIV. 
Otluifs,  th.it   soMie  or'gmal    sha;)e  or  firm. 

Shaped    by  dccav  p-rcha'.ce,    bath  given   the    powe/ 
(Thouijh    less   tha.i    tlial    of  .Memnoifs   statue,  warm 

In  Egypt's  rays,  to  ha.-p  at  a   lix'd   hour) 
To  this  grav  ruin,  with   a  voi(;e  to  charm. 

Sad,  but  serene,  it  sw(>eps  o'er  tree  or  tower : 
The  cau.38  I  know  not,  nor  can  solve  ;  but  such 
The  tact: — I've   heard   it, — once   jierhaps  loo  much. 

LXV. 

Amidst  the  court   a  Gothic  fountain   jjlay'd. 

Symmetrical,   but   deek'd    with   carvings   ipiaint — 
Strange   faces,    like   to   men    m   mas(iueiade. 

And  here  p(!rhaps  a   monster,  tliere   a  saint: 
The  spring  riish'd  through  grim  mouths,  of  granite  made, 

And  sparkled  into  basins,  where  it  spent 
Its  little  torrent  in  a  thousand   bubbles, 
Like  man's   vain   glory,  and  his  vainer  troubles. 

LXVI. 
The   mansion's   self  was  vast  and  venerable. 

With   more  of  the   monastic   than   has  been 
Elsewhere  preserved  :   the  cloisters  still  were  stable. 

The  cells  too  and   refectory,  I  ween  : 
An  excpiisite  small  cliapel   had   been  able. 

Still  unimiiair'd,   to  decorate  the  scene  ; 
The  rest  had   been   reforni'd,  replaced,  ©r  sunk, 
And  spoke  more  of  the  baron  than   the   monk. 

LXVII. 

Huge  halls,  long  galleries,  sp.icious   chambers,  jom'u 
By  no  quite  lawful   marriage  of  the   arts, 

Miizht  shock  a  connoisseur:    but,  when   combined 
Form'd  a  whole  which,  irregular  in  parts, 


C84 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


Yet  left  a  grand   impression  on  the  mind, 

At  least  of  those  whose  eyes  are  in  llieir  heaits. 
We  gaze  upon  a  giant  for  his  stature, 
Nor  judge  at  first  if  all   be  true  to  nature. 

LXVIII. 

Steel   barons,  molten  the  next   generation 
To  silken  rows  of  gay  and  garter'd  earls. 

Glanced  from  the  w^iUs  in  goodly  preservation  ; 
And  Lady  IVIarys,  blooming  into  girls, 

With  fair  long  locks,  had   also   ko])t   then-   station  ; 
And  countesses  mature   in  robes  and  jiearls  : 

Also  some  beauties  of  Sir  Peter  Lely, 

Whose  drajiery  hints  \Ne  may  admire  them  freely: 

LXLX:. 

Judges,  in  very  formidable  ermine, 

Were  there,  with  brows  that  did  not  much  invite 
Tbe  accused  to  think  their  lordships  would   determine 

His  cause  by  leanmg  mucJi  from  might  to  right: 
Hidio|)s,  who  had   not  lel't  a  single  sermon  ; 

Attorneys-general,  awi'ul  to  the  sight. 
As  hinting  more   (unless  our  judtmients  warp  us) 
Of  the  "Star  Chamber"  than  of  "  Habeas  Corpus." 

LXX. 
Generals,  some  all  in   armour,  of  the  oid 

And   iron   time,   ere   lead   had    fa'en   the  lead  ; 
Others  in  wijjs  of  Marlborough's  martial   fold, 

Huger  than   twelve  of  our  de<ren('r;'te   breinl  : 
Lordlin>;S,  witli  staves  of  white  or  k(.>vs  of  gold  : 

Nimrods,  whose  canvas  scarce  contain'd  the  steed 
And  here  and  there   some   stern  liigh  patriot  stood. 
Who  could   not   get  the   place  for  which   he   sued. 

LXXL 
But,  ever  and   anon,  to  soothe   your  vision, 

P^atigued  witli   these    hereditarv  glories, 
There  rose   a  Carlo  Dolce  or  a  Titian, 

Or  wilder  group  of  savage  Salvatore's  :* 
Here  danced  Albauo's   boys,  and   here   the  sea  shone 

In  Vertiet's  ocean   lights  ;   and   there  the  stories 
Of  martyrs   awed,  as  Spagnoletto  tainted 
His  brush  with   all  the  blood   (jf  all   the  sainted. 

Lxxn. 

Here  sweetiv  spread  a  landscape  of  Lorraine  ; 

There  Rembrandt  made  his  darkness  equal  light, 
Or  gloomy  Caravaggio's  g'oomier  stain 

Bronzed  o'er  some  lean  and    stoic  anchorite;— 
But  lo !   a  Teniers  woos,  and  not  in  vain, 

Your  eyes   to  revel  in  a  livelier  sight: 
Her  bell-m()ulli'd  goblet  makes  me  feel  quite  Danish 
Or  Dutch  with  thirst — What' ho!   a  flask  of  Rhenish. 

LXXIIL 

Oil,  reader !   if  that  thou  canst  read, — and   know 
'T  is  not  enough  to  spell,  or  even  to  read, 

To  constitute  a  reader  ;   there  must  go 
Virtues  of   which  both  you  and  I   have  need. 

Firstly,  begin  with  the   beginning  (though 

That  ci.iuse  is  hard),  and  secondly,   proceed;. 

Thirdly,  com-mence  not  with  the   end — or,  sinning 
n  this  sort,  end   at  least  with  the  bejiinning. 

LXX  IV. 

Ku.,  read  .',  thou   hast   pati(;nt    l)een   of  late, 
While   I,  witJKtul  remorse   of  rhyme,  or  f('ar, 

Have   built   and   laid  out   ground   at  siK^h  a  rate, 
Dan    Plid.-bus    tak<;s   me   f)r  an   aucti.)ricer. 

That   poets  wvrv.   so   from    ihnr   cailicsi    date, 
liy    Homer's  "Cata!ogu<-  of  Ships'    is  cleur ; 

But    a   m(!re   modern    must    tie    moderate — 

i   tjijare  you,   then,   the   fiinnture   and  plate- 


[  LXXV. 

The  mellow  autumn  came,  and  with  It   came 

The  promised   party,  to  enjoy  its  sweets,. 
The  corn  is  cut,  the  manor  fiiH  of  game  ; 

The  pointer  ranges,  and  the  sportsman  beats 
In  russet   jacket: — lynx-like  is  his   aim, 

Full  grows  his   bag,  and  wonder/}//  his  feats. 
Ah,  nut-brown  partridges  !   ah,  brilliant  pheasants  • 
And  ah,  ye  poachers! — 'T  is  no  sport  for  peafcanir', 

LXXVL 

An  English   autumn,  though  it  hath   no  vines, 

Blushing  with  Bacchant  coronals  along 
The  paths,  o'er  which  the  fair  festoon   entwines 

The  red  grape  in  the  surmy  lands  of  song, 
Hath  yet  a  purchased  choice  of  choici\st   wines ; 

The  claret  light,  and  the  madeira  strong. 
If  Britain  mourn  her  bleakness,  we  can   tell  her. 
The  very  best  of  vineyards  is  the  cellar. 

LXXVH. 
Then,  if  slie  hath  not  that  serene  dechne 

Which  makes  the  southern  autumn's  day  appear 
As  if  't  would   to   a  second   sjiring   resign 

The  season,  rather  than  to  winter  drear, — 
Of  in-door   comforts   still  she  hath  a  mine, — 

The  sea-coal  fires,  the  earliest  of  the  year ; 
Without  doors  too  she  may  compete  in  mellow, 
As  what  is  lost  in  green  is  gam'd  in  yellow. 

LXXVHL 

And   Tor  the  etTeminate   vilk,<rgiatura — 

Rife  with  more  horns  than  hounds — she  hath  the  cnahC, 
So  animated  that  it  might  allur-e  a 

Saint   from    his  beads  to  join   the  jocund  race  ; 
Even  Nimrod's  sell   nught   leave   the   plains  of  Dura. 

And  wear  the   iMelton  jacket  for  a  space: — 
If  she  hath  no  wild  boars,  she  hath  a  tame 
Preserve  of  bores,  who  ougjit   to  be  made   game. 

LXXIX. 

The  noble  guests,  assembled  at  the  Abbey 
Consisted  of — we  give  the  sex   the  pas — 

The  Duchess  of  Fitz-Fuike ;   the  Countess  Crabbey; 
The  Ladies,  Scilly,  Busey  ;   Miss  Ecl.it, 

Miss  Bombazeen,  Miss  Mackstav,  Miss  O'Tabby, 
And  Mrs.  Rabbi,  the   rich  banker's  sipiaw: 

Also   the  Honourable  Mrs.  Sleep, 

Who  look'd   a  white  lamb,  yet  was  a  black  sheep. 

LXXX. 

With  other  countesses  of  Blank — but  rank  ; 

At  once  the  "lie"   and  the   "elite"  of  crowds  ; 
Who  pass  hke  water  tilter'd   in   a  tank, 

All   purged   and   pious  from   their  native  cloudrf , 
Or  paper  turn'd  to  money  by  the  Bank  : 

No  •  matter  how  or  why,  the  passport  shrouds 
The  "passeo"  and  the  past;  for  good  society 
Is  no  less  famed  for  tolerance  than  piety : 

LXXXI. 
That  is,  up   to  a  certain  point ;   which  point 

Forms  the  most  difficult  in  punctuation. 
Ap[)earanccs   appear  to  form   the  joint 

On  which   it   hing(!S   in   a  higher   station ; 
And   so   that.no  explosion  cry   "aroint 

Thee,  witch  !"  or  each  Medea   has   her  .Tason , 
Or   (to   the   point  with  Horace  and  witli  Pulci), 
"  Oinne  tulit  punctnm,  (piiP  iniscuit  utile  dulciy 

LXXXII. 

I  can't  exactly  trace  their  rule  of  right. 
Which   hath   a  little   leaning  to  a  lottery; 

T'v(!   seiMi  a  virtuous  woman   put  dovn   quito 
By  the  mere  combination  of  a  coterie: 


DON    JUAN. 


685 


Also  a  so-so  matron  hoMiv  fight 

Hit  way  back  to  t!ie  worlc    l)y  dint  of  plottery, 
And  shine  the  very  Siria   of  the  spheres, 
Fsc-ipiiig  with   a  few  sli;zht   scarless   sneers. 

LXXXIII. 
I've  seen  more  than   I'll  say: — hut  we  will  see 

How  our   rill(i:^'i(ilur(i  will   o.;t  on. 
The  party  niis;ht   consist  of  thirty-three 

Of  highest    caste — the  Hrainins  of  the  ton. 
've  named   a  f<'w,   not   foremost  in  degree, 
liif     a'?n   at    hazard   as  the,  rhyme  may  run. 
Bv  wav  of  si)rmkling,   scatte'r'd   amongst  these, 
There  also  were  some   I'-ish   absentees. 

LXXXIV. 

rh(M-e  was  Parolles,  too,  the  legal  huHy, 
Who  hunts   all   his  battles  to  the  bar 
Anii   senate:    when  invited  elsewhere,  truly, 

He  shows   more  ai)petite  for  words  than  war. 
There  was  the  voung  bard  Rackrhyme,  who  had  newly 

Come  out  and   glinuner'd  as  a  six-weeks'   star. 
There  was  Lord  Pyrrho,  too,  the  great  free-thinker; 
And  Sir  Jolm  Pottledeep,  the  mighty  drinker.    . 

LXXXV. 
There  was  the  Duke  of  Dash,  who  w^as  a — duke, 

"  Av,  every  inch  a"  duke  ;   there  were  twelve  peers 
Like  Charlemagne's — and   ;dl  such  peers  in   look 

And    intellect,  that  neither  eyes  nor  ears 
F'lr  conunoners   had  eve>-  them  mistook. 

'J'liere  were  the  six  Miss  Rawbolds— pretty  dears ! 
All  song  and  sentiment;   whose  hearts  were  set 
Less  on  a  convent  than  a  coronet. 

LXXXVL 
There  were  four  Honourable  Misters,  whose 

Honour  was  more  before  their  names  than  after; 
There  was  the  preux  Chevalier  de  la  Ruse, 

Whom  France  and  Fortune  lately  deign'd  to  waft  here, 
Whose  chiefly  harmless  talent  was  to  amuse; 

But  the  Clubs  found  it  rather  serious  laughter. 
Because — such  was  his  magic  power  to  please, — 
The  dice   seem'J  charm'd   too   with   his  rci)artees. 

LXXXVIL 
There  was  Dick  Dubious,  the  metaphysician, 

W^ho  loved  philosophy  and  a   good  dinner, 
Angle,  the  soi-disant  mathematician  ; 

Sir  Henry  Silver-cup  the  great  race-winner; 
There  was  the  Reverend  Rodotnont  Precisian  ; 

Who  did  not  hate  so  murh  the  sin  as  sinner; 
And  Lord  Augustus  Filz-Plantagenet, 
Good  at  all  things,  but  better  at  a  bet. 

LXXXVnL 
There  was  Jack  .Jargon,  the  gigantic   guardsman  ; 

And  General  Fireface,  fimous   in   the   fi«,'ld, 
\  arcat  tactician,  and   no  le-;s  a  swordsman, 

Who  ate,  last  war,  more  Yankees  than  he  kilPd. 
Tiiere  was  t!ie  wa<:gi>h  Welsh  Judge,  JetTeries  Hards- 
in;m, 
In  his  grave  office  so  completely  skill'd, 
1  !i  \t  when   a  culprit  came  for  condemnation. 
He  had   his  judge's  joke   for  consolation. 

LXXXIX. 
Go'H.  com])anv  's  a  cness-board — tliere  are  kings, 
Queens,  bishops,  ktiighis,  rooks,  pawns  ;  the  world  's 
a   game  ; 
^ave    that  the  puppets  pull   at  their   own   strings  ; 

^lethiiiks  nnv  Punch   hath  something  of  the  same. 
>iv  Muse,  the   bultertly,  liath   i)ut  her  wings, 

Not  stings,  and   flits  ihrough  ether  without   aim, 
A'ijzh'ina   -arely:    v.-ere  she   liut   a   hornet, 
Perhaps  there  miglit  be  vices  which  would  mourn  it. 


I  xc. 

I    I  had  forgotten — but  must  not   forget— 
1         An  orator,  the  latest   of  tin;   session, 
Who  had   deliver'd  well  a  very  set 

Smooth  speech,  his  first  and  maiilcnly  transgress  ou 
Ijpon   debate:    the    papers   eelioed   ye't 

With  this  debilt,  which  made  a  stroni;  impression. 
And  rank'd  with  what   is  everv  day  display'd — 
"The  best  first  spetich  that  ever  yet  was  made.*^ 

XCL 
Proud  of  his  "Hearhims!"   proud  too  of  his  vote, 

And  lost  virginity  of  oratory. 
Proud  of  hi-*  learning   (just  enough  to  quote), 

He  revell'd   in   his  Ciceronian   glory: 
With  memory  excellent   to  get   by  rote. 

With  wit  to  hatch  a  pun  or  tell   a  story. 
Graced  with  some  merit  and  with  more  effrontery, 
"  His  country's  pri(io,"  he  came  down  to  tb.e  country. 

XCII. 
There  al-^o  were  two  wits  by  acclamation, 

Longbow  t'rom  Ireland,  Strongbow  from  the  Tweed. 
Both  lawyers,  and  both  men  of  education  ; 

But  Stron<rbow's  wit  was  of  more   polish'd   breed: 
Longbow  was  rich   in  an  imagination 

As  beautiful   and  bounding  as  a  steed. 
But  sometimes  stumbling  over  a  potatoe, — 
While  Stronghow's  best  things   nught  have  come  fr  jm 
Calo. 

XCIIL 
Strongbow  was  like  a  new-tuned  harpsichord  ; 

But  Longbow  wild  as  an  if'^olian  harp, 
With  which  the  winds  of  heaven  can  claim  accord, 

And  make  a   nnisic,  whether  flat  or  sharp. 
Of  Stronghow's  talk  you  would  not  chatiiie  a  word  ; 

At  Longbow's  phrases  you  might   sometimes  carp ; 
Both  wits — one  born  so,  and  the  other  bred, 
This  by  his  heart — his  rival  by  his  head. 

XCIV. 
If  all  these  seem  a  heterogeneous  mass, 

To  be  assembled  at  a  country-seat, 
Yet  think  a  specimen   of  every  c^lass 

Is  better  than  a  humdrum  tete-a-ieie. 
The  days  of  comedy  are  gone,  alas  ! 

When  Congreve's  fool  could  vie  with  Moliere's  Mu 
Society  is  smoothed  to  that  excess, 
That  manners  hardly  ditier  more  than  dress. 

XCV. 
Our  ridicules   are  kept   in  the   back    ground, 

Ridiculous   enough,  but  also   dull  ; 
Professions  too   are  no   more  to  be  found 

Professional  ;    and  there  is  nought  to  cull 
Of  f  )llv's  fruit ;   for  though  your  fools   abound, 

They  're  barren,  and  not  worth  the  pains  to  pull. 
Society  is   now  one   jjolish'd  hor.le, 
Forin'd  of  two  mighty  tribes,  tlie  Bores  and  Bored 

XCVI. 

But  from  being  farmers,  we  turn  gleaners,  gleaning 

The  scanty  but  right  well  thresh'd   ears  of  truth  ; 
And,  gentle   reader!    when  you  gatlicr  meaning, 

You   mav  be   Boaz,  and  I — modest    Ruth. 
Furtl'.er    I'd  (juote,  but   Scripture,  intervi-mng, 
Forbids.      A   great   impression  in  my  youth 
I     *.Vas   mad<'   ly  Mrs.  Adams,  where  she  cries 
I     "  That  scriptures  out  of  church  are  blasphemies."' 

I  XCVII. 

j      But  when  we  can,  we   glean  lin   this  vile  age 
I  Of  chatf,  although   our  gleanings  \h'.   no.  grist. 

I      I   must   not  (juite  ontit  the  talking  sage, 
Kit-Cat,  the  famous  coiivc  sationist, 


68o 


B  \'  K  0  N'  S    POETICAL    W  0  11  K  S. 


^Vho,  in  his  commonplace!  hoo';,  hail   a  j)a<;e 

Prepared  each  morn  lur  t!V'ennii;-s.    "  List,  oh  hst  I"— 
»' Alas,  poor  ghost!" — What  luiexpected  woes 
Await  those  who  have  studied   their  boris-mots  I 

XCVIII. 

Firstly,  they  must  allure  the   conversation 
By  many  windmgs   to   their  clever  chnch  ; 

And  secondly,  must  let  slip   no  occasion, 
Nor  hate  (abate)  their  hearers   of  an   inrJi, 

But  take   an  ell — and  make  a  great   sensation, 
If  possible ;    and  thirdly,  never  Hmch 

When  some  smart  talker  puts  them  to  the  test, 

But  seize  the  last  word,  which  no  doubt's  the  best. 

XCIX. 
Lord  Henry  and  liis  lady  v>ere  the  hosts  ; 

'I'he  party  we  have  touch'd   on  were  the  guests  : 
Their  tai)le  was  a  board  to  tempt  even  ghosts 

To   pass  the  Stvx  for  more   substantial   feasts. 
[  will   not  dwell   u])on   ragouts   or  roasts. 

Albeit  all  human   history  attests 
That  ha[)piness  for  man — the  hungry  sinner  !  — 
Since   Eve  ate  apj)les,  much  depends  on  dinner. 

C. 

Witness  the  lands  which  "  liow'd  with  milk  and  honey," 

Held  out  unto  the   hungry  Isrnelites: 
To  this  we  've  added   since  the  love  of  money. 

The  only  sort  of  pleasure  which   requites. 
Youth  fatles,  and  leaves  our  days  no  longer  sunny  ; 

We  tire  of  mistresses   and   parasites  : 
But  oh,  ambrosial  cash  !   ah  !   who  would  lose  thee  ? 
When  we  no  more  can  use,  or  even  abuse  thee  ! 

CL 

The  gentlemen  got  up  betimes  to  shoot. 
Or  hunt  ;   the  young  be-cause  they  liked  the  sport — 

The  first  thing  boys  like   after   play  and   fniit : 
The   middle-aged,  to   make  the  day  moie  short  ; 

For  ejiiiul  is  a  growth  of  English   root, 

Th(.ugh   nameless  in   our  language  ;    we  retort 

The  fact  fir  v.'ords,  and   let  the   French  translate 

That  awful  yawn  which  sleep  cannot  abate. 

cn. 

7'he  elderW   walk'd  through  the    lilirary. 

And   tuuililed   books,  or  criticrsed   the   [lictures, 

Or   saunter'd   through   the    ganiens    piteously. 

And   niada   ni)on   tiie   hoiiious."  se>rr:d   strictures. 

Or  rode  a  nag  which    !r<ittf;d    iiMt,   to.i   hig';, 

Or  on   the  morning  jiapers   read  tiieir   lectures. 

Or  on   the  watch   their    Di.oing   eyes   would   fix, 

Longing,  at  sixty,   for   lue  liour  of  six. 

cin. 

But   none  were  "gene:"    the  jr''''"-!    li<Mir  of  nnif>n 
Was   rung    by  dinner's    knell;    till   then    :il!    w.;re 

Musters  of  tlunr  own   time — or   in   communion, 
Or  solitary,  as  they  chose  to   hear 

'i'lie   hoiiis,  which   how  So   pass  is   but  to  f<_;w  knovvn. 
Each   rose   up   at    his  own,   and    had   to  spare 

What   time   he  chose  for  dres>,  and   broke  his  fast 

Wliere,  when,  and  how  he   chose   for  that  repast. 

CIV. 

I  he  ladies — some   rougt.-d,  some  a   little   pale — 
Met  the  morn  as  they  might.     If  line,   they  rode, 

Or  walk'd  ;    if  foul,  tliey  r(;ad,  or  told   a  tah;  ; 
Sung,  or  r<  hearsed  the  last  dance   from   abroad 

Oi?«;uss'(l   the  fashion  which   might    ncAt   prevail  ; 
And  settled   b(jnnets  py  the   newest  code  ; 

Or  cramm'd  iwelve   sheets   into  one  little  hitor, 

I  o  make  each  corrc^sponde  U  a  new  d(;btor. 


CV. 

For    some   had   absent  lovers,  all   had   frnitLW 
The   earth  has   nothing   like   a  slie  epistle, 

And   har<lly  heaven — because   it   never  ends. 
I  love   the  mystery  of  a  female   missal. 

Which,  like   a  creed,  ne'er   says   a.i   it  intends, 

But   full    of  cunning   as   Ulysses'  whistle, 
AVhcm  he  allured    poor    Dolon  :— you  had   better 

Take  care  what  you  reply  to  such  a  letter. 

CVI. 

Then   there  we.  e  billiards  ;    cards   too,  bet  no  di.,« , 

Save  in   the  Clubs   no   man   of  honour  plays  ;-- 
Boats  when  't  was  water,  skaiting  when  't  was  ice, 

And  the   hard   frosts  des!roy'd   the  scentirg  days  : 
And   angling  too,  that  solitary  vice. 

Whatever  Isaac  Walton  sinsjs  or  says  : 
The  quaint,  old,  cruel  coxcomb,  m   liis   cjullet 
Should   have   a  hook,   and   a  sniall   trout  to   pull   it.' 

CVIL 
With  evening  came  the  banquet  and  the  wine  , 

The  conversazione ;    the  du(;t, 
Attuned   by  voices   more   or  less  divine, 

(My  heart  or   head   aches  with  the   memory  \et). 
The  four  Miss  Rawbohis   in    a  glee  would  shine  ; 

But   the  two  youngest  loved  more  to   be  set 
Down  to  the  harp — because  to   inusit^'s   charms 
They   added   graceful   necks,  white  hands   and   arms, 

CVIII. 

Sometimes   a  dance   (thor.gh   rarely  on  field  days,. 

For  then  the   gentlemen  were   rather  tired) 
Display'd   some   sylph-like  figures   in  its   maze  : 

Then  there  was  small-talk  ready  when   required  ; 
Fiiri.ition-- hut   decorous;    the   mere    praise 

Of  ,-hu-ms  that  should  or  should  not  be  admired  ' 
The   iiunters  fought  their  fox-hunt   o'er   again, 
And   then   retreated    soberly — at   ten. 

CIX. 

The   politicians,  in   a  nook   apart, 

Discuss'o    the    vvorld,   and   settled   all   the  spheres  ; 
'l^he  wits  vvatch'd   every  loop-liole   for   their  art. 

To   introduce   a  !)on-mot    h(;ad   and   ears  ; 
Small   is    the    rest   of  lliose  who  would    h-)   smart — 

A  moment's   (jood    thing   may  have  cost  them  years 
Befjre   they  find  an    hour  to   introduce   it. 
And  then,  even  Ihen^sotnG  bore  may  m;ike  them  lose  it. 

But   all  was   gentle  and  aristocratic 

in   this  our  party  ;    polish'd,  siru.oth,  and  cold, 

As    Phidian   forms  cut  out   of  marble   Attic, 
There  now  are   no    Squire  Wesierns,  as   of  old  ; 

.Viid    our    Sophias    are    not    so   emphatic, 
l^it   fur  as   then,   or   fnr<'r    to   behold. 

^Ve  've  no  accomplisiiM   blackguards,  like  Tom  .Tones, 

!?nt    gentlemen   in   sfays,   as  stiff  as  stones. 

CXI. 

Tlicy  separated   at  an   ear!\  hour ; 

That  is,  ere   midnight — whi<:h  is  London's  noon: 
But   in   the  country,  ladies  seek  their   bower 

A    little  earlier  than   the  waning  moon. 
Peace  to  tlie   slumbers  of  each   f)lded   Hower —  ' 

M;iy  tiie  rose  call  back   its  true  colours   soon  ! 
Good   liours  of  fair  cheeks   are  the   fairest  tinters, 
And  lower  tlu  price  of  rouge — at  least  some  wintera. 


DON    JUAN. 


637 


CA^TO  XIV. 


I. 

Iv  from   greai  Nature's,  or  our  own   abvso 
Of  thou^rlit,  >ve  ooiild   hiii   smitch  a  cfrtamtv, 

Perlia|)s    ii'.ai.kii,(i    ui>i,'ht    Had    (la;   palh    tlicv   miss;— 
Hut  then   'twould  s,)(.il   uuicli   ^^ood    plulosophy. 

Our   sysicni  eats   aiaitiicr  up,   ;uid   tiiis 
INltich   as   old   Saturn   ate   his   pr(m(M)v  ; 

Fi>r  when  his   pious   consort    ijave   him   stones 

In   I'cu  of  sons,  of  tlicsc   he   made  no  bones. 

II. 

But   system   doth  reverse   tiie   Titan's   breakfast, 
And   eats  her  parents,  albeit  the  lUL'estion 

Is  (hillcuit.      Pray  tell  me,  ean   you   make   fast. 
After  due  search,  your  faith   to   anv  question? 

Look  back  o'er  ages,  ere   unt-.  t!ie  stake   fast 

You  hind  yourself,  and  call  some  mode  the  best  one. 

iVdtliing  more  true   than    not   to   trust    vour  senses  ; 

Aiid  yet  what  are  your  other  evidences? 

III. 

•F<jr  me,  I   know  nouirht  ;    nothinsj  I  dcnv, 
Adnnt,  reject,  contenm  ;    and  what  know  7/n?/, 

Except  perhajjs  that   you  w  ere  horn  to  die  ? 
And   biith  may  after  all   turn    out  untrue. 

An   aue  may  come,  foi>l  of  eiernitv, 

U'lien   notliing  shall   hn   either  old  or  new. 

Death,  so  cah'd,  is  a  ihino  which  makes  men  ween. 

And   yet   a   third   of  life   is  pas^M    in   sleep. 

IV. 

A    sleep   without   dreams,  at'tcr   a  rougli   dav 

<_)f  toil,    is   what   we   ovet   most  ;    and    vet 
How   clay  shrinks  hack   from   more    (juieseent  clay  I 

The  very  suicide   that    jkivs  his  "debt 
At   once   without  instalments    (;iu   old    way 

Of  paying  debts,  which  creditors  reifrcn) 
Lets  out  impatiently  his  rushing  br(.>ath, 
Less  from  disgust  of  life  than   dread   of  death. 

V. 
'  r  is  round  him,  near   him,  lie-e,  tliere,  everv   where, 

And   there  's   a  coura<,'e   which    ijrows  out   of  fear, 
Perhaps  of  ail  most    desperate,  which   will  dare 

The  worst  to  krinuj  it: — when   the  mountains  rear 
Their   peaks   beneath   ynm-   human  foot,   and   there 

You  look  down  o'er  the   precipice,  and   drear 
The   gulf  of  rock  yawns, — you   can't  gaze  a   niinuie 
Without  an   awful  wish  to  plunge   within    it. 

V[. 

'Tis  true,  you  don't — bul,  pale  and  struck  with  terror, 
I'etire:   but  look   into  your  past  impression! 

And   you   will   find,  though   shuddering    at    the   mirror 
Of  your  own   thoughts,  in   all   their  self-confession, 

Tlie   hiiking   bias,  t)e   it   truth  or  error, 
To  the  zinkiiotun ;  a  secret    prepossession. 

To  plmise  with  all  your  t'cars — but  where  ?  You  know  nrit, 

And   ilial  's  the  reason  why  you  An — or  do  not. 

VII. 

But   what's  this  to  the  purpose?   you  will   say. 

Geni.    read<;r,  nothing;    a  mere  sp(!culation, 
For  which  my  sole  excuse  is — 'tis  my  way. 

Sometimes   irith  and  sometimes   without   oc(;'.sien. 
i  write   what's   npjiermosl",  wit'. out   delav  ; 

Tliis    narrative    is    not    meant    for   narration. 


But  a   mc'-e   airy  and  fantastic   basis. 

To  build   up  common   things  uith  c')innoni)laces. 

VMI. 

You   know,  or  don't  know,   that   ^reaf    Hacon   saitn- 
"Flinii  n;>  ^  straw, 't  will  show  iIk;  wav  tl.t   .vlnil 
l)lows  ;" 

And  such    a  straw,  borne  on   bv   hnnrui    ireala, 
Is   poesy,   ac(-oriling   as   the   mmd    a'ows  ; 

A    paper   kite   which   flies   'twixi   life     nd   (ieath, 
A   sIkkIow  whi(;h   the  onward   soul     u  bin  I  tiu.-'\t- 

An]    nmie 's   a   bubble   not   blown    up   for   [iraise, 

!/Ut  just    to   play   with,   as   an  infiiil   plays. 

IX. 

The    world   is  all   before  me — or  behind  ; 

For  I   have   se«.'n   a   portion   of  that   siime. 
And   (jui'.e  (Miough   for  me   to  kee|)   in    mind  ; — 

Of  passions,  too,  I've  provcsd  enoujib  to  lilame. 
To  the   great   pleasure  of  our  friends,   mankind. 

Who  like  to  mix  some  slight   alloy   with   fame  • 
For  I   was  rather  famous  in  mv  time. 
Until  I   fiirly   knock'd  it  up   with    rhyme. 

X. 

I  have  brought  this  world  about  mv  ears,  and  eke 
The  other:    that's  to  say,  the  clergy— who 

Upon  my  head   have   bid   their  thunders  break 
Id   pious   libels  by  no  nuians   a  few, 

And   y(!t  I  can't  help  scribbling  once   a   week, 
Tiring  old   readers,   nor   discoverini;    ne\v. 

In  youth   I   wrote   because   my   mind  w,is   full. 

And   now   because  I  feel   it  grownig  dnl'. 

XI. 

But  "why  then  publish?'' — Thenj  aro   n.,   -ev.'Uids 
Of  f[\.\\\c  or  profit,   when   the   svorld    i^rows   woa.."'. 

I  ask    it    turn, — why  do  you   plav  at   card^V 

Why  drink  I  Why  read? — To  make  some  huiir  v^s 
\lrcary. 

It    occn;iies   me   to  turn   back  retrnrds 

On   what    I've   seen   or   pondcrM,  sad   or   cheerv  j 

And    what   I   write   I   ca'M    upon    the  stream. 

To  b'.vuji    or   sink — I    hav(;   had    at    least  my   dream. 

XII. 

1   think   that  v;ere  I   certain  of  success, 
I   hardlv   co'.ild  compose   anotl'.er  line;: 

t^o   loni:   1  've    battled  either  more  or   less, 

'I'liat   no  defeat  can   drive  me  from   the   Nine. 

Tins   feeiuig  'l  is  not   easy   to  ex[)ress. 
And   yet  'l  is   not   affected,   I   opine. 

In    play,   ihere   are  two  pleasures  f^)r  your  choosing — 

The   oiH.'   IS   winning,  and  the  other  losing. 

XIIL 

Besides,  mv  IMuse  by  no  nutans  deals  in  fiction; 

She  gathers  a  re[)ertory  of  facts. 
Of  course   with  some  reserve  and   slight  restriction, 

But   mostiv   sings  of  human  things   and  acts — 
And   that  's  one  cause  she  meets  with  contradiction  : 

For  too  much  truth,  at  first  sight,  ne'er  attracts; 
And   were   her  o'lject  only  what 's   call'd    glorv. 
With  more  ease  too,  she'd  tell  a  different  story. 

XIV. 

Love,  war,  a  tempest — surely  there  's  variety ; 

Also  a  seasoning  slight  of  lucubration  ; 
A   bird's-eye   yi(;\v  too  of  thai   wild.  Society  ; 

A   slight   glance  thrown  on   men   of  every   stauoii. 
If  vou   have  nought  else,  here  's   at   least    satiety 

lioth  in   performance  and   in   prepnration  ; 
An  1  though  tiiese  lines  sTiouId  onlv  liiK,'  portmanteau' 
Trade   will  be  all   the  belter  for  tl^se  cant(i>. 


68P 


BYEON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XV. 

The   portiiin  of  this  world  which  I  at  present 
Have  taken  u]\  to  fill   the  following  sermon, 

Is  one  of  which  there  's  no  description  recent  ; 
The   reason   why,  i;    easy  to   determine : 

Although  It  seems   hotn   |)rominent  and  pleasant, 
There  is  a  sameness  in   its  ijems   and  ermitif!, 

A  dull   and  family  likeness   through  all  ages, 

Vi  no  great  promise  for  jjoelic  pages. 

XVI. 

With  much  to  excite,  there  's   little  to   exalt  ; 

Nothing  that   speaks  to   all  men   and   all    times ; 
A   sort,  of  varnish  ov(;r   every  fault; 

A   kind   of  commonplace,  even   in   their    crimes; 
Factitious  passions,   wit  without  much  salt, 

A  want  of  that  true    nature   which   sulilimes 
Whate'er  it  shows  with  truth  ;    a  smooth  monotony 
Of  character,  in  those  at  least   wfio  have  got   any. 

XVII. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  like  soldiers   oiT  parade. 

They  break  their  ranks   and  gladly  leave  the  drill ; 
But  then  the    roll-call  draws  them   back   afraid. 

And  thev  must  be  or  seem   what  they  were:    still 
Doubtless  it   is   a  brilliant   masquerade ; 

But  when  of  the  first   sight   you  have  had  your  fill, 
It   palls — at  least   it  did  so  upon   me, 
This  paradise   of  pleasure  and  ennui. 

XVIII. 
When  we  have  made  our  love,  and  gamed  our  gaming, 

Dress'd,  voted,  shone,  and,  may  be,  something  more  ; 
With  dandies  dined  ;    lieard   senators  declaiming; 

Seen  beauties  brought  to  market  bj'  the  score  ; 
Sad  rakes  to  sadder  husbands  chastely  taming  ; 

There 's  little   left  but   to  be  bored  or  bore. 
Witness  those   '•'■  d-<levft)it  jeuncs  homni-es^^  who  stem 
The   stream,  nor  leave  the  world   which   leaveth  them. 

XIX. 

'T  IS  said — indeed  a  general   complaint — 
That  no  one  has  succeeded   in   descri!)ing 

The  nmnde  exactly  as  they  ought  to  ])aint. 

Sotne  say,  that  authors  only  snatch,  by  bribing 

The  porter,  some  slight  scandals   strange  and  (juaint. 
To  furnish  matter  for  their  moral   gibing; 

And  that  their  books  have  but  one  style  in  common — 

My  lady's  prattle,  filter'd   through  her  woman. 

XX. 

But   this  can't  ■■■veil  be  true,  just  now  ;   f  )r  writers 
Are  grown  of  the  bmu  monde  a  pari   potential : 

f  've  seen  them  balance   even   the  scaJe  with  fighters, 
Especially  when   young,  for  that's   essential. 

Why  do   their  sket(;hes  fail  them  as  inditers 

Of,  wliat  they  detim  themselves  most  conseque  tial. 

The  real   portrait  of  the   highest   tribe? 

'T  is  that,  in   fact,  tlutre  's  little   to  describe. 

XXI. 

•'  Hand  ifjiiara  lorpwr  .-"  th(!se  are  nui^n;,  "  quarum 
Para  ])arva  /w,"   but  still   art  and  part. 
ow  I  could  much  more  easily  sketch  a  haram, 
A  bnttle,  wreck,  or  history  of  the  h(>art. 
Than   these  things  ;    and   besides,  I  wish  to  spare 'em, 

1-  :>r  r(;asons  whic-li  I   choose  to  keep  apart. 
'  Vituho  Cereris  anrrwin   fiui   nilisarif,''^ 
U'h    h   iiHians,  that  vulgar  peo]  e  must  not  share  it. 

XXII. 

\n  1   therefore  what   I  throw  off  />  ith^a! — 

Ln\v(;r'd,  leaven'd,   like  a   historv  <>f  Frcemas<  ns  ; 

Whicii   bears    ihi^  same   relation    to   the    real, 
As  </ii|>tain  Pai'rv'"  voyagi;    m;iv  do  to  Jason's. 


The  grand  Arcanum  's  not  for  men   to  see  all , 

My  music  has  some  mystic  diapasons  ; 
And  there  is  much  which  could  nc  t,  be  appreciated 
In   any  manner  by  the  uninitiated. 

XXIIl. 
Alas  !   worlds  fall — and  woman,  since  she  fell'd 

The  world   (as,  since  that   liistory,  less  polite 
Than  true,  hath   been  a  creed   so  strictl}  held)^ 

Has  not  yet  given   up  the  practice  quite. 
Poor  thing  of  usages  !   coerced,  coinpeird. 

Victim  when  wrong,  and  martyr  oft  when  right 
Condemn'd  to  child-bed,  as  men,  for  their  sins, 
Have  shaving  too  entail'd  upon  their  chins, — 

XXIV. 

A  daily  plague  which,  in  the  aggregate, 

May  average  on  the  wh(jle  with  parturition. 

But  as  to  women,  who  (^an  penetrate 

The  real  sufferings  of  their  she  condition? 

Man's  very  sympathy   w^ith  their  estate 

Has   nnudi  of  selfishness  and  more  suspicion. 

Their  love,  their  virtue,  beauty,  education, 

But  form   good  housekeeiters,  to  breed  a  nation, 

XXV. 

All  this  were  very  well,  and  can't  be  better ; 

But  even  this  is  difficult,  Heaven  knows  ! 
So  many  troniiles  from   her  birth   beset  her, 

Such  small  distinction  between  friends  and  foes,  . 
The  gilding  wears  so  soon  from  oiT  her  fetter, 

That but  ask   any  woman  if  she  'd  choose 

(Take  her   at  thirty,  that   is)   to  have  be(;n 
Female  or  male?   a  school-boy  or  a  queen? 

XXVI. 

"Petticoat  influence"  is  a  great  reproach, 

Which  even  those  who  obev  would  fain  be  thought 

To  fly  from,  as  from  hungry  pikes  a  roach  ; 

But,  since  beneath  it  upon  earth  we  are  brought 

By  various  joltings  of  life's  hackney-coach, 
I  for  one  venerate  a  petticoat — 

A  garment  of  a  mystical  sublimity. 

No  matter  whetlier  russet,  silk,  or  dimity. 

XXVII. 

Much  I  respect,  and  much   I   have  adored, 

In   my  young  davs,  tiiat   chaste  and   goodly  vei  ., 

Which  holds  a  treasure,  like  a  miser's   hoard, 
And  more  attracts  by  all  it   doth   conceal— 

A  golden  scabbard  on  a  Daniasijue  sword, 
A  loving  letter  with   a   mystic  seal, 

A  cure  ibr  grief — for  wliat  can   ever  rankle 

Before  a  petticoat  and   pee;)ing  ancle? 

xxvm. 

And  when  ui)on  a  sil(>nt,  su.len   day. 

With  a  Sirocco,  for  example,   blowing, — 

When  even  the  sea  looks  dim  with  all  its  spray 
And  sulkily  the  river's  ripple's  flowing. 

And  the  sky  shows  that  very  ancient  gray, 
The  sober,  sad    antithesis  to  glowing, — 

'Tis  pleasant,  if  then  any  thing  is  pleasant, 

To  catch  a  glimpse  even  of  a  pretty  peasant. 

X-XIX. 

W^e  left  our  heroes  and   our  lieroincs 

In   that   fiiir  clime  whicti  don't  depend  on   ciiniaJo 
Quite   inde|)en(lent   of  the  Zodiac's  signs, 

Though  certainly  mori;  dithcult   to  rhyme  at. 
Because   the   sun   and   stars,  and   atight  that   sliincs, 

iMounlains,  and  all  we   can   be  most  sublime  aU 
Ar(i  tlnsre  oft  dull  and  dreary  as  a  <ltin — 
Whether  a  sky's  or  tradesman's,  is  all  one. 


DON    JUAN. 


689 


XXX. 

•\nd   in-Hoor  life  is  loss   poetical; 

And   oul-of-donr  halli  showers,  and  niist^,  and  sleet, 
^Vitl    wliic-     I   could    not   brew  a    pastoral. 

JSiit   be  u  as   it    inav,  a  ban!  must   meet 
A!i   dillicnlties,  wlictlicr  i;rt'at   or  small, 

To  spoil  his  iindertakinij  or  comi)l(>tc, 
And  work  a^vav  like  spirit  upon  matter, 
KmbarrassM   somewhat   both  with  tire  and  water. 

XXXI. 

lan — in   this  respect   at    least  like  saints — 
Was   a'l   thii.irs   unto   people   of  all    sorts. 

And   livcil   contentedlv.  uithout   coinj)la!!!ts. 
In   camps,  in  ships,   in   cottai!es,  or  courts — 

Horn  with   tliat   happv  soiil  which   seldom  taints, 
And   •  :ini!ling  modestly  in  toils  or  sports. 

FTe  ''.,<:w.>e  could  he  most    thiiiizs  to   all  women, 

^ViiliDut   i!k-   co.\C(jnibrv  of  certain  ske  men. 

XXXII. 

A   r)X-h>int   to   a   foreiixner   is   strange  ; 

'T  IS  also   subject   to  the   double   danger 
Of  tumblint;   first,  and  havini;  in   exchanse 

Some  pleasant  jesiinw  at  the   awkward  stranger; 
Rut  Juan   hai*   been   earlv  taught  to  range 

The  wiMs,  as  doth   an  Arab  turn'd   avenger, 
So  that   !i4s   horse,  or  charter,  hunter,  hack, 
Knew  that   he   luul   a  rider  on   his  back. 

XXXIII. 

And  now  in   thi'^   new  field,  with  some   applause. 

He  clearM   hedge,  ditch,  and  double   post,  and   rail, 
And  never  crnne'l,*  and  made  but  few  '■'•  fauv  pecs,'" 

And  only  fretted  when   the  scent  'gan  fail. 
He  broke,  't  is   true,  some   statutes   of  the   laws 

Of  lunitinii — for  the  sagest  youth   is  frail  ; 
Rod^  o'er  the  hounds,   it   mav  be,  now  and  then, 
Ard  once  o'er  severrd   country  gentleiiien. 

XXXIV. 
l^ut,  on  the  whole,   to   general   admiration 

He  acijuitted  both   himself  and  horse  ;   the  squires 
Marvell'd  at   merit   of  another  nation  : 

The   boors  cried  ''Dang   it!    who'd  have  thougiit 
it  /"—Sires, 
Tha  Xe^tors  of    lie  si)orlin<i    generation. 

Swore  praises,  a',d   recall'd   their  fjrmer  fires; 
The   h^uitsmau's   <iyS  relented   to   a   grin, 
And  rated   him   almost    a  whipper-in. 

XXXV. 
Such  were  his  trophies  ; — not  of  spear   and   shield. 

But  leaps,  and  bursts,  and  sometimes  f)xes' brushes; 
Yet  I    must  own,— altliouiih   in    this    I   yield 

To   patriot  sy!n])athy  a   Hnton's  blushes, — 
He   thought   at   heart    like  courtly  Cliesterfield, 

Who,  after  a  long  ch:\se  o'er  hills,  dales,  buJies, 
And  what   not,   tiiou:.'b    he  rode   l)ey(..nd    all   |)rice, 
i  \5kM,  next    dav,   "  if  m«-u    ever   huiited   tiiict  V 

I  X\'XVI. 

I  He  al-o  had   a  quality  imcommon 

I  To   eirly  risers   after   a   lon^'  chase, 

;  Who  wake  in  wuKer   ere  the  co!:k  can  summon 

i  December's  drowsy  day  to   his  dull   race, — 

'  A  quality  agreeable   to  woman. 

When  her  soft  li(piid   words  run  on   apace, 
Who  likes  a  listener,  whether  saint  or  sinnei, — 
He  did   not   fail  asleep  just    after  dinner. 

XXXVII. 
Bnt,  light  and   airy,  stood  on  the  alert. 

And  shone   in  the«l)est   part  of  dialoj^ue, 
By  humouring  al  vavs  what   thty  might   assert, 
Andlistenin',aothc  topic-  most  in  vo^ue  ; 

44 


Now  grave,  now  gay,  but  never  dull   oi    pert; 

And  smiling  but  m  secret — ciuMung  ro:,'ue  ! 
He  ne'er  i)resumed  to  make  an  (  rror  clt;arer ; 
In  short,  there  never  was  a   better  lu.'arer. 

XXXVIII. 
And   then   he   danceil  : — all   foreii^uers   excel 

The    serious    Angles    in    !ne    elocjuence 
Of  j)antomime  ; — he   danced,    I   say,  ri^'ht  well, 

With  emphasis,  and  also  with  good  sense — 
A  thing  in  f  lotiiig  indispensable;  : 

He  danced  without  theatrical    pret(>nce, 
Not  like   a  ballet-master   in   the  van 
Of  his  drill'd  nymphs,  but   like   a  gentleman. 

XXXIX. 
Chaste  were  his  steps,  each  kept  within  due  bound 

And  elegance  was  sprinkled  o'er  his  fi^'ure  ; 
Like  swii't   Camilla,   he    scarce   skinmi'd   the  ground 

And   rather  held  in  than  put  forth   his  vigour, 
Anrl  then   he  had   an   ear  for   music's  sound. 

Which   might  defy  a   crotchet-critic's  rigour. 
Such   classic  jtns. — Rcins  Haws — set  off  our  hero 
He   glanced  like   a   personified  bolero  ; 

XL. 

Or,  like  a  flying  hour  before  Aurora, 
In  Guido's   famous   fresco,  which  alone 

Is  worth   a  tour  to   Rome,  althouHli   no  more  a 
Remnant  were  there  of  the  old  world's  sole  throne. 

"The   '■' Viut  cn^niilile''^  of  his  movements  wore 
Giace  of  the   soft   ideal,  seld.om   shown, 

And   ne'er  to  be  described  ;    f  )r,  to  the  dolour 

Of  barils  and   proscrs,  words   are   void   of  colo'ir. 

XLI. 

No  marvel  then   he  was  a  favourite ; 

A  full-grown  Cupid,  very  much   admired  ; 
A  little  spo'.l'd,  but   by  no   means  so  quite  ; 

At   least   he   kept    his   vanity  retired. 
Such  was   his   tact,  he  could   alike   delight 

The  chaste,  and  those  who  are  not  so  much  inspired 
The  Duchess  of  Fii/.-Fulke,  who  loved  '• /raras«'-iV," 
Began  to  treat  him  v.ith  some   small   "  agaceric.''' 

XLII. 

She  was   a  fine  and   somewhat  full-blown  blonde. 

Desirable,  distinuuish'd,  celebrated 
Ft)r   several  winters   in  the   grand,  errand  vionde. 

I  'd   rather  not   say  what   might    be   related 
Of  her  exploits,  for  this  were  ticklish  ground  ; 

Besides  there  might  be  filsehood  in  wliat's  stated: 
Her  late   perf>rmance   ba<l  l)een  a  dead  set 
At  Lord   Augustus    Fitz-Plantao:enet. 

XLIII. 

This  noble  personage  l)e;.'an   to   look 
A  littU;  black   upon  tins   new  fiirtation  ; 

But   such   small    licenses    must   lovers    brook, 
.Mere   freedoms  of  the  tenude  corporation. 

Woe  to  the  man   who  ventures  a   rebuke' 
'T  will   hut    precipitate   a   situation 

Extremelv  disagreeable,   but    common 

To  calculators,  when    they  couni    on   woman. 

XLIV. 

The  cir'de  smiled,  then  wbisper'd,  and  then  sneer'd; 

Tlie  Aliases  bridled,  and  tiie  matrons  frown'd  ; 
Some  hoped  things   miidn  not   turn  out  a<  thev  fear'ft 

Some  would  I'ot  ileem   such  womru  could   oe  found, 
.  Some  ne'er  believed  one-half  of  what  they  heard  ; 

Some  look'd   p-rpl,-x'd,  and  .^hers    h.ok'd  prof.iunJ  ; 
And    several    pitied  with    siii--ere    re^'ret 
Boor   Lord    Augustus   Fit/.-I'lantaize'iiet. 


690 


BYRON'S    rOETICAL    WORKS. 


XLV. 
But,  v^f-iii  is  oda,  none   ever  iianifvi   tlio  duke, 

Who,  one  miifht  tliink,  was  soin.jthiug  in  the  affair 
True,  he  was   absent,  an  1,  'twas   riniiour'd,  took 

But  small  coneern   abovit   tlie  when,  or  where. 
Or  what   liis  consort   did  :    if  he  could    brook 

Her  gayeties,  none  had   a   right    to  stare  : 
7'heirs   was  that  best  of  unions,    jiast    all    d(Mibt, 
Wh'.i  h  never  meets,  and   then.'fore  eaii'l   fall   out 

XLVI. 

But,  oh  that  I  should   ever  pen  so  sad   a  line! 

Fij-pJ  with  an   abstract  love   of  virtue,  she, 
!NTy  Dian  of  the  Ephesians,  Lady  Adeline, 

Began   to  think  the  duchess'   conduct  free  ; 
•legretting  much  that  she  had  chosen   so   bad  a  line, 

And  waxing  chiller  in  her  courtesy, 
L(  '-k'd  grave  and  pale  to  see  her  friend's  frairility 
F\ii    which  most  friends  reserve  tlieir   sensibility 

XLVII. 

There  's  nought  in  this  bad  world   like  sympathy  : 
'T  is  so  becoming  to  the   soul  and   face  ; 

Sets  to   sou  miisic  the  harmonious  sigh, 

And   robes   sweet  friendshij)  in    a  Brussels  lace. 

Without    a  friend,  what  were  humanity, 

To  hunt  our  errors   up  with   a  good   gra^e  ? 

(jonsoluig  lis  with — "  Would  you   had  thought  twice 

All  !    if  vou  had  but  follow'd   my   advice  !" 

XLVIII. 

Oh,  Job  !   you   had  two  friends :    one  's  quite  enoujjh, 

Especially  when  we  are  ill  at  ease  ; 
They're  but  bad  5>ilots  when  the  weather's  rough, 

Doctors  less  llimous  for  their   cures  than  fees. 
Let   no   man   grumble  when   his  friends  fall  off, 

As  tliey   will  do  'ike  leaves  at   the  first   breeze: 
Wluin  your   alTairs  come   round,  one  way  or  t'other. 
Go  10   the   coffee-house,  and  take   another.- 

XLIX. 
Rut  this  is   not  tny  maxim  :    had  i'   been, 

Some  heart  aches  had  been  spared   me ;  ye*  I  rare 
not — 
f   would   not  be  a  tortoise  in   his   screen 

Of  stubborn  f.hell,  which  waves  and  weatherwear  !)ot- 
*T  is   better  on  the  whole  to  have  felt  and  seen 

That  which   humanity  may  bear,  or  bear  not : 
'T  will  teach  discernmeni  to   the   sensitive, 
And  not  to  pour  their  ocean  in  a  sieve. 

L. 
Of  all  the  ho-rid,  hideous  notes  of  woe, 

Sadd(;r  than  owl-song.'j  or  the  midnight   olast. 
Is  that    jiortentons   phr?.se,  "  I   told  you  so," 

Utter'd  by  friends,  thoie  prophets  of  the  past. 
Who,  'stead  of  saying  what  you  now  should  do, 

Own   lliev  foresaw  tbit  you  would  fall  at  last, 
And  siilace  your  slight  lapse  'gainst  '•^bonos  mores,'''' 
With  a  long  memorandum  o!    old  stories. 

LL 
The  J^ady  Adeline's  serene  severity 

Was  not  confined   lO  feeling   for  her  friend, 
Whose   fame  slie  ruther  doubted  with  posterity, 

Unless  her  habits  should  begin  to  mend  ; 
But   Juan  also  shared  in  her  austerity, 

But  mix'd  \\ith   [lity,  pure  as  (j'er  was  penn'd  : 
ir.s    inevptTieiice   mov(;d   her   trentle   ruth. 
Ami  (as   her  juiiic^r  by  six  weeks)   his  youth. 

LII. 
These  forty  days'  advantage   of  lier  years — 

And   hers  were  those   whi.h  can  fici;  calcnI;ition, 
Boldly  referring  to  the   list    of  |)eers. 

And   iinble   Itiilhs,  nor  dread    the   enum<ration — 


I    Gave  her  a  right  to  have  maternal  feara 
j         For   a   young   gentleman's   fit  educatioii, 

Though  she  was  tar  from  that  leap-year,  whost  Icav. 
j     III  female  dates,  strikes   time  all  of  a  heap. 

Lin. 

This  may  be  fix'd  at  somewhere  l>efore  thirty — 

Say  seven-and-twenty  ;    for   I   never   knew 
The  strict(ist  in  chronology  and   virtue 

Advance  beyond,  while  they  could   [lasi  for  n<  •'. 
Oh,  Time  !    why  dost  not  pause  !   Tliy  scytiie,  so  di    ; 

With   rust,   should   surely  cease  to  hack   and  h«.vv 
Reset    it ;    shave  more  smoothly,  also  slow  -r, 
If  but  to  keep  thy  credit   as   a  mower. 

LIV. 
But  Adeline  was  far  from  that  ripe  age. 

Whose  ripeness  is  but  bitter  at  the  best : 
'T  was   rather  her  experience  made  her  sage, 

For  she   had   seen   the  world,  and  stood  its  te'--i, 
As   I   have   said    in — I    forget  wh;it   page  ; 

My  Muse  despises  reference,  as  you  have  gnessti 
Bv  this  time  ; — but  strike  six  from  seven-and-twent  v. 
And  you  will  find  her  sum  of  years  in   plenty. 

LV. 
At  sixteen  she  came  out ;    presented,  vaunted, 

She   put   all  coronets   into   jommotion  : 
At  seventeen  too  the  world  was   still   enchanted 

With   the   new   Venus  of  their  brilliant   o<'ean  : 
I    At  eighteen,  though  below  her   feet  still   panted 
j        A  hecatomb   of  suitors  with  devotion. 
She   had  consented  to  create  again 
That  Adam,  cali'd  "the   ha|)piest   of  men." 

LVI. 
Since  then   she  had  sparkled  through  three  glowitig 
winters. 

Admired,  adored  ;    but   also  so  correct. 
That  she  had   puzzled   all  the  acutest   hnitcrs. 

Without   the   apparel  of  being   cirf'ntnspt'ct ; 
Thev  could   not   even   glean   the   slightest   s])!inlei'! 

From   off  the   marble,  whicli    ban    no  defect. 
She  had  also  snatch'd  a   moment  since  lier  marriage 
To  bear  a  son  and   heir — and  one  nnscaniage. 

LVII. 

Fondly  the  wheeling  fire-riies   tlew  amnnd   Htt, 
Those  little   glitterers  of  the   London   niirht  ; 

But  none  of  these  possess'd  a  sting  to  wound  be.-- 
Slie  was  a  pitch   beyond  a  coxcomb's  thglit. 

Perhaps  she  vvish'd  an  aspirant  |)rofnunder ; 
But,  whatsoe'er  she  wish'd,  she   actci  right  ; 

And  whether  coldness,  pride,  or  virtue,  dignifv 

A  woman,  so  she's   good,  wlial  does  it  signify? 

LVIII. 

I  hate  a  motive  like  a  lingering  bottle, 

W(^h  with  the  landlord  makes  too  long  a  stani.1 

Leaving  all  clarelless  the  unmoisten'd  tiirottle, 
Es[)ecially  with  politics  on  hand ; 

I  hate   it,  as  I  hate  a  drove  of  cattle. 

Who  whirl   the  dust  Jis   Simooms  whirl   .he  saiui 

I  hate  it,  as  I  hate  an   argument, 

A  laureate's  ode,  or  servile  peer's  "  content." 

LIX. 

'Tis  sad  to  hack  into  the  roots  of  thing:-, 
They  are  so  much   intertwisted  with  the  earth 

So  tliat  the  branch  a  gondlv  vtM-dure  flings, 
I   reck   not    if  an   acorn   gave   it    birth. 

To  trace  all  actions  to  their  secn^t  springs 
^^'ould   make   indi'cd   some;    melancholy  mirth* 

But    this   IS   not    al    present    my  concern, 

\iid   I    \'\i'.'    von  to  wise  Oxenstiern.-' 


DON    JUAN. 


691 


LX. 

^Villi  the  kind  view  of  saviiiir  an  eclat, 

B>,.M   to   the   iliichess   and   (li|)lonialist, 
riie   Lady  Acieiuie,    as   soon 's   she   saw 

Tliat   Juan    was    unhkely  to    resist — 
(Fur   !'orii:.nie-s    don't    know  tliat   n  f,ii(.v  pas 

In  [•'Ihirlind   ranks  (juite  on   a  dltJerent  hst 
Fvoni  th'isi'   vf  other   lands,  nnhlessM  witli  jnri(\s, 
\\  hosi^   verdi^ct  for  sucli  sin   a  certain  cure  is)  — 

LXl. 
The  Ladv  Adeline  rcsolveii   to   take 

Siieh   measures  as   she   thon^Llht    miijht  best  in.pede 
riie   further  progress  of  this  sad   mistake. 

She   ihouirht  with   some   sim|)licity  indeed  ; 
But   innoc'Miee   is  bo'd  even   at   the   stake, 

And   simple  in   the  world,  and   doth  not   need 
Nor  use  those   palisades  by  dames   erected. 
Whose  virtue  lies   in  never  being   detected. 

Lxn. 

it  was  not  that  she   fear'd  the  very  v.-orst : 
His   <rru(-e  was   an   endnrinir,  married   man. 

And  was  not   likely  all   at    once   to   burst 
Into  a  scene,  and  swell   the  clients'   clan 

Of  Poctors'   Connnons;    but    she   (h-eadeii   first 
T!ie   masric  of  her  irrace's  talisman, 

A-r!   next   a  quarrel  (as  he  seein'd   to  fret) 

VV.rh  Lurd  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 

LXIII. 

Her  2'"ae,e  too   pass'd   fjr  beintj  an   intri'^rxnte^ 

And   s(»mewhat   mcc'uf'te  in  her  amorous  sphere  ; 

One  of  those   pretty,  precious  plajiues,  whic'n  haunt 
A  lover  with  canrices  soft   and   dear, 


That   like  t( 


iIk'V  can't 


Find  one,  each  dav  of  the  dciiiriitful  vc;;r  ; 
Bewitchinij,  torturing,  as  they  freeze  or  glow, 
And— what  is  worst  of  all — won't  let  you   go: 

LXIV. 

The  sort  of  thins  to  turn   a  yoimg  man's  head. 

Or  make  a  Werter  of  him  in   the  end. 
No  wonder  then   a  purer   soul   sliould   dreail 

This  sort  of  chaste  Uaison  for  a  friend  ; 
It  were   much   better  to  be  wed   or  dead. 

Than  wear  a  heart   a  woman  loves  to   rend. 
'T  is  best   to  pause,  and  tlimk,  ere  you    rush   on. 
If  that  a  '■'■hu'ine  furtum:''''  be   really  "/c^^/ie." 

LXV. 
And  first,  in    the  o'er'do'.vm::  of  her  h.oart, 

Which   re^iily  knew  or  tho^i^rln   it    knew  no   gnile, 
She   call'.!   her   husi)and    now  and   then   apart, 

And  bade   him   counsel   Juan.      Wiih   a  smile, 
Lord  Henrv   heard    h(  r   plans    of  arlhss   art 

To  wean  Don  Juan  from  the  siren's  wile  ; 
And   answcr'd,  like  a    s:atf<in;Mi    or   a    propiiet, 

LXVI. 

Fir--t!y,  he  said,  "he  never  mterfered 

In    anv  1>  idy's   busuiess   lint   th-   icmiz's:" 

Next,  that   "■he   never  judired    irom  what    appear'il, 
Witnoui    strong   reason,  of  tho-c   sr;rts  of  thin<.'s:' 

Fhirdiv,   that   "Juan    had    more   brain    than   li'-ard, 
And  >vris   not   to   be   tidd    m    leadinu-strini's  ;" 

And    fonr'hiv,  what    need    hardlv  be  sai  i   twice, 

"Tiiat   goou   luit  larely  came  from   good   advice."' 

Lxvn. 

And,  therefore,  doubtless,  to  ai)prf>ve  the  tnith 
Of  tiie  last  axiom,  he  advisi-d   his  spouse 

To  leave  the  parties  to  thnmselves,  forsoctth, 
Al  least  as  far  as  bicnseancc  allows: 


That  time  would  tein/icr  .Inan's  faults  (  f  yontli  ; 
That    young   men    rarely  ma<le    monastic  vows  • 

That   opposiiion  only  more    atta>:iies 

Hilt   here  a  messenger  brought  in   despatches  : 

LXVIII. 

.\nd   being  of  the  council   call'd  "the  privy." 

Lord  Henry  walk'd   into  his  ealnnet, 
To   furnish  mritter  for  sf)me  future  Livv 

To  tell   how  he   reduced   the  nation's  d(>bt  j 
And  if  their  full  contents   I  do   not   jjivt;  ve, 

It  is  because  I  do  ne>t  know  them  yet  : 
But  I  shall  add  them  in  a  brief  appendix. 
To  come  between  mine  epic   and   its   mdex. 

LXIX. 
But   ere  he  went,  he   added   a   slight   hint. 

Another   gentle   commonplace  or   two, 
Such  as   are  coin'd   in   conversation's  mint, 

And   pass,  for  want  of  better,  though   not  new 
Tlieii  broke  his  packet,  to  see  what  was   in  't. 

And    having  casually  nhtnced    it   l!n-oni;li, 
Relired;   and,  as   he  went    out,  calmly  kiss'd   lu-r. 
Less  like   a  young  wife  than   an   wj^rd  sister. 

LXX. 
He  was  a  cold,  good,  honourable   man, 

Proud   of  his   birth,  and   jiroiid  of  every  thing ; 
A  ijoodlv  spirit  fjr   a  stat-.'   divan, 

A  tisure  fit   to  walk   befire  a  kiiiir ; 
Tad,  stately,  form'd   to   lead  the  courtly  van 

On   birlh-ilavs,  irlorious  with   a   star  and   string, 
The  very  mode!   of  a   cliamberlain— 
And   such  I  mean  to  make  him  v.h.en   I   reign. 

LXXI. 

But   tliere  was   somefIiin<;  wantinj  on  the  whole — 


I    don't    know 


cannot  te..— 


\S'hich  prettv  women — the  sweet  souls! — call  som^. 

Certcs  it  was   not   body;    he  was  well 
Proportion'd,  as  a   poplar  or  a  pole, 

A  handsome  man,  that  human  miracle  ; 
And  in  each  circumstance  oi'  love  or  war, 
Had  still   preserved  his   perpendicular. 

LXXIL 

Still  there  was  somettiing  wantinf:,  as   I've   said — 

Tliat  undetinable  "j'e   ne  suis  ijuoi,''^ 
Which,  f(^r  what  I   know,  may  of  yore  have  led 

To  Homer's  Iliad,  since  it  drew  to  Troy 
The  Greek  Eve,  Helen,  from  the  Spartan's   bed  ; 

Thouii!i   on  the  whole,  no  doubt,  the  Dardan  boy 
Was   much   inferior  to  King -Menelaus  ;  — 
run    thus   it  is  some  women  will  betray  us. 

LXXIII. 

There  is  an   awkward   ticug  which  much   perjilexes, 
Fnless   liKe   wise  Tiresias  we  had  proved 

Bv  turn.s  the  diiferemce  ol' the   several   sexes: 

Neithei    can   show   quite  hoir  thevwjuld  be  loved. 

The   sens;;al   for   a  short   time  but   connects    is — 
Tlie  scntnnental   boasts  to   be   unmoved; 

But   both   touetiu.-r  r>rm   a   kind   of  centaur 

Upon  whose  back   'l  is   Iv-iter  not  to  venture. 

LXXIV. 

A  somethin(r  a!I-su(Tici":it    t'or  the  ludrt 

Is   tliat   tor  wnicii  ih';    'ex   are   always   seeking, 

iiut    how  to  till    up   that  s;imc  \-acaut   part — 

There  lies  the   rub — and  this  they  are  but  weak  m 

Frail   mariners   afloat  witliuut    a   cliart, 

Thevru!!  iietore  the  wind  tivro,;trh  hiirh  seas  iireakuif; ; 

And  when  they  have  made  the  shore,  through  every  aiock. 

Tis  odd,  or  odds,  it  may  turn  out  a  rock. 


692 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LXXV. 

I  nere  is  a  flower  callM  ♦'  love  in  idleness," 
For  whicii  see  Shakspeare's  ever-blooiniiig  garden; — ■ 

t  will   not  make  his  greaJ  description  less, 

And  beg  his  British  godship's  humble  pardon, 

[f,  in  my  extremity  of  rhyme's  distress, 

I  touch  a  single  leaf  where  he  is  warden ; 

B'lt  though  the  flower  is  ditferent,  wiih  the  French 

Or  Swiss  Rousseau,  cry,  '■'■  voila  la  pervenche  f^ 

LXXVI. 

Eureka!    I  have  found  it!    What  I   mean 

To  say  is,  not  that  love  is  idleness, 
Bui   that   in  love'  such   idleness  has  been 

An  accessory,  as  I  have  cause  to  guess. 
Hard  labour  's  an  indifferent  go-between  ; 

Your  men  of  business   are  not  apt  to  express 
Much  j)assion,  since  tlie  merchant-ship,  the  Argo, 
Convey'd  Medea  as  her  suuercargo. 

LXXVII. 

^^  B'-atus  ille  'proculP''   from  "  Hf  g-o/iw," 

Saith  Horace  ;   the  great  little  poet 's  wrong ; 
His  other  maxim,  '■'■  Nuaritnr  a  sociifi,''^ 

Is  much  more   to  the  purj)ose  of  his  song; 
Though  even  that  were  sometimes  too  ferocious, 

luiless   good  company  he  kept  too  long ; 
But,  in   his   teeth,  whatever  their  state  or  station. 
Thrice  hap|)y  they  who  have  an   occupation  ! 

LXXVIII. 
Adim   exchnnsed  his    ()aradise  for  [iloushing  ; 

Eve  made   u[)  miHine'-v  with   fig-leaves — 
The   oiiHif'st   knowledge  from  the  tree   so   knowing, 

As  far  as  I  know,  that  the  church  receives: 
And   since  that  time,  it    need  not    cost  much  showing 

That  manv  of  the  il's  o'er  which   mim   sirieves. 
And  still   more   women,  sprmg  from   not    tniploymg 
Sonip  hours  to  make  the   remnant  worth  enjoying. 

LXXIX. 
And  hence  high   life  is  oft  a   dreary  void, 

A  rack  of  pleasures,  where  we   must   invent 
A  something  wherewitha'l  to  he  annoy'd. 

Bards  may  sing  what  they  please   about   cuvJent; 
Contented,  when  translated,  means  but    cloyd  ; 

Ami  hence   arise  the  woes   of  sentiment. 
Blue  devils,  and   bhie-slockmgs,  and   roiimnces 
Keduced  to  practice,  and  peiform'd  like  dances. 

LXXX. 

I  do  d(?c!are,  upon   an    atiid;i\it, 

Romances   I  ne'er  read   like  those  I  have  seen; 
Nor,  if  unto  the  world   1  ever  gave   it, 

Would  some  believe  that   t^uch   a  tale   had  been: 
But   such  intent  I   never  had,  nor  have   it ; 

Some  truths  are    better  kept   be  hmd  a  screen, 
Ei-peciaUv  wher>   they  would   look   like  lies; 
I  Ji'Tt.oie  deal    "n   getieralitii.'S. 

LXXXI. 

'An   oyster  maybe   cross'd   in   love," — and  why? 

Bec.ause   he   mopdh   idly  in    Ids   sludl, 
A  )d    (leaves  a  hmcly  siibterraiiucous   sigli, 

>Iuch    us   a  monk   may  d.o  w  iihiir  his  cell  ; 
Kt.<\   a  /•">;">,«  of  monks,    their   [nt  ly 

Witn'  sl.:!h  hath    r>iind   it    difllcuft    to  dwell; 
Tho--e  v,-acta!.!rs    of  ihc  {^itl,.,!,..,    ,■!-(■.'.! 
\r(!   a[)l  exf(.-edingly  to   run    ta   seed. 

LXXXil. 


(lb,  Wi 


CO  !    tlmii    luaii   of  lilack   renown, 
Wiiosi;   merit  none  emdigli  can  sing  or  say, 
hou    iiasl   struck    om;   imiiieii<(;   (-otossiis    down, 
Tliou   moral  Washington  of  Africa! 


But  there  's  another  little  thing,  I  own, 
!         Which  you  should   perpetrate  some  sunimei  s  .lay 
:     And  set   the  other  half  of  earth  to  rights : 
;     You  have  freed  the  blacks — now  pray  shut  up  the  vvliittd 

I  LXXXIII. 

i     Shut  up  the  bald-coot  bully  Alexander ; 

!         Ship  oft'  the  holy  three  to  Senegal ; 

Teach  them  that  "  sauce  for  goose  is  sauce  for  gt-nder, 

And  ask  them  how  they  like  to  be   in   thrall. 
Shut  up  each  high  heroic  salamander, 

Who  eats  fire  gratis  (since  the  pay's  but  small) 
Shut  up — no,  not  the  king,  but  the  pavilion, 
Or  else  't  will   cost  us   all  another  million. 

LXXXIV. 
Shut   up  the  world  at  large  ;   It    -Bedlam  out, 

And  you  will  be  perhaps  surprised  to  find 
All  things  pursue  exactly  the*  same  route, 
As  now  with  those  of  soi-disani  sound  mind. 
I    This  I  could  prove  beyond  a  single  doubt, 
i         Were  there  a  jot  of  sense  among  mankind  ; 
But  til!   that  point  ri'  nppui  is  found,    alas  ! 
Like  Archimedes,  I  leave  earth  as  't  was. 

LXXXV. 

Our  gentle  Adeline  had  one  defect — 

Her  heart  was  vacant,  though  a  sj^lendid   mans' on  ; 
Her  conduct  had  been  perfectly  correct, 

As  she  had  seen   nought  claiming   "is  expansion. 
A  wavering  spirit  may  be  easier  wreck'd. 

Because  'tis  frailer,  doubtless,  than  a  staunch  ore  ; 
But  when  the  latter  works  its  own   undoing. 
Its  inner  crash  is  like  an  earthquake's  rum. 

LXXXVI. 
She  loved  her  lord,  or  thought  so ;   but  that  lovo 

Cost   her  an  elfort,  which  is  a  sad  toil, 
The  stone  of  Sysiphus,  if  once  we  move 

Our  feelings  'gainst  the   nature  of  the  soil. 
She  had  nothinii  to  complain  of,  or  reprove, 

No  bickerings,  no  connubial  turmoil  : 
Their  union  was  a  model   to  bidiold. 
Serene  and  noble, — conjugal   but  cold. 

LXXXYII. 

There  was  no  great  disparity  of  years. 

Though  miich  in  temper  ;   but  they  never  clash''d  : 

They  moved   like  stars  united  in  their  sj)herf.s, 
Or  like  the  Rhone  by  Leman's  waters  wasii  d, 

Where  mingled  and  yet  separate  ap;'ears 
The  river  from  the  lake,  all  iilneiy  dash'd 

Through   the  serene  and  [)lacid   glassy  de<>p. 

Which  fain  would  lull  its  river-child  to  sleep. 

LXXXVIII. 

Now,  when  she  once  hud  ta'en  an  interest 
In   any  thing,  however  she  might    llatter 

Herself  that    her  mtentions  were  the   best. 
Intense   intentions  are  a  dangerous  matter: 

Impressions  were   much   stronger   than   slu;   iiuess'J, 
And  jjather'd  as  they  run,  like   <:rowmg  water 

[Tpon    her  mind  ;    the   more   so,   as  her  br.>ast 

Was  not  at  first  too  readily  impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

Hut  when   it  was,  she  had   that   lurking  demon 
Of  doii!)le  nature,  and  thus    Joubly  namcd^ 

Pirniness   yclept   in    heroes,  kii  gs,  and   seamen, 
That  is,  when    tlx'y  siiece-d  ;    but    greatly  blamej 

As   iili^tintirii,   both    in   men   and  women, 

Whene'er  th-'ir  triumph  pale-^,  nr  star  is  tamed  :- 

And    'twill    |)erplev   ihi'    casuist-;   in    iimrahtv, 

To  (ix   the  d  le   bounds    of  this  daiiaerous  iiuaiitv. 


DON    JUAN. 


693 


XC. 

\lrj  Bonaparte  svon  at   W titer lOO, 

It  hr.d  been  tlniiiie.-^s  ;    now   'tis   pertinacity: 

MiK-;t  the   event  decide  between   the  two? 
I  leave  it  to  your   people  of  sairiu'ity 

To  draw  the  line  betueen  llie  faipe   and   true, 
If  such  can   e'er  be  drawn  by  man's  capacity ; 

1N1\  business  is  with  Lady  Adeline, 

Who  in   her  wav  too  was   a  iieroine. 

XCI. 

Sh<>  knew-  not  her  own   heart ;   then    how  should   I  ? 

1   think   not   she  was  then   in  lovi;   with  Juan: 
If  so,  she  would   luive  had  the  stl•(>ll^.'th  to  ily 

Tlie  wild   seiisaiion,  unto  her  a  new  one: 
She  inerelv  f(  It   a  coinnion  sym])alhy 

(I  will  not   sav  it   was  a  false  or  true  one) 
In   hiiu,  because  she  thou<rhl  he  was  in  danijer — 
Her  husband's  friend,  her  own,  young,  and  a  stranger. 

XCII. 

She  was,  or  thouiilit  she  was,  his  friend — and  this 

Without  the   laice  of  f>-iei.dship,  or  romance 
Of  Platon-sui,  which  leads   so  oft  amiss 

Ladies  who  have  studied  friendshij)  but  in  France, 
Or  (Jertnaiiy,  whore  people  purely  kiss. 

To  thus  much  Adeline  would  not   advance  ; 
IJut  of  such  friendship  as  man's  may  to  man  be, 
She  was  as  capable  as  woman  can  be. 

XCIIL 
No  doubt  the  secret  inPuence  of  the  sex 

Will  there,  as  also  in  the  ties  of  blood, 
An  innocent   predominance  annex, 

And  time  the  concord  to  a  finer  mood. 
If  free  from   ])assion,  which   all  friendship  checks, 

And   vour  true   feelinirs   fully  understood, 
No  friend  like  to  a  woman  earth  discovers, 
So  tliat  you  have   not  been   nor  will  be  lovers. 

XCIV. 
Love   bears  within  its  breast   the  very  germ 

Of  chatiire  ;   and  how  should  this  be  otherwise? 
That  violent  things  more  quickly  find  a  term 

Is  shown   throui/h  Nature's  whole  analogies: 
And  how  should  the  n-.ost  fierce  of  all  be  firm  ? 

Would  you  have  endless  lightning  in  the  skies  ? 
Methink.s  love's   very  title  says  enough  : 
How  should  "  the  tender  passion"  e'er  be  tough  ? 

XCV. 
Alas  !    by  all  experience,  seldom  yet 

(I  niereU  q  inte  what  I  have  heard  from  many) 
Had   lovers  not  sjine   reason   to   regret 

The   passion  winch  made  Solomon   a  Zany. 
I've  also  seen   some   wives    (not  to  forget 

The  marriage  state,  the  best  or  worst  of  any) 
Who  were  the  very  [)ara<i()ns  of  wives, 
Yet  made  the  misery  of  at  least  two  lives. 

XCVI. 

I'v^  also  s<'en  some  iemale  /rjc??cZ.'?   ('tis  odd, 
}»iil  true — as,  if  expedient,  I  could  ])rove) 

rii.U  fiithful  were,  throu:;h  thick  and  thin,  aliroaa, 
^..j.  home,   far  moje  tiian  ever  yet  was  love — 


Wiio  did   not  quit  me  wlicn  oppression  trod 

I'lioM   me;    wliom  no  scandal  could   remove, 
Who  f(>uii;ht,  and  fight,  in  absence  too,  my  balU<  a. 
Despite  the  snake  society's  loud  rattles. 

XCVII. 

Whether   Don  Juan  and  chaste  Adeline 
Cirew  fii(!nds  in  this  or  any  other  sense^ 

Will  be  dis(Hiss'(l  hereafter,  I  opiin; : 
At   present   I   am   «lad  of  a  pretence 

To  leave  them  hovering,  as  the   effect  is  fine. 
And   keeps   the  atrocious   reader  in  suspense; 

The  surc^st  wav  for  ladies  and  for  books 

To  bait  their  tender   or  their  tenter  hooks. 

xcvin. 

Whether  thev  rode,  or  walk'd,  or  studied  Spanish, 
To   read   Don   Quixote  in  the  original, 

A   pleasure  bef  )re  which  all  others  vanish  ; 

\Vhelher  th(!ir  talk  was  of  the  kind  call'd  "  smal 

Or  serious,   are  the  topics  I  must  banish 
To   the   next  canto  ;   where,  perhaps,  I  shall 

Sav  something  to  the  purpose,  and  dis[)lay 

Considerable  talent  irr  my  way. 

XCIX. 

Above  all,  I  beg  all  men  to  forbear 

Anticipating  aught  about  the  matter : 
Thev  '11  only  make  mistakes  about  the  fair, 

And  Juan,  too,  especially  the  latter. 
And   I   shall   take  a  much  more  serious  air 

Than   I   have  yet  done  in  this  epic  satirc: 
It  is  not  clear  that  Adeline  and  Juan 
Will  fall ;    but  if  tliey  do,  't  will  be  their  rutr. 

C. 
Rut  £rcat  things  spring  from  little  : — would  you  t!ii'i» 

That,  in  our  youth,  as  dangerous  a  passion 
As  e'er  brought  man  and  woman   to  the  brink 

Of  ruin,  rose  from   such    a  slight   occasion 
As  few  would  ever  dream  could  form  the  link 

Of  such   a  sentimental  situation? 
You  '11  never  guess,  I  '11  bet  you  milhons,  millianls — 
It  all  sprung   from  a  harndess  game   at  billiards. 

CI. 
'T  is  strange — but  true;   for  truth   is  always   strange. 

Stranger  than   fiction  :    if  it  could   be  told, 
How  much  would  novels  gain  by  the  exchange  ! 

How  ditferently  the  world  would   men   behold! 
How  oft  would   vice  and  virtue  |)laces  change ! 

The  new  world  would  be  nothing  to  the  old, 
If  some  Columbus  of  the  moral   seas 
\V'ould  show  mankind  their  souls'  antipodes. 

CII. 
What  "  antres  vast  and   deserts  idle "  then 

Would   be  discover'd  in  the   human  soul ! 
What  ice-bergs  in   the  hearts  of  mighty  men, 

\Vith  self-love  in  the  centre   as  ,lieir   pole! 
What  Anthropophagi  are   nine  of  ten 

Of  those  w  ho  hold   the  kingdoms  in  control ! 
Were  things  but  only  call'd  by  their   righ»   rdnn\, 
CiL'sar  himself  would  be  ashamed  of  fane. 


694 


BYRON'S    POETIOAL    WORKS. 


CANTO  XV. 


I. 

Ah  ! what  should  follow  slips  from  my  reflection  : 

Whatever  follows  ne'eriheless  may  be 

As  a  propos  of  hope  or  retrospection, 
As   though   the  lurking  thought   had  follow'd  free. 

All   present   life   is  but  an   interjection, 
An  "Oh!"  or  "Ah!"  of  joy  or  misery, 

Or  a  "  Ha  !  ha  !"  or  "  Bah  !" — a  yawn,  or  "  Pooh  !" 

Of  which   perhaps   the  latter  is  most  true. 

II. 

But,  more  or  less,  the  whole  's  a  synocope, 
Or  a  singultus — emblems  of  emotion, 

The  grand    antithesis  to  great  ennui, 

Wherewith  we  break  our  bubbles  on   the  ocean, 

That   watery  outline  of  eternity, 

Or  miniature  at  least,  as  is  my  notion, 

Whicli  ministers  unto  the  soul's  delight, 

In  seeing  matters  which  are  out  of  sight. 

III. 

But  all  are  better  than  ihe  sigh  supprest. 
Corroding  in  the  cavern  of  the  heart, 

JMuking  the  countenance  a  mask  of  rest. 
And  turning   human   nature  to  an  art. 

Fe.v  men  dare  show  their  thoughts  of  worst  or  best 
Dissimulation  always  sets  apart 

A  corner  for  herself;   and  therefore  fiction 

Is  that  which  j)asses  with  least  contradiction. 

IV. 

Ah!    who  can  tell?    Or  rather,  who  can  not 

Remember,  without  telhng,  passion's  errors  ? 
The  drainer  of  oblivion,  even  the  sot, 

Hath   got  blue  devils  for  his  morning  mirrors  : 
What  though  on   Lethe's  stream  he  seem   to  float, 

He  cannot  sink  his   tremors  or  his   terrors  ; 
The  ruby  glass  that  shakes  within  his  hand 
Leaves  a  sad  sedmient  of  Time's  worst  sand. 

V. 
And  as  for  love — Oh,  Love  ! We  will  proceed. 

The  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville, 
A  pretty  name  as  one  would  wish  to  read, 

IMust  perch  harmonious  on  my  tuneful  quill. 
There  's  music  in   the  sighing  of  a  reed  ; 

There  's  music  in   the   gushing  of  a  rill  ; 
There  's  music   in  all  things,  if  men  had   ears  : 
riuir  earth  is  but  an  echo  of  the  spheres. 

VI. 

T!ie  Lady  Adeline,  right  honourable. 

And   honour'd,  ran  a  risk  of  growing  less  so  ; 

Por  few  of  the  soft  sex  are  very  stable 

In  their  resolves — alas!    that   I  shouki  say  so ! 

Tliey  differ  as  wine  ditfers  from  its  label. 

When   once  decanted  ; — 1    presume  to   guess   so, 

Sut  will  not  swear :   yet  both  upon  occasion. 

Till  old,  may  undergo  adulteration. 

vn. 

Btit  Adeline  was  of  the  purest  vintage. 
The  unrningled  essence  of  the   jrrape  ;    and  yet 

rtright   as  a  new  Napoleon  from  its  mintage. 
Or  glorious  as  a  diamond   riehiy  set ; 

A  page  where  Time  should   hesitate  to  jirinf   age. 
And  for  which  Nature  might  forego  her  debt — 


Sole  creditor  whose  process  d'lth  involve  m  'l 
The  luck  of  finding  every  body  solvent. 

VIII. 

Oh,  Death  !    thou  dunnest  of  all  duns  !    tin  i  dailj 

Knockest  at  doors,  at  first  with  modest   ta[). 
Like  a  meek  tradesman  when  approaching  paleiv 

Some  splendid  debtor  he  would    take  by  sap. 
But  oft  denied,  as  patience  'gins  to  fail,  he 

Advances  with  exas[)erated  rap, 
And    (if  let  in)   insists,  in   t(!rms   unhandsonK» 
On  ready  money,  or  "  a  draft  on  R;'nsom.' 

IX. 
Whate'er  thou  takest,  spare  awhile  poor  B-;anty  ' 

She  is  so  rare,  and  thou  hast  so  much  prey. 
What  though  she  now  and  then  may  slip  from  duty, 

The  more  's  the  reason  why  you  ought  to  stay. 
Gaunt  Gourmand  !   with  wlK)le  nations  for  your  booty 

You   should   be  civil  in  a  modest  way  : 
Supj)ress  then  some  slight  feminine  diseases. 
And  take  as  many  heroes  as  Heaven   pleases. 

X. 

Fair  Adeline   the  more  ingenuous 

Where  she  was  interested  (as  was  said). 
Because   she  was  not  ajjt,  like  some  of  us. 

To  like  too  readily,  or  too    high   bred 
To  show  it — points  we  need   not  now  discuss — • 

Would  give  up  artlessly  both   heart   and   head 
Unto  such  feelings  as  seem'd   innocent, 
For  objects  worthy  of  the  senument. 

XI. 
Some  parts  of  Juan's  history,  which  rumour. 

That   live  gazette,  had  scatter'd  to  disfigure, 
She  had  heard  ;  but  women  hear  with  more  s^ood  humouj 

Such  aberrations  than  we  men  of  rigour. 
Besides  his   conduct,  since   in  England,  grew  more 

Strict,  and  his  mind   assumed  a  manlier  vigour; 
Because  he  had,  like   Alcibiades, 
The  art  of  living  in  all  climes  with  ease. 

XII. 

His  manner  was  perhaps    the  more  seductive. 

Because  he  ne'er  seem'd  anxious  to  seduce  , 
Nothing  affected,  studied,  >-)r  constructive 

Of  coxcombry  or  conquest  :   no  abuse 
Of  his  attractions   marr'd  the  fair  perspective. 

To  indicate  a  Cupidon   broke  loose. 
And  seem  to   say,   "  resist  us  if  you  can " — 
Which  makes  a  dandy  while  it  spoils  a  man 

XIIL 
They  are  wrong — that 's  not  tlie  way  to  set  about  it ; 

As,  if  they  told  the  truth,  could  well  be  shown. 
But,  right  or  wrong,  Don  Juan  was  without   it ; 

In   fact,  his  manner  was   his  own   aione : 
Sincere  he  was — at  least  you  could   not  doubt  it. 

In   listening  mere'y  to  his  voice's  tone. 
The  devil  hath  not   in  all   his  quiver's  choice 
An  arrow  for  the  heart  like  a  sweet  voice. 

XIV. 

By  nature  soft,  his  whole  address  held  off 

Susjiicion  :  though  not  timid,  his  regard 
Was  such   as  rather  seem'd  to  keep  aloof. 

To   shield   himself,  than  put  you  on   your   guard 
Perhaps  't  was  hardly  quite   assured   enough. 

But  modesty's  at  times  its  own  reward. 
Like  virtue;  and  the  absence  of  pretension 
Will  go  much  further  than  there  's  need  to  mer  tion. 

XV. 
Serene,   accomplish'd,  cheerful,  but   not  loud; 

Insinuating  wAhout  insinuation; 


DON    JUAN. 


C9o 


Observant  o''  llie  foililes  o<  the   cr,-wH, 

Vet   n   "er   Ix'irtiyliio   this    in    conversation  ; 

Proml  wiih   tlie   [(niud,  yd  rourteoiisly  prnn.l, 
So    ;i<   to   make   th(!Mi    feel    he   knew    his   station 

And    thi'irs: — uishoiii    a   struiiiile   for    jirioiily, 

H'?    n"ithei    hrook'J    nor  elaiuiM   sujienonty. 

XVI. 

nat   IS,  wi'h   nu-ti  :    with  women,  lie  was  what 
They  (leased  to  mak(!  or  take  him  tor  ;   and   their 

Iiiiai:uia I  "s   (juite   eMoii<rh   for   that  : 

So   ilial    the   outhne's   tolerahiv  lair, 

Tliey  lill   tr.e  canvas   up— and   "  verbmn   sat," 
It'  oiii'e   ttieir    phantasies    he    l)roni.'ht    to   hear 

I'pon  ai\  oh]eei.  whether  saii  or  phiytul, 

Thev  am  transhiinre  brighter  than  a  llapliael. 

XVII. 

Adehue,  no  deep  Jndije   of  eharaeter. 

Was   apt   to   a(1d   a  eoh)nrini.'  from   her  own. 

'T  is  th'is   the    >T"<id    will   amiably  err, 

And  eke   the  wise,  as    has   been   often  shown. 

Rxperienec    is    the   chief  iiiiiios'ipher, 

Ku;    saltiest  when    !iis   scieiiCL'   is  well   known: 

And    persecute.!    sa<:es   teach    the    seliools 

Their  f'l'.y  in   i;)rj.'ettini;  lliere   are  fools. 

XVIII. 

Was    it    no!   so,   areat    Locke'?    and    greater   Bacon? 

Gr.'at    SoTates/     And    thou,   dixiner   still,' 
Whose    lot    It    IS    bv  man    to   be    mistaken. 

And  thv  iMire  creed   made  sanction   of  all   ill? 
Redeeniiiic;   worlds    to   be    bv   biirois   shaken, 

[low  was    thv    tod    rewarded  /    ^Vc    nn^'ht    fill 
^"olunies  witii   similar   sad   iHiisIrations, 
Bu;   leave  tiie.a   to   tlie  conscience  of  the   nations. 

XIX. 

I    perch   upon   an   hmnbh^r   [iromontory 

Amidst    life's   infinite   variety: 
With    no  gre.it  care  for  what   is  nicknamed   gloiy, 

Hnl    speeulatinii  as   I   cast -mine   eye 
On   wliat    iiiav  su'l    <yr   m.iv  not    suit    mv  story, 

And   never   straining   hard   to   versify, 
[   rattle   on    evacilv    as    I  'd   talk 
Willi   any  bodv  in  a  ride  or  walk. 

XX. 

I   don't    know  ih.at   there   niav  be  much  ability 
Shown   in   ti.is   sort   of  desultory  rhyme  ; 

But   there's   a  conversational   facility, 

\Vhich   mav  rotund   otf  an   hour  upon   a  time. 

Of  this   I'm    suri"   at    least,   there's    no   servility 
In   mine    irr.'^uiarity  of  chime, 

VS'luch   ri'.igs  \vli:i'  's   uppermost    of  new  or   Iioary, 

Jur^t    as    I   t'eel    t!ie   •' impro\-visatore." 

XXI. 

•Omnia   vuit   hfilr   >l;i.!ho    dicere— die   aliquando 
F:t   /)r,u,  -he   nnitni'ti,  die   aliiiiaiKio  male.'" 

Tiie   first    is    railicr   more   tlian    mortal  car  do  j 
The   second    mav   be   sadly  done   or    gaily  ; 

The  thirf4   is   sn'.l    more  <lif;icult    to   staiid    to; 
Tiie  fourt.i  we.  hear,  and  s.^e,  and  sav  too,  daily; 

The  whole   -og.iher   is  what   I  couM  wish 

To  per\e   in  this  conundrum   of  a  dish. 

XXII. 

A   modest    hojie — but    modesty  's  my  forte, 
And   pri  le    mv  f  nblt;  :  — let    us   ramble   on. 

I   meant    to  make   this   jioi'm   very  short, 

But   now  I  ean't  tell  where   it   may  not  run. 

>o  dcubi,   if  I   had  wish'd    to   pay  my  court 
To  crit'cs,  or  to  hail  the  .ttHin^  sun 


Of  tvranny  of  all  kinds,  mv  cncision 

Were   more  ; — but   I  was  horn  tor   oji]  osiaon. 

XXllI. 

But   then   Vis   mostly  on   the  weakei    side: 

So   that    1    verily  ii.-ueve   if  they 
Who   now  are    t»a-^kiiig   in   their  tlill-blonii    pride, 

Were  shaken  down,  and    "dogs  had  had  their  dav," 
Though    at    the   first    1    might    by  chance  deride 

'I'lieir   lumlile,   I   should    turn  the   other  way 
And  wax   an    ullra-royaiist    in   loyallv. 
Because    I    hate   even   democratic   royalty. 

XXIV. 

[   think    I   should    have    made   a    decent    spouse, 
If  I    had    iie\('r    proved    the   soft   condition  ; 

1   tniiik    I    should    have    matle   monastic  vows, 
But  for  mv  own  iieculiar  superstition: 

'Gainst  rhvine  I  never  should  have  knock'd  my  bro.vt 
Nor  broken    mv  own   head,  nor  that  of  Prisciaii  j 
i     Nor  worn   the    motley  mantle   of  a  poet. 

If  some  one   had   not  told  me   to  forego  it. 

XXV. 

But  "  laisscT  a'ler" — knights   and   dames   I   sing. 

Such    as  the  times   mav  furnish.     'T  is  a  flight 
Which   seems  at   first  to   need   no  lofty  wing, 

Plumeti  bv  Longiniis  or  the   Stagyrite  : 
The  ditficiilty  lies   in   colouring 

(Keeping  the  due   proportions   still   in  sight) 
With   nature  manners  wiiich  are   artificial, 
And   rendering   general   tliat  which   is   especial. 

XXVI. 
The   d.rf'erence   is,   that    in   the  days   of  old 

>Ien  made  the  maimers  ;    manners  now  make  men- 
Piim'd   like   a  tiock,  and  Hceced   too   in   their   fold. 

Al  least  nine,  and  a  ninth  beside  of  ten. 
Now   tins  at   ail   <-vents   must   render  cold 

Voiir  writers,  who  must  either  draw  agairj 
Davs  better  drawn  before,  or  else  assume 
The  present,  with  their  commonplace  costume. 

XXVII. 
We  'II  do  our  best  to  make  the  best  on  't : — March  ' 

>Iarch,  mv  .Muse!    If  vou  cannot   P>y,  yet  flutter; 
And  when  you  mav  not  be  sublime,  be  arch. 

Or  starch,  as  are  the  edicts  statesmen  utter. 
Wo  sundv  shall  find  sonieihing  worth  research: 

Columbus  found  a  new  world  in  a  cutter, 
Or  lirigantine,  or  pink,  of  no  great  tontiage. 
While  yet  America  was  in  her  non-age. 

XXVIII. 

When    Adeline,  in   all   her  growing  sense 

Of  Juan's    merits  and   liis   situation. 
Felt  t>n  the  whole  an   interest   intense — 

Partly  perhaps  because  a  fresh  ^tnsalion, 
Or   that  he  bad  an   air  of  innocence. 

Which   is  for  innocence  a  sad   temptation,— 
As  women    hate  half  measures,  on  the  whole. 
She  'gall   to   [londer  lio\v  to   save   his  soul. 

XXIX. 

She   had  a  croo<l   opinion  of  advice. 

Like  all  who  give  and   eke  receive  it  grati.^, 
For  which  small   thanks  are   still   the  market  price 

Even  where  the  article  at  highest  rate  vs. 
She  thought   iiimn  the  subject  twice  or  thrice. 

And  morally  demded,  the  best   state  is, 
For  morals,   marriage  ;    and,  this  (piestioii   earner. 
Sue  seriously  advised  him  to  get    married. 

XXX. 
Juan  replie(f,  with  all  becoming  .lefercncc 

He  had  a  pred.iIeiUion  for  that   tie  ; 


696 


BYP.  ON'S     POETICAL    WORKS. 


But  that  at  present,  with  immediate   reference 
To  his  own  ciiciunstances,  there  niisht   he 

Some  difficuhies,  as  in   his  own  prcfcrt'iicc, 
Or  that   of  her  to  wliom  he  niii.'ht    applv  ; 

That  still   he'd  wed  with  such  or  such   a  lady, 

[f  that    tliey  were  not   married   all  already. 

XXXI. 

Next  to  the  making  matclies  for  lier>elf, 

And  daughters,  hrothers,  sisters,  kith  or  kin, 

Arranging  them   like  books  on  the  same  sheif 
Thero''s  nuthinjj  wotncni   love  to  dahhlc   ii? 

More    (like   a  stockholder  in  growing  pelf) 
Than  match-making  in  general  :   't  is  no  sin 

Certes,  hut  a  preventative,  and  therefore 

That  is,  no  doubt,  the  only  reason  wherefore. 

XXXII, 

But  never  yet   (exce[)t  of  course  a  miss 
Unwed,  or   mistress  never  to  be  wed, 

Or  wed  already,  who  object  to  this) 

Was  there  chaste  dame  wno  liad   not   in  her  head 

Some  drama  of  tlie   marriage   unities, 

Observed   as   strictly  Ixjlh   at  l>oard   and  bed, 

As  those  of  Aristotle,  though  sometimes 

Tliey  turn   out  melodrames  or  pantomimes. 

XXXIII. 

They  generally  liave  some  only  son. 

Some   heir  to  a  large  propertv,  some  friend 

Of  an  old  family,  some   gay  Sir  John, 

Or  g/ave  Lord  George,  with  wlumi  perhaps  might  end 

A    line,   and   leave  posterity  undone. 

Unless  a  marriage  was   applied   to  mend 

The   prospect   ai'd   their  morals:    and   besides, 

They  have  a*   hand  a  blooming  glut  of  brides. 

XXXIV, 

Fronfi  these  they  will  be  careful  to  select. 
For   this  an  heiress,  and  for  that   a   beauty  ; 

For  one   a  songstress  who  hath   no  defect. 
For  t'other  one  who  promises  much  duty; 

For  this   a  lady  no  one  can  reject, 

Whose  sole  accomplishments  were  quite  a  booty  ; 

A   second   for  her  excellent  connexions  ; 

A  third,  because   there  can   be  no  objections. 

XXXV. 

When  Raj)p  th(;  harmonist  einbargo'd  marriage  ^ 

In  his  harmonious  settlement — (which  flourishes 
Strangely  enough  as  yet  without  miscarriage, 

Because  it  breeds  no  more  mouths  than  it  nourishes 
Without  those  sad  expenses  which  disparage 

What  Nature  naturally  most    encourages)  — 
Why  call'd   he  "Harmony"  a  state   sans  wrolock? 
Now  here  I  have  got  the  preacher  at  a  dead  lock. 

XXXVI. 
Because   he  either  meant   to  sneer  at  harmony 

Or  marriage,  by  divorcing  them   thus   oddly. 
But  svhethcr  reverend  ilapj)  learn'd  this  in  Germany 

Or   no,  't  is   said    his  sect  is   rich  and   godly, 
Pious   and   pure,  beyond  what  I  can  term  any 

Of  ours,  although  they  propagate  more  broadly. 
My  objection 's  to  his   title,   not  his   ritual, 
Aitnough  I  wonder   how  it  grew  habitual. 

XXXVII. 
But   Ilapp   is  the  reverse   of  ze+ilous  matrons, 

Who   favoTir,  ma'ijre    Malthus,   generation — 
"rofessors   of  that    i;i'mal  art,   and    patrons 

Of  ail  the   modes!    pait   of  propagation, 
Wliieh  after  all  at  smh  a  desi)erate  rate  runs, 

riiat  liai*"  'ts  produce   tends  te   emigration, 


That  sad  resr.It  of  passions  and   potatoes — 
Two  weeds  which   pose  our  economic  Catos. 

XXXVIIl. 

Had  Adeline  read  xMalthus  /    I  can't   tell ; 

1  wish  she  had:  his  book's  the  eleventh  commandmen? 
\\  hich  says,   "•  thou  shalt   not  marrv  " — unless  well . 

Tliis  he  (as  far  as  I  can  understand)  meant  • 
'Tis   not  my  purpose  on   his  views   to  dwell. 

Nor  canvass  wliat  "so  emuient  a  hand"  meant  ;^ 
But  certes  it  eondu'^ts.to  lives  ascetic, 
Or  turning  marriage  into  arithmelic. 

XXXIX. 

But  Adeline,  who  probably  presumed 
That  Juan  had  enough  of  mainteiiance, 

Or  separate  maintenance,  in  case  't  was  doom'd — ■ 
As  on  the  whole  it  is  an  even  chance 

That  bridegrooms,  after  they  are  fairly  t^roorii'd^ 
May  retrograde  a  little   in   the  dance 

Of  marriage — (which  might  form  a  pair.ter's  fune. 

Like  Holbein's  "  Dance  of  Deatli" — but 't  is  the  same); 

XL. 

But  Adeline   determined  Juan's  wedding. 

In  her. own  mind,  and  that  "s  enough  for  woman. 

But  then,with  whom?  There  was  «ne  sage  Miss  Reading, 
Miss  Raw,  Miss  Flaw,  Miss  Showman,  and  Miss 
Knowman, 

And  the   two  fair  co-heiresses   Gilrbedding. 

She  deem'd  his  merits  son\ething  more  tlian  common' 

All  these  were  unobjectionable  matclu;s. 

And  might  go  on,  if  well  wound  up,  like  watches. 

XLI. 

There  was  Miss  Millpond,  smooth   as  summer  s  t«ea, 
That  usual  parairoii,  an   onlv  dani:htcr, 

Who  seem'd   the  cream  of  etjuamnuty, 

Till  skimm'd — and  then  there  was  some  mik  aiid 
water. 

With  a  slight  shade  of  Blue  too  it  might  be, 
Beneath   the  surface;   but  what  did  it   matter? 

Love's  riotous,  but  marriage  should  have   cpnet. 

And,  being   consumptive,   live  on   a   ujilk  diet. 

XLII. 

And  then   there  was  the   Miss  Audacia  Shoestring, 

A  dashing  demoiselle  of  good  estate. 
Whose  heart  was  fix'd   uj)on  a  star  of  bluestring; 

But  whether  English  dukes  grew  rare  of  late. 
Or  that  she  had  not   harp'd  upon   the   true  string, 

By  which  such   sirens   can  attract   our  great, 
She  took  up  with   some  foreign   yoi)ng(;r  hrotiier, 
A  Russ  or  Turk — the  one  's  as  good  as  t'  other. 

XLIII. 

And  then  there  was — but  why  sliould  I  go  on, 
Unless  the   ladies  should  go   off? — there  was 

Indeed  a  certain  fiiir  and  fairy  one. 

Of  the  best  class,  ar.d   better  than  her  class,— 

Aurora  Raby,  a  young  star  who  shone 

O'er  life,  too  sweet  an  image  for  sixdi  glass 

A  lovely  being,  scarcely  form'd  or  moulded, 

A  rose  with   all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded; 

XLIV. 

Rich,  nolile,  but  an   orphan  ;    left  an  onlv 

Child   to  the  care  of  guardians  gi)o(i   and   muiJ  , 

But   still   her  aspect  had   an   air  so    lou'-ly  ! 
Blood   is  not  water;   and  where  shall  we   liihi 

Feelings  of  youth   like  those  which   overthrown   he 
By  death,  when  we  art;  left,  alas  !     ieliind, 

To  feel,  in  friendless  palaces,  a  home 

Is  vvautuiir,  and  our  be*;'  ties  in  the  tomb'/ 


DON    JUAN. 


697 


XLV. 

Eirly  in  years,  anJ   vet  more   inf;iiitine 

III  figure,  she  had   iomethiiig  of  sublime 
lu  eyes  which  sadly  shone,  as  seraphs'  shine. 

All   you'h — l)iit  Willi   an   aspect    beyond   time; 
R;uliai)l   a  id   urave — as   pityiiii^  man's  decline  ; 

^lonrnful — bnl   monriiAil   of  another's  crime, 
J<^ie  louk'd   as  if  she  sal    by  Eden's  door, 
And   grieved  for  ih  se  who  could  rclurn   no  more. 

XLV  I. 
Si.e  was  a  Cathoru  ioo,   sincere,   austere. 

As  fir  as  In.'r  awn  ireiiile  iieart  allow'd, 
^And    dn-iu'd   that  fallen  worship   far   more  dear. 

Perhaps  becaiis*    't  .vas  filleii:    her  sires  were  proud 
Of  deeds   and  days  when  they  had  tiil'd  the  ear 

Of  nations,  and  had  never  bent  or  bow'd 
To  iinvcl  power;  and  as  slu;  was  the  last, 
Siie   held  their  old  faith  and   old  feelings  fast. 

XLVII. 

She   fja/.ed   upon   a  world   siie   scarcely  knew, 
As  seeking  not   to  know  it  ;   silent,  lone. 

As  iirows  a  Hower,  thus  (juietly  she    srew, 
And   kept    h(;r   heart   serene  within   its  zone. 

There  was  awe   in   the   homage  wiiK-h   slie   drew  j 
Her  spirit   seem'd   as  seated   on   a  throne 

Apart  from   the   surrounding  world,  and    strong 

In  its  own   strength — most   strange  in  one  so  }oung. 

XLVHI. 

Now  it  so  happen'd,  in   the  catalogue 

Of  Adeline,  Aurora  was  ountied, 
A'lthoush   her   birth  and  wealth    had   ffiven   !ier  vo^ue 

lievond    the  charmers  we   have  alreadv  cited : 
llei   beauty  also  seemM   to  form   no   cloj 

Against   her  being  mention'd   as  well   fitted. 
By  many  virtu.-s,  to  be  worth   the  troiil  le 
Of  single  gentlemen  who  would   be  double. 

XLiX. 

And    this  omission,  like   that   of  the   bust 
Of  Hrutns  at    the  paijeant   of  Tiberius, 

Alade  Juan  wonder,  as  no  dtxibt    he  innst. 

This  he   expressM   half  smilnii  and    half  serious; 

When  Adeline   replied  witli   some  disgust. 

And  witli   an   ail',    to  say  the   least,   im|)erious, 

She   marvell'd  "what   he  saw  in   such  a   baby 

As  that  prim,  silent,  cold  Aurora  P.aby  ? 

L. 

Juan  rejoiiiM — "  Slie  was  a  Catliolic, 

And   tlier(;rure  fittest,  as  of  his   persuasion  ; 
Since  he  was  sure   his   mother  would   fill   sick, 

And  tlie  Pope  thunder  e\comniunicatir)i), 
II' "    But    here  Adeline,  who  seenfd  to   pique 

Herself  extremely  on   the   inoculation 
Of  otliers  with   her  own  opiifious,  stated — 
As  usual — the  same  reason  which  she  late   I'id. 

LI. 
And  wherefore  not?   A  reasonable  reason. 

If  good,  is  none  the  worse  ti)r  n-petition  ; 
If  bad,  the  best  wav  's  certainly  lo   tease  on 

And  ani|)lify:   you  lose  nun-li  l)y  concision ; 
Whereas  insisting  in  or  out   of  season 

Convinces  all    men,   even   a   politician  ; 
Or — \v'Mi\   is  just   the   same — it  vveari(;s  out. 
So  the   end's  gain'd,  what  signilies  tiie  route? 

LU. 

ll^fii^  Adeline    had   this   sliijht    prejudice; — 
For  prepidice   it  was — against    a   creature 

As  pure   as  sanctitv  itself  from  vic(>, 

VVi  h   Lil  tlie  added  charm   of  firm  and  f(!atnre. 


For  mc  appear*'  a  question  fir  too  nice, 

Since  Adeline   .vas  liberal   liy  naturt' , 
But  nature's  nature,  and   has  iiK.re  caprices 
Than   I  have   time,  or  will,  to  take   to   pieces. 

LIII. 

Perhaps  she  did  not  like   the  (juiet  wav 

With  which  Aurora  on   those   baubles   look'd, 

Which  charm   most    people  m   their  e.arlier  day: 
For  there   are  few  things   by  mankind   less   broo:;'  I 

And  womankind   too,    if  we   so   mav  s;:v, 

Than   finding   thus   tlieir   <zeuiiw   stand    rebuked. 

Like  '^  Antony's   by  Ca;sar,"'    liy  the    fi;w 

Who  look  upon   tliem   as  they  ouglit  to  do. 

LIV. 

It  was  not  envv — Adeline  had  n(.iie  ; 

Her  place  was  far  beyond   it,  and   her   mmd. 
It  was  not  scorn — which   could   not    li'iht   on  one 

Whose  greatest  fdult   was   lenvin<z    few  lo  lind. 
It  was  not  jealousy,  I   think :    but   shun 

Following  the  "  ignes  fitui"  of  mankind. 

It  was  not ruit  't  is  easier  far,  alas ! 

To  say  what  it   was  not,  than  what   it  was. 

LV. 
Little  Aurora  deem'd  she  was   the   theme 

Of  such  discussion.      She   \vas  there   a   gueil, 
A  beauteous   rijipie   of  the   brilliant    stream 

Of  rank   and  youth,  though  purer   tliaii   the  rest, 
Which   flow'd   on   for  a   moment   in   the   beam 

Time  sheds  a  moment  o'er  each  sparkling  cresi. 
Had  she  known  this,  she  would  liave  calmly  sinileJ— 
She   had  so  much,  or  little,  of  the  child. 

LVI. 
The   dashing   and   prond   air  of  Adeline 

Inu'iosid   not  upon  her:   she  saw  her  l)laze 
.Much   as   she  would  have  seen   a  glow-worm  ihine^ 

Then  turn'd    unto  the  stars  liir  loftier  rays. 
.Juan  was  something  she  coul  i   not   divine, 

Being  no  sibyl  in  the  new  world's  ways  ; 
Yet  slie  was  nothing  dazzled  by  the  meteor. 
Because  she   did  not   pin   her  faith  on  feature. 

LVI  I. 

His  fame  too, — for  he -had   that  kind   of  fame 

Which  sometimes  jilavs  the  deu<;e  .villi  womankind 

A    heterogeneous  mass  of  glorious  l/.ame, 

Half  virtues   and  whole  vices  being  combined; 

Faults  which  attract  because   they  are   not  tame; 
P'oliies   trick'd  out   so   briglitly  tliat   they  l)lind  •  ■ 

These  seals   upon   her  wax   made  no  impression. 

Such  was  hcT  coldness  or  her  self-possession. 

LVIII. 

Juan   knew  nought    of  such   a  character — 
Hiirh,  yet  resembling  not   his  lost  Haidee ; 

Yet  each  was  radiant  in   lier  proper  sphere : 
The  island   girl,  bred   up  by  the   lone   sea. 

More  warm,  as  lovely,  and   not  less  sincere. 
Was  nature's  all :   Aurora   could   not  be 

Nor  would  be  thus  ; — the  ditTerence  in   them 

Was  such  as  lies  between   a  flower  and   gem 

LIX. 

Havitii^  wound   up  witii   this  sublime  comparison, 
Metliinks    we   may  proceed    upon   our   narrative, 

And,  as  my  friend  Scott  says,  "  I  sound  mv  U  arisoii ,' 
Scott,  the  superlative  of  my  comparative-  - 

Scott,  who  can  paint  your  Christian  knight  or  Saracen, 
Serf,  lord,  man,  with  such  skill  as  none  w(/uld  sha  « 
it,  if 

There  lad   not   been   one  Shaksjieare  and  Voltaire, 

Of  one  or  both  of  whom  he  seems  the   heir 


698 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


LX. 

[  say,  in  my  sliglit  way  I   may  |iroceftrl 

To  play  upon  the  surface   of  Imniaiiity. 
I   wrile  the  world,  nor   care  if  the  world  read, 

At  least  for  this   I  cannot   spare   its  vanity. 
My  Muse   halh   bred,  and  still   perhaps  snay  i)reed 

More  foes  bv  this  same  scroll :  wlu-n  I  iioiiau  it,! 
Ih^usht  tliat  it  might  turn  out  ^o—now  I  know  it, 
But   still   1   am,  or  was,  a   pretty  poet. 

LXI. 
The  conference  or  cwiiijress    (for  it   ended 

As  congresses  of  late  do)   of  the  Laciy 
Adeline  and    Don  Juan   ratiier   blerided 

S  )me  acids  with  die  sweets — for  she  \*as  headv  ; 
l^ut,  ere  the   matter  could   be  marr'd  or  mended, 

Tlie   silvery  bell   runcr,  not  for  'Slimier  ready," 
}iui    fir    that    hour,  cali'd   hulf-how ,  given   to    dress. 
Though   ladies'  robes   seem  scant  enough   f)r  less. 

LXII. 

Great   things  were  now  to   be  achieved  at   table, 
With   massv  plate   for   armour,  knives   and   forks 

For  wca])ons  ;    but  what   Muse   since  F/nner's  able 
(His  f(;asts  are   not   the  worst    [)ar'    of  his  works) 

To  draw  up   in   array  a   single  day--bili 

Of  modern  dinners  ?   where   more   mystery  lurks 

In   soups  or  sauces,  or  a   sole  ragout, 

Than  witches,  b-ches,  or   physicians   brew, 

LXIII. 

There  was   a  ^onilv   ''soupe  a     a  bitnne   fenimc^'' 

Thotiirh  God.  knows  wheiKte  It  came  from;  there  was  too 
A  Uirbot  f..r  r(;lief  nf  those  wlio  cram. 

Relieved  with  <im<!nii   a    la  Pcnifueux  ; 
There;   also  was the    simier   that    \   am! 

How   shall    i    ir.'t    this   Honnnand    staii/.a    throu^rh? 
Soupe  h   la  Bi'iiuveau,  whose   r(>lief  was  dory, 
Relieved    iitself  by  |»ork,  for  greater  glory. 

LXIV. 
But  I   must   crowd   all   into  one  grand   mess 

Or   mass;    tor   should    I    stretch    into   detail. 
My  Muse  would   run   much   more   into   excess. 

Than  when  souk;  s(]ueaniish  people  deem  her  frail. 
But,  th<ni^h   a   "  bonne  vivante,"   I   must    confess 

Her  stomach  's   not    h<;r    [>e(X'aiit   part  :    this   tale 
However  doth  reciurre  some    shgiit    refection, 
Just  to   relieve  her  spirits  from  dejection. 

LXV. 
Fowls  (1  la  Conde,  slic-es  eke  of  salmon, 

Wiih   sauces  Genevoise,  and   haunch  of  venison; 
Wines  too  which  might  again  have  slain  young  Ainmon, 

A  man  like  wlioni  I  hope  we  sha'n't  see  many  soon; 
They  also  set   a   clazed  ^^"estpllalian    ham  on. 

Whereon  Apicius  wouhl   bestow  liis  beriison ; 
An.!   then   tluTe  was   champat{ne  with   foaming  whirls. 
As  while  as  Cleopatra's  melted    pearls. 

LXVI. 
Then   there  was  God   knows  wliat   ''a   I'Allemai'de," 

"  A  i'Fspagnole,"  "timballe,"  and  "  Salpi(!oi.  "— 
With  things  1   can't  withstaiKl   or  understand, 

Thougli  swallow'd  with  much  zest  upon  tlie  whole  ; 
^nd  "(Mitremets"  to   piddle  with   at   hand. 

Gently  to   .nil    down    the   subsiding:   soul; 
While   gr(,'at  Lucullus'   rolje  trvniiuhnle  mutlles 
(There \s  fame) — young  partridge  fillets,  deck'd   with 
truines.* 

Lxvn. 

VVhal   are   tlie  JillrL^  on    the  victor's   brow 

To  these  ?  Tliey  are  rags  or  dust.    Wliere  is  the  arcli 

Which    nodiie.i   to   tlie    nation's    spoils   l)(dow  ? 
Wh.jie   the   ti  uni'  lal  chariot's   h.iughly   march? 


I     . 


Gone  to  where  victories   must  like  dinners  go. 

Further  I   shall   not  (bllow  the  research  : 
But   oh  !   ye  modern   heroes  with  your  cartridges, 
When  will  your  names  lend  lustre  even  to  partridges 

LXVHI.  , 

Those    trutlles  too  are   no   bad   accessaries, 
Foilow'd   by  "  petits   [iiiits  d'amuur," — a  dish 

Of  which   perhaits    the  cookery  rather  varies, 
So  every  one   may  dress  it  to  his  wish, 

Acxordin^;   to   the   best   of  dictionaries, 

Whicdi   encyclopa'dise  both   Hesh   and   fish  ; 

But   even   sans   "confitures,"  it  no   less   true   is, 

There's   pretty  picking  in  those  "petits  puits."* 

LXIX. 

The  mmd   is  lost  in  mighty  contemplation 
Of  in'ellect  expended  on  two  courses  ; 

And  indigestion's   grand   multiplication 
Requires   arithmenc  beyond   my  forces. 

Who  would  suppose,  from  Adam's  simple  ration, 
That  cookery  could  have  cali'd  forth  such  resoun  ea 

As  form  a   science   and   a   noiuenclaiure 

From  out  the  commonest  demands  of  nature? 

LXX. 

The   glasses  jinijli'd,  and  the   jialates  tingled  ; 

The  diners   of  celebrity  dmed  well  ; 
The  ladies  with    more   modera.ion   minoled 

In   the    feast,   jiecking   less   liian  1  can  tell  ; 
Also  the   younger   men  too;    for   a  sprin;:ald 

Can't    like   ripe  aire   in    gourinandise   excel. 
But   thinks   less   of  iroo.i   eating   lliaii   the  whisper 
(When  seated  next  hmi)  ot'  some  [)retty  lisper. 

LXXI. 

Alas!    I    must    leave  undesmbed    tlie    nibier. 

The   salmi,   th''  consoin.iii'c,   the    purine. 
All  winch  1  use  to  ma!;e  my  rhymes  run   c^libiier 

Than  could  roast  beef  m  our   rouoh  John  Hull  w^y 
I  must   not  intniduce   even   a   s|)are  rib   here, 

"Bubble  and   s(iueak"  would  spoil   my  liipiid  lay 
But   I   have  dined,  and    must   forego,   ala^  ! 
The  chaste  description  even   of  a   "  i)ecasse," 

LXXII. 

And   fruits,  and  ice,  and   all    that   art 'refines 
From  nature  for   the   service   of  the   gout, — 

Taste  or  the  gout, — proiiornce  it  as   inclines 

Vour  stomach.      Eie  you  diiie,  the  -Frenidi  will  do  ; 

But  after,  tliere  are  sometimes  .-;ertain  signs 
Which  prove   plain  English  truer  of  the  two. 

Hast  ever  ha<l   the  goi/t  ?    I  have   not    had   it— 

But  I   may  have,  and  you  too,  reader,  dread   it. 

LXXllI. 

The   simple  olives,  best  allies  of  wine. 
Must    !   pass  over    in  my  bill  of  fire  ? 

I   must,  although  a  favourite  "plat"   of  mine 
In   Spain,  and    Lucca,  Athens,  every  where: 

On  them  and  bread  't  was  oft  my  luck  to  dme. 
The  grass  mv  tatile-cloih,   lU  open   air. 

On  Si. Ilium  or  Hymettiis,  like  Diogents, 

Of  whom  half  my  philosophy  the   progeny  :s. 

lAXIV. 

Amidst  this   tumult  of  fish,   tlesh,  and   rowi. 

And   vcgetatiles,   all    in    masipierade, 
The  guests   were  placed    a<-cor(iiiig  to  their  roll. 

But   various    as  the   various   meats  displa\'d: 
Don  Juan   sate   next   an   "  a  I'Fspagnole  "— 

No  damsel,  but  a  dish,  as   halh   lieen  said; 
But    so   far    like   a   ladv,   tl.at    'twas   dresl 
Superbly,  and  contam'd   a  world  of  zest 


DON    JUAN. 


099 


LXXV. 

lU  so!!it>  OiU]  ch;iiic(>  loo  ht;  was  pkicccl  betwet-n 

Auroni   and   'he    Lady  AdcliMe— 
A  sitiiaiiou  ililiiciilt,  I  \ve<'ii, 

For  man  thortMn,  with  eyrs  and  lieart,  to  din(>. 
Also   tht;  conttrence  whicli  we  have  seen 

\yas  not  snch  as  to  enconraije  hiui  to  sliino  ; 
1  rr  AdeUiie,  addressing?  lew  words  to  hiin, 
With  two  transcendent  eyes  seeniM  to  look  throuiih  him. 

LXXVI. 

I    sometimes  almost   think   that   eyes   have   ears  : 
This  mnch  is  sure,  tlal,  out  of  ear-sliot,  thui^^s 

Are   sonu'liow  echoed   to   the   pretty  dears, 

Of  which  1  can't  tell  whence  their  knowlcdoe  springs; 

Like  that    same   nivslic   music   of  the   sjtheres. 
Which    no   one    hears   so    loudly  though    it   rings. 

'T  iswonderfiil    how  ott  the   sex    have   heard 

Long   dialogues  which  |)ass'd  without   a  word  ! 

LXXVIL 

Atirora  sat  with   that   irnlifference 

Which    [>i(ii;es  a   preu.v  chevalier — as  it  ought : 
Of  all   offences   that's   the  worst  oilence, 

Which  seems  to  hint  vou  are  not  worth  a  thought. 
Now  Juan,  thmiijh   no  coxcomh  in   pretence, 

Was  not   exactly  pleased   to   be  so  caught ; 
Like  a   good   ship  cntani^led   among  ice, 
And   atler  so   much   excellent  advice. 

LXXVIIL 

To  his    crav  nothinijs,   nothing  was  replied, 

Or   something  which  was  iic-tinnH,  as  urbanity 

Required.      Aurora   scarcely  loolv'd   aside, 
Nor  even   smiled   enouiih   for  anv  vanity. 

The  devi!  was  in   the  girl !    Could   it   he   pride, 
Oi    nioilesiy,  or  al)sen(;e,  or  inanity, 

Heaven   knows  !     But   Adeline's   malicrjus  eyes 

Si)arklcd  with  her  successful   i)rophecies, 

LXXIX. 

And  look'd  as  much  as  if  to  say,  "I  said   it  ;"— 
A  kind  of  triumph   I  '11   not   recommend, 

Hecanse   it   sometimes,  as   I  've   seen   or  read   it, 
Both   in   the  case  of  lover  and  of  friend, 

Will   piipie   a  i,'«ntleman,   for  his   own  credit, 
To  bring  what  was  a  jest  to  a  serious  end  ; 

For  all  men   prophesy  what  is  or  u:as, 

And  hate  those  who  won't  let  them  come  to   pass 

LXXX. 

.Tdan  was  drawn  thus  inlo  some  attentions, 

Sliiiht  but  select,  and  just  enough  to  express, 
To  females  of  persjiicuous  comprehensions, 

That  he  would  rather  make  them  more  than  less. 
Aurora  at   the  last   (so  history  mentions, 

Though  probabh  much  less  a  fact  than  guess) 
So  far  relax'd  her  thoughts  from  their  sweet  prison, 
\s  once  or  twice  to  smile,  if  not  to  listen. 

LXXXL 
From   answering,  she  began  to  question  :    this 

With  her  was  rare  ;   and  Adeline,  wh?.   as  yet 
Though'   her  predictions  went   noi.  much   amiss. 

Began  to  dread  she  'a  thaw  to  a  coquette — 
So  very  difiicult,   they  say,  it  is 

To  keep  extremes  from   meeting,  when  once  set 
In   motion  ;    but  she  here  too  much  refined — 
Aurora's   spirit  was  not  of  that  kind. 

Lxxxn. 

But  Juan  had  a  sort  of  winning  way, 
A   proud   humility,   if  such  there   be, 

V\'hich  show'd  such  deference  to  what  femaie?  say, 
As  if  each  charming  word  were  a  decree 


His  tact  t.,o  temper'd    him  frimi    irravf  to  <;ay, 
And  tauglit  inm  when  to  he  reserv. V,  or  tVee  : 

Ur   had    the    art    ol   <lrawmg    j.rop!.-   ,,ut, 

Without   their   st-e  nij    what    he  was    ahoiil. 
LXXXIU. 

Aurora,  who    in    hfr    iiidiliVrenre 

C'onfounded   him    m  common  wilh    thf  crowd 

Of  lliiMercrs,  liioili.'h  she  detMuM    he  hac.    more  scnsfi 
'I'iia.i  \\hi<pi'riiii:  fi'plin<;>,  or   than  wi!!,ii;.'s    I'.ud,— 

Commenced  (from   such   slight   things  will   great  con. 

To  feel    that    tlatlery  which   attracts    the   proud 
Rather   by  deference   than   comphmeiit. 
And  wins  even  by  a  delicate  dissent. 

LXXXIV. 
And  then  he  had  good   looks  ;  — that  [)oint  was  carried 

Nf^m.  con.    amoiiHsl   the   women,  whii-h    I    i;rlt  ve 
To   say,  leads  oft    to  crim.  a>n.  with    the   married— 

A   case  which    to    t'le  juries  we    may  leave. 
Since  with   diizressions  we   too   lom;   have    tarried. 

Now   tliouiih  we   know  of  old    that    looks   deceive. 
And  always  have  done,  somehow  thesi'  >:"od  looks 
Make   more    impressujii    than    the    be-st   of  books. 

LXXXV. 
Aurora,  wl-.o   look'd    more  on   books   than    faces, 

\Vas   very   yomi2,   ailhoiiirh   so   verv  saife, 
Admiring    more    Mmerva   tlian   the  CJraces, 

Especially  upon    a    printed    pa^e. 
But   virtue's   self,  wita    al'    her   •!«htest    laces,      • 

Has   not    tlie    naiural    stays     ,f  strict   old   age; 
And    Socrates,   that    model    of  all  duty, 
Own'd  to  a   penctiunt,   tho.idi   discreet,  f)r  btauty. 

LXXXVL 
And   2!rls   of  sixteen   are   liius   far  Socraiic, 

But    mnocontlv  so,   as   S^.erafs  : 
Aed   really,   if  the  sai;e   sulilime   and   Attic 

At    seventy  years   liad    phantasies   like   these, 
Which   Piato   in   iiis   dialo^wes   dramatic 

Has  shown,  I  Icr.ow  i.ot  whv  ttiey  should  dispieasa 
In  viriims — alwavs  in    a   modest  way. 
Observe;    for  that  witli    n.e  "s    a   "sine  qna."^ 

LXXXVll. 
Also  observe,   that    F.ke   the   i:r<>at    Lord   Coko, 

(See   Littleton)  wbeiie'er   I   hav(!    express'd 
Opinions   two,  which   at   first   sight  may  look 

Twin   o[)posites,   tlTe    second    is   ire   best. 
Perhafis   I   li;ive   a  third   too  m  a  nook. 

Or  none  at  all— which  seems   a  sorrv  jest  ; 
But  if  a  writer  should   be  quite  consistent, 
How  could   he    possibly  show  things   existent? 

Lxxxvin. 

If  people  contradict    themselves,  can   I 

Help  contradicting   them,   and   every  body,  ^ 

Even   mv  veracious  self? — but   that's  a  lie; 

I  never  dill   so,  inner  will — liow  shouM   I? 
He  who  doubts   all   things,  nothing  can  deny; 

Truth's  fountains  may  be  clear — her  streams  ar« 
muddy. 
And  cut  through  such  canals  of  contradiction, 
That  she   must  often  navigate  o'er  fiction. 

LXXXIX. 
Apologue,  fable,  poesy,  and  parame, 

Are  false,   but  may  be  render'il   also  true 
By  those  who  sow  them   in   a  land  that  's  arable. 

'T  is  wondert'"ul  what    fable   will   not   do  ! 
'Tis  said   it  makes  reality  more  l)earal)!c : 

But  what's  reality?   Who   has  its  clue? 
Philosophy  ?  No  ;   slie  too  much  rejects. 
Religion?    Yes;    but  which  of  all  h^r  sects? 


700 


BYE  OX'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


xc. 

Poiue  nu'.lions    nust  be  wrong,  tnat  's  pretty  clear  j 
Perhaps  il  tuay  turn  out  that  all  were  right. 

GoJ  fieip  us!    Sines  we 've  need  on  our  career 
'J'o  keep  our  holy  beacons   always  bright, 

T  IS  time  that  sonic  new  prophet  should   appear 
Or  old    indulge  man  with   a  second-sight. 

Opinions  wear  out  in  some  thousand  years, 

Without  a  snail  refreshment  trom  the  spheres. 

XCI. 
But  here  again,  why  will  I  thus  entangle 

Myself  with  metaphysics?    None  can  hate 
So  much   as  I   do  any  kind  of  wrangle  ; 

And  yet  such  is  my  folly,  or  my  fate, 
I  always  knock  my  head  against  some  angle 

About  the  present,   past,  and  future  state ; 
Yet  1  wish  well  to  Trojan  and  to  Tyrian, 
For  1  was  bred  a  moderate   Presbyterian. 

XCII. 

But  though  I  am  a  temperate  theologian, 

And  also  meek  as   a  metaphysician, 
Impartial  between  Tyrian    and   Trojan^ 

As    Eldon   on   a   lunatic  commission, — 
In   politics,   my  duty  is  to  show  Jolm 

Bull  something  of  the  lower  world's   condition. 
It   makes  my  blood   boil   like  the  springs  of  Hecla, 
To  see  men  let  these  scoundrel  sovereigns  break  law, 

XCIII. 

But   politics,  and   policy,  and   piety, 

Are  topics  wlncii  I   sometimes   introduce. 

Not  onlv  for  the   sake  of  their  variety. 
But   as  subservi»'nt   to  a  moral   use ; 

Because  my  busiress  is   to  dre.-'S   society, 

And  stufi'  with  naze  that   very  verdant  goose. 

And  now,  that  we  mav  An-nish  svith   some   matter  all 

Tastes,  wo  are  going  to  try  the  supernatural. 

XCIY. 

And  now  I  will   give   n\)   all  aigument: 
And   positively  hencelbrth   no  '.empation 

Sill. 11  "  fool  ine  to  the  top   up   of  my  bent ;" 
Yes,  I  '11  begin  a  thorough  reformation. 

Indeed  I   never  knew  what  people  meant 
By  deeming  that   my  Muse's  conversation 

Was  dangerous  ; — I   tniiik  she   is   as   harmless 

As  some  who  labour  more  and  yet  may  charm  less. 

xcv. 

Grim  reader!    did  you   ever  see  a  ghost? 

No  ;    but  you  've   heard — i   understand — be   dumb  ! 
And  don't  regret  the   time  you   may  have  lost, 

P^or  you  have   got  that   pleasure  still   to  come : 
And   do  not  think  I   mean  to  sneer  at  most 

t)f  these  thmgs,  or  by  ridicule   benumb 
That  source  of  the  sublime  and  the  mysterious: — 
For  ctrlain  reasons   my  belief  is  serious. 

XCVI. 

Serious?   You  laugh: — you  may;   that  will  1  not; 

My  smiles   must    be   sincere   or  not   at   all. 
I  say  I   do   believe   a   lia\nileil   spot 

Exists — and  where?   'J'liat   shall   I    not  recall, 
Because   I'd   rather   it   sliould    be  forgot. 

"  Shadows  the  soul  of  Richard  ''   may  appal : 
In  sliort,  upon  that  sul)j<;c,  I  've  snuie  (jualms,  very 
Like   those  oi  the    phijus^plier  of  IMalmsbury.' 

XCVII. 

Tlie   m<rh'.    (I   smg  by  iiiglil — somi'tiiues   an  owl. 
And    now  and   iIkmi    a   nigiuitiirale.) — is   dim. 

And    the   loud   shriek   of  sum;  Mmerva's  fowl 
Hallles  iUHund   lue  lutr  discordant   hymn: 


Old  portraits  from   old  walls   upon   me  scowl — 

i  wish  to  heaven   they  »vould   not  'ook   su  iindi , 
The  dying  embers  dwindle  in  the   grare — 
1  think  too  that  I  have  sate   up  tofj  late: 

XCVIII. 

And  therefore,  though  'lis  by  no  means  my  way 
To  rhyme  at  noon — when  I  have  other  things 

To  think  of,  if  I   ever  think, — I  say 
I  feel  some  chilly  midnight  shudderings 

And  orudently  postpone,  until  mid-day, 
Treating  a  topic  which,  alas !   but   brings 

Shadows  ; — but  you  must  be   in   my  condition 

Before  you  learn  to  call  tliis  superstition. 

XCIX. 

Between  two  worlds  life  hovers  like  a  star, 

'Twixt  night  and  morn,  uoon  the  horizon's  verga 

How  little  do  we   know  that  which  we  are  ! 

How  less  what  we  may  be  !   The  eternal  surge 

Of  time  and   tide  rolls  on,  and  bears  afar 
Our    bubbles  ;   as   the  old   burst,  new  emerge, 

Lash'd  from  the  foam  of  ages  ;   while  the   graves   •• 

Of  empires  heave  but  iike  some  passing  waves 


CANTO  XYI. 


I. 

!'hf  antiqi.e  Persians  taught  three  useful  things,— 
'I'o  draw  the  bow,  to  ride,  and  speak   the   truth. 

Tins  w.is  the   mode  of  Cyrus — best  of  kings — 
A  mode   ado])teil  since  by  modern  youth. 

i»()u-s   have   they,  generally  wuh  two  stiiiigs; 
[iorses  thev  ride  without   remorse  or  ruth; 

At    stieaking  truth    perhaps   they  are  less  clever 

But  draw  the  long  bow  better  now  than  ever. 

II. 

The  cause  of  this  effect,  or  this  defect, 
"  Vm  this  etfect  defective  comes  by  cause," — 

Is  what   I   have  not  leisure  to  inspect; 

But  this  I   must  say  in  my  own  applause, 

Of  all   the  Muses  that   1   recollect, 

Whate'er  may  be  her  follies  or   her  flaws 

In  some    ihin^s,  mine's  beyond   all   contradiction 

'I'iie  most  sincere  that  ever  dealt  in  fiction, 

III. 

And  as  she  treats  all  things,  and  ne'er  retreats 
From   any  thing,   this    Epic  w;ll  contain 

A   uiliierness  of  the;   most   rare  conceits, 

Which  you  might   elsewhere  hope  to  find  in  vain 

'Tis   true   there   be  some   bitters  with  the  sweets, 
Yet   miv'd   so  slightly  t'hat  you  can't  complain, 

But  wonder  they  so  few  are,  since  my  tale  is 

"  Ue  rebus  cunctis  et  quibusdani  aliis.'' 


DON    JUAN. 


(01 


IV. 

But   of  all  tnnns  wliicli  slie   lir.s  toltl,  the  most 
True   is   tluit   which   she    is   uhoiit   lo  tell. 

I    said   it  was   a  storv  of  a   ghost — 
What  then?   I  only  know  it  so  befell. 

Have  you  exniored   the  limits  of  the  coast 

Where   all   ihe   duellers  of  the  earth  must  ilwell? 

'T  IS   time  to  strike  such   punv  doubters  dumb  as 

The  sceptics  who  wouhl   not    bi;lie\'e  Ci>tumbus. 

V. 

Some  people  woulil  impose  now  with  authority, 
Turpin's  or  .Monmouth  GeoliVy's  Chronicle; 

Men  whose  historical   superiority 
Is  always  greatest   at   a  miracle. 

Hut  Samt  Aiigusliiie  has  the   great  priority, 
Who   bids  ail   men   believe  the   impossible, 

Because ''f  is  so.     Who  nibble,  scribble,  quibble,  he 

Quiets  at  once  with  '■'■quia  impo?sibiIe." 

VI. 

And  therefore,  mortals,  cavil  not  at   all; 

Believe: — if 't  is  improbable,  you  must; 
And  if  it  is  impossible,  you  shall: 

'T  is  always  best   to  take  tilings  upon  trust. 
I  do  not  speak   profanely  to  recall 

Those   holier  mysteries,  which  the  wise   and  just 
Receive  as  gospel,  and  whicii  grow  more  rooted, 
As  all  truths  must,  the  more  tiiey  are  disputed. 

VII. 

I  merely  mean  to  say  what  Johnson  said, 

That   in   the  course  of  some  six  thousand  vears. 

All  nations  have  believed  that  from   the  dead 
A  visitant   at   intervals  appears  ; 

A'mI  ivhat  is   strangest  upon  this  stran;:e  head, 
Is   that  whatever  bar  the   reason  rears 

•'Gainst  sf.ch   belief,   there's  something  stronger  still 

In  Its  behalf,  let  those  deny  who  will. 

VIII. 

The   dinner  and  ihe  soiree  too  were  done, 

The  supper  too  discuss'd,  the  dames  admired. 

The  banqueters  had   dropp'd  off  one  by  one — 
The  song  was  silent,  and  the  dance   expired  : 

The  last  tliin   petticoats  were  vaiiish''d,  gone. 
Like  fleecy  clouds  into  the  sky  retired. 

And  notning  brighter  gleam'd  through  the  saloon 

Than  dying  tapers — and   the  peeping  moon. 

IX. 

The  evaporation  of  a  joyous  day 

Is  like  the  last  glass  of  champagne,  without 
The  foam  which  made   its  virgin    bumjier  gay; 

Or  like  a   svstem  coupled   with  a  doubt ; 
Or  like  a  soda-bottle,  when   its  spray 

Has  sparkled  and  let   half  its  s[)irit   out; 
Or  lii;e  a   billow  left  by  storms   behind, 
Without   the   animation  of  the  wind; 

X. 
Or   likf    an  opiate  which  bririi^s  troubled  rest. 

Or  none  :   or  like — like   nothing  that  I  know 
E\c<pt   Itself; — such  is   the   human   breast; 

A  thing,  of  which   similitudes  can  show 
No  real   likeness, — like   the   old  Tyrian  vest 

l)v<  i  purple,  none  at    pre.-ent    can   tell   howj 
if  from  a   sheil-tish   or  from   co<:hineal.' 
So  pf.Tish   everv  tyra'it's   rijbe  piecemeal ! 

XI. 

But   next   to   dressing  for   a  tout   or  ball. 
Undressing   is  a  ^voe  ;   our  n^be-de-chamlire 

Mav  sit    like  that   of  Nessus,  and    recall 

Thoughts  quite  as  yellow,  but  less  clear  than  amber. 


Titus   exclaim'd,      I've  lost   a  dav!''     Of  ah 

The  nights   anc.   days  must    people   can   reinember 
(I   have   had    of  boih,  sonu;   not    lo   he   disdaiu'd^, 
I  wish   tlH;y  'd   state  how  many  they  iiav(;   gain'd. 

XII. 

And   .luan,  on  retiring  for  the   ni^Iif, 

Felt    restless   and    |)er|>lex'd,  and    ct)mprom/scd. 

He    thouiiht  Aurora  llaby's   .-yes    more    bright 
Than  Adeline    (such    is    advice)    advised"; 

If  he  had   known   exactly  his  own    jiliLrlit, 
lie   probably  would   have   philosoplnzcd  ; 

A  great  resource  to   all,  and   ne'er  denied 

Till  wanted  ;   tiierefore   Juaii  only  sigh'd. 

XIII. 

He  sigh'd; — the  next  resource  is  the  full   moon, 

Where   all  sighs   are  deposited ;   and   now, 
It  hapjien'd   luckily,  the  chaste  orb  shone 

As   clea.-  as  such  a  climate  will   allow  ; 
And  Juan's   mind  was  m   tlu;  proper   tone 

To   hail   her  with   the  apostrophe— "  Oh,  thou  !" 
Of  amatory  egotism  the  tuism, 
Which  further  to  explain   would   be   a  truism. 

XIV. 
Hut  lover,   poet,  or  astronomer. 

Shepherd,  or  swain,  whoever   mav  behold. 
Feel   some   abstraction  when   they  gaze  on   her. 

Great  thoughts  we  catch  from  thence  (besides  a  c,o(3 
Sometimes,  unless   my  feelings  rather  err); 

Deej)  secrets  to   her  roiling    light   are   to'd ; 
The  ocean's  tides  and   mortals'    brains  she  sways. 
And  also  hearts,  if  there  be  truth  m  lays. 

XV. 
Juan  felt  somewhat  pensive,  and   disposed 

For  contemplation  rather  than   his  pillow; 
Tlie  Gothic  chamber,  where  he  was  enclosed, 

Let  in  the  rippling  sound  of  the  lake's  billow 
With  all  the  mystery  by  midnight  caused  ; 

Below  his  window  waved  (of  course)  a  willow; 
And   he  stood  gazing  out  on  the   ca-cade 
That   flasli'd  and  ailer  darkenM   in  the  shade. 

XVI. 

Upon  his  table  or  his  toilet — which 

Of  these  is  not   exactly  asccrtain'd — 
(I  state  this,  for   I   am   cautious  to  a  pitch 

Of  nicety,  where   a  fact  is  to  be   gain'd) 
A  lamp   burn'd   high,  while  he  leant  from   a  niche, 

Where   many  a  Gothic  ornament   remain'd. 
In  chisell'd   stone  and   painted  glass,  ai'il  ail 
That  time  has  left  our  fathers  of  their  hall. 

XVII. 

Then,  as  the  night  was  clear,  though   cold,  nc   threw 
His  chamber-door  wide  open — and   went  f)rt!i 

Info  a  gallerv,  of  a  sombre  hii;', 

LfHig,  tlirnish'd  with   old   pictures  of  gr(>at  '.voith, 

Of  kniglits   and   daiii(;s   heroic    and    c!ia-~-ie   ton. 
As  doubtless  should   l;e  people  of  nigh  birtii. 

Hut    bv  dim    lights   the    portraits   of  the  Ai-i'A 

Have  something  ghastly,  desolate,  and  dread. 

XVIII. 

The  forms  of  the  grim   kmghis   aini  pictured    ?.-ii.nL3 
Look    living   in    the   moon;    anU    as   you    turn 

Backward    and    forward   to   ih;-  ecli  li's   :a!:il 
Of  your  own   jbotstrps— voices   frnm    ;l,e   u-i 

Appear  to  wake,  and   sha.'.nvs  \\  ild    an!   iinaint 

Start  from  tiie  frames  whi-h  fein'c  ir:,T  aspects  stern 

As   if  to    ask    how  can    you    dare   to  k"-p 

A  vigil  there,  where  all   bur   death  .--uou'd   sl<  ep 


702 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XIX. 

Anil  tlie  i);i!e  smile  of  beaiities  in  the  ajave, 
^I'li;'  chaniis  of  other  days,  in  Htaiii-ht  ghvuiis 

'Hiiiiiner  uii  high;  thoir  buried  loi-lcs  <till  wave 
Along  the  canvas;  their  eye.-;  glance  like  dreams 

On  ours,  or  sjiars  within  some  dusky  cave, 
Biit  do;ith  is  imaged  in  tlieir  shadowy  beams. 

A  ])icturc  is  the  past;  even  ere  its  I'ninie 

Be  gilt,  who  sate  hath  ceased  to  be  tlie  same. 

XX 

As  Juan  mused  on  mutalnlity. 

Or  on  his  mistress— terms  synonymous- 
No  sound  except  the  echo  oi'  his  sigli 

Or  step  ran  sadly  through  that  aiiviijue  Imuse, 
^Vhen  suddenly  he  heard,  or  thoi.gbt  so.  nigh 

A  sui)ernalural  agent— or  a  m..;ise, 
AVli.'>e  liitle   nibi.iing  rustle  will  emli  irrass 
.M...-C  pee.iue,  as  it  plays  along  ilic'  arms. 

XXI. 

It  v.-as  no  mouse,  but,  lo!  a  monk,  array'd 

In  cowl  and  beads  and  dusky  garb,  appear'd, 
Vow  in   the  nioonliglit,  and   now  laj)sed  in  shade, 

Witli  steps  that   trod   as  heavy,  yet  unheard; 
rtis   trarinent^:  oniv  a  slight  murmur  made  ; 

He   moved  as  shadowy  as  the  sisters  weird, 
But  slowlv  ;    and   as  he  pass'd  .Juan   by, 
Glanced,  without  pausing,  on  him  a  bright  eye. 

XXII. 
Juan  was  petrified  ;  he  had  heard   a  hint 

Of  such   a  spiiit  in  these  halls  of  old, 
Bu'.  thoug'at,  like  most   men,  there  was  nothing  in  't 

BevGud  the  rumour  which  such  spots  unfold, 
Coin'd  from   surviving  superstition's  mint, 

Which    [);isses  ^hf'sts   in  cnrrencv  like  gold, 
But  rarely  seen,  like  gold  compared  witli  paper. 
And  did  he  see  this?  or  was   it  a  vapour? 

XXIII. 

Once,  twice,  thrice  pass'd,  repass'd — the   thing  of  air. 

Or  earth   beneath,  or   heaven,  or  't  other  place; 
And  Juan   gazed  upon   it   with  a   stare. 

Yet   could   not  speak  or  move ;   but,  on  its  base 
As  stands  a  statue,  stood :   he  fell  his  hair 

Twine  like   a   knot  of  snakes  around   his  face  ; 
He  tax'd  his  tonjjue  for  words,  whicli  were  not  granted, 
To  ask  the  reverend  person  what  btr  wantcul. 

XXIY. 
The  third   time,  after  a   sfili    longer  pause, 

The   shadow  pa'^sM   a\v;iv— but  where  ?   the  hall 
\Y:!s   long,  and   thus  far   there  was   no  gre;a  cause 

To  tluid?   his  vanishing   unnatural: 
Dmoi's   tht;re  were  manv,  through  which,  bv  the  laws 

Of  pjivsics,  bodies,  wliether  short  or  tall, 
IMiL'ht    cani(!  or   go  •    but  .luan  could    not   state 
Through  which   the  .spectre  scem'd   to  evaporate. 

XXV. 
Fle  s1of)d,  how  long  he  knew  not,  but   it   seetn'rl 

An    a^o — expect.ant,  j)owerl"ss,  with    his    eves 
^frairi'd   on  the  s[>ot  where  first   the  :!;^;;re   <:leam'd  ; 

Then  by  degrees  recallM   his  en'Tgie.;, 
\fid  would  have  pass'd   the  w-ioh'   off  as   a   dream. 

Hut  could   not  wake  ;    he  was,  he  did   suriiris(;, 
^Yaking  already,  and   return'd   at  length 
Back  to   his  chamber,  shorn  of  half  his   strength. 

XXVI. 

.\11  tliere  was  as  he  left  it;  still  his  taj)er 
Burnt,  and   not    blue,   as   niode-;t    tapers   use, 

Heceivin^'  sprites  with  sympathetic  vaiiour  ; 
He  rubb'd   his  eyes,  arri   th<;y  did   not  refuse 


j  Their  office  :    he   look  up   an   old  newsnaper 
I         'i  he    [japer  ".vas   right   Ciisy  to   peruse 

I  He   read   an   ariiel<>  the   king   attacluns, 

i  And   a  long  eulogy  of  "  Paten     Blacking." 

XXVII. 

This  savour'd   of  this  wor'd  .    nut  his   hand  shooll-- 
He  sluit   his  (l(.or,  and   after   having  read 

A    paragra[)h,  I  think    about   Home  Tooke, 
Undress'd,  and   rather  slowly  went    to   bed. 

There,  couch'd    all   snu^lj'  on   his   pillow's   nook. 
With  what  he'd   s(-en    his  phantasy  he   fed, 

And   thougli   it  was   no  oj.iate,  sliunber  crept 

Uj)on   him    by  di'grees,   aiui  so   he    slept. 

XXVIII. 

He  woke  betimes  :    and,   as  may  be  supposed, 

Ponder'd   upon   his   visitant   or  vision, 
And  whether  it  ought   not    to  be  disclosed, 
j         At   risk   of  beincr  quizz'd   for  sujierstition. 
I    The  more  he  thought,  the  more  his  mind  was  posed  , 

In   the   mean  time   his  valet,  whose   precision 
Was  great,  because   his   master  brook'd   no  less, 
Knock'd   to  inform   him   it  was   titiie   to  di'ess. 

XXIX. 
He   dress'd  ;    and,   like   young   [)eop!e,   he  was  woni 

To  take  some  trouble  with    his   toilet,   but 
This   moreinsj   rather   spent    less   time  ii[)on 't ; 

Aside   his  very  mirror   soon  was   put : 
His  curls  fell   negligently  o'er  his   front. 

His  clothes  were  not  ciirb'd   to   t,h(;ir  usual   cut, 
His  very  nc^ckclotii's  Gordian   knot  was   tied 
Almost  a  hair's   breadth   too   much   on   one  side. 

XXX. 

And  when  he  walk'd  down   info  the  saloon. 
He  sate   him   p(;risive   o'er  a  dish   of  tea, 

Which   he  perhaps   had  not   (li'^cr)ver"d  soon, 
Had   it  not    hap!..eird  scaldmg    hot   to   be. 

Which   made   him  have   recourse    utito   his   spoon  j 
So   much   distrait   he   was,   that    all    could   see 

That   something  u;as  the   matter— .\deiine 

The  first— but  wlud  .she  could   not  well   (hvine. 

XXXI. 

She  look'd   and   saw  him    pale,  and   lurn'd   as   pale 
Herself;    then   hastily  look'd   down  and   mutter'd 

Something,  but  what 's  not  stated    in   my  tale. 
Lord    Henry  said,  his  mulFm  was  ill  butter'd  ; 

The   Duchess  of  Fitz-Fulke  plav'd  with   her  veil, 
And   look'd   at  .;uan    iiard,  but    nothuig   utter'd. 

Aurora   Raby,  with    Ikt    hu-ge    dark    eyes, 

Survfw'd  him  wjth  a   iund  of  calm  surprise. 

XXXII. 

ihil    seeiuii    liim    all   cold   and    silent    still, 
.•\nd   every  bo  ly  wondering   more   or  less, 

P;nr    Adeline    iiHj'uired    if  he  were   ill? 

He  started,  and  said,    "  Yes— no— rather — yes.'- 

The   family  physician  had   great    skill, 

And,  beit'.g   present,  now  began   to   express 

His    readiness    to   feel   his    pulse,   and   tell 

The  cause,  but  Juan   said,   "  he  was  quite  well." 

XXXIII. 

"Quit(>  well;  ves,  no." — These  answers  weip  mystO' 
rious. 

And    vet    his  looks   a])pear'(l   to  sanction  both 
Hinviver  they  n.iglit   savour  of  deliri(»us  , 

Something   like   ilhu'ss  of  a  sud<leu   growth 
W'eigh'd    on    his   spirit,  though   by  no   nie;ins    serioug 

I'm    Cn.-   lie;   r<!st,   as   tie   himself  seem'd   loth 
To    state   the   case,   it    might  be    ta'en   for   granted. 
It  was   not  the  physician  that   lie  wautetl. 


DON    JUAN. 


708 


XXXIV. 

liOrd  Henrv,  who  har)   now  liisciissM   liis  chcicolate, 
Also  the   muffiii,  whereof  he  coniphiiiiVI, 

Said,  Juan   had   not  got   his   nsu;d  look   elate, 
At  wliioh   he  niarveU'd,  since  it  h;id   not  rain'd  ; 

Then  ask'd  her  (jraee  what  news  were  oflln!  duke  of  lale? 
Her  grace    replied,  hia  grace  was  rather  pain'd 

VVith   some  sliirht,  light, 'hereditary  twinges 

Of   2oiit.  wliich  rusts  aristocratic  hing(;s. 

XXXV 

Then   lienrv  tnrn'd   to  Juan,  and   address'd 
A   few  words   of  condolence   on  !iis   statt;  : 

"ViHi   look,"  (juoth   he,  "as  if  you  M   had   your  rest 
Broke  in   upon  by  tlie   Black   Friar  of  late." 

"What   friar?"    said  Juan  ;    and   he  did   his  bef;t 
To  put  the  question  with  an   air  sedate, 

Or  careless  ;    but  the  effort  was  not  valid 

To  huider  him  from  growing  still   more  pallid. 

XXXVI. 

"Oh!    have  vou  never   lic;ird  of  the   Black  Friar? 

Trie  spirit  of  these  walls?"— "In  truth   not   I." 
"  Why  fame — but  fame  you  know  sometime  's  a  liar — 

Tells  an  odd  story,  of  which  by  the  by  : 
Whether  with   time  the  spectre   has  grown   shyer. 

Or   that   our  sires  had  a  more  gifted  eve 
For  such  sights,  though  the   tale  is  half  believed, 
riie  friar  of  late  has  not  been   oft   perceived. 

XXXVII. 

"  The  last  time  was "  "  I  pray,"  said   Adeline— 

(Who  watch'd  the  changes  of  Don  Juan's  brow 

Aud  from  its  context  thought   she  couid  divine 
Connexions  stronger  than  he  ch.ose  to  avow 

With  this  same  legend), — "  if  you  but  design 
To  jest,  vou  '!1  choose  some  other  theme  just  now, 

ri"cuwsc  tho   present  tale    has  oft  been   told, 

And  is   not  much  imitroved  by  growing  old." 
XXXVIII. 


"  J  oj 


qi 


loth   Milor,  "  Wliv,  Adeliiic,  you  know 


That  we  ourselves — 'twas  in   the  hoiu^y-moon — 
Saw "   "Well,  no  matter,  'twas  so  long  ago; 

But  come,  I'll  set  your  sti)ry  to  a  tune." 
Graceful   as    Dian   when   she  draws  her  bow, 

She  seized  her  harp,  wh.ose  strings  were  kindkul  soon 
As  touch'd,  and  plaintively  began  to   play 
1  iie   air  of  " 'T  was  a  Friar  of  Orders  Gray.'' 

XXXIX. 

"But  ad<l  the  words,"  cried  Henry,   "which  you  made 

For  Aiieiine  is  half  a   poetess," 
Turning  round   to  the  rest,  he  smiling  said. 

Of  course  the  others  could  not  but  express 
[n  courtesy  their  wish  to  see  display'd 

Bv  one  three  talents,  for  there  were  no  less— 
The  voice,  the  words,   the  harper's  skill,  at  once 
Could  hardly  be  united  by  a  dunce. 

XL. 

After  some  fascinating  hesitation, — 

The  charming  of  these  charmers,  who  seem  bound, 
I  can't   tell  whv,  lO  this  dissimulation — 

Fair  Adeline,  with  eyes  fix'd   on  the  ground 
At  first,  then  kindling  into  animation, 

Added   her  sweet  voice  to  the  lyric  sound, 
And   sang  with   much  simplicity, — a  mcit 
Not   the  less  precious,  that  we  seldom   hear  it. 

1. 

Beware     beware  !    of  the  Black  Friar, 

Who  siiteth   bv  Norman   stone. 
For  he  mutters   his  praver   in   ihe   rnidniglit    air, 

And   his    mass  nf  the  davs  ihiit  are  gone. 


When  the   Lprd  of  the   Hill,  Amiindeville, 
Made   Norman   Church    ins    prev, 

And   exjiell'd  the  friars,  one  friar   still 
Would  not  be  driven  away. 

2. 
Though  became  in  his  might,  with  Kir.g  Henri's 

To  turn  church   lands  to   lav, 
With  sword  in  hand,   and  torch  to  light 

Thtnr  walls,  if  they  said   nav, 
A  monk   rem.iin'd,  unchased,  unchain'd. 

And    he  did   not  seem   form'd   of  clav, 
For  he  's  s(;en  in  the  porch,  and  he  's  s(;en  in  the  ci 

Though  he  is  not   seen  by  day. 

a 

And  wlu'ther  for  good,  or  whether  for  ill, 

It  is  not  mine  to  say  ; 
l^ut  still  to   the   house   of  Anmndeville, 

He  abideth   night  and  day. 
By  the  marriage-bed  of  their   lords,  't  is   said. 

He  flits  on  the  bridal  eve  ; 
And  't  IS  held  as  faith,  to  their  bed  of  death 

He  comes — but  not  to  grieve. 
4. 
When  an  heir  is  born,  he  is  heard   to  mourn, 

And  when  aught  is  to  befall 
That  ancient  line,  in  the   pale  moonshine 

He  walks  from  hall  to  hall. 
His  form  you  may  trace,  but  not  his  face, 

'T  is  shadow'd   by  his  cowl  ; 
But  his  eyes  may  be  seen  from  the  fold'^  betv, 

And  they  seem  of  a  parted  soul. 
5. 
But  beware  !    beware  of  the   Black  P>iar, 

He  still  retains  his  sway, 
For  he   IS  yet   the  church's  heir 

Whoever  may  be   the  lay. 
Amundeville  is  lord   by  day, 

But  the  monk   is  lord  by  night, 
Nor  wine  nor  wassail  could  raise  a  vassal 

To  (juestion  that   friar's   riglu. 


rig;ht 


urch. 


Say  nought  to  him  as  he  walks  the  ha>., 

And    he  '11   say  nought  to  you  : 
He   swei^ps   along  in   his   dusky  pall, 

As  o'er  the   grass   the  dew. 
Then  gramercy  !    for  the   Black  Friar  ; 

Heaven  saiii    him !    fair  or  foul. 
And  wdi;;isoe'ei    may  be   his   prayer. 

Let  ours   be   for  his  soul. 

XLl. 

The  lady's  voice  ceased,  and  the  thrilling  wires 
Died   tlnni   the  touch  that  kindled   them  to  sound 

Aiifl   the   [);iuse   follow'd,  which,  when   song  expires. 
Pervades    a  moment   those  who  listen   rouxd  ; 

And   then  of  course  the  circle  much   admires, 
Nor  less   apolauds,  as  in   politeness    ixiund, 

Tiie   lon>'s,  I  he  feeling,  and  the  execution, 

To  the   jierl  K-iner's   diffident   confusion, 

XLII. 

Fair  Adeline;,  though  in  a  careless  way, 
As   if  >he  rated   such   accompiishment 

As   ihe  mere   pastime  of  an   idle   day. 

Pursued  an   instant   for  her  o\vn   content, 

Would   now  and   then   as   't  \\cr(>   iii;h')ut  'ii'--p'a;r 
Vet   jiith   displav  in   fact,   at    limes   rdent 

To   such    performances  with   liaiiglilv  suii'e, 

To  show  she  coubL  if  it  were  worth   her  whij^'. 


704 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


XLIII. 

rfow  this   (but  we  will  whisper  it   aside) 
Was — pardon  the  pedantic  illustration — 

Trampling  on    Phito's   pride  witli   greater   pride, 
As  did   the  Cynic  on  some  like   o(;easioii  ; 

Deeming  tho   sage  would   be  much   morlified, 
(V   thrown   ii.to   a  philosophic   passion, 

For  a   spoil'd  carpet — i)ut  the  "  Attic  .Uee  " 

\"\  as   nuui    consol(;d   by  his  own   repartee.^ 

XLIV. 

Thus  Adehne  would  throw  into  the  shade 

(Hy  doing  easily,  whene'er  she  chose, 
What  dilettanti  do  with  vast   parade). 

Their  sort  of  half  profession  ;    for   it   grows 
To  something  like   this  when   too   oft  display'd, 

And  'hat    it    is   so   every  bodv  knows 
Who've  heard    Miss  That  or  This,  or  Lady  T' other, 
Show  oti" — to  please   their  company  or   mother. 

XLV. 
Oh  !    the  long  evenings  of  ducts   and  trios  ! 

The  admirations   and  the  speculatif)ns  ; 
The  "Mauuna  IMias  !"  and  the  "Amor  Mios  !" 

The  "  Tanti   Palpitis  "  on   such  occasions  : 
The  "  Lasciamis,"  and  quavering  "  i\ddios  !" 

Amongst  our  own  most  musical   of  nations  ; 
With  "Tu  mi  chamases "   from  Portiuciale, 
To  soothe   our  ears,  lest  Italy  should  fail.'' 

XLVI. 

In    Babylon's   bravuras — as  the   home 

Heart-ballads  of  Green   Erin   or  Gray  Highlands, 
That  bri.u;   T^ochaber   back  to   eyes   that   roam 

O'er  far  Atlantic  continents   or   islands, 
The  calentures  of  music  which   o'ercome 

All  mount  ameers  wiih  dreams  that  thev -.sreni^h  lands, 
?Jo  more  to  be   b<:he''d   but   in   such  visions, — 
Was  Adeline  w(;ll  vtrsed   as  compositions. 

XLVII. 
She  also  had  a  twiligal  tinge  of  "  iJ/wr, 

Could  write  rhymes,  and  corn|)ose  more  than  she  wrote; 
Made  epigrams  occasionally  too 

Upon   her   friends,  as  every  body  ought. 
But  still  from  that  subhmer  azure  hue," 

So  much  the  present  dye,  she  was  remote  ; 
Was  weak  enough  to  deem  Pope  a  great  poet. 
And,  what  was  worse,  was  not  ashamed  to   show  it. 

XLVIII. 

Aurora — since  we  are  touching  upon  taste, 

W^hich  now-a-days  is  the  thermometer 
By  whose  degrees  all   characters  are  class'd — 

W^as  more  Shakspearian,  if  I  do   not  err. 
The  worlds   bevond   this  world's  perplexing  waste 

Had   more  of  her  existence,    for  in   her 
There  was   a  depth   of  feeling  to   embrace 
Thoughts,  boundless,  deep,  but  silent   too   as  space. 

XLIX. 
Not  so  her  graciou'-,  graceful,  graceless  grace, 

The  full-grown  II(;be  of  Fitz-Fulke,  whose  mind, 
If  she  had   any,  was   upon  her  face, 

And   that  was  of  a  fascinating  kind. 
A  little  turn   for  mischief  you   might  trace 

Also  thereon, — but   that's  not  much;   we  fmd 
Few  females  without    somi;  such   gentle   leavcm, 
Fur  fear  we  should   suppose  us  (piite   in  heaven. 

L. 

I   h;)\e  not   lieard  she  was  at   all  poetic, 

'I'tioMgh  onc(!  sh(;  was  seem  reading  the  "  Bath  C  uide," 
\ul  "  llayhjy's  Triumphs,"  which  she  dcem'd  pathetic, 
H' cause    she   said,  her  temjirr   U;u\   biien    tried 


So  much,  the  bard  had  really  been   prophetic 

Of  what  she  had  gone  through  with, — since  a  bnijo 
But  of  all  verse  what  most  insured   her  praise 
Were  sonnets  to  herself,  or  "bouts  rimes." 

LI. 

'Twere  difficult  to  say  what  was  the  object 

Of  Adeline,  in   bringing  [his  same  lay 
To  bear  on  what  appear'd  to  her  the  subject 

Of  Juan's  nervous  feelin<Ts  on   that   day. 
Perhaps  she  merely  had   the  simple  project 

To  laugh  him  out  of  his  supposed  dismay: 
Perhaps  she  might  wish  to  coiilirm  him  in  't, 
Though  why  I  cannot  say — at  least  this  minute. 

LII. 
But  so  far  the  immediate  effect 

Was   to  restore  him  to  his  self-propriety, 
A  thing  quite  necessary  to  the   elect, 

Who  wish  to  take  the  tone  of  their  society ; 
In  which  you  cannot  be  too  circumspect, 

W^h(;tlier  the  mode  be  persillage  or   pioty, 
But  wear  the  newest  mantle   of  hypocrisy, 
On  pain  of  much  displeasing  the  gynocracy^ 

LIII. 
And  therefore  Juan  now  began  to  rally 

His  spirits,  and,  without  more  explanation. 
To  jest   upon  such  themes  in  inanv  a  sally. 

Her  grace  too  also  seized   the  same  occasion, 
W^ith  various  similar  remarks  to  tally. 

But  wish'd  for   a  still    more  detail'd   narration 
Of  this  same  mystic  friar's  curious  doings, 
About  the   present  family's   deaths  and  woomgs. 

LIV. 
Of  these  few  could   say  more  than   lias  been   said, 

They  pass'd    as  such   thinirs  do,  for  superstition 
With   some,  while  others,  who   had  more   in   dread 

The   theme,  half  credited  th(>  siraiige  tradition 
And   much  was  tahv'd  on   all   sides   on    that  head  ; 

But  Juan,  when   cross-cju.stion'ii  on   the  vision. 
Which  some  supposed  (thoiigii  he    h;id  not  avow'd  it 
Had  stirr'd   him,  answer'd   in   a  way  to   cloud    it. 

LV. 

And  then,  the  mid-day  havinu  worn   to  one, 

The  company  ])re])ared    to  sejtarate  : 
Some  to  their  several   pastiuics,  or  to   none  ; 

Some  wondering  't  was   so  early,  some  so  late. 
There  was   a   goodlv  inutch,  too,  to  be  run 

Between   some   grayliounds  on    my  lord's  estate, 
And   a  young  race-horse  of  old   pciliirrf-e, 
Match'd  for  the   spring,  wiiom   several  went   to  see 

LVI. 

There  was   a  picturivdcaler,  who  hn!    Ifrougot 
A  special  Titian,   warranted    on^'inal, 

So   precious  that  it  was  not   to  be  bouiiht, 

Though   princes  the   possessor  were  liesieging  al! 

The   king  himself  had   cheapen'd   it,  but  thought 
The  civil   Hst   (he  deigns   to  accept,  obliging  all 

His  subjects  by  his  gracious  acceptation) 

Too  scanty,  in  these   times  of  low  taxation. 

LVII. 

But  as  Lord  Henrv  was  a   connoisseur, — 

The  iViend   of  artists,  if  not  arts, — the   owT.-jr, 

With  motives  the  most   classical   and   pure. 
So  that  he  would   have  hc(Mi   the  very  donor, 

Rather  than   sello.-,  had   his  w.nits   been  fewer, 
So   much   he   deiiiu'd   his   patronage  an  honour 

Had   brought  the  capo  d'opcra,   not   for  sale. 

But   for  his   judgment, — never  known  to  foil. 


DON    JUAN. 


70li 


LVIII. 

fViewas  a  niodnrn  Gotli,  1  moan  a  Golliic 

Brick. .iver  of  Hal)il,  culiM  an   arclutect, 
Bfon^ht   to  survey  Uiese  gray  walls,  which,  though  so 

^    tluCK, 

Miiflil    have   from   time  acijuirci  sosue  slight  defect , 
U'lio,  ailer   ruinningiiig  the  Ahhey  ihrouyh    thick 

All. I    tiuii,  j)r<>ilu('etra    plan,  wlierehy  to   erect 
New  huiiiliiigs   <it"  correetesl   CDnturinalion, 
Aiui   tluHtw  down  old — winch    he  call'il   rcstonition. 

LIX. 
Tlie  cost  would   he   a   trilie — an   "old   soni;," 

Set    to   some   thousands    ('t  is   the  usual    hurthen 
Of  til, It    same   tune,  when    people   liimi    it   long)  — 

The    pi-ice   would   sjieediU'  ifpav  its  worth   in 
An    edilice   no    less   suhliine   than   stroller, 

Hy  which  Lord  Henry's  good  'aste  would  go  forth  in 
It>  glory,  through   al.    iges  shiniiiij  suiinv. 


For  (jolhic    daring  si  jwn   in  English 


money, 


LX. 

There  were  two  lawyers   husv  on   a  mortt'ase 

Lord  Henry  wish\t  to  rais<;  for  a  new  purchase; 
Also   a   la\vsuit  upon    tenures    hur<ra:re. 

And  one  on  tithes  which  sure  are  discord's  torciies, 
Kindlinir  Religion    till    she    throws   down   her  ga<;e, 

"Untying"  s(pnres  "to  li^ht  against  the  ciiurches;" 
There  was  a  prize  ox,  a  |)riz(!  pig,  and  ploughman, 
For  Henry  was   a  sort  of  Sahine   showman, 

LXi. 
There  wer^  two   poachers  caught  in   a  steel  trap 

Ready  tor  jail,  their  pl.ice  of  convaiescence  ; 
There  was  a  country  girl   in   a  close   can 

And  s-'arlet  cloak  (I  hate  the  si^rht  to  see,  since — 
Since — since — m   youth   I  had   the  sad  mishap — 

Hut    luc'kily  I've    paid   tew    p^nsh    fees   since). 
Th?l    scarlet   cloak,  alas  !    unclosed  with   rigour, 
Presents  the   problem   of  a  double  figure. 

LXH. 

A  reel  within    a  bottle  is   a  mystery, 

One  can"t   teli   how   it  e'er  got  in   or  out. 

Therefore   the   present  piece   of  natural  history 
I  leave   to  those  who   are  fond  of  solving  doubt, 

And   merely  state,  though   not    f)r  the  consistory. 
Lord   Henry  was   a  jnsliei',  aiid   that    Scout 

I'ht   constable,  bene:i!h    a  warrant's   banner. 

Had  bagg'd  this  poacher  upon  Nature's  manor. 

LXHL 

Now  justices  of  peace   must    judge  all  pieces 

Of  mischief  .)f  all    kmds,  Miid    keep   the    game 
And    muraU  of  the  country  from   caprices 

Of  t;io<(;  wliu 've   not    a   license   for  the  same; 
And   of  ail   thiiiirs.  (.■xc(-ptiiig   tithes    and    leases, 

Perhaps   these   ar(^    most   diiiicult   to   tame: 
Presiawiiii.'   p,irtri(lges   and    pretty  wenches 
.Are  puz/.le.s  to  the   iiKJSt    precautions   benches. 

LXIV. 
The   present    cubrit  was   cMremelv  pair, 

Pale   as   if  pam'ed   so;    h,T   cheek    being  red 
By  natur",   as    m    hiL'hi'r  dames   less   hale, 

'T  is  white,  at  least  when  diey  just  rise  from  bed. 
Perhaps  she  was  ashamed  of  s<'eming  frail. 

Poor  soul  !   for  she  was  country  born  and   bred, 
And   knew  ikj  belt(;r    in   lier   immorality 
Tlian  to  wax  white — for  blushes  are  for  quality. 

LXV. 
Her  l)la(;k,  bright,  downc-ast,  yet  espie.gle  eye 

Had   (jather'd   a  large   tear  mio   its  corner, 
Which  the  poor  thing  at  times  essay'd  to  dry. 

For  siie   «'as  not  a  senimiental   mourner, 
45 


Parading  all  her  sensibility. 

Nor  iiisohmt  enough  to  so  .in   th»    scorner, 
But   stood    in  tremblmg,  patient    tnbi  lalion, 
To  be  cali'd  up  i-br  her  exan  nation. 

LXVI. 
Of  course  these;  groups  wiae  scatter'd   here  and  thert-^ 

Not    nigh   the  g.iy  salonu   of  ladies   gimt. 
Th.;  lawyers   in   the   study;    and    m   air 

The  prii-e  pig,  ploughman,  poichers;   the  men  sent 
From   town,  vi/.  architect    and    dealer,  were 

Both    busy    (.IS   a   general    in    his   lent 
VVritini:  despatches)    in   tludr   several   stations, 
Exulting  m  th(;ir  brilliant   lucubrations. 

Lxvn. 

But  tliis  poor  girl   was  left   in   tlie   great   hall. 
While  Scout,  the  parish   guardian   of  the  frail, 

Discnss'd   (he   hattid  beer  yclept  tlie   "small") 
A  mighty  mug  of  viordl  double   ale  : 

She  waited   until  .Justice  could  recall 
Its  kiml   attentions  to  their  projier  pale. 

To  name  a  thing  in   nomenclature  rather 

Perplexing  for   most  virgins — a  child's  fathc. 

LXVIII. 

You  see  here  was  enough  of  occiiiiation 

For  the   Lord   Henry,  link'd  with  dogs  p.nd  horses, 

There  was  much  bustle  too   and   jjrejiaration 
Below  stairs  on  the  score  of  second   courses, 

Because,  as  suits   their  rank  and  situation. 

Those  who  in   counties  have  great  land  resources. 

Have  "public  days,"  when  all   men  may  carouse, 

Though  not  exactly  what 's  cali'd  "  open  house  " — 

LXIX. 

But  once   a  week   or  fortnight,  uninvited 
(Thus  we   translate   a  enteral  iNvif/ifinn), 

All  country  gentlemen,  esquired  or  knignied, 

May  drop  in  without  cards,  and  take  their  station 

At  the  full   board,  and  sit   alike  delighted 
With  fashionable  w  incs   and  convej-sation  ; 

And,  as  the   isthmus  of  the   grand   coimexion, 

Talk  o'er  them-"  elves,  the  past  and  next  election. 

LXX. 

Lord   Henry  was  a  great  clectioneerer. 

Burrowing  fi)r  boroughs  like  a   rat  or  rabbit, 

But   country  contests  cost  him   rather   dearer. 

Because  the  neighliouring  Scotch  Earl  of  Giftaabbvl 

Hail  English  influence   in  the  self-same  sphere  hero , 
His  son,   the  Honourable  Dick  Dice-drabbit, 

vVas  memlxir  for  "the  other  interest"    (meaning 

Tiie  self-same  interest,  with  a  ditierent  leaning). 

LXXI. 

Courteous  and  cautious   therefore  in   his   connty, 
He  was  all   things   to  all   men,  and  dispensed 

To  some   civility,  to  others  bounty, 

And  |)romises   to  all — which   last  commenced 

To  <;ather  to  a  somewhat  larjie  amount,  he 
Not  calculatinir  how  nmch  they  condensed  ; 

But,  what  with    keeping  some  and  breaking  otheis. 

His  word  had  the  same  value  as  another's. 

LXXII. 

A  friend  to  freedom   and  freeholders — yel 
Ny    jss  a  fri(;nd  to  government — he   iield 

That  lie  exactly  the  just   medium   hit 

'Twixt   place  and   |».itri  aism — alix'it  compcll'd, 

Such  was   his   sovcreiiin's   (ileasure    (thouL'ti  tml'.l, 
He   added    mod.'vily,  wlien    rebels   rail'd), 

To   hold   so>ne   sinecures   he  wisii'd   abohsh'd. 

But  that  with   them  all  law  woidd  be  demolish  o. 


706 


BYRON'S    rOETICAL    WORKS. 


LXXIII. 

He  was  "  free  to  confess" — (whence  comes  this  phrase  ? 

Is 't  English?   No — 'tis   only  piirliaiiientary)  — 
Tha'   nini/vation's  spirit  now-a-days 

HaJ  made  more  progress   than  for  the  last  centurv. 
He  would   not  tread   a  factious  path  to  };raise, 

Thouah  for  the  public  weal  disposed  to  venture  high  ; 
An  for  his  place,  he   could   but  say  this  of  it, 
That  the  fatigue  was  greater  than  the  profit. 

LXXIV. 

Heaven  and  his  friemls  knew  that  a  private  life 
Had  ever  been  his  sole  and   whole  ambition  _; 

But  could   he  quit  his  king  in   times  of  strife 

Which  threatened  the  whole  country  with  perdiiion? 

When  demaijogues  would  with   a  butcher's   knife 
Cut  through  and  througn   (oh!   damnable  incision  !) 

The  Gordian  or  the    Geovdmn  knot,  whose  strings 

Have  tied   together  Commons,  Lords,  and  Kings. 

LXXV. 

Sooner  "  come  place  into  the  civil  list, 

And  champion  him  to  the  utmost " — he  would  keep  it, 
Till   duly  disappointed   or  dismiss'd  : 

Profit  lie  cared  not  for,  let  others   reap  it ; 
But  sliould   the  day  come  when  place  ceased  to  exist, 

The  country  would  have  far  more  cause  to  weep  it; 
For  how  could   it  go  on  ?      Explain  who  can  ! 
He  gloried   in   the  name   of  Englishman. 

LXXVI. 

He  was   as   in  l(>pendent — ay,  much  more — 

Than  those  who  were  not  paid   for  indei)endfiiicc, 
An  common   soldiers,  or  a  common shore 

Have   in  their  several  arts  or  ])arts  ascendance 
O'er   the  irrcnulars   in   lust  or  gore 

Who  do   not  give   professional   at'rtndance. 
Thus   on   the   nujb  all  statesmen  are   as   eager 
To  prove   their  pride,  as   footmen  to  a  beggar. 

LXXV  II. 
All  this    (save  the  last   stanza)    Henry  said, 

And  thought.     I  say  no  more — I  've  said  too  much  ; 
For  all  of  us  have  either  heard   or  read 

Of — or  vpon   the  hustings — some  slight   such 
Hints  from   *he  independent  heart  or  head 

Of  the  official  candidate.     I  '11   touch 
No  more  on   this — the   dinner-bell   hath   rung. 
And    grace   is  saia  ;   tb.o   grace  I  should  have  sung — 

LXXVIII. 
Hut  I'm  too  late,  and  therefore  must  make  ])lay. 

'T  was  a  great  banquet,  such  as  Albion  old 
\Vas  wont  to  boast — as  if  a  glutton's  tray 

Were   something  very  glorious  to  behold. 
Hut  'l  was   a  ])ublic  feast  and    public  day, — 

Quite  full,  right  dull,  guests  hot,  and  dishes  cold, 
Great   plcntv,  much   formality,  small  cheer, 
And  every  body  out  of  their  own  sphere. 

LXXIX. 
I'ho  squires  familiarly  formal,  and 

My  lords  and  ladies  proudly  condescending  ; 
The  very  servants   puzzling  how  to  hand 

Their  plates — without  it   might  be  too  much  bending 
From  their  high   places  by  the  sidel  oard's  stand — 

Yet,  likt!  their  masters,  fearful  of  olfending  ; 
For  any  deviafio.i   from   the  gra(-('s 
Might  C()st  both  men  and  masters  loo — their  plai.es. 

LXXX. 
There  were  soine  lionters   t)o!d,  and  coursers  k<M'n, 

Whose  hounds   ni:'er  err'd,  nor  grayhoimds  deign'd 
to  lurcn  ; 
Some  deadly  shots  too,  Septembri/.ers,  seen 

Earlit^st   to  rise,  and  last  to  nuil  the  searcn 


Of  the  poor  partridge  through   liis  stuonle   scieen. 

There  were  some  massy  members  of  the  churchy 
Takers   of  tithes,  and  makers  of  good   matches, 
And  several  who  sung  fewer  psalms  than  catches. 

LXXXI. 
There  were  some  country  wags,  too, — and,  alas  ! 

Some   exiles  from   the  town,  who  had  been  drivcsa 
To   gaze,  instead   of  pavement,   upon   gras3, 

And  rise  at  nine,  in  lieu  of  long   eleven. 
And  lo  !    upon  that  day  it  came  to  pass, 

I  sate  next  that  o'erwhelrnine  son   of  Heaven, 
The  very  powerful  parson,  Peter   Pith, 
The  .oudest  wit  I  e'er  was  deafen'd  with. 

LXXXII. 
I  knew  him  in  his  livelier  London  days, 

A  brilliant  diner-oul,  tliough  but  a  curate ; 
And  not  a  joke  he  cut  but  earn'd   its  praise, 

Until  preferment,  cominw  at   a  sure  rate, 
(Oh,  Providence  !    how  wondrous  are  thv  ways, 

Who  would  suppose  thy  gifts  sometimes  obdnrt  it  f 
Gave  him,  to  lay  the  devil  who  looks  o'e-  Linooh., 
A  fat  fen  vicarage,  and  nought    to  think  on 

LXXXIII. 

His  jokes  were  sermons,  and  his  sermons   jokes  , 
But   *:oth  were  thrown  away  amongst   the   fens  . 

For  wit  hath  no  great  i'>'.'^(\   m   airuish   folks. 
No  longer  ready  ears   and   short-hand  pens 

Imbibed   the  gay  bon-mot,  or  happv  lioax  : 

The  poor  priest  was  reduced  to  common  sense. 

Or   to  coarse  efforts   very  loud   and   Ioiht, 

To  hammer  a  hoarse  !au<;h  from  the  thick  throng. 

LXXXIV. 

There  ?>  a  difference,  savs  the  s->n(T,  *' betweeu 
A  beggar  and   a  (|ueeii,"  or   u-nn   (ef  Into 

The   laiier  worse  used  of  the   two  we've  seen — 
But  we'll  say  nothing  of  affairs   of  state)  — 

A  difference  "  'twixt  a  bishop   and   a  dean," 
A  difference  between  crockery-ware   and   plate. 

As  between   English   beef  and   Spartan   broth — 

And  yet  great  heroes  have  been  bred  by  both. 

LXXXV. 

But  of  all  Nature's  discrepancies,  none 

Upon  the  whole  is  greater  than   the  difference 

Beheld  between  the  country  and  tlie  town, 
Of  which  the  latter  merits  every  j)referenco 

From  those  who've  few  resources  of  their  own, 
And  only  thmk,  or  act,  or  feel  witli  reference 

To  some  small  plan  of  interest  or  ambition — 

Both  which  are  hmited  to  no  condition. 

LXXXV  I. 

But  "en  avant!"  The  light  loves  languish  o'er 
Long  banquets  and  too  many-j;uests,  although 

A  slight  repast  makes  people  love  much  more, 
Bacchus  and  Ceres  being,  as  we  know. 

Even  from  our  grammar  upwards,  friends  of  yor», 
With  vivifying  Venus,  who  doth   owe 

To  these   the  invention   of  champagne  and   trufllos. 

Temperance  delights  her,  but  long  fasting  rulilea. 

LXXXVII. 

Dullv  pass'd  o'er  the  dinner  of  the  dav  ; 

And  .Juan  took  Ins  pla(!e  he  knew  not  uherts. 
Confused,  in  the  confusion,   and   dislriil. 

And  sitliiii;   as   if  nail'd  upon   his  cliai'  ; 
Though   kniv.'s  and  forks  cla.ig'd   round   as   m  \  uli^ 

He  seein'd  imconscious  of  all  jiassmg  thcit-i, 
T  1!  some  one,  with  a  groan,  e\pres^:'(l  a  wisa 
(Unheeded   twice)   to  have  a  lin  of  tisU. 


DON    JUAN. 


707 


LXXXVIII. 

On  which,  at  the  third  asking  of  the  bans, 

He  started  ;    ami,  perceiving  stniles  annnid 
Mroadening  tc   grins,  he  cohnned  more   than  once. 

And  hastily — as  nothing  can  confound 
A  wise  man   more    than  langhter  from  a  dunce — 

Inliicted   on   the  dish  a  chjadly  woutid, 
And  with  such   hurry  tliat,  ere  he  could  curb  it, 
fie  'd  paid  his  neighbour's  jjrayer  witli  half  a  lurbul. 

LXXXIX. 
Ttiis  was   no  bad    mistake,   as   it   occurr'd, 

The   supplicator  being  an  amateur  ; 
But   others,  who  were   left  with  scarce  a  thira, 

Were    in^rv — as  they  well  might,  to  be  sure, 
rhey  wondcr'd   how  a  young   man  so  absurd 

Lord   Henry  at  his  table  should  endure  ; 
And   tliis,  and  his  not  knowmg   how  much   oats 
Had  fallen  last  market,  cost  his  host  tin-ce  votes. 

XC. 

Thev  little  knew,  or  might  have  sympathized. 
That   lie  the  mghl  before  had   seen   a  ghost ; 

A   prolo2ue,  which  but  slightly  harmonized 
With   the  substantial  companv  engross'd 

By  matter,  and  so   much  materialized, 

That  one  scarce  knew  at  what  to  marvel  most 

()f  two  thinijs — how    (the  (juestion  rather  oild   is) 

Such  bodies  could  have  souls,  or  souls  such  bodies. 

XCI. 

But  what  confused  him  more  than  smile  or  stare 
From   ail  the   'squires  atid   's(juiresses  around, 

Who  wondcr'd   at  the   abstraction   of  liis  air, 
Especiallv  as  he  had  been   renown'd 

Ft^r   some  vivaciiv  anions  the   fair. 

Even  in   the  country  circle's  narrow  bound— 

(Frr    ittle  things  upon   my  lord's  estate 

Were  good  small-talk  for  others  still  less  great) — 

XCH. 
Was,  that  he  caught  Aurora's  eye  on  his. 

And   something  like   a  smile  upon  her  cheek. 
Now  this   he   really  rather  took  amiss  : 

In  those  u ho  rarely  smile,  their  smile  bespeaks 
A  strong  external   motive  ;    and   in   this 

Stnile  of  Aurora's  there  was  nought  to   pique, 
Oi    hope,  or    love,  with   any  of  the  wiles 
Which  some   pretend   to  trace  in   ladies'  smiles. 

XCIII. 

'T  was   a  mere  quiet  smile  of  contemplation, 

Indicative  of  some  surprise   and   pity  ; 
And  Juan   grew  carnation  with   vexation. 

Which  was  not  very  wise  and   still   less  witty. 
Since   he  had   o^hi'd   at  least  her  observation, 

A   most   important  outwork   of  the  city — 
As  Jnan  should   have  known,  had   not  his  senses 
Fiv  last  night's  ghost  been  driven  from  their  defences. 

XCIV. 
But,  what  was  bad,  she  did   not  blush   in   turn, 

Nor  seem   embarrass'd — quite  the  contrary  ; 
Her  aspect  was,  as  usual,  still — not  stern — 

And  she  withdrew,  but  cast  not  down,  her  eye, 
Yet    grew  a  little   pale — with  what?   concern? 

I   kr.ow  not  ;    but  her  colour  ne'er  was  high — 
Th>ugh   sometimes  faintly  fhish'd — and  always  clear 
As  deep  seas  in   a  sunny  atmosphere. 

xcv. 

But  Adeline  was  occupied   by  fame 

This  day  ;   and  watching,  witching,  condescending 
lo  the  consumers  of  fish,  f )wl,  and   game. 

And  di'^'iiitv  with  courtes}   so  blending, 


As   all   must   blend  whose   part   it   is  to  aim 

(Esp(Haal!y  as  the  sixth   year  is    ending) 
At  their  lord's,  son's,  and  similar  cormi-xions' 
Safe  conduct  through  the  rocks  of  re-elections. 

XCVI. 
Though  this  was  most  exp(>dient  on  the  wholfc. 

And  usual — Juan,  when   lie  cast   a  glance 
On  Adeline  while  playing   her  grand  role. 

Which  siie  went  through  as  though  it  were  a  danc 
(Betraying  only  now  and  then   her  soul 

By  a  look  scarce  perceptibly  askance 
Of  weariness  or  scorn),  began   to  feel 
Some  doubt  how  much  of  Adeline  was  real; 

XCVII. 

So  well  she  acted  all  and  every  part 

By  turns — with   that  vivacious  versatility, 
Which  many  people  take  for  want  of  heart. 

They  err — 't  is  merely  what  is  call'd  mobility,^ 
A  thing  of  temiierament,  and  not  of  art. 

Though  seeming  so,  from  its  supposed  facility , 
And  false — thf)ugh  true  ;   for  surely  they  're  sincerest. 
Who  're  strongly  acted  on  by  what  is  nearest. 

XCVIII. 
This   makes  your  actors,  artists,  and  romancers. 

Heroes  sometimes,  though  seldom — sages  never  : 
But  speakers,  bards,  diplomatists,  and  dancers. 

Little  that 's  great,  but  much  of  what  is  clever ; 
Most  orators,  but  very  few  financiers, 

Though  all  Exchequer  Chancellors  endeavour, 
Of  late  years,  to  dispense  with  Cocker's  rigours. 
And  grow  quite  figurative  with  their  figures. 

XCIX. 

The  poets  of  arithmetic  are  they, 

Who,  though  they  prove  not  two  and  tv;o  to  bb 
Five,  as  they  would   do  in  a  modest  way. 

Have  plainly  made  it  out  that  four  are  three, 
Judging  by  what  they  take  and  what  they  pay. 

The   Sinking  Fund's  unfit homable  sea, 
Thai  most  unliquidating  liijuid,   leaves 
The  debt  unsunk,  yet  sinks  all  it  receives. 

C. 

While  Adeline  dispensed  her  airs  and   graces. 
The  fair  Fitz-Fulke  seem'd  very  much  at  ease  ; 

Though  too  well-bred  to  quiz  men  to   their  faces. 
Her  laughing  blue  eyes  with  a  glance  could  sei/M 

The  ridicules  of  people  in  all  places — 
That  honey  of  your  fashionable  bees — 

And  store  it  up   for  mischievous  enjoyment ; 

And  this  at  present  was  her  kind  employment. 

CL 

However,  the  day  closed,  as  days  must  close  ; 

The  evening  also  waned — and  cotfee  came. 
Each  carriage  was  announced,  and  ladies  rose, 

And  curtsying  off,  as  curtsies  country  dame. 
Retired:    with   most   unfashionable   bows 

Their  docile   esquires  also  did  the  same. 
Delighted  with  the  dinner  and  their  host, 
But  with  the  lady  Adeline  the  most. 

GIL 

Some  praised  her  beauty;   others  her  great  grace. 
The  warmth  of  her  politeness,  whose  sincerity 

Was  obvious  in  each  feature  of  her  face, 

W^hose  traits  were  radiant  with  the  rays  of  veray; 

Yes  :   she  was  truly  worthy  her  high   place  ! 
No  one  could  envy  her  deserved   prosperity  r 

And  then  her  dress — what  beautiful  simplicity 

Dra  period  her  form  with  curious  felicity!' 


708 


BORON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


cm. 

Meanwliile  sweet  Adeline  deserved  their  praises, 

By  an  impartial   indemnification 
For  all   her  past   exertion   and   soft  phrases, 

In  a  most  edifying  conversation, 
Which  turn'd  upon  their  late  unests'  miens  and  faces. 

And  fiimilies,  even  to  the  last  relation  ; 
Their  hideous  wives,  their  horrid  selves  and  dresses, 
And  truculent   distortion  of  their  tresses. 

CIV. 

5nie,  f>he  said  little— 't  was  the  rest  that  broke 

Forth  into  universal  epigram: 
B.it  then  'twas  to   the   purpose  what  she  spoke: 

Like  Addison's  "faint  praise"  so  wont  to  damn. 
Her  own   but  served  to  set  off  every  joke. 

As  music  chimes  in  with  a  melodrame. 
How  sweet  the  task  to  shield   an  absent  friend! 

I  ask  but  this  of  mine,  to not  defend. 

CV. 
There  were  but  two  excentions  to  this  keen 

Skirmish  of  wits  e'er  the  departed;   one, 
Aurora,  with   her  pure  and   placid   mien  ; 

And  Juan  too,  in  general  behind  none 
In  gay  remark  on  what   he'd  heard  or  seen, 

Sate  silent  now,  his  usual  spirits  gone: 
In  vain  he  heard  the  others  rail  or  rally. 
He  would  not  join  them  '.n  a  single  sally 

CVI. 
T  is  true  he  saw  Aurora  look  as  though 

She  approved  his  silence ;   she  perhaps  mistook 
Its  motive  for  that   charity  we  owe 

Bui  seldom   pay  the   absent,  nor  would  look 
Further ;   it  might  or  it   might   not  he  so : 

But  Juan,  sittins  silent    in    his   nook, 
0':)serviiig  little   in  his  reverie, 
Yet  saw  this  much,  which  he  was  glad  to  see. 

CVII. 

The  trhosl  at  least  had  done   him  this  much  good. 

In   making  him  as  silent  as  a  ghost, 
As  in  the  circumstances  which  ensued 

lie  gain'd  esteem  where  it  was  worth  the  most. 
And  certainly  Aurora  had  renew'd 

In  him  some  feelings  he  had  lately  lost 
Or  harden'd  ;   feelinas   which,  jierhaps  ideal. 
Are  so  divine,  that  I   must  deem  them  real: — 

CVIII. 

Hie  love  of  higher  things  and  better  days  ; 

I'he  unbounded   hoi)e,   and  heavenly  ignorance 
Of  what  is   call'd  the  vvorld,  and   the  world's  ways; 

The   moments  when   we  gather  from  a  glance 
More  joy  than   from   ah   future   pride  or  praise, 

Which  kindle  manhood,   but  can   ne'er   entrance 
The  heart  in   an  existimce  of  its  own, 
Of  which   another's   bosom   is  the  'zone. 
CIX. 

Who  would   not  sigh   Ai  at  rav  KvOriOEiavl 
That  h'dk  a    memory,  or  th.it  luid  a   heart? 

Alas  !   lur  star  must  wane   like  that  of  Dian, 
llav  fades  on  ray,  as  years  on  years  depart. 

Anacreon  only  had   the  soul   to   tie  on 

UnwitherintJ  mvrtle  round   the   unhlunted  dart 

Of  Eros  ;    but,  though  thou  hast  |)lay'(l  us  many  tricks 

KliU  we   respect  thee,    "  Alma  Venus  Genitrix  ! 

ex. 

And  full   of  sentiments,  sublime  as  billows 

Heaving  between   this  world   and  worlds  beyond, 

Don  Juan,  when  the  tnidmght   hour  of  |)illows 
Arrived,  retired  to  his ;   but  to  desnond 


Rather  than   rest.      Instead  of  poppies,  willows 

Waved   o'er  his  couch  ;   he  meditated,  fond 
Of  those  sweet  bitter  thoughts  which  banish  sleep, 
And  make  the  worldling  sneer,  the  youngling  weep 

CXI. 
The  night  wa«  as  before :   he  was  undrest, 

Saving  his  night-gown,  which  is  an  undress : 
Completely  "  sans  culotte,"  and  without  vest ; 

In  short,  he  hardly  could  be  clothed  with  less  ; 
But,  apprehensive  of  his  spectral  guest, 

He  sate,  with  feelings  awkward  to  express 
(By  those  who  have  not  had  such  visitations). 
Expectant  of  the  ghost's  fresh  operations. 

CXII. 

And  not  in  vain  he  listen'd — Hush!   what's  that? 

I  see — I  see — Ah,  no  !   't  is  not — yet  't  is — 
Ye  powers  !   it  is  the — the — the — Pooh !   the  cat ' 

The  devil  may  take   that  stealthy  pace  of  his ! 
So  like  a  spiritual   pit-a-i)at, 

Or  tiptoe  of  an  amatory  Miss, 
Gliding  the  first   time   to  a  rendezvous. 
And  dreading  the  chaste   echoes  of  her  shoe. 

CXIII. 
Again  what  is 't  ?  The  wind  ?  ?^o,  no, — this  time 

It  is  the  sable  friar  as   before. 
With  awful  footsteps,  regular  as  rhyme, 

Or  (as  rhymes  may  be  m  these  days)  much  more 
Again,  through  shadows  ol    he   niglit  sublime. 

When  deep  sleep   fed   on  men,  and  the  world  wor€ 
The  starry  darkness  round  her  like   a  girdle 
Spangled  with  gems — the  monk  made  his  blood  curdle. 

CXIV. 

A  noise  like  to  wet  fingers  drawn  on   glass,* 
Which  sets  the  teeth  on  edge ;   and  a  sliglit  clatter, 

Like  showers  which  on  the  midnight  guests  wiil  la^s 
Sounding  like  very  supernatu'-ai  water, — 

Came  over  Juan's  ear,  which   throbb'd,  alas  ! 
For  immaterialism's  a  serious   matter: 

So  that  even  those  whose  faith   is  the  most  great 

In  souls  immortal,  shun   them  tete-a-tete. 

cxv. 

Were  his  eyes  open? — Yes!   and  his  moulh  too. 

Surprise  has  this  etfecl — lo  make  one  dumb. 
Yet   leave  the  gate  which  eloqvience  slips  througlj 

As  wide   as  if  a  long  speech  were  to  come. 
Nigh  and   more   nigh   the  awful  echoes  drew. 

Tremendous  to  a  mortal  tympanum : 
His  eyes  were  open,  and   (as  was  before 
Stated)   his  mouth.     What  open'ci  next? — the  door 

CXVI. 

It  open'd  with  a  most  infernal  creak. 

Like  that  of  hell.     *^  Lasciate  ogni  speranza, 

Vio  che  entrate!"     The   hinge  seem'd   to  speak, 
Dreadfiil   as  Dante's  rima,  or  this  stanza  ; 

Or — but  all  words  upon  such  themes  are  weak: 
A  single  shade's  sufiicient  to  entrance  a 

Hero — for  what  is  sul)staiice  to  a  spirit  ? 

Or  how  is  't  matter  trembles  to  come  near  it  7 

CXVH. 

The  door  flew  wide,  not  swiftly — but,  as  fly 
The  sea-gulls,  with  a  steadv,  sober  flight — 

And   then  swung  back  ;   nor  close — but   stood  awry 
Half  letting   in  long  shadows  on   the  light, 

Whi«ih  stil!   in  Juan's  camilesJicks  burn'd   high, 
For  he   had  two,  both   toierahly  briglit, — 

And   in   the  door-way,  darlvcning  darkness,  stood 

The  sable  friar  in  his  solemn  hood. 


DON    JUAN. 


7(M» 


CXVIII. 

!)>>ii  .)ii;in  shook,  as  crsi    he   IkkI    Iwcn   shakoii 
'I'hv.   luoht    l)rio!-e;    l.iit,  iMMim  si.-k   of  shiikiiiii, 

He   tirst    luchiic.l    to  tliiiik    he    h.ul    h.-.ii    mis!;ikcii, 
And   then   to    he    ush.uiie.l   ot^  such    mistaking; 

His   own   iiiteriKil    ijhost    h.'^aii    to   awnkeii 

Within   h.im,  an>l   to  i(iiell   his  cor|.oral  i|uaking— 

Hintuii,',  that   soul    and   body  on   the  wlioie 

Were  otlds  against  a  disemooJied  soul. 

CXIX. 

And  tlicn  his  dread  p-ew  wrath,  and   his  wrath  fierce, 
And   he   arose — advanced — tlie   sliade  retreated  ; 

But   Juan,  eaijer  now  the   trulli   to  jnerce, 

F.ilow'd;    his  veins  no  longer  cold,   hut   heated, 

Resolved   to  thrust   the  mystery  carte  and  tierce, 
At  whatsoever  risk  of  being  defeated : 

The   trhost   stopp'd,   menaced,  then   retired,  until 

He  reacli'J  the  ancient  wall,  then  stood  stone  still. 

cxx. 

Juan  put  forth  one  arm — Eternal   Powers  ! 

It  touch'd   no  soul,   nor  body,  but    the  wall, 
On  which   the  moonbeams  fell   in   silvery  showers 

CluMiuer'd  with  all  the   tracery  of  the   hall  : 
\le  shudder'd,   ar,  no   doubt   the   bravest   cowers 

When  he  can't  tell  what   't  is  that  doth  appal. 
How  odd,  a  single   hobgoblin's  nonentity 
Stiould  cause  morn  fear  than  a  whole  host's  identity.' 


CXX!. 

But  still   the  shade  rem.im'd  ,    the  blue  eyes  glarwi. 

And    rather   variably  for   stoiiv  death  ; 
Yet   one   thmi;   rather   gn.»d    the    ^.'rave    had  spared 

The   irhost   had    a  remarkablv   sued    breatli. 
A  slrau'^diug   curl    show'd    he    had    been    tair-uair'dj 

A  red    li;i,    with    two    rows    of  prari    b-'ucaiti, 
Gleain'd    f  >rth,  as   throuijli   tin;  caseuienl's   ivv  shrooj 
The   moon    ueep'ii,  just  escaped   from   a   gray  clouu. 

CXXIl. 

And  Juan,  puzzled,   but   siill   iMirious,   thrust 
His  oiher  arm   forth — Won  !er  upon  wonder ! 


press  d   upon   a 


hard    but    L'k 


Which    beat  as   if  there  was   a  \\arm    lnart   iiniJcr 
He  found,  as  pcofile  on   most   trials   must. 

That    he   had   made  at   first   a  sillv  blunder 
And   that   in   ins  (;onfusion   he    had   cauijht 
Only  the  wall  instead  of  what   he  sought. 

cxxni. 

The  ghost,  if  ghost   it   svere,  secni'd  a  sweet  soul. 
As  ever  lurk'd  beneath   a  holy  hood  : 

A  dim|)led  chin,   a  neck  of  ivorv,  stole 

Forth  into  something  much  like  tlesh  and   blooc' t 

Back   fell   the  sable  frock  and   drearv  cowl, 

And   they  reveal'd    (alas!   that   e"er   they  shoul'i!) 

In   full,  voluptuous,  but   nut  o'crgrown    bulk. 

The  phanlom  of  her  froUc  grace — Filz  Fulke  ' 


710  BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS 

NOTES  TO  DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  I. 


Note  1.   Stanza  v. 
Brave  men  were  living  before  Agamemnon. 
Vixere  fortes  ante  Agamemnona,"  eic— Horace. 
Note  2.   Stanza  xvii. 
Save  thine  "incomparable  oil."  Macassar! 
«  Description  des  vertus  incompnrables  de  I'huile  de 
Macassar." — See  the  advertisement. 
Note  3.   Stanza  xlii. 
AJthniigh  Lonsinus  tell^  ns  there  is  no  bymn 

»\'hcre  the  sublime  soars  forth  on  wind's  more  amole. 
See  Longinus,  Section  10,  7va  jxri  ev  ri   rrtpt   aiirm 
raflos  (paivtjTdi,  -rradiov  6i  avvocog. 

Note  4.   Stanza  xliv. 
They  on!y  adii  thiMn  all  in  an  appendix. 
Fact.,    Tliere  is,  or  was,  such  an  edition,  with  all  the 
obnoxious  tpigrams  of  Martial  placed  by  themselves  at 

the  end 

Note  5.   Stanza  Ixxxviii. 
The  bard  I  quote  from  does  not  sing  amiss. 
Campbell's  Gertrude  of   Wyoming;    (I  think)  the 
{>j)Pning  of  Canto  II.  but  quote  from  nunnory. 
Note  6.   Stanza  cxlviii.< 
Is  it  for  this  that  Omeral  Count  O'Reilly, 
Who  took  Al-iers,  (hichuos  I  used  him  viie'yl 
Donna  Julia  h(;re  made  a  mistake.      Count  O'Reilly 
*'m  not  take  Alizi<  rs— but  Algiers  very  nearly  toolv  him  ; 
ne  lud  his  armv  and  ilcet  retreated  with  great  loss,  aikd 
oot  much  credit,  i>om  before  that  city,  in  the  year  17—. 
Note  7.    Stanza  ccxvi. 
My  days  of  Iovb  are  o'er,  me  no  more. 
"  Me  nee  f(Bi!iina,  nee  puer 
Jam,  net-  spes  animi  crednla  mutui ; 

Wee  certare  javat  mero, 
Nee  vincire  novis  lempora  fioribus." 


CANTO  III. 


Note  1.  Stanza  xlv. 
For  none  likes  more  to  hear  himself  converse. 
Uispose  allor  Marauife;  a  dirtel  tusto, 

lo  non  cfi'di)  piu  al  ncro.  ch'  a  I'azzurro; 

Ma  nci  cappone,  o  If.-so,  o  vuoffii  arrosto ; 

E  (;redo  alcuna  volta  anco  nid  burro, 

Nfc  la  cervoiiia,  e  (luando'  io  n'  ho  nel  mo.sto, 

E  molto  i»iu  ne  I'lispru  (;iic  il  matnntrro  ; 

Ma  sopra  tuito  nel  Imon  vino  l-.o  frde; 

E  credo  clu)  sia  salvo  fhi  <j]\  credi'. 
PULCI,  Mngiwtf.  Mi^^iore,  Canto  18,  Stanza  US 

Not(!  2.   Stanza  Ixxi. 
That  e'er  by  proi'ious  metal  was  held  in. 
This  dress  is  Moorish,  and  the  bra(;elets  and  bar  are 
worn  ir  the  manner  described.     The  reivder  will  per- 
ceive hereafter,  thai,  as  tin;   molh<'r  of  Haid(;e  was  of 
ez,  her  daughter  wore  the  garb  of  the  country. 
Note  3.   Stanza  Ixxii. 
A  like  gold  bar,  above  iier  instep  loll'd. 
The  bar  of  gold  aV)ove  the  mslep  is  a  mark  of  sov- 
erei"n  rank  in  the  women  of  the  families  of  the  Deys, 
and  is  worn  as  such  by  their  female  r'latives. 

Note  4.    Stanza  ixxiii. 
Her  person  if  ullow'd  at  large  to  n;n. 
This   is   no  exaggeration  ;   there   were   four  women 
whom  I  remember  to  have  seen,  who  possessed  their 


hair  in  this  profusion  ;  of  these,  three  were  English,  th* 
other  was  a  Levantine.  Their  hair  Wus  of  that  length 
and  quantity  that,  when  let  down,  it  almost  entirely 
shaded  the  person,  so  as  nearly  to  render  dress  a  su- 
perfluity. Of  these,  only  one  had  dark  hair ;  the  Ori» 
ental's  had,  perhaps,  the  lightest  colour  of  the  four 

Note  5.   Stanza  cvii. 
Oh  Hesperus  !  thou  bringest  all  good  thiii?3 
'EffTTcpc,  Travra  (pepeii, 
<i>cp£ii  oivov,  (pepeis  aiya, 
^epEiS  nanpi  irniSa. 

Fragment  of  Sappht 

Note  6.   Star.za  cviii. 
Soft  hour  !  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the  heart. 
**  Era  gik  r  ora  che  volge  '1  disio 

A'  naviganti  e  'ntenerisce  il  cuore 
Lo  di  ch'  ban  detto  a'  dolci  amii^i  uddio, 

E  che  lo  nuovo  peregrin  d'  amore 
Punge,  se  ode  Squilla  di  lontano 
Che  paja  '1  giorno  pianu'er  che  si  inuore." 

DANTE'S  Purgaiury,  Canto  viii. 

This  last  line  is  the  first  of  Gray's  Elegy,  taken  by 
him  without  acknowledgement. 

Note  7.   Stanza  cix. 
Some  hands  unseen  stiew'd  flowers  upon  his  tomb 
See  Suetonius  for  this  fact. 


CANTO  IV. 


Note  1.   Stariza  xii. 
"  \Vh;im  the  gods  love,  die  young,"  was  said  of  yore 
See  Herodotus. 

Note  2.  Stanza  lix. 
A  vein  had  burst. 
This  is  no  very  uncommon  etfect  of  the  violence  of 
conflicting  and  ditierent  passions.  Tiie  Doge  Fr.-.nt;is 
Foscari,  on  his  deposition,  in  1457,  hearing  the  bell 
of  St.  Mark  announce  the  election  of  his  successor 
"  mourut  subitement  d'une  hemorrhagie  causee  i>ar  une 
veir.e  qui  s'cclata  dans  sa  [)nitnne,"  (see  Sismondi  and 
Daru,  vols.  i.  and  ii. )  at  the  age  of  eighty  yeais,  when 
"  ii)ho  would  have  thought  the  old  man  hud  su  luucli  hload 
in  lam  .?"  Before  1  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  I  was 
witness  to  a  mehuiclioly  instance  of  the  same  ellect 
of  mixed  passioiis  upon  a  young  person  ;  who,  how- 
ever, did  not  die  in  consequence,  at  that  time,  but  fell 
a  victim  some  years  alterwards  to  a  seizure  of  the  same 
kind,  arising  from  causes  intunately  connected  v>ith 
■  agitation  of  nund. 

Note  3.  Stanza  Ixxx. 
But  sold  by  the  impresario  at  no  hifej)  rate. 
This  is  a  fact.  A  few  years  ago,  a  man  engaged  a 
company  for  some  foreign  theatre;  embarked  them  ai 
an  Italian  port,  and,  carrying  them  lo  Algiers,  sola 
them  all.  One  of  the  women,  returi.'ed  from  her  cap- 
tivity, I  heard  sing,  by  a  strangt;  coincidence,  in  Ilos- 
sini's  opera  of '•  L'llaliana  in  Algieri,"  at  Venice,  lu 
the  beginning  of  1817. 

Note  4.   Stanza  ixxxvi. 
From  all  the  pope  makes  yearly,  't  would  perplex, 
To  find  three  pijriect  pipes  of  tln!  third  sex. 
It  is  strange  that  it  should  be  the  pope  and  the  sultan 
who  are  the  chief  encouragers  of  this  branch  of  trade — 
women  being  prohibited  as  singers  at   St.  Peter's,  and 
not  deemed  trustworthy  as  guardians  of  the  harant. 


DON    JUAN. 


711 


Note  5.  Stanza  ciii. 
\Vlii\e  wec'U  and  (.rchiro  raiikU;  kiuimI  the  base 
Tho  piil.ir  which  rocui-«is  the  luUtle  of  Haveima,  is 
|t)oiil  [WO  iiulfs  rniin  tlie  city,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
[lie  nvcr  to  the  road  lowui.ls  Forli. 

CAXTO  V. 


Note  1. 

Staii/.a  iii. 

TilC    Ul 

tan  str.suii. 

n.  ofilo 

ii.T  has  hv( 

This  expression  oliloincr  has  hcen  iiiurli  critirisod. 
Il  hariilv  answers  to  our  Atlantic  ideas  of  tiie  ocean, 
Dut  is  suflicifiillv  apphcahie  to  ttie  IIi?lles|)t)nt,  and  the 
Bosphorus,  wilh  the  .i-^irean,  intersected  with  islands. 

Note  1.    Stanza  v. 
"  'I'nc  t;i;iiU's  Grave." 
"Tiie  Giant's  Grave  "  is  a  heiiiht  on  the  Adriatic 
shore  of  th»;    Bosphorus,  much   frequented  by  hohday 
pailies;   like  Harrow  and  Hi<rhgate. 

Note  3.    Stanza  xxxiii. 
Ami  runniiii.'  out  as  last  1  was  able. 
The  assassination  alluded  to  took  place  on  the  eighth 

of  Deceniher,  ISCO,   in   the   streets  of  R ,   not   a 

hundred  paces  from  ilie  residence  of  the  writer.     The 
cireunistauces  were  as  described. 

Note  4.    Sta.iza  xxxiv. 
KillM  by  i'.m;  bullets  from  an  old  gun-barrel. 
There  was  found  close  by  hini  an  old  gun-barrel, 
i>awn  half  otf:   it  had  just  been    lischarged,  and  was 
still  warm. 

Note  5.  Stanza  liii. 
Prepared  tor  siu'Iht  with  a  sriass  of  rum. 
In  Turkcv,  notliuis  is  more  eonimon,  than  for  the 
Alussuiiiians  to  take  seviM-al  i:!a«sc--- of  strong  spirits  by 
wav  of  a|)[ieii/.er.  I  have  seen  them  take  as  many  as 
six  of  raki  before  dinner,  and  swear  that  they  dined 
the  better  for  it  ;  I  Irie.i  the  experiment,  but  was  like 
the  Scotciiinaii,  who  having  hearii  th^l  the  birds  called 
kittiev  iaks  were  admit  able  whets,  ate  six  of  them,  and 
complained  that  '■'he  was  no  hun^iier  than  ichtn  he 
began.''''  ^ 

Note  6.    Stanza  Iv. 
Sitlendiil  i)ut  siieut.  save  in  une,  where,  dropping, 
A  m  irldi:  I'ountam  echoes. 

A  eo:iinion  f  irnitiire. — I  recollect  bein^  received  by 
Ali  P.ic'na,  \v  a  room  contaiiiisig  a  marble  basin  and 
fountain,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Note  7.    Stanza  Ixxxvii. 
The  nafe  so  spleiiiiid  was  in  all  its  features. 
Featurm  of  a  g'ltf — a   ministerial    metaphor  ;   "  the 
feature   upon   which    ll.is  (juestion  liinges.'''' — See  the 
*'F'idHe  Family,"  or  hear  Castlereagh. 
Note  8.   Stanza  cvi. 
Thou.'h  on  more  thiiri,ugk-briid  or  fairer  fingers. 
There  is   perhaps  nothini;  more  distinctive  of  birth 
han  the   hai  d  :    it,  is    almost  the  only  sign   of  blood 
which  aristocracy  can  generate. 

Note  9.  Stanza  cxlvii. 
Save  Soiyman,  the  ^iory  of  their  line 
It  mav  not  be  utiworthy  of  remark,  that  Bacon,  in 
tiis  essav  on  '•  Emjiire,"  hints  that  Soli/man  was  the 
last  of  his  line  ;  on  what  authority,  I  know  not.  Thgse 
are  his  wotds  :  "  The  destruction  of  Mnstapha  was  so 
fatal  to  Solvman's  line,  as  the  succession  of  the  Turks 
from  Solyir.an,  imV.l  this  day,  is  suspected  to  be  untrue, 
and  of  stranu'e  blood  ;  titr  that  Solymus  the  Second  was 
thought  to  be  supposititious."     But  Bacon,  in  his  his- 


torical authorities,  is  ofien  inarcuratp.  T  :ou!i  g;ve 
half-a-dozen  instances  iTom  his  apopliliu^ms  -Jiily. 

Being  in  the  humour  of  criiieisnt,  I  sliall  proceed, 
afle'r  having  ventured  upon  the  slips  of  liacon,  te  touch 
on  one  or  two  as  triHing  in  the  editioil  of  the  British 
Poets,  by  the  justly-ceiebrated  Campbell.— But  I  do 
this  in  good  will,  and  trust  it  will  be  so  tak<:n. — If  any 
thiiiu  could  add  to  my  opinion  of  the  talents  and  Irun 
feeling  of  that  gentleman,  il  would  be  his  classical, 
honest,  and  triumphant  d(feiice  of  Po|ie,  a<raiiisl  the 
vulgar  cant  of  the  day,  and  its  existing  Grub-street. 

The  inadvertencies  to  which  I  allude,  are, — 

Firstly,  in  speaking  of  Anstif^.,  whom  he  accuses  of 
having  t-'ken  "Ins  leading  characters  from  •S'/HoiVci/." 
Anstey's  Bath  Guide  was  published  m  17GG.  Smoileit's 
Humphry  Clinker  (the  only  work  of  Smollett's  from 
which  Tabitha,  etc.,  etc.  could  have  been  taken)  was 
written  duriiii;  SiwdietCs  last  resi'lence  at  Leghorn,  in 
1770. — "^/i";/,"  if  there  has  been  any  borrowing, 
Anstey  must  be  the  creditor,  and  not  the  debtor,  i 
refer  Mr.  Campbell  to  his  own  data  in  his  lives  of  Sz/iof-. 
ktt  and  Ansteif. 

Secondly,  Mr.  Campbell  says,  in  the  life  of  Cowper 
(note  to  paye  358,  vol.  7),  that  "•  he  knows  nut  to  whom 
Cowper  alludes  in  these  lines  : 

"  N(jr  bo  who,  for  the  bane  of  ihousani'.s  bora. 
Built  (;ad  a  churcl,,  and  lau-bM  ins  word  to  scorn." 

The  Calvmist  meant  Voltaire,  and  the  church  of  Fer- 
nev,  wilh  its  inscription,  •'  Deo  erexit  Voltaire." 

Thirdly,  in  the  lite  of  Burns,  Mr.  C.  ipiotes  Shak* 
speare  thus, — 

"To  cik!  refined  cold,  to  paint  the  rose. 
Or  add  fnsli  ptrfunie  to  'ho  violet." 

This  version  by  no  means  improves  the  onginal- 
which  is  as  follows 

"To  s:M  refined  gcdd,  'o  pauU  the  W//, 
Tu  tkruic  a  p-jrfuiiie  uu  tlie  viuKt."  etc. 

Kn,g    John. 

A  great  poet,  quoting  another,  should  be  correct  ;  he 
should  also  be  accuiate  wlien  he  accuses  a  Parnassian 
brother  of  that  danijerous  charge  "borrowing:"  a 
poet  had  belter  borrow  any  thing  (exce[itin2  monev) 
than  the  thoii<rhts  of  another — they  are  alwavs  sure  to 
be  reclaimed  ;  but  it  is  very  hard,  having  been  the 
lender,  to  be  denounced  as  tlie  debtor,  as  is  the  case  of 
Anstey  versus  Smollett. 

As  there  is  "  honour  amongst  thieves,"  let  there  be 
some  amongst  poets,  and  ^'ve  each  his  due, — none  can 
afford  to  give  it  more  than  .Mr.  Campbell  himself,  wdio. 
with  a  high  reputation  for  ori<jma!itv,  ami  afiiin;  wh'ch 
cannot  be  shaken,  is  the  only  poet  of  the  times  (except 
Rogers)  who  can  be  rejiroaehed  (and  hi  hun  it  is  in- 
deed a  reproach)  with  having  written  too  little. 


CANTO  VI. 


Stanza  I.xxv. 
A  "  wood  obscure."  like  that  vvlu'rc  Dante  fouad. 
"  Nel  mezzo  del  cammin'  di  nostra  vita 
Mi  rilrovai  per  una  selva  oscura,"  etc.,  etc  ,  etc. 


CANTO  VII. 


Stanza  li. 
Was  learhinff  his  recruits  to  use  flie  baycnoL 
Fact:    Souvaroffdid  this  in  person 


712 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WORKS. 


CANTO  VIII 


CANTO  IX. 


Note  1.   Si  an/a  viii. 

All  s.nin-ls  it  i)iorc<>th.  "  Al'ali  !  Allah  !  Hii  l""  | 

••  Allah  !    Hu  !"  is  properly  ihe  war-cry  of  the  ?kTnf'-  | 

aulmans,  and  they  dwell  lnn<^  ot.  the  last  syllable,  which  | 

gives  It  a  very  wild  and  pec-uiiar  etieet.  , 

Note  9.    S"in?a  \\.  \ 

"Carnage  (?o  Woni-worth  tells  you)  i?  God's  daughter." 
"  l?tit  lliii  w.ns-i  'Ir.-adeil  instniiiT^nt 
In  workioL'  on'  ii  i)ur.>  int.'nt, 
I.sinnn  iinay'.i  for  mutual  <laii-litor; 
Yea,  Cnrnajje  is  tlii>  (iini::li'rr !" 

WORDSWOiirirS  Thmiksgiring  Ode. 
To  wit,  the  deity's.     Thi^  is  perhaps  as  pretty  a 
pedigree  for  mvirder  as  ever  was  found  out   by  Garter- 
King-at-arms.— What  would  have  been  said,  had  any 
free-spoken  peojjle  discovered  such  a  lineage  ? 

Note  y.  Stanza  xviii. 
Was  printed  Ororc,  altliouL'li  iiis  name  was  Grose. 
A  fact;  see  the  Waterloo  Gazettes.  I  recollect  re- 
niarkiuH  at  the  time  to  a  friend  :— ''There  is  fame  !  a 
man  is  killed— his  name  is  Grose,  and  they  print  it 
Grove."  I  was  at  colleae  with  the  deceased,  who 
%vas  a  very  amiable  and  rl(>ver  man,  and  his  society  in 
frreat  request  for  his  wit,  gayety,  and  "chansons  c^i 
ivjire." 

Note  4.    Stanza  xxiii. 

As  any  other  tuition,  and  not  national. 

See  Major  Valiancy  and  Sir  Lawrence  Parsons. 

Note  5.   Stanza  xxv. 
•T  is  pity  "that  such  meanings  should  pave  hell." 
The  Portuguese  proverb  says  that  "  Hell  is  paved  with 
good  iiileutions." 

Note  6.   Stanza  xxxiii. 
By  thy  luirn;me  discovery,  Friar  Bacon  I 
Gunpowder  is  said   to  have  been  discovered  by  this 
'riar. 

Note  7.   Stanza  xlvii. 
Which  scarcely  rose  much  lli^dler  than  grass  blades. 
They  were  but  two  feet  high  above  the  level. 

Note  8.   Stanza  xcvii. 
That  you  and  1  wil!  win  SainKJeorge's  collar. 
The  Russian  military  order. 

Note  9.   Stanza  cxxxiii. 

(Powers 
Eternal!  such  names  mingled!)  "  Ismail  'sours!" 

In  the  original  Russian — 

"Slava  hoKu!  slava  vann  ! 
Krepost  Vzala,  y  ia  tarn." 

A  kind  of  couplet ;  for  he  was  a  poeU 


Note  2.  Stanza  vi. 
And  semi  the  sentinel  before  your  sate 
A  slice  or  two  from  your  luxurious  in(!a.s. 

"I  at  this  time  got  a  post,  beins:  for  fatigue,  with  fou; 
others. — We  w(;re  sent  to  break  biscuit,  and  make  n 
mess  for  Lord  \V(;!lm2ton's  hounds.  1  was  verv  iiiingr" 
and  thought  it  a  good  job  at  the  time,  as  we  got  our  own 
fill  while  we  broke  the  bis(Miit, — a  thing  I  had  not  got 
tor  some  days.  When  thus  engaged,  the  Prodigal  S  lU 
was  never  once  oui  of  my  mind  ;  and  I  si-ijhed,  as  I  fed 
the  dogs,  over  my  hi;mble  situation  and  my  mine! 
hofjcs." — Joiir)ud  of  a  S'lldier  of  the  l]fit  Regt.  during 
the  war  in  Spdin, 

Note  3.   Stanza  xxxiii. 
F^^cause  he  covild  no  inon;  diirest  his  dinner. 
He  was  killed  in  a  consfiiracy,  after  his  temper  had 
bee.i  exasperated,  by  his  extreme  costivity,  to  a  degree. 
of  insanity. 

Note  4.   Stanza  xlvii. 
And  had  just  huiied  the  fa fr- faced  Lanskoi. 
He  was  the  "grande  passion"  of  the  graiid-e  Cathe 
rine. — See  her  Lives,  under  the  head  of  "Lanskoi." 

Note  5.   Stanza  xlix. 
Bid  Ireland's  Londonderry's  Marquess  sliow 
His  parts  of  speech. 
Tnis   was  written  long  before  the  suicide  of   thai 
person. 

Note  6.   Stanza  Ixiii. 
Your  "fortune"  was  in  a  <'air  way  '  to  swell 
A  man,"  as  Giles  says. 

"His  fortune  swcills  him,  it  is  rank,  he's  mnrriod.'*— 
SirGilesOverreach  ;  IVIassingf.k. — See"^  ISexi^  IVay 
to  Pav  Old  Dehis.'''' 


CANTO  X. 


Note  L   Stanza  i. 
Humanity  would  ris.-,  and  tliunder  " Nay ! 
(i'jory,  Nei:'* — Phivti'.k's  I>k\ii.. 


Note  L   Stanza  xiii. 
Would  scarcely  join  a^ain  tiie  "  reformadoes.  ' 
♦'Reformers,"  or  rath(r  "  Reformed."     'lite  Baron 
Bradwardine,  in  Waverl^y,  is  authority  tor  the  word. 

Note  2.   Stanza  xv. 
The  endless  soot  bestows  a  tint  fat  deeper 
Than  can  be  hid  by  altering  his  shirt 
Query,  suii?— Printer's  Devil. 

Note  3.  Stanza  xviii. 
Balgounie's  I5ri[;'s  black  wall. 
The  brig  of  Don,  near  the  "  auld  toun"  of  Ahenlcen, 
with  its  one  arch  and  its  black  deep  salmon  stream  below, 
IS  in  my  memory  as  yesterday.  I  still  remember,  though 
perhaps  I  may  misquote,  the  awful  proverb  whi.:h  made 
me  pause  to  cross  it,  and  yet  lean  over  it  with  a  childish 
delight,  being  an  only  son,  at  least  by  the  mother's  side. 
The  saying,  as  recollected  by  me,  was  this — but  1  have 
never  heard  or  seen  it  since  i  was  nine  years  of  age  ;— 

"  Brig  of  Balgouiiio,  black's  your  wa  ; 
Wi'  a  wife's  ne  sun  and  a  inear's  ae  foal, 
Down  ye  shall  fa'I" 

Note  4.   Stanza  xxxiv. 
Oh,  for  a  fortii-pnrson  pow/r  to  chaunt 
Thy  praise,  hypocrisy! 

A  metaphor  taken  from  the  "forty-horse  power"  of 
a'sleaiu-eiiirine.  'I'hat  mad  wag,  the  Reverend  S.  S., 
sitting  i)V  a  brother-clergyman  at  dinner,  ()bs<rv(>(i  aftcr- 
wanls  that  his  dull  neighbour  iuuj  a  "■  tnelvt-jrirsun 
piiirc/^^  of  <;on\ersatioii. 


DUN    JUAN. 


713 


Nolo  5.   Stanza  xxxvi. 
To  etrip  the  Sax<.Tj  of  Uieir  hydes,  like  tanners. 
"  llydo.'"— I  believe  a  hyde  of  land  to  be  a  legitimato 
word,  and  as  such  subject  to  tlie  lax  of  a  quibble. 

Note  6.   Stanza  xlix. 
Was  given  to  iier  favourite,  and  now  bore  his. 
The  Eini)rcs3  went  to  the  Crimea,  accompanied  by 
tae  Emperor  Joseph,  in  the  yeiU    -I  forget  which. 

Note  7.  Stanza  iviii. 
VVliicli  gnve  her  dulios  the  gracc!i-ss  name  of  "  Riron." 
In  tlu!  Empress  Anne's  tune,  Biren  her  fa\oi;rite  as- 
Biincd  the  name  and  arms  of  tiie  "  Uirons"  of  P>anee, 
which  families  are  yet  extant  with  that  of  England. 
There  are  sliU  the  daughters  of  Courland  of  tliat  name  ; 
one  of  them  I  remeniber  seeing  in  England  in  the  blessed 
year  of  the  Allies— the  Duchess  of  S. — to  whom  the 
Enghr^h  Duchess  of  S 1  presented  me  as  a  name- 
sake. 

Note  8.   Stanza  Ixii. 
Eleven  thou^and  niai(ienheii(!s  of  bone. 
The  greatest  number  flesh  liath  ever  known. 
Si.  Ursula  and  her  eleven  thousand  virgins  were  still 
extant  in  1816,  and  may  be  so  yet  as  much  as  ever. 

Note  9.  Stanza  Lxxxi. 
Who  butcher'd  half  the  earth,  and  bullied  *'  '^fJier 
Indin.     America. 


CANTO  XI. 


Note  3.  Stanza  xliii. 

and  tiiercifore  even  I  won't  ancnt 

Tliis  siil)ject  quote. 

*'Anent"  was  a  Scotch  |)hraso,  moaning  "concennng," 
— "with  regard  to."  It  has  been  made  Eiiglisli  by  the 
Scotch  Novels;  and,  as  the  Erenchman  said— "If  it  be 
nvt,  ought  to  he  English." 

Note  4.  Stanza  xlix. 
The  milliners  who  furnish  "  drapery  misses.' 
"  Drapery  misses" — This  term  is  probably  any  thins 
now  but  a  mi/stery.  It  was  however  almost  so  to  me 
when  I  first  returned  from  the  East,  in  1811--1812.  It 
means  a  pretty,  a  high-born,  a  fashionable  yonn"  fe- 
male, well  instructed  by  her  friends,  and  furnished  by 
her  milliner  with  a  wardrobe  upon  credit,  to  be  repaid, 
when  married,  by  the  hunband.  The  riddle  was  first 
read  to  me  by  a  young  and  pretty  heiress,  on  my  prais- 
ing the  "  drapery"  of  an  "  un/or/jerec/ "  but  "pretty  vir- 
.ginities"  (like  Mrs.  Anne  Page)  of  the  then  day,  which 
has  now  been  some  years  yesterday  : — she  assured  me 
that  the  thing  was  common  in  London  ;  and  as  her  owp 
thousands,  and  blooming  looks,  and  rich  simplicity  of 
arrav,  put  any  suspicion  in  her  own  case  out  of  iho 
question,  I  confess  I  gave  some  credit  to  the  allegation. 
It  necessary,  authorities  might  be  cited,  in  whicli  easel 
could  quote  both  "  drapery"  and  the  wearers.  Let  us 
nope,  however,  that  it  is  now  obsolete. 

Note  5.  Stanza  Ix. 
'T  is  strange  the  mind,  that  very  fiery  particie. 
Should  let  ilsplf  be  ?nufl"'d  out  by  an  art'cie 

♦♦Divinae  particulani  aurae." 


Note  1.   Stanza  xix. 
Who  on  a  lark,  with  black-eyed  Sal  ;his  blowing; 
So  prime,  so  swell,  so  nutty,  and  so  knowing? 

The  advance  of  science  and  of  language  has  rendered 
It  Knnecessary  to  translate  the  above  good  and  true 
En^'hsh,  spoken  in  its  original  purity  by  the  select 
nu;b'!ity  and  their  patrons.  The  following  is  a  stanza 
of  a  song  which  was  very  popular,  at  least  in  my  early 
(lays : — 

"  On  the  liigh  toby-spice  fl-ish  the  muzzle, 

In  spite  of  each  gallows  old  scout; 
If  you  at  tlie  spe'ken  can't  hustle, 
You'll  he  hobbled  in  making  a  Clout. 

Then  your  blowing  will  wax  gallows  haughty 
When  she  hears  of  your  sciily  mistake, 

She  "II  surely  turn  snitch  for  iho  forty. 
That  her  Jack  may  bo  regular  weight." 

If  there  be  any  gem'man  so  ignorant  as  to  require  a 
traduction,  I  refer  him  to'niy  old  friend  and  corporeal 
pnstor  and  master,  John  Jackson,  Esq.,  Prot'essor  of 
Pugilism  ;  wli  >  I  trust  still  retains  the  strength  and 
3ymn3try  of  his  model  of  a  form,  together  with  his 
good  .n:mour,  and  athletic  as  well  as  mental  accom 
plishmen's. 

Note  2.   Stanza  xxix. 
St.  Jamea  s  Palace  and  St.  James's  "  Hells." 

"Hells,"  gaming-houses.  What  their  number  may 
now  be  in  this  life,  I  know  not.  Bef  jre  I  was  of  age 
I  knew  them  pretty  accurately,  both  "gold"  and 
"silver."  I  was  once  nearly  called  out  by  an  accjuaint- 
ancc,  because  when  he  asked  me  where  I  thought  that 
nis  soul  woidd  be  found  hereatler,  I  answered,  "In 
Silver  Hell," 


CANTO  XI] 


Note  1.  Stanza  xix. 
Gives,  with  Greek  truth,  the  good  old  Greek  the  lie. 
See  Mitford's  Greece.  "G rrecia  Ferar."  His  g:  eat 
pleasure  consists  in  praising  tyrants,  abusmg  Plutarch, 
spelliiig  oddly,  and  writing  quaintly;  and,  what  is  strange 
after  all,  his  is  the  best  modern  history  of  Greece  in  any 
language,  and  he  is  perhaps  the  best  of  all  modern  his 
torians  whatsoever.  Having  named  his  sins,  it  is  bu 
fair  to  state  his  virtues — learning,  labour,  research 
wrath,  and  partiality.  I  call  the  latter  virtues  in  a 
writer,  because  they  make  him  write  in  earnest. 

Note  2.   Stanza  xxxvii. 
A  hazy  widower  turn'd  of  forty  's  sure. 
This  line  may  puzzle  the  commentators  more  than  the 
present  generation. 

Note  3.  Stanza  Ixxiii. 
Like  Russians  rushing  from  hot  baths  to  snows. 
The  Russians,  as  is  well  known,  run  out  from  their 
hot  baths  to  plunge  into  the  Neva :  a  pleasant  practical 
antithesis,  which  it  seems  does  them  no  harm. 

Note  4.   Stanza  Ixxxii. 

The  world  to  gaze  upon  those  northern  lights. 

For  a  description  and  print  of  this  inhabitant  of  tliO 

Dolar  region  and  native  country  of  the  aurora  borealis, 

see  P.A.KKv's  Voyage  in  search  of  a  North-lVest  Pa?- 

^age. 

Note  5.  Stanza  Ixxxvi. 
As  Philip's  son  proposed  to  no  with  Atlios. 
A  sculptor  projected  to  hew  Mount  Alhos  into  a  statue 
o^  Alexander,  with  a  city  in  ene  hand,  and,  I  believe,  e 


714 


BYRON'S    POETICAL    WOKKS. 


river  in  his  pocket,  with  various  other  similar  devices. 
But  Alexander's  gone,  and  Athos  remains,  I  trust,  ere 
.ong,  to  look  over  a  nation  of  freemen. 


CANTO  XIII. 


Note  1.   Stanza  vii. 
Right  honestly,  "he  liked  an  honest  hater." 
"Sir,  I  like  a  good  hater."— See  the  Life  of  Ih. 
J)hnfon^  eic. 

Note  2.    Stanza  xxvi. 
Also  there  bin  another  pious  reason. 
"  With  every  thing  that  pr;tty  bin. 
My  lady  sweet  arijc." — Shalispcai-e. 

Note  3.   Stanza  xlv. 
They  and  their  l)i!ls   "  Arcadians  both,"  are  left. 
"Arcades  ambo." 

Note  4,   Stanza  Ixxi. 
Or  wilder  group  of  savage  Salvatore's. 
Salvator  Rosa. 

Note  5.  Stanza  Ixxii. 
His  bell-month'd  goblet  makes  me  feel  quite  Danish. 
If  I  err  not,  "  Your  Dane"  is  one  of  lago's  Catalogue 
af  Nations  "exquisite  in  their  drinking." 

Note  6.   Stanza  Ixxviii. 
Even  Nimrod's  self  might  leave  the  plains  of  Dura. 
In  Assyria. 

Note  7.  Stanza  xcvi. 
"Thai  Scriptures  out  of  church  are  blasphemies." 
**  Mrs.  Adams  answered  Mr.  Adams,  that  it  was  blas- 
phemous to  talk  of  Scripture  out  of  church."  Thi-; 
dogtna  was  oroached  to  her  husband — the  best  Chus- 
Dan  in  any  book.  See  Joseph  Andrews^  m  the  latter 
r'iia;>tcr«; 

No\.e  8,   Stanza  cvi. 
The  qiiniiu,  old.  cruel  coxcomb,  in  his  gullet 
Snouhi  liave  a  huok,  and  a  sm:d!  trout  to  pull  it. 

ll  would  have  tau^b-t  him  humanity  at  least.  This 
sentimental  savage,  whom  it  is  a  mode  to  quote  (amongst 
the  novelists)  to  show  their  sympathy  for  innocent  snorts 
and  old  songs,  teaches  how  to  sew  up  frogs,  and  break 
their  legs  by  way  of  experiment,  in  addition  to  the  art 
of  anglitvg,  the  cruellest,  the  coldest,  and  the  stupidest 
of  pretended  sports.  They  may  talk  about  the  beauties 
of  nature,  but  the  angler  merely  thinks  of  his  dish  of 
fish  ;  he  has  no  leisure  to  take  his  eyes  from  off'  the 
streams,  and  a  single  bite  is  worth  to  him  more  than  all 
the  s'^enery  around.  Besides,  some  fish  bite  best  on  a 
rainy  day.  The  wnaie,  the  shark,  and  the  tunny  fishery 
nave  somewhat  of  noble  and  perilous  in  them;  evennet- 
fisuing,  trawling,  etc.,  arc  more  humane  and  useful — but 
angling! — No  angler  can  be  a  good  man. 

"  One  of  the  best  men  I  ever  knew — as  humane,  del- 
icate-minded, generous,  and  excellent  a  creature  as  any 
in  the  world — was  an  angler:  true,  he  anjiled  with 
painted  flies,  and  would  have  been  incapable  of  the 
extravagances  of  I.  Walton." 

The  above  addition  was  made  by  a  friend  in  reading 
over  the  MS. — "Audi  alteram  partem" — I  leave  it  la 
jountei  balance  my  own  observation. 


CANTO  XIV. 

Note  1.  Stanza  xxxiii. 
And  never  craned,  and  made  but  few  '  faux  pas.  ' 
Craning. — "To  crane"  is,  or  was,  an  expressioti  used 
to  denote  a  gentleman's  stretching  out  his  neck  over  a 
hedge,  "to  look  before  he  leaped:" — a  pause  in  bij 
"  vaulting  ambition,"  which  in  the  field  doth  occasion 
some  delay  and  execration  m  those  who  may  be  imme- 
diately behind  the  equestrian  scej)tic.  "  Sir,  if  you  don't 
choose  to  take  the  leap,  let  me" — was  a  pin-ase  which 
generally  sent  tlie  aspirant  on  a^ain  ;  and  to  good  pur- 
pose :  for  though  "  the  horse  and  rider"  might  fall,  they 
made  a  gap,  through  which,  and  over  him  and  his  steed, 
the  field  might  follow. 

Note  2.  Stanza  xlviii. 
Go  to  the  coffee-house,  and  take  anothi;r. 
In  Swift's  or  Horace  Walpole's  Letters,!  think 
It  is  mentioned  that  somebody  regretting  the  loss  of  a 
friend,  was  answered  by  a  universal  Pylades  :  "  When 
I  lose  one,  I  go  to  the  Saint  James's  Coffee-house,  and 
take  another." 

I  recollect  having  heard  an  anecdote  of  the  same  kind. 
Sir  W.  D.  was  a  great  gamester.  Coming  in  one  day  to 
the  club  of  which  he  was  a  member,  he  was  observed  to 
look  melancholy.  "  What  is  the  matter,  Sir  William  ?'' 
cried  Hare,  of  facetious  memory.  "Ah!"  rei)lied  SirW. 
"  I  have  just  lost  poor  Lady  D."  "  Lost !  What — at 
Qiiinze  or  Hazard?"  was  the  consolatory  rejoinder  of 
the  querist. 

Note  3.   Stanza  lix. 
And  [  refer  you  to  wise  Oxcnstiern. 
The  famous  Chancellor  Oxcnstiern  snid  to  his  son,  on 
i    the  latter  expressing  his  surprise  upon  the  great  effecta 
i    arising  from  petty  causes  in  tlie  presumed  mystery  of 
politics  :  "  You  see  bv  this,  my  son,  with  how  little  wis- 
dom the  kingdoms  of  the  world  are  governed." 


c:anto  XV 


Note  1.    Stanza  xvin. 

And  thou.  Diviner  still. 

Whose  lot  it  is  by  ni;in  U)  be  mistaK'-n. 

As  it  is  necessary  in  tlios-:.'  times  to  avoid  ambiguity 
I  say,  th.at  I  mean,  bv  "  Diviner  still,"  Christ.  If  evei 
Go(l  was  Man — or  Man  God — he  was  hofh.  I  never  ar- 
raigned his  creed,  but  the  use — or  abuse — made  of  it 
Ml  Canning  one  day  qnot<Ml  Christianity  to  sanction 
Negro  Slavery,  and  Air.  Wilberffrce  had  little  to  say  in 
reply.  And  was  Christ  cruc-ified,  that  black  men  mighl 
be  scourged?  If  so,  he  had  better  been  born  a  Mulatto, 
to  give  both  colours  an  cipial  chance  of  freedon:,  or  at 
least  salvation. 

Note  2.   Stanza  xxxv. 

When  Rapp  thi;  Harmonist  embargoed  marriage 

In  his  hiirnionious  settlement. 
This  extraordinary  and  flourishing  German  colony  m 
America  does  not  entirely  exclude  matrimony,  as  the 
"  Shakers"  do;  but  lays  surdi  restrictions  u|)on  it  as  pre- 
vent more  than  a  certain  quantum  of  births  within  a 
certain  number  of  years;  whiidi  births  (as  Mr.  Ilulme 
observes)  generally  arrive  "  in  a  little  flock  like  those  '^t 
a  farmer's  lambs,  all  within  the  same  month  perhaps.' 
These  Harmonists  (so  called  from  the  name  of  their  set- 
tlement) are  represented  as  a  remarknbly  flourishing, 
pious,  and  quiet  peq)le.  See  the  various  recent  writers 
on  America. 


DON    JUAN. 


715 


Note  3.  Stanza  xxxviii. 

Nor  canvass  wluit  "  fo  eiuiiieiit  a  hand  "  nuMnl. 
Jacob  Toiison,  acicordin;^  to  Mr.  Pope,  was  accustom- 
{xl  to  call  Ills  writers  "  alih;  pens" — ''persons  of  hon- 
our," and  csptHnaliy  "ennn.Mil  liunds."     Vide  corre- 
spondence, etc.,  etc. 

Note  4.    Stanza  Ixvi. 
VN'iiilf  Civat  Ln^ul;ll^•  n,b'  t rion,i<h:,h'  inutlli's— 
Tii(i<''s.;:n/(()— younj  i),.itri.lt;<'  tiilds,  duckM  with  truffles. 

A  dish  "ii  la  Lncullus."  This  hero,  who  coiKpiered 
the  I'^ust,  lias  leit  his  more  extendtul  celebrity  to  tiie 
ira!i<;nantati()ii  of  cherries  (winch  he  first  brought  into 
Kiirope)  and  the  nomenclaturfcuf  some  very  gcjod  ilishes; 
— and  I  am  not  sure  that  (barring  indigestion)  he  has 
not  done  more  service  to  mankinci  by  his  cookery  than 
hv  his  couijuests.  A  cherry-tree  may  weigh  against  a 
b.ootly  laurel ;  besides,  he  has  contrived  to  earn  ceicb- 
fily  from  both. 

Note  5.   Stanza  Ixviii. 
But  oven  stjis  "  ooutiiurc-;,"  it  no  less  true  is, 
There's  pretty  pickni^  in  those  "petits  puits." 

"  Petits  puits  d'amour  garnis  de  confitures,"  a  classical 
and  aell-known  dish  for  part  of  the  flank  of  a  second 
course. 

Note  6.   Stanza  Ixxxvi. 
For  liiat  with  me  's  a  "  sinu  qua." 
-Suoauditur  "  iVo-i,''  oimtied  for  the  sake  of  evphonv. 

JN'ote  7.   Stanza  xcvi- 
in  snort,  upon  that  subject  1  've  some  qualms  very 
Like  tliose  of  the  I'liiiosopher  of  Midmshuiy. 

Hobbes  ;  who,  doubting  of  his  own  soul,  paid  that 
cnmplimeul  to  tiie  souls  of  other  people  as  to  decline 
iheir  visits,  of  which  he  had  some  apprehension. 

CANTO  XVI. 


Note  1.   Stanxa  x. 

If  from  a  shell  fish  or  from  cochineal. 

The  composition  of  the  old  Tyrian  purple,  whether 

from  a  shell-lish,  or  from  cochineal,  or  from   kernies, 

IS  still  an  ar'icle  of  dispute  ;   and  even  its  colour — some 

say  purple,  others  scarlet :   I  sav  nothing. 

Note  2.   Stanza  xliii. 
For  a  spoil'd  carpet — hut  the  "  Attic  Ree 
Was  much  consoli'd  hy  his  own  repartee. 
I  think  that  it  u'as  a  curprt  on  which  Diogenes  trod, 
with—"  Thus  I  trample  on  the  pride  of  Plato  !" — "With 
greater  pri(ie,''  as  the  other  replied.     I?ut  as  carpets 
are   meant  to  be   trodden   upon,  my  memory  probably 
misgives  me,  and  it  might  be  a  robe,  or  ta[)estry,  or  a 
table-cloth,  or  some  other  expensive  and  uncynical  piece 
>f  fiirnilure. 

Note  3.   Stanza  xlv. 
With  " 'Tu  mi  ehamnses"  from  Portinjale, 
To  soo'.'ie  our  ears,  lest  haly  sliould  fail. 

f  remember  'liat  the  mayoress  of  a  provincial  town, 


somewhat  surfeited  with  a  similar  displa\  from  forei^i: 
parts,  did  ratn(!r  indecoroii-ly  !)reak  thrcu^h  the  ap- 
plauses of  an  intelligent  audience — intelli<;eiit,  I  mean, 
as  to  music, — for  the  words,  besides  bein;,'  in  recondite 
languages  (it  was  some  years  before  the  [leaco,  ere  all 

the  world  had  travelled,  and  while  I  was  a  collcjian) 

were  sorely  disguised  by  the  performers;—  this  n.avoreLJi.', 
I  say,  broke  out  with,  "Hot  your  Itdi  inos  !  fo-  my 
part,  I  loves  a  simple  ballat  !"  Rossini  will  i>o  u  good 
way  to  bring  most  pco|>le  to  the  sanit;  opinion  some 
day.  Who  would  imai.niie  that  he  was  lo  im  u\o.  suc- 
cessor of  JVlozari?  However,  I  state  this  wiili  diflldence, 
as  a  liege  and  loyal  admirer  of  Italian  musw;  in  i;eneral, 
and  of  much  of  Rossini's:  but  we  may  say,  as  the  con- 
noisseur did  of  painting,  in  the  Vicar  of  IP^'akr^/itUf, 
"that  the  picture  would  be  better  painted  if  the  painter 
had  taken  more  pains." 

Note  4.  Stanza  lix. 
For  Gothic  darin;;  shown  in  English  money. 
"  Ausu  Romano,  aa-e  Veneto  "  is  the  inscription  (and 
well  inscribed  m  this  instance)  on  the  sea  walls  between 
the  Adriatic  and  Venice.  The  walls  were  a  republican 
work  of  the  Venetians;  the  inscription,  I  believe,  im- 
perial, and  inscnlied  bv  Napoleon. 

i."Note  5.   Stanza  ix. 
"Untying      squires  "to  lixht  azainst  the  rhurchos  ' 
"  Tlioush  ye  iivtie  the  winds,  and  bid  them  fight 
Against  the  churches." — Macbeth. 

Note  6.  Stanza  xcvii. 
They  err — 'tis  merely  what  is  cnll'd  mobility. 
In  French  "mobilite."  I  am  not  sure  that  mobility 
is  English  ;  but  k  is  expressive  of  a  quality  which  rather 
belongs  to  other  climates,  though  it  is  sometimes  seen 
to  a  great  extent  m  our  own.  It  mav  be  defined  as  an 
excessive  susceptibility  of  immediate  impressions — ai 
thf.  same  time  without  iemng  the  past ;  and  is,  thougii 
sometimes  apparently  useful  to  the  possessor,  a  niosJ 
painful  and  unhappy  attribute. 

Note  7.   Stanza  cii. 
Draperied  her  form  with  curious  felicity 
"Curiosa  felicitas." — Pfthoxius  Akbiter. 

Note  8.  Stanza  cxiv. 
A  noise  like  to  wet  fingers  drawn  on  glass. 
See  the  account  of  the  ghost  of  the  uncle  of  Prince 
Charles  of  Saxony,  raised  by  Schroepfer — "  Karl — Kar 
— was — wait  wolt  mich  ?" 

Note  9.   Stanza  cxx. 
Ili)W  >)dd.  a  single  hobgoblin's  nonentity 
Should  cause  more  fear  than  a  v^  hole  liost's  identity' 

"Shadows  to-night 
Have  struck  more  terror  to  the  soul  of  Richard 
Than  can  the  substance  often  thousand  sokiiers,"  etc.,  etc 
««vi  Uiclinrd  III 


THE    END. 


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